Murder at the Falls (12 page)

“This is my idea of a summer place!” Tom exclaimed as they got out of the car and studied the shining buildings. “The neon must look wonderful at night against the leaves. Look at that one,” he said, pointing at the sign for one of the diners on their left: the
RED ROBIN
. The name was followed by three robins that probably lit up in succession to give the image of a robin bob, bob, bobbing along. “I wonder if they all work.”

Charlotte looked up. “There are electric lines running to all of them.”

“We’ll have to ask Voorhees if we can come back at night.”

Voorhees was standing with his hands on his hips, looking around. Then he turned and walked over to them. He walked with a rolling gait, like a sailor who isn’t entirely comfortable on dry land. “I thought I’d seen it all, but this is a new one on me.”

“I think it’s great,” said Tom.

“Each to his own,” said Voorhees, shaking his head.

“I know some of these diners,” Tom announced with the pleasure of someone who’s accidentally come across an old friend. “That one, the C & E, used to be in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. And that one, the Silver Spoon, used to be in Burlington, Vermont. They were listed for sale in
Diner Monthly
. I guess that’s how Randy found out about them.”

Voorhees was studying the ring of keys he held in his hand.

“Where do we start?” asked Charlotte.

“They’re all labeled. Let’s see,” he said, picking out two of the keys. “Plummer, why don’t you take the two on the right.” He handed Tom the keys to the Silver Spoon and the Tastee. “Miss Graham can take the C & E, the Red Robin, and the Short Stop,” he added, handing Charlotte three more keys, “and I’ll take the lodge.”

“Do you think there’s an alarm system?” asked Charlotte.

“I was just getting to that.” He fished around in his coat pocket. “Martinez got the code from the alarm company.” He pulled out a scrap of paper. “It’s 2031. The panels should be just inside each of the doors.”

Charlotte chose to visit the C & E first. She liked the looks of it. It was a small, shiny, jewel-like diner with a barrel roof.

It turned out to be Randy’s living quarters, and she could readily see why he had chosen it for this purpose. It had a J-shaped counter, the area beyond the curve of the J making a natural space for a bed. The rest had been remodeled into a living area, with a banquette under the front windows, and shelving under the counters.

Although it was fascinating as a study of adaptive reuse—who would have thought of using a mirrored pie case for a bookshelf?—it didn’t tell her much. Most of the possessions were practical ones: a TV and a stereo system, a blender and some other kitchen gadgets; some fishing gear. The only art was an old photo of the C & E.

As she was leaving, Charlotte noticed an area nearby that had been recently cleared by a bulldozer. Inspecting it, she found that a road had been bulldozed through the woods. Remembering that Randy had talked about having a particular diner in mind to add to his collection, she concluded that this must be its future site.

Next she checked out the Red Robin, which was one of the diners that Randy had described as undergoing restoration. It was a mess: half the stools were missing, the interior stainless was pitted and rusted, and the woodwork looked like someone had used it as a punching bag. Seeing it, Charlotte was struck by how much work must have gone into restoring the C & E.

The third diner, the Short Stop, was a dinette, one of the mini-diners that had been built after the war for ex-GI’s who had learned to cook in the Army, and who didn’t have the money to invest in something bigger. The stainless steel bands on the exterior alternated with bands of pink enamel to match the color of the sign, which featured an arrow pointing downward at the entrance.

The C & E and the Red Robin had yielded nothing in terms of clues, but at the Short Stop, she struck pay dirt.

The Short Stop was the diner that Randy said he’d just acquired for a guest house. It was a guest house all right, but for a particular guest: a guest whose taste for hot-pink matched the neon sign and the enameled stripes between the stainless steel banding. In short, the Short Stop was Xantha and Randy’s love nest. Xan and Ran, how cute.

“The Short Stop,” Charlotte repeated, laughing to herself at the aptness of the name. Taking a seat in a chair covered in imitation zebra skin, she studied the interior. It was a sight to behold.

Unlike that of the C & E, the interior of the Short Stop had been gutted to make one big bedroom whose decor, in both color and style, matched the pink-on-white cloud pattern of the Formica walls. It was all fifties high-camp, with a ruffled pink satin bedspread, an elaborate dressing table whose mirrored surface was covered with makeup containers and perfume bottles, and lamps in the shape of French poodles with pink tulle shades.

