The Wayward Waffle: Book 4 in The Diner of the Dead Series Read online

  “That’s right. It’s nice to officially meet you, Mrs. Reed,” he replied, sounding like a high school boy greeting his girlfriend’s mother for the first time.

  “Oh, call me Diane. I insist,” she instructed dotingly, mounting the stairs on her tiptoes like a wistful fairy.

  Sonja couldn’t help but roll her eyes—her mother had unrealistic ideas about romance, thanks to the two shelves full of romance books in her bedroom. The daughter had read a few throughout high school and was somewhat sickened by what unrealistic precedence it placed on her expectations of romance.

  “Okay, Mom. Nice to see you,” she responded, hoping to get out of there before anything embarrassing happened. The last thing Sonja wanted was to have a discussion about marriage and babies every night for the next month, and that’s exactly what would happen if her mother had any inkling that Sonja’s relationship with Benjamin might actually turn into something a little steadier. Heck, they hadn’t even had their first date yet, and Sonja wasn’t sure if spending the afternoon chasing clues for some random murder case counted as date material.

  Standing on her toes at the front door, eagerly waiting for some more information on the situation, her mother placed a hand daintily on Benjamin’s shoulder. “Are you taking my daughter out this afternoon?”

  Sonja literally let her head fall into her hands. It was all over now.

  “Well, Diane, we’re just running some errands,” Benjamin responded very matter-of-factly.

  Never before had Sonja seen her mother this happy. For a moment she suspected the woman would lift off from the ground and float away into the bright sunshine.

  “It’s not a date or anything, Mom,” Sonja insisted. “He’s just giving me a ride.”

  Diane fell back onto the heels of her feet, but her smile didn’t quite disappear. “I see,” her mother lilted.

  Sonja peeked out of the corner of her eye at Benjamin who also had his eyebrow raised in an inquisitive manner.

  “We’ve gotta be going, Mom,” her daughter said, breaking the awkward silence. Dismounting the porch in one step, she moved away from her mother as quickly as possible.

  Looking back, Sonja noticed Benjamin nodding at her mother. “Nice to meet you, Diane.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll meet again,” she replied with a hopeful smile.

  Feeling her heart drop a little, Sonja shamefully climbed back into the white TV van. Benjamin stepped down from the porch and walked around the van, not making eye contact with Sonja, and finally opening the door and pausing before getting in.

  The moment between when he opened the door and when he finally spoke felt like a century to her.

  “Alright,” he offered. “I’ll drop you off at Shamus’ house.”

  “Wait, what?” She insisted. “You’re not coming in with me?”

  “You told your mother I was just giving you a ride,” he mentioned, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “So, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  Sonja wanted to tell him to wait, to tell him she was sorry, to tell him all the things about her insecurities around normal social interactions and around her mother. Ironically, it was those same insecurities that kept her from saying anything at all.

  * * *

  They drove up to the Bidwell home at around twelve thirty in the afternoon. Despite being only five minutes, the drive over had been painfully long and silent. Benjamin put the van into park but didn’t cut the engine. “Okay, here we are,” he announced. “If you need a ride when you’re done, give me a call.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered, opening the door. Pausing for a moment with the door open, one leg inside the car, the other dangling outside the car, she felt like this was her last chance to say something—to make this weird, awkward situation right again.

  “Maybe I’ll see you later,” he commented, “when you’re ready to talk, perhaps?”

  Nodding, she stepped out of the car and closed the door, watching Benjamin’s disappointed face once more through the window as he drove off down the street. She shivered—her hair was still a little wet and it created a cold draft every time the wind blew against her neck.

  Standing on the street in front of the Bidwell home she felt more alone than ever.

  For a moment, everything felt silent—dead silent—and Sonja felt completely alone. Sighing, she steadied herself as she walked up to the front door. Knocking on the heavy wooden door, she waited for a response.

  If Shamus hadn’t been at the park, he had to be here at home. Where else could he have gone?

  When no answer came she knocked again, hoping that perhaps Shamus just hadn’t heard her the first time.

  Again, there was no answer—everything remained as quiet as the grave. She decided to try one last time before forgetting the whole thing, but before she could knock she paused, noticing some heavy scratches on the door and frame near the handle.

  Squatting down she examined the scratches. They looked like they had been made with some sort of sharp object—or maybe even a large animal. Bears and raccoons were known to wander the area and had, on rare occasion, broken their way into resident’s homes.

  But Sonja wasn’t sure that was the case here.

  The sound of an engine came from around the corner, and Sonja perked up, hoping to see a flash of the white TV truck coming back toward the house. For a brief moment, the enamored young woman imagined Benjamin getting out of the van, grabbing her in his arms, and saying that he understood and it was okay.

  Her daydream was short lived when a brown pickup turned the corner instead.

  “I’m as bad as my mother,” she mumbled angrily to herself.

  The truck puttered up toward the home and pulled into the driveway. Through the windshield, Sonja recognized Shamus Lincoln at the wheel. He seemed as calm and even keeled as could be; you would never know his father had just been murdered.

  Maybe he didn’t know yet, or worse yet, maybe he did.

