Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 13, Mid-December 1992

A Bad Night in Derbyville by Judith L. Post

It poured cats and dogs outside the diner’s windows. I called Margie Neilsen and told her not to bother reporting in. I didn’t expect many customers. Only a duck that lacked common sense would come out on a day like this.

I’ve owned Levicy’s Gourmet Grub for nearly twenty years now, and I have to say I don’t do half bad. When I first bought it, the place was a sorry heap at the edge of town. The floors were sticky with grease. The counters and tables were grimy, but Ma and Pa didn’t raise me to be afraid of a little hard work.

“Any dirt that washes off is good, honest dirt,” my ma always told me, and I’ve kept that in mind all these years. So, with some soap and water and a fresh coat of paint, I whipped that restaurant back to rights. I had a modest beginning, to say the least, but nothing worthwhile is easy. I dug in and held on till folks got used to me and I started making a profit. I’ve been solvent ever since.

Joe Freemont came out of the kitchen to sit next to me at the counter. “Miserable day,” he said between sips of coffee. Joe had worked as a handyman on farms around Derbyville most of his life until his strong back went out on him and he found himself retired early with no pension. That’s when I hired him as my chief cook and bottle washer. Even made a back room into a little apartment for him. It doesn’t take much to make Joe happy — a roof over his head, a decent day’s pay, and a word or two of gratitude. We have a lot in common.

“It’s sleeting now. Not gonna be much business,” he stated.

I nodded. It was the dead time between shifts. Usually at three thirty me and Paula Markle would be cleaning up from a big lunch crowd and setting tables to get ready for supper. Today, Joe and I sipped an extra cup of coffee and ate a piece of pie.

It was after five when the first trucker pulled in. By the time the poor man scurried from his cab and dashed through the front door, he was sopping wet.

“It’s a bitch out there!” he grumbled, dripping water on my floor.

I threw him a clean towel from a stack I’d put on the counter.

“Dry off first. Then I’ll pour you some coffee.”

He grinned. “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to come in here tracking water all over your diner, but I stopped at the motel down the road and it’s filled up. I can barely see an inch in front of me. Thought I’d hole up here till the rain slowed a bit.”

I took the pencil from behind my ear, poising it over my order pad. “Quit trying to sound so pitiful and drink some hot coffee. What’ll it be? Joe’s got a pot of stew fixed for our special, or you can order off the menu. Take your pick.”

Most of my truckers are regulars who drive Highway 80 back and forth, crosscountry, day and night. If you’ve never heard of 80, it runs past my front yard and goes west all the way to Sacramento — to L.A. if you take the 70 split — and it goes east all the way to New York. Sitting in a diner in Nebraska is kind of like sitting in the center of things. Not a bad place to be.

The trucker shrugged himself onto a stool. “Stew sounds good.”

I sloshed coffee into his cup and brought him his supper. There was bread and butter on the side with a lettuce salad to round things out.

He shoveled the food in greedily. I refilled his coffee cup until he couldn’t hold no more. Then, when he’d finished, I said, “Now that you’ve got something warm in your stomach, you might want to go upstairs to the lounge. Settle in a while.” He smiled his thanks and threw a couple of extra dollars on the counter.

The room over the diner isn’t anything fancy, just some vinyl couches and a couple of showers. There’s a TV set that doesn’t get very good reception and an old radio, but it makes the truckers happy.

By the time six thirty rolled around, we were doing a passable business. One truck after another came into the parking lot to call it quits for the night. I usually have a grace period for the lounge, not wanting it to be home and hearth for any cheapskates, but tonight I bent the rules. It wasn’t safe to drive, and every motel for miles flashed No Vacancy signs.

Between the two of us, Joe and I fed everyone and offered them all the comfort we could. Most of the booths were doubling as beds. By nine, I was ready to turn the sign in the window to CLOSED and douse the lights when another trucker pulled in.

“You’re my last,” I said, holding the door open against the rain. I flipped the sign and shut out the lights before turning to seat him. I should have guessed something by then. The chatty talk in the booths had died down. Heads were straining to get a gander at the newcomer.

