Chapter 8 Diner Stakeout and Desperate Threats #2
Behind us, Gregory remained frozen, his breath rattling like dry leaves.
Across the table, Birdie looked stunned beneath her dark glasses. She leaned forward, knuckles white.
"Maggie," she breathed. "He was going to clear-cut the entire north ridge. Eleanor’s grandfather stole the trust charter... and Julian was blackmailing him."
"And Gregory thinks the ledger is at our warehouse," I whispered back, cold dread pooling in my stomach. "He's planning to break in—"
A wet, cold nose pressed firmly against my bare ankle beneath the table.
I gasped, jerking my foot back.
From underneath our tablecloth emerged the broad, shaggy, golden-furred head of Buster.
My golden retriever had slipped out the loading bay when Luke opened it, tracked our scent down Main Street, and followed the smell of frying oil straight to booth four.
He gave me a cheerful, tail-thumping look of adoration, pink tongue lolling.
"Buster!" I choked out in a frantic whisper. "What are you doing here?!"
Buster didn't answer. He smelled sweet potato fries.
Before I could grab his collar, Buster spotted something better. Shifting his sixty-five pounds of muscle, he poked his entire front half through the gap beneath the vinyl partition—directly into booth number five.
A loud, wet slurping sound echoed from the other side.
"What the—!" Gregory shrieked, slamming his knees into the table and rattling the silverware. "A dog?! Where did that beast come from?!"
Buster gave a happy snort, followed by the crunch of a stray hushpuppy from the floor. He then gave Gregory’s polished shoe a thorough bath of golden retriever drool.
"Get off me! Shoo! Get away!" Gregory yelled, scrambling backward against the cushions in sheer hysterics. "Whose mutt is this?!"
"Code red," Birdie hissed, clutching my arm. "Abort! Evacuate! Scatter!"
"We can't leave Buster!" I lunged under the table, grabbed Buster’s collar, and hauled him backward with all my strength. "Come here, you biscuit traitor!"
Buster skidded backward across the linoleum like a stubborn sack of flour, his tail giving three tremendous wallops against the thin divider.
*THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.*
"Hey!" Gregory shouted, peering over the top of the maroon vinyl seat.
His bloodshot, terror-stricken eyes locked onto Birdie’s enormous saucer-sized sunhat.
Birdie froze. Slowly, with magnificent southern dignity, she raised a manicured hand, lowered her sunglasses an inch, and smiled.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Vance," Birdie said smoothly, sweet as syrup. "Lovely weather for seasonal foliage, isn't it?"
Gregory’s mouth fell open. His gaze darted from Birdie’s hat to my face, where I was crouched half-under the table clutching a panting golden retriever around the chest like a stolen prize ham.
Recognition hit him. His jaw clamped shut as his face flushed purple.
"You..." Gregory choked out, pointing a trembling finger. "You were listening! You two have been sitting there the whole time!"
"Listening?" I stood up, brushing dog hair off my knees with airy innocence. "Goodness, Gregory, we were simply enjoying the Mountain View’s world-renowned sweet potato fries. Though if you ask me, your friend Mr. Stone could use a little more fiber. Terribly tense posture."
"You heard," Gregory breathed, horror draining the purple from his face. "You know about the option. You know about the trust."
"We know Julian Croft was blackmailing you for two hundred thousand dollars," I said, stepping into the aisle and tightening Buster’s leash at my hip. "And we know an antique brass beam scale makes a convenient weapon when you're desperate to silence a man who can send you to federal prison."
Gregory stumbled into the aisle, hands clutching at the air. "It wasn't like that! You don't understand what those people in Charlotte are capable of! If I don't get that ledger—"
"If you come anywhere near Callahan & Company tonight, Gregory," Birdie interrupted, rising to her full sixty-two inches and adjusting her sunhat with lethal poise, "I will personally introduce you to a can of bear spray from behind the register.
And unlike Sheriff Lawson, I do not believe in due process when it comes to trespassers. "
"Darla!" I called toward the counter, dropping a twenty on the table. "Keep the change for the hushpuppies!"
"Much obliged, Maggie!" Darla hollered back over the sizzle of the grill. "Give that big hound a scratch for me!"
"Will do!"
Without another glance at Gregory Vance, who was clutching the booth divider like a drowning man clinging to driftwood, Birdie and I pushed through the diner doors into the crisp mountain air.
Fog rolled down from the ridges, wrapping streetlamps in amber halos. At my side, Buster gave a contented snuffle, tail wagging proudly as if he had masterminded the greatest intelligence victory in Blue Ridge history.
"Well," Birdie said, whipping off her sunglasses and inhaling deeply. "I believe that went rather swimmingly, wouldn't you say?"
I looked at her, then down at Buster, and let out a breathless laugh.
"Swimmingly, Birdie? We just confirmed our prime suspect has twenty-four hours before a predatory syndicate destroys him, and he knows that we know."
Birdie smiled, linking her arm through mine as we turned the corner toward the warm brick lights of our warehouse.
"Yes, darling," she said with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Which means tonight, for the very first time in this investigation, we have the upper hand. Now come on. We need to call Luke, lock the gates, and figure out where on God’s green earth Eleanor Vance actually hid that ledger."