“A lot of agony, anyway.”

“Well, splendid marksmanship.”

“Thanks.”

Landry stepped in. “What do you recommend from the menu, Mr. Croft?”

“You can’t go wrong with the fried chicken.” He doffed his hat. “Enjoy, gentlemen. ’Evening.”

Landry murmured a response, then entered the café. Thatcher followed, but as he stepped inside, he looked over his shoulder to see the chauffeur holding the rear seat door open for Bernie Croft. Both were looking back at him.

* * *

Clyde Martin was a rotund and cheerful man who took obvious pride in his establishment and its longevity. It had occupied the same corner on Main Street since the turn of the century, serving breakfast through dinner. Salt, pepper, and sugar shakers, along with bottles of ketchup and Tabasco, were kept on the tables.

Mr. Martin welcomed the new arrivals personally and ushered them to a table. Thatcher took the chair with its back to the wall, giving him a view of the entire room. This was his habit. But also, from the moment he’d noticed Landry loitering in the dark corner of the boardinghouse porch, unobtrusively observing the others as he smoked, Thatcher had determined that he would never turn his back to this man.

Was it Landry’s sly grin and oily manner that put him off? His pomaded hair? Was it the gold tooth, tucked into his jaw like a kernel of secret knowledge waiting to be exposed and used to someone’s disadvantage?

Thatcher also had gotten the sense that he was better acquainted with Bernie Croft than either had let on.

Thatcher couldn’t specify what it was that caused him to question Landry’s integrity, but on matters as important as trust, he relied on his gut. The salesman’s friendly overtures toward him seemed a little too polished to be genuine or spontaneous.

Now, as Landry cut into his thick slice of fried ham, he said, “I am as tired of the other boarders as I am of Mrs. May’s uninspired cooking.”

“Why do you room there then?”

“It’s cheap. But the company is dull. Their conversation isn’t exactly scintillating, is it? Or even interesting.”

“You seem to get on with Randy all right.”

He smiled. “He isn’t bad company. He can tell a good dirty joke. He’s just young.”

“Outgoing.”

“Yes, he’s gregarious. But underneath all the braggadocio, he’s as shallow as this pool of redeye gravy.” He dipped the slice of meat into it. “Unlike you.”

Thatcher had chosen a T-bone. “Unlike me?”

“The strong, silent type.” Landry intoned the statement like a stage actor.

Thatcher speared a bite of steak and put it in his mouth.

His failure to comment didn’t deter Landry. “You keep your own counsel, Hutton.” He wagged his fork at Thatcher. “You never give away what’s going through your mind.”

“Usually because it’s not worth knowing.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I seriously do.” He appraised Thatcher as he broke off a piece of dinner roll and spread it with butter. “Tell me about yourself.”

Thatcher gave him a sketchy biography, sharing nothing of importance. “Mustered out, was making my way back, wound up here.”

“Where you got stuck and now plan to stay for a while. Is that about it?”

“Just taking it one day at a time.”

“A man with no plan.”

“In the trenches I saw men die in mid-sentence. Planning your next breath is a wasted effort.”

“Strong, silent, and a philosopher.”

Flashing the wily grin that instilled Thatcher with dislike as well as mistrust, Chester held his stare a beat longer, then continued eating. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair, patted his stomach, and sighed with contentment.

“Must say, that was tasty. I’ll have to trust the mayor’s endorsement and try the fried chicken next time.”

“Have you had a hamburger at Lefty’s?”

The salesman cocked his head. “Lefty’s?”

“It’s a roadhouse. Out a ways. I’ve heard the burgers are worth the drive.”

Thatcher couldn’t say what had prompted him to drop a mention of the roadhouse into the conversation. It had been a gambit, like placing a large opening bid only to see how the other player at the table would react.

Chester Landry didn’t take the bait. He gave a hmm of disinterest, and signaled to Mr. Martin that they were finished. Thatcher noticed that they were the only two diners remaining. They passed on dessert but ordered coffee.

As Mr. Martin served it, he said, “Take your time, gentlemen. There’s plenty in the pot for a refill.”

Thatcher sipped his coffee piping hot and black. Landry added cream and sugar to his and stirred it for longer than necessary. When he lifted the spoon from the cup, he clinked it against the rim several times.

He said, “It’s such a shame that you were—associated—with the investigation into the missing woman. That couldn’t have been a pleasant experience.”

“It didn’t last long.”

“Even so.”

Thatcher sipped his coffee, saying nothing, hoping the subject would die.

Landry wagged his spoon just as he had his fork earlier. “See, Hutton? That’s what I’m talking about. Most men would be furious, railing at the sheriff, at everybody who would listen about the unfairness of your detention. You act unaffected, but I wonder if behind the steely veneer, you’re seething. Or are you truly this slow to rile?”

Before Thatcher could answer, motion toward the back of the café drew his attention. The swinging door into the kitchen was being pushed open. By Laurel Plummer. By Laurel Plummer’s bottom. Her very shapely bottom.

She was attempting to wedge through the door with both hands raised, each supporting what looked like a baking dish draped in a dish towel. It was a precarious balancing act.

In an instant, Thatcher was out of his chair. Mr. Martin was late to respond because he’d been behind the counter matching the day’s receipts with the money in his till.

Thatcher pulled wide the door.

“Thank you, Mr. Martin,” she said as she was turning. “I shouldn’t have tried to—” She came to an abrupt stop and blinked up at Thatcher. Several seconds passed without either of them speaking, then she mumbled a thank you and sidestepped to go around him.