When I finally turned to look, I could understand the curiosity. Not only wasn’t he a he, this trucker was one goodlooking young gal all fidgety with nerves. Nothing excites a trucker like a female in distress, especially a pretty one.

“Have you heard?” Her voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard, high and shrill. “I passed a truck that was tipped about twenty miles outside of town. Must have gone off the shoulder and rolled over.”

“What kind of truck?” a voice asked from a booth.

“New. A black cab, lots of chrome. Red mud flaps.”

“That’s Sam Barnes’s rig,” someone said.

Joe walked to the CB radio and cranked up the volume. Between crackling static, I recognized Sheriff Martin’s voice. Since his wife died a while ago, Pete’s been coming to the diner for lunch every day. People are beginning to gossip that we’re sweet on each other. For all I know, we might be.

“Gladys,” he called in. “Did you get ahold of Corey yet?”

Corey is our local state trooper. That didn’t sound good. If Pete was calling in reinforcements, Sam Barnes was in serious shape.

“We’re gonna be here awhile,” he said. “Doc made it a few minutes ago. The EMS is here, and Tom’s working traffic. I’ll get back to you later.”

Joe and I looked at each other. Tom Lynx is the deputy sheriff. Whatever happened out there was major.

“This damn weather,” one of the men said.

The lady trucker walked to the counter and sank down. Her hands were shaking. “They didn’t let me see too much, but I think there was a stretcher with a sheet over it.”

I reached for the coffeepot, but she covered her cup. “If I drink it now, I’ll never be able to sleep tonight.”

I wondered if she was worried about the caffeine or her nerves. “Something hot will warm you a little. Cocoa?”

She nodded and began to shrug herself out of her poncho. A smart idea. Umbrellas aren’t worth much in weather like this.

I thought about Pete and the others working in the sleet and. cold rain. I thought about a body on a stretcher lying outside with a sheet over it.

Ma and Pa had never told me that life would be easy, but some things hit you harder than others. It was a downright shame, dying on a lonely stretch of road in the middle of a freak storm.

“You don’t come this way often, do you?” I asked as I poured hot water over instant hot chocolate. I’d seen her a few times before. There are several women truckers who drive 80, but hardly any this young.

“Only once in a while.” She held the hot mug with both hands, trying to warm them.

“Let me see what we’ve got in the kitchen.”

I came back with the end of Joe’s stew. Not bad for a dismal night. No leftovers. Almost guaranteed a good breakfast trade, too.

She ate all the vegetables, none of the meat, and sopped up the gravy with her bread and butter. I rinsed the plate and put it in the sink to do in the morning. She was dawdling over the last of her cocoa, so I refilled her cup and poured me some coffee from the bottom of the pot.

No one said much. We all had our ears tuned to the scanner. Joe came around the counter and sat beside me. The truckers propped themselves up in booth corners to wait for more news. It was a long, quiet vigil until Pete Martin’s cruiser pulled into the lot. He was creeping slower than a snail, but he still slid to a stop. The roads must have been slicker than a greased pig, and when he opened the door to step in, a gust of wind and water came with him.

I went to the kitchen and made more coffee. From the look on his face, it was going to be a long night.

“Levicy,” he said, tipping his hat, “mind if I ask your customers a few questions, since you’ve got quite a few truckers stashed here for the night?”

“Be my guest.”

“Is anyone upstairs, or are they all here?”

I went to herd everyone into the dining room and wondered what the heck was going on. When we were all together, Pete got started.

“You’ve probably all heard by now that Sam Barnes’s rig rolled over a few miles out of town. He didn’t have his seatbelt on, and he went through the front windshield. He doesn’t look like much any more. The thing is, though...” Pete stalled for effect “...Sam was already dead before the accident.”

There was a long silence. Then one of the truckers asked, “Did he have a heart attack, Pete? What are you saying exactly?”