  Sonja briefly thought of the Sheriff’s many warnings, about not taking the initiative in these situations, about not putting herself in danger.

  Ultimately, she decided she was already here and there was no reason to turn away now.

  Shamus got out of the car. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi,” Sonja waved awkwardly. “The sheriff sent me along ahead of him.”

  The man’s face twisted in a sense of confusion. “Why would the sheriff need to see me?”

  Seemed like he really didn’t know his father was dead.

  “You’re Sonja, right? Sonja Reed?”

  She nodded, “That’s me.”

  “Are you working for the police or something now?” He asked, the confusion in the lines of his face only deepening.

  “Shamus, maybe we should head inside and sit down.”

  “Wait,” he stuttered, his face going pale. “Is something wrong with dad?”

  “I . . . I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Her heart skipped a beat knowing she would have to be the one to break the news to him, and she had never told anyone news like this in her entire life—not to a loving family member, at least.

  “What happened? Where is my dad?” The man urged, tears already present in the corners of his eyes.

  She looked down at her feet for a second, wiggling her toes in her sandal, then looked back up. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident. Your father is dead.”

  There was an audible gasp followed by the clink of keys falling on the sidewalk. Shamus crumpled to his knees.

  * * *

  It took a good fifteen minutes to get the devastated man up and off the sidewalk and into the house. Sitting him down on the brown suede couch in his own house, Sonja hurried into the kitchen to find something to drink.

  At first, she opened cabinets, looking for a cup for water. Somehow, water just didn’t seem like enough in this type of situation. She opened the fridge and found a pitcher of lemonade—made apparent by the yellowish hue along with the faded printing of lemons along the plastic.


  Pouring the juice into the red and white mug she had found, the anxious amateur detective turned source of comfort ran into the room and handed Shamus the lemonade.

  “Here, drink this,” she instructed, wishing she had something better to offer him.

  “Thanks,” he whispered, grasping the mug in his hands but not drinking from it.

  Sonja sat in the chair opposite the couch, the coffee table acting as a barrier between her and the mourning man. “I’m so sorry to have to be the one to bring you this news.”

  Shamus snorted, attempting to hold back tears, but it was little use. The water ran down his cheeks, creating tracks through his dirty scruff. “Why now?” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry,” Sonja comforted.

  “When I think of the last things I said to him,” he choked up, unable to continue his thoughts.

  Sonja leaned in. “Maybe, if you tell me the last things you said to him, it will help you process your feelings?”

  “Is the Sheriff coming?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” she confirmed. “He can fill you in on all the details.”

  “The details,” he muttered. “Of how dad died.”

  Sonja could only nod. “But he sent me ahead to make sure you were alright until he got here.”

  “I see,” Shamus admitted, pausing as he wallowed in his lemonade like it were a mug of beer. “What can you tell me?” He pressed. “I’d like to know . . . sooner rather than later.”

  “Well,” she paused, working the words over in her mind before speaking. “I was out helping to clean things up when it started to rain. I thought I saw something in the woods behind the community center, so I ran out there really quick. I . . . I found him lying there. It seemed like he had a pretty nasty bump on his head,” she admitted, not wanting to reveal that it was probably murder and definitely avoiding the fact that they found a potential murder weapon nearby.

  “A bump on the head?” he asked. “Did he fall?”

  “They’re still working that out,” she admitted. “but don’t worry. The Sheriff and his men will figure out what happened.”

  Shamus sighed, his shoulders slumping as some of the stress released form his body. “I see,” he replied.

  After an uncomfortably long pause Shamus looked Sonja in the eye for the first time. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Shrugging, she wasn’t sure how to respond. “What for?”

  “For coming ahead of the sheriff to tell me. It’s surprisingly comforting to hear the news from someone who isn’t just in uniform, doing their duty. I really appreciate it. It makes it . . . a little easier at least.”

  Sonja nodded.

  “And, without you, who knows how long he would have laid out there before I even realized he was gone.” He paused again, staring deep into the mug. “Why was he out there?” he asked himself.

  “Maybe . . .” Sonja hesitated. “Maybe if you tell me what happened before he went out in the woods, it could help explain things.”

  “You think so?” he asked, still holding back tears.

  “It might,” she replied.

  Swallowing hard, the man breathed in deeply and then let it out with a whoosh. The scent of fresh alcohol came off his breath. Had he been drinking right before he came home?

  “We had a fight at the picnic. It was stupid really. He threatened me, told me he didn’t want me around for the ceremony.”

  Sonja furrowed her brow. “Threatened you?” That hardly seemed like the behavior of the well-known, well-respected war veteran everyone knew.

  “He said, ‘I’ll cut you out my will, boy, and you won’t get a penny.’”

  “Cut you out of his will?” Sonja pondered. “That seems pretty serious.”

  “It isn’t. Not really,” Shamus admitted truthfully. “He always said things like that when he was upset or wanted me to do something that I told him I wouldn’t. It was all just part of his temper tantrums.”

  “Temper tantrums?”