Swallowing her qualms about the propriety of snooping around, Charlotte boldly peeked into the closet. Any uncertainty about the identity of the occupant was erased by a glance at its contents. Almost all of the garments bore the Xantha Price label.

Hearing a step behind her, she turned around. It was Voorhees: he was standing in the glass-block entryway, an expression of astonishment on his broad face. “Holy moly,” he said. “What the hell have we got here?”

“I think it’s what you’d call a love nest,” she said.

“The Short Stop,” he said. “He couldn’t have picked a diner with a more suitable name. Maybe we can add it to the nooner and the quickie as a slang expression for the hasty sex act.”

“He could have chosen the Tastee,” she joked.

Voorhees chuckled.

“Look at this,” she said. She gestured for him to join her at the closet, where she showed him the label in a beaded sweater dress. “I wonder what Arthur Lumkin would think about this.”

“‘Xantha Price,’” he read. He looked over at her, and then raised his hands in an expression of bafflement. “Okay, I give up. Who is Arthur Lumkin and what does he have to do with the label in a dress?”

“Arthur Lumkin is a prominent investment banker who is very, very rich,” she explained. “Xantha Price is a British fashion designer. She is also Lumkin’s wife, and, it most certainly appears, Randy’s lover.”

“I remember now,” he said, nodding his bald head. “They were at the opening; you and Plummer met them there.”

“They’re art collectors. They had loaned a painting to the museum for the diner exhibit—one of Randy’s, I might add. Randy told me at the opening that they owned nine of his paintings.”

“I knew there was a reason I asked you to help out in this investigation. Well, at least we now have one suspect: the husband.” He scanned the interior: “No paintings, I presume.”

“Not that I’ve found. Either here or at the C & E or the Red Robin.”

“None at the lodge, either.” He looked at his watch. “It’s going on six. What do you say to some dinner?”

Charlotte agreed, and they joined Tom outside the lodge. He had found paintings—one of the diners he had checked out was being used by Randy as a studio—but they were all Randy’s own.

After checking out the C & E again—Tom just had to see it—they regrouped in the parking area. “Where’s that diner you were talking about?” asked Voorhees. “I’m getting hungry.”

“Follow me,” Tom responded.

Their destination was the Sunrise Diner in Blairstown, whose sign boasted “Great Coffee.” It was a classic diner that had been ruined, at least as far as Tom was concerned, by the addition of a dining room on the back. Though it had never actually achieved the august rank of perfect diner, it had—prior to the addition of the dining room—been a contender for that title, and it still ranked among the best in Tom’s estimation. Among the features that elevated the Sunrise above the ordinary were the hand-lettered sign above the grill, which said: “There are only two places to eat breakfast: here and at home”; the homey note provided by the blue- and white-checked tieback curtains; the view overlooking the municipal ball field; and the specialty of the house, a simple roast chicken.

Last but not least among the diner’s winning features was the waitress, Lorraine Kelly. Lorraine was the subject of one of Tom’s diner stories, which he regaled them with once they were comfortably settled in a booth with a view of the Little League game-in-progress.

“Her husband was an interstate truck driver, and she used to go along on trips with him sometimes,” he said. “They lived in the Midwest. Dubuque, I think. Anyway, they were eating here when he excused himself to go to the bathroom. He never came back.”

“What do you mean?” asked Voorhees. “Somebody offed him in the john?”

“No. He got in his truck and took off for parts unknown. Lorraine was stranded here. She didn’t even have her pocket-book. She’d left it on the front seat of the truck. All she had was a plate of lasagna and a cup of coffee.”

“What did she do?”

“Nick, the owner, took pity on her. Put her up at his house. She waited for her husband to come back, but he never did. She tried to track him down, with no success. So she went to work for Nick. She figured she didn’t have anything to go back to Dubuque for.”

“How did you find all this out?” asked Voorhees.

It was a question Charlotte didn’t need to ask. Tom was always finding out things like this. Complete strangers would tell him their, life stories. He said it was simple: he just asked.

“Lorraine and I had a long talk one day. She’s been working here now for seventeen years.” He added: “Every diner has a story.”

“And Tom can tell you four hundred and eleven of them,” said Charlotte. “Show the lieutenant your diner log book,” she urged him.

Tom obliged by pulling out a small notebook, and handing it to Voorhees.