“There was a deep gash in Sam’s forehead. Someone hit him real hard before they put his truck in gear and sent it off the road.”

Men shuffled their feet and slid their eyes off of each other. None of us missed the fact that it was a miserable night outside. The CB said that most of the roads were closed. A man couldn’t go far if he wanted to. That meant Sam’s killer could very well be in this room.

“Got any time frame in mind?” someone asked.

“When we got there, not much ice had built up on his truck. That was around eight thirty. He couldn’t have been there long. The road was closed west of him, and it’s not open too far east. That doesn’t leave a lot of leeway.”

We looked around at each other. The motel and hotel had been full at four thirty. Everyone else had come here.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Pete said, “I’d like to know which of you pulled in here after seven.” That slimmed the lead contenders down something considerable. “Levicy?” he asked. I squinted, remembering. I pointed to a tall, lean trucker in a red plaid flannel shirt. “Steve got in about then. So did George Roberts.”

Everyone in Derbyville knew George. He operated the grain elevator in town. I scanned the rest of the faces. “The last person who came was the girl. She told us about the accident.”

“Do you remember when you pulled in?” Pete asked, turning to the lady trucker.

She nodded, and short blonde curls bobbed around her face. It was a sweet face, heart-shaped with freckles. Twisting her fingers nervously, she said, “I looked at the clock on the back wall when I got my cocoa. It was eight forty-five.”

Another set of headlights flashed through the front glass, and soon Tom Lynx ambled in. Tom is built like a young Viking with golden hair and sky blue eyes. If you look at him wrong, he blushes beet red.

“Tom, why don’t you stay out here with these folks,” Pete said, “while Levicy and me and the three latecomers have a little chat in her office?”

With a puppy dog shrug, Tom sat himself down next to Joe.

“I made some fresh coffee,” I told him as the five of us left the room.

Pete settled himself behind my small desk. Years of doughnuts for breakfast and pies for dessert made my office chair creak in protest.

“It’s like this,” Pete said, digging through my things for a pencil and paper. “I might as well take your statements, since you’re all here. Why don’t you tell me what you were doing out in the storm today?”

The trucker in the red plaid shrugged. “I had to make a delivery at Odessa before noon. Then I thought I’d beat it for home. Wanted to make Carson City by the weekend. Then the storm hit.”

Pete’s eyes slid to George.

George Roberts jammed his hands deep into his pockets and swallowed hard. Never was much of a talker. “I heard the report about the storm. It was supposed to come late this afternoon. Thought I could get a little work done at the granary before it hit. Guess I didn’t time it too good because the next thing I knew the wind was howlin’ across the fields and the roads were freezin’ over fast. I still thought I could get home if I drove the big truck and was real careful, but I spun twice going five miles an hour. Saw that Levicy was open, so I decided to stop here.”

The girl realized she was next and cleared her throat nervously. “I just picked up a delivery in Chicago and was trying to make time to L.A., even slept in the bed behind the front seat of my cab for a few hours instead of losing a whole night.”

“Is that safe?” Pete asked.

She chewed her bottom lip. “Sure is. I lock the doors, and I have a big gun I know how to shoot stored right under the seat. I keep it loaded.”

Pete’s voice went gentle. “Sam Barnes didn’t try anything with you, did he? If what happened today was accidental, in self-defense, you don’t have to be afraid to tell me.”

She winced. “God, no! I mean, I would, but it didn’t.”

“You weren’t sleeping in your cab, riding out the storm, when Sam maybe stopped by?”

“No!”

Pete shrugged. “It was just an idea. Thought I might as well ask.”

She folded her slim arms over her chest. “All I did was see the accident and get so scared I figured I’d better find someplace to ride out the storm. It’s the first real bad weather I’ve worked in.”

Pete nodded, then said, “Until I learn otherwise, you three are the best suspects I’ve got. I’m going to have to do a background check on you, and I don’t want you to leave Derbyville until you clear it with me.”

“Will that take long?” the red plaid asked. “I’ve already lost time to the storm.”