  “He was going to a support group for anger management. You couldn’t tell, not being here at home with him, but he’s had serious anger problems ever since he returned from the war. At least that’s how our mom put it, I never knew any different. I guess it was a sort of PTSD reaction he just never managed to get over. I finally convinced him to see someone about it a few months ago.”

  “Still,” Sonja commented, “that seems like a pretty harsh thing to tell you not to attend the award ceremony—especially for his own son.”

  “He says things like that because he knows it gets to me, knows I’m afraid of losing his respect.”

  Sonja sniffed, thinking that—based on the little interaction she’d seen between the father and son—Lincoln, seemed to truly love his son, cling to him even.

  “Well, I had finally had enough. I yelled at him, told him to go ahead and do it. Called him a penniless pauper who had nothing to give anyway.”

  Ouch. Seemed like things were less than amiable in the Bidwell family.

  “I told him he could keep all his war tokens, that I didn’t want them. I,” he broke again, the tears coming in waves, “I was just so tired of being always bossed around and being treated like a kid. I told him, ‘I’m not one of your military subordinates, Dad, and I never will be.’”

  Sonja stood up, grabbed the box of tissues off the fireplace and held them out to Shamus. He took a three of them and buried his face in the white paper.

  “I really hurt him, this time. I really did. The military was everything to him. I said some pretty horrible things about his service, and about the war in general. You just don’t talk politics around Dad, unless you’re looking for an argument. I guess I just slipped up, pushed the wrong button.”

  Sonja reluctantly reached down and patted him gently on the back, unaware of what else to do at the moment.

  “This time,” he went on, lifting his face from his hands, “This time I think he really meant to do it, to disown me. I know he’d regret it later, but he’d do it in an angry fit.”

  “I’m sure he would never do that.” Sonja added, trying to keep her voice hopeful, and honestly, it hardly seemed like an upstanding member of the community such as Lincoln would disown his only son.

  “He did it to my brother,” Shamus commented firmly.

  Sonja took a step back, her jaw dropping a little as she took in the new information. “Your brother?”

  Shamus nodded. “I had a brother until I was almost fifteen. He was twenty. He got into some sort of fight with dad, told him he was a fake and a liar, told him he would never go down to the city’s Veteran Community Center with him ever again or something. Well, Dad wouldn’t stand for that. During one of his angry tirades, he cut my brother off—disowned him.”

  Realizing her mouth was open in surprise, she quickly closed it. Sonja had known Shamus and Lincoln in passing almost her whole life—but she didn’t remember a brother. However, considering that Shamus was a good ten or more years older than her, it was no surprise she wouldn’t know the brother when he’d been around.

  “I was afraid he was going to disown me, too,” Shamus muttered before burying his face in tissues again and sobbing. “I didn’t want to get disowned, to lose him forever. So I did as he said. I left the ceremony and went shopping instead, just like he told me.”

  Pulling out a few more tissues out of the box, she set them on the table next to him. Instantly, the man grabbed them up and added them to the pile in his hands. Sonja set the box on the table.

  “It hurt, Sonja,” he whispered. “It hurt me so much to miss the ceremony, but if it meant keeping Dad happy, keeping him from . . . disowning me . . . it would have been worth it. I shouldn’t have left; I should have stayed by his side the whole time. Maybe then . . . he wouldn’t be dead.”

  She couldn’t imagine losing her mother like this, after all, her mother was basically the only person she had left. She instantly felt sorry for the way she had been ac
ting since her return to Haunted Falls—always secretive, always excluding her mother from her life and choices.

  She was determined to apologize when she got home. Maybe after that, she could also patch things up with Benjamin and finally go on that date they had discussed, and she also thought of Sheriff Thompson, knowing she needed to apologize to him, too.

  Shamus had surprisingly finished his lemonade and Sonja offered to take the mug from him. Holding it out to her, she grabbed the mug and headed for the kitchen, passing the fireplace as she went. Stopping suddenly in her tracks, Sonja noticed a small iron holster next to the fireplace—the kind used to hold a set of fireplace tools. The set included a black brush, a shovel, and a coal turner, but something was missing. The place where fireplace poker would usually hang stood empty.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sonja considered staying with Shamus until the sheriff arrived, but decided it would probably just create an unnecessary confrontation. The last thing this lost son needed was the local sheriff and the diner owner arguing about the murder case involving his father.

  The empty slot in the fireplace set came to mind and she decided it was better that way, just in case Shamus was, just in fact, an excellent actor with sinister intentions.

  It wasn’t until she opened the front door, leaving the man alone with his emotions, that she remembered she no longer had a ride. Benjamin had left her high and dry after her embarrassing escapade in front of her mother.

  She knew he had offered to come back and pick her up, but she decided she wasn’t ready to see him yet.

  The first thing Sonja wanted to do was run home to her mom, hug her, and apologize for the way she had been acting. Relationships would come and go, but she would always have her mother. Estimating it would take her around thirty to forty minutes to walk home, she figured she better get started.

  Nearing the end of the street, Sonja heard the rumble of another car coming her way. Looking around the corner she saw Sheriff Thompson driving along—most likely on his way to Shamus’ house.

  Frantically, she looked for a place to hide—ultimately tumbling into a bush near someone’s fence.