Kathy finished her cry, knowing it had been a minute since she checked on Floyd. “I need to check on Floyd,” she said, getting up from the crates.

“I’ll go check on him,” Cookie said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Just needs coffee, right? Kinda like Jim? Drinks coffee all day long?” He touched her shoulder softly as an afterthought.

Kathy nodded, drying her tears, reaching up to touch his hand. The pocket of her apron had more than a few pens, a couple of wrapped breath mints, a stick of Doublemint gum, her Camels, and a pink compact. She kept it in her apron in case she needed any of those items. She rarely used the pens anymore. The breath mints were an after-smoke habit Janice refused to have. Kathy, on the other hand, couldn’t stand stinky breath. Between the coffee and cigarettes, Kathy knew she was bound to have the stinky morning breath. Instead of grabbing a mint or the gum, she lit a smoke in the kitchen. Pastor Theodore warned her about smoking in the kitchen, just like he warned Janice. But, like Janice, Kathy refused to listen.

Cookie came out of the kitchen, Floyd holding his coffee cup tight in his right hand. “Where’d Kathy go,” he asked, seeing Cookie come out from behind the cash register, carrying the coffee.

“She’s in the back checking on the walk-in. The refrigeration is on the fritz, and she’s the only one who knows how Janice fixed it. Do you need more coffee?”

“What do you think, Cookie?” Floyd held the empty cup upside down. “You gotta be some kinda genius to work in this dive, eh?”

Cookie listened to Floyd, knowing that the Zaterelli family wanted him dead. They weren’t aware he made it back to Iowa, much less that Floyd was in protective custody while Portland detectives found the contracted killer. Floyd came home after his would-be-killer attempted to ‘off’ him, a term one of the cops watching him said. He had to have someone explain the meaning of the word to him. But once he understood, Floyd asked if he could go home. Asked? More like he demanded it. It was against the better wishes of the Portland Police Department, but they couldn’t force him to have a protective detail, much less detain him to keep him safe. So he came home. “Yup. Super-genius Floyd. I hear you owned Heaven Sent Dairy for a while. What happened there, if’n youns don’t mind me askin’?”

“Dunno. Guy said it’d be best if I invested with him, so’s I did.”

“Did you know this guy?”

“Nope. Came with good credentials. My financial advisor, Mark Unger, suggested this hotshot attorney, Zander Melton.”

“Ugner sounds like a slime.” Cookie crossed his arms, setting the coffee urn on the table. He didn’t mention Melton, the attorney representing him in four of his seven criminal trials. Zander’s legal representation is how he connected with Rin Zaterelli. If it wasn’t for Cookie, Unger wouldn’t be in prison for fraud, among the other crimes he was indicted for. “But Melton don’t sound much better. Why would you trust these men, Floyd? You don’t seem like the type to be taken in by criminals. How’d you let this one slide?”

Floyd sat back, tilting the straw hat back on his head. He hadn’t worn it in a while because it reminded him of a simpler time. A time when work was work. When the dairy operated at total capacity. And he felt like he had a purpose. Since returning from Portland, his health was worsening, and getting in and out of the truck was harder. Climbing stairs was now a chore. And getting something out of his refrigerator was a struggle. Pulling open the door took all his energy. “Wish’n I knew the answer to that. Thankful for some good folks watchin’ out fer me. Speakin’ of which,” he sat his coffee on the table after taking a long sip, “I ain’t heard nothin’ ‘bout Doc or Janice in a bit. Where’s she at? She’s always here, workin’ with that Kathy gal.”

Cookie shrugged. He knew both Janice and Doc died weeks apart. Doc had what the doctors referred to as a widow-maker heart attack that he didn’t live to tell about. All those meals of heavy dairy fat, oil, bacon, pancakes, and such took their toll on him. Even Doc’s doctor warned him about his diet, weight, and cholesterol. Doc didn’t tell anyone, but his general practitioner had diagnosed him with Type 2 diabetes less than a month before his heart attack.

Janice had a stroke packing for a cruise she spent her life working for. It was really a sad moment for everyone who knew the woman. Janice, the hard-working diner owner who saved her pennies literally for a rainy day, died attempting to load her bags into the trunk of the Cadillac. With all her affairs in order and the ink from Kathy’s signature drying, she hefted two carry-on bags outside to the Caddy and had a stroke. She never made it to the car. Both bags and her body were found four steps outside her small, two-bedroom ranch home.

Thankfully, Beatrice and Betty, the ‘church ladies,’ took the long way to church Sunday morning, passing by Janice’s house. Seeing her face down in the gravel spooked both women dressed in their Sunday best. The last thing they expected was to wait for the police to arrive to take their statements and wait for the corner to determine the cause of death. Once he arrived, it didn’t take long for him to make a statement to the police. His preliminary examination on the scene said stroke or heart attack, which he did state would need to be confirmed by autopsy. Unfortunately, the autopsy confirmed his suspicions. Her estate was divided between her surviving children, a joke she made to her attorney. She had no kids, having raised half a dozen or more in Tri-Cities. Janice raised their parents, too, free of charge. That left one person as the sole beneficiary of Janice’s estate: Kathy, the current owner of Janice’s Diner.

Kathy didn’t want Janice’s estate. She certainly didn’t want her money. But she especially didn’t want the diner anymore. Not now. Her friend was gone, and running the small restaurant? Balancing her checkbook was easier! And now the loan payment was overdue. She had no choice. When Kathy signed the paperwork to take ownership, Janice had everything paid, leaving a little cash for emergency expenses. But all in the first month of owning it, Kathy had to replace the grill, the walk-in, and the air conditioner. The roof was still in decent shape but would need to be taken care of in the next two years.

Floyd asked again, “So are you too stupid to know nothin’? Or do you really know nothin’?” Floyd pointed to his empty coffee cup, Cookie clenching and unclenching his left hand. He knew he’d go back to prison if he assaulted Floyd. More importantly, if Cookie hit the Floyd? He’d probably keel over and die, so he’d have a manslaughter charge, too. And attempted murder? The prosecutor would tag him with that, too. At least, that was his guess. All of which wasn’t worth his time. He let his fist go.

“Cookie? Are you botherin’ our only customer of the day?” Kathy came out from the kitchen with a fresh coat of makeup, touched-up lipstick, mascara, and eyeliner. She did it all in less than five minutes. “Youns get back in there and make this man,” Kathy cleared her throat, “Sorry. This gentleman, whatever he likes.” She smiled and winked at Cookie, taking the coffee pot and ushering him back into the kitchen. “So, what can I get you, Floyd?”

Floyd pushed past her, heading to the front door. “I ain’t gotta take this crap, least of all from youns, Kathy.” He pushed the straw hat down on his head. “I’m leavin’.” He paused, turning around to face her, “Unless youns gonna tell me what happened to Janice and Doc.” He stood right in front of her. Kathy’s face turned red, and she reached into her apron for a cigarette and lit it, blowing smoke in Floyd’s face.

“You don’t wanna know, Floyd,” Kathy sat down on the bar stool, taking another drag.

“I beens through a lot since youns and I last talked, Ms. Kathy. Now’ns a good a time as any, I guess, to hash it out, as they say. Doncha think?”

“Fine. Let’s do this,” Kathy said, moving to the closest booth. “Where do you want to start?”