“Four hundred and fourteen,” he corrected. “These are my field notes. I write the information down in here: the name; the location; the specialty; the former names, if any; the date that I visited; and whether it was operating, defunct, for sale, or what. Then I put the data in my computer. It’s an obsession,” he confessed. “I like to think of myself as a normal person, but in reality”—he grinned good-naturedly—“I’m a sickie.”

“If a week goes by in which Tom hasn’t visited a diner, he starts getting separation anxiety,” said Charlotte, “which is expressed in the form of an overwhelming craving for tube steaks and french fries.”

“Speaking of which …” said Tom, looking up at the waitress.

She was a middle-aged woman with long, dyed-black hair; black penciled-on eyebrows; and a smile as warm and sweet as a slice of hot apple pie. Her husband must have been a real cad to have left her.

“Hello, Tom,” she said. “Nice to see you again.” She took her order pad out of her apron pocket. “What can I get for you?”

They gave her their orders—three beers (the Sunrise was fortunate in being a diner with a liquor license) and three roast chicken dinners, and then returned to the conversation about diners.

“Right now I’m suffering from another diner-related malady,” Tom said. “A case of diner-envy. I confess to having a deep desire to possess the C & E. It’s a fantasy of mine to live in a diner.”

“What do you mean! You’re already halfway there,” said Charlotte. She explained to Voorhees how the kitchen table in Tom’s apartment was a diner booth, complete with a wallbox and a large
EAT
sign in red, white, and yellow neon mounted on the wall above it.

Voorhees, who had been leafing through Tom’s log book, proceeded to read an entry: “‘The Orange Diner. Main Street, West Orange.’ Hey, I know that diner. It’s a nice little place.” He went on: “I must admit that I have a soft spot for diners myself. I spend a lot of time on the road with my daughter. We eat in diners whenever we can.”

“Aha,” said Tom. “Another closet diner freak. They’re all over the place. I had a suspicion that you might be a fellow traveler when I saw your interest in Randy’s postcard collection. Here’s my stock question,” he said. “I ask it of everyone who admits to a weakness for diners. What specifically is it about diners that you love?”

“Well, they’re cheap and the food’s usually pretty good. But that’s not entirely it.” Voorhees thought for a moment, and then said: “The food, the service, the sense of comfort. But most of all it’s this.” He ran his big hand over a place where a tear in the upholstery had been patched, and then over a spot in the Formica tabletop where the pattern had been worn away.

“The sense of humanity,” said Tom.

“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” he said. “These worn places make me think of all the people who’ve been here before me: the warmth, the laughs, the confidences.” He thought for a minute. “A diner booth is like an old shoe or an easy chair: it has a sense of history.”

“Well-said,” pronounced Tom as Lorraine delivered their beers. Picking up his mug, he hoisted it in a toast: “To diners everywhere!”

After they had drunk to diners and their devotees, Voorhees asked Charlotte to fill him in on the Lumkins.

Charlotte and Tom had just been discussing them in the car. She now repeated what she had just told him. “They’ve been married for ten or twelve years. He was married once before, she twice. Her real name is Geraldine; she only became Xantha shortly before she married Arthur.”

“The name’s sort of a wash, isn’t it?” said Tom. “Whatever she gained by becoming a Xantha she lost when she became a Lumkin.”

Charlotte smiled, and then continued: “Xantha changed Arthur’s life. Before he met her, he was a millionaire without a purpose in life.”

“A millionaire without a purpose in life,” Voorhees repeated. “I really feel for the guy, you know what I mean?”

“He had been interested in buying art,” Charlotte went on, “but he didn’t know how to go about it. What to buy, who to buy it from, how much to pay. Xantha opened up a new world to him. She was a collector of contemporary art. Have you ever seen a picture of her?”

Voorhees shook his head as he sipped the head off his beer.

“Hot-pink spiked hair; dramatic eye makeup; four-inch heels; low-cut dresses that show off her décolletage.”

“Not exactly the shy and retiring type.”

“But the perfect match for a shy, insecure millionaire. I’ll tell you a story I once heard about Arthur. This took place before he married Xantha. He himself told it to a friend of mine. He wanted to buy some paintings, so he had his driver take him to a well-known gallery. But once he got there, he couldn’t get out of the car. He was too insecure. He didn’t know how to behave, what questions to ask. He was afraid of looking stupid, or being cheated, or—worst of all—being snubbed. After sitting in the car for half an hour, he finally ordered the driver to take him home. Xantha changed all that for him. Meeting her gave him a mission in life other than making money.”