“I’ll do my best,” Pete promised. “Probably burn the midnight oil.” He opened the office door and motioned them out. “You stay put,” he told me. Then he fetched two cups of coffee and closed the door again. “Any woman’s intuition?” he asked, seating himself on the corner of my desk so I could have the chair. Truth is, I was mighty glad to sit. Being a waitress is hard on the legs and feet. Late at night, they bark pretty loud.

I took a few sips of coffee while I wrestled with my questions. “There is something that’s worrying me,” I told him. “Being a man, you probably think it’s nothing, but still...” I hesitated. “George Roberts has come in here ever since I bought the diner. A good man who works hard. And every time he’s running late or stuck in town, without fail, he calls his wife. I’ve always thought that was pretty decent of him, so she doesn’t sit at home worrying herself sick. Tonight, though, when the streets are pure ice and a wife could go crazy fretting, he never once used the phone.”

Pete frowned. “He probably called from the granary.”

“Could be, but he said he thought he was going to make it home, remember, until he slid all over 80? So wouldn’t he call to tell her he was holing up here?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Sam Barnes goes through Derbyville a lot,” I said. “He’s a handsome man, and single. George Roberts works long hours. He has a wife that’s some years younger than he is.”

Pete’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Suppose George found out Sam stopped at his house sometimes? He wouldn’t hurt his wife. He’s devoted to her. But Sam’s another story. Jealousy’s pretty hard to swallow.”

Pete reached for the phone. “Maybe I’d better call Meg and see what she has to say.” While he dialed, I left the office. I walked to the counter and filled my cup again. If the caffeine didn’t keep me awake all night, my bladder probably would.

A short time later, Pete opened the office door, and I could tell by the strain lines around his mouth and eyes that Meg had told him what he didn’t want to hear. He walked to where George was and said, “Can we talk?”

George’s shoulders hunched forward, and all the starch went out of him. I looked away. It was sorry to see.

The next morning, weak sunlight struggled through the gray clouds. The weather was still nothing to brag about, but the highway was safe. A bunch of stiff, ugly-looking truckers lined up at the counter for their fill of food and an early start.

Joe and I did our best to feed them, but we were happy to see the last of them. It had been a long night. The young girl was the only one left. She’d waited for everyone else to go before she took a quick shower. When she came down all perky and pretty, I shook my head. “How did a sweet little thing like you ever get into a business like this?”

She smiled. “My daddy was a trucker, and we were always moving from one place to another. My mom died when I was young. I spent summer vacations on the road with my old man. Loved every minute of it. Dropped out of school when I was sixteen so I could drive with him. Been driving ever since.”

I nodded. That seemed to be the way of it. Wheels rolling under you got to be an addiction of sorts. “Next time you’re in Derbyville, you stop in here again,” I told her. “Your meal’s on me. Every time you’re in town.”

She grinned. “I’m gonna take you up on that.”

Then I filled her thermos and handed her a paper bag with a lunch in it and watched her pull away. It made me feel almost motherly, like I was sending a kid away to school or something.

I shook my head. “Joe, you got anything against putting your feet up and recuperating today?” I asked him.

“I don’t think I got a lick of sleep last night,” he said.

“Me neither.” I turned the sign on the door to closed and said, “See you tomorrow.”

I was crossing the highway to my bungalow when Pete’s cruiser pulled beside me. He opened the front door and motioned for me to slide in, then he threw a colored brochure in my lap. Opening the front page, I saw that it was an advertisement for the Buffalo Bill State Park. Pete and I have always talked about going there. A handmade coupon was stapled to its front corner. It said, “Good for one free trip. Courtesy Derbyville Law Enforcement.”

“Your reward for helping in an investigation. Besides, I figured both of us needed to get away today. George confessed to everything. Corey took him away this morning.”

I sighed. Pete was right. I usually love listening to the small talk and gossip of Derbyville, but not today. I scanned through the pages of the brochure. Today, people would have to feed themselves. I was on vacation.