Free Gluten for Punishment by Nancy J. Parra Page B

expression was stern. “I’ll bet you
     haven’t eaten all day. . . .”
    Huh, I couldn’t remember eating. But then again, who would want to eat knowing there’d
     been a dead body a few feet from your table.
    “Wash up and grab your coat. We’re going to your cousin’s diner for dinner.”
    I threw a clean cotton cloth over the dough I had been working and washed my hands.
     “But you bought me lunch yesterday.”
    “And now I’m buying you dinner, but only so you can have a couple of drinks without
     passing out. Trust me, honey, you need a drink.”
    “Carrie isn’t here. Who’ll watch the store?”
    “Do you have any customers?”
    “No.”
    “Then lock up and put a ‘be-back-in-an-hour’ sign up.”
    She was right, of course. Besides, there weren’t any customers. Not now and probably
     not until the crime scene tape came down. Between that and finding a dead guy in the
     horse trough, I needed a drink. Any sane person would. I grabbed my jacket and tugged
     it on, then locked up, slapped a handwritten note on the door, slipped my arm through
     Tasha’s, and we walked the four blocks to Grandma’s Diner.
    When we stepped inside, the entire dining room went quiet. Everyone stared. I looked
     at Tasha. She looked at me and shrugged. Then we both grinned and grabbed the booth
     in the farthest corner.
    The diner’s interior was rustic. The walls were paneled wood. There were booths along
     the outer walls and tables on the inside and along the wide front window. The window
     curtains matched the checkered tablecloths. Every table had a red glass candleholder
     with a lighted candle inside. Then there was a stainless napkin holder, glass-and-stainless
     salt and pepper shakers, and a small bottle of ketchup. It could have been one of
     many diners across America, but to me it looked and smelled like home.
    My cousin Lucy came out of the back room. “What are ya’ll staring at? Eat something.”
     She shamed them into turning away, then walked up and gave me a big hug.
    Lucy was a little shorter than me with generous curves and bouncy blonde hair. I swear,
     not a strand of gray in sight. She had a turned-up nose, sparkling blue eyes, and
     the cute look that made men’s heads turn. “I was wondering if you’d come. You need
     to be around family after a day like today. I made gluten-free chicken-and-rice casserole.”
     She brushed at imaginary crumbs on the checkered tablecloth. Everything in her diner
     was pristine. “Tasha, how are you? How’s Kip?”
    “I’m good,” Tasha said. “I came as soon as I could get away. Kip’s with his developmental
     tutor for the next two hours and I stole Toni from her work. We’re here for a drink.
     What do you have?”
    “Honey, the bar is open.” Lucy’s eyes sparkled. “What’s your desire? It’s on the house.”
    “No, I can’t . . .” I protested. I know Lucy worked hard for any profit the little
     diner made. Happily married to her husband, Robert Brockway, for twenty-five years,
     Lucy laughed when I called her a child bride, but had been only seventeen when she
     and Robert got married. They had their share of ups and downs, but managed to still
     keep love in their relationship.
    I asked her once how she did it. She said they had made a promise to be brutally honest
     with each other always. Then she winked and said a good love life softened the blow.
     Robert was a local truck driver and worked long hours, but he was home on weekends
     and that was all that mattered. Right now I envied them their connection, their long-term
     partnership. It would be nice to have someone to lean on when a dead body showed up
     outside your door.
    “I’m buying,” Tasha said firmly. “We’ll have two gin and tonics, some of those great
     tortilla chips you make, and salsa.”
    “Coming right up,” Lucy said. “Toni, you call me if you need me. Emmi will be your
     waitress tonight, and the tab is on me. No protesting—” Lucy raised