Free Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) by Judy Alter Page A

seemed impossible.
    I chose to go the back roads, which I’d always liked better than the interstate, so I went through Seagoville, with its scary-looking prison, and was approaching Crandall, known for its speed trap, so I stepped on the brakes—and the pedal went all the way to the floor, while the car kept going. My first reaction was pure panic—as my heart pounded and my thoughts raced, I thought surely I was going to die. Something in the back of my mind reminded me that you shouldn’t pull on the emergency brake at high speeds—I was probably going sixty then—because you could make the car flip. “Coast,” I told myself, “coast and breathe.” I almost wished for that Crandall cop who hid out behind billboards to find me today, but no such luck. The road dipped down a slight hill and the car gained speed, but then there was a long uphill stretch approaching Crandall. My hands were locked on the steering wheel, keeping the car on the road. I remember that when we got to the top of the hill, the road was above the town, so if I careened off, I’d go down a steep embankment. Breathe, I told myself again, in through the nose, out through the mouth. By the top of the hill, the car had slowed considerably, down to thirty. I dared not pull on the emergency brake as I looked down on the grain mill below me, but there was that downhill stretch coming and then the car would pick up speed. I knew the road well enough to know that there was a long flat stretch after that—but did I dare wait and see how much speed the car gained? Two cars whizzed past me in the left lane, one driver giving me a puzzled glance and the other not even looking my way.
    Just as I reached the crest and started downhill, there were two trees—not huge but maybe substantial, and beyond that a clump of bushes. I steered toward the trees and closing my eyes in fear, pulled on the emergency brake. The car skidded, shuddered, rocked and then edged into the trees sharply enough to break one. But the car had stopped. I sat there shaking with fear, utterly unable to do anything for a long time. Finally, still breathing hard, I fished my cell phone out of my purse and dialed 911.
    From the voice that answered, I pictured a gentle, grandmotherly type of woman sitting in her living room, answering calls and dispatching help—probably not at all the way 911 calls were handled even in a small and dying town.
    “This isn’t exactly a desperate emergency,” I said, my voice shaky. “But my car lost its brakes on the highway.”
    She replied wryly that desperate emergencies in Crandall were rare, and she’d send someone over directly. “This does sound serious though,” she said. “Are you all right, hon ?”
    “I think so,” I said. “Just scared.”
    “Someone” turned out to be a sheriff’s deputy, probably in his late fifties, a bit overweight—well more than that. But as nice as he could be.
    “Well, Missy, I see you got a problem—and took out one of our trees.” He was trying to be jovial.
    I hadn’t tried to stand until then and found my legs shaky. He reached out a hand to steady me and said gently, “Wow, now tell me what happened.”
    I described it as best as I could.
    “Good thinking on your part, Missy. Lots of people would have pulled on that brake right away and got themselves in real trouble.”
    I could barely mumble my thanks.
    The deputy introduced himself as Chester, and I in turn introduced myself, after which he took to calling me, “Miss Kate.” No surprise in East Texas.
    He got down on his hands and knees and peered under the car, then flipped himself over and pulled himself under the car. When he emerged, dusting himself off, he said, “Yep, hole in the brake line. Looks like it’s been cut to me.”
    “Cut?” I echoed like an idiot.
    “Yeah, cut. Anybody out to get you? You got enemies?”
    Yeah, I guess I could think of a couple of people, but it didn’t seem likely, and I couldn’t see much good