Nothing to Lose (J.P. Beaumont #25)(48)

“That’s right,” Twink said after we finally drove around the beast and got back up to speed. “I hit one once, you know,” she added, “a big sucker. Ran out of the woods right in front of me. There was no way to avoid him. What saved my bacon was the damned snowplow. The angle of it worked like a cow-catcher on a train. It pushed him away from me and off onto the shoulder instead of throwing him up over the hood and into the windshield. I could see the poor thing wasn’t dead, so of course I put him out of his misery and then took the carcass home to butcher and eat. It was more than my freezer would hold, so I shared him with a couple of neighbors.”

“Of course you put him out of his misery,” I agreed. “How’d you do it, with one of the wrenches from your toolbox?”

I was making a joke, or at least trying to. Twink wasn’t buying it.

“With the 350 Magnum I keep under my seat,” she snapped, “and there’s a Colt .45 in the glovebox, in case you’re interested. You don’t think I’m out here on the road all by my lonesome at all hours of the day and night and in all kinds of weather without being armed to the teeth, do you? I’m not exactly stupid, you know!”

I was beginning to learn that it took very little to push Twinkle Winkleman’s buttons. A long period of silence followed that minor skirmish. The Travelall motored along at a sedate sixty miles per hour, which was probably pretty close to its top speed. I took the time to write a long e-mail to Jared Danielson. I didn’t have a lot to say, but I gave him a detailed report of my efforts so far and let him know what the game plan was for today. I wrote that e-mail and one to Mel as well, but due to spotty coverage I wasn’t able to send either one of them.

We arrived in Homer on schedule, right around eleven thirty. Much to my surprise, Twink pulled in to a restaurant parking lot rather than the residential address I’d given her at the start of the trip. A glowing neon sign announced we had arrived at Zig’s Place.

“Wow,” I said, staring at the sign. “I had no idea this place was still open.”

Twink seemed taken aback. “You know about Zig’s Place?” she demanded in disbelief. “They serve the best burgers in southeast Alaska, but how the hell would a cheechako like you know about that?”

“I don’t know about the burgers,” I allowed, “but Chris Danielson, the person I’m looking for, was working here at the time he went missing.”

“Okay,” Twink said, “so let’s go get some grub, then. In case you haven’t figured it out on your own, I’m a three-meal-a-day girl, no exceptions. If I don’t eat on a regular basis, I can be downright cranky.”

I didn’t want Twink any crankier than she already was. “By all means,” I agreed. “Let’s go try one of those burgers.”

Inside, Zig’s Place was your typical fifties-style diner, complete with red-upholstered booths and actual working jukeboxes on each table. A sign at the entrance invited us to seat ourselves. Once we did so, a smiling young woman wearing a uniform that included a frilly white apron stopped by to deliver our menus. Twink and I ordered coffee.

“Is Zig in?” Twink asked.

“He’s in the back. If you wanna talk to him, you’d better do it now. There’s a basketball game going on across the street. It's about to get over, so you should probably order now, too. Who should I say is here?”

“Tell him Twinkle Winkleman wants to say hi.”

I had already noticed that the scoreboard for the Homer High athletic field was directly across the street from the restaurant. That meant that the gym probably was somewhere nearby as well. Bill Farmdale had mentioned that the restaurant was close to the high school, but I hadn’t realized how close.

“We’ll take two Ziggy’s Specials with everything on them,” Twink said, ordering for both of us. She did so without bothering to consult me, and I had the good sense to make no objection.

A moment or two later, a man emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on a surprisingly spotless apron. He was a tall, balding beanpole, somewhere in his late sixties who bore absolutely no resemblance to his nephew, Bill Farmdale. He was beaming as he approached our table and holding out his arms outstretched in welcome as though he and Twink were long-lost friends.

“Hey, Twink,” he said, as she rose to her feet and allowed herself to be wrapped in his enveloping hug. “How the hell are you? What brings you to these parts?”

“I’m here with him,” Twink said, nodding in my direction. “His name’s J. P. Beaumont.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Beaumont,” Siegfried said, holding out his hand. “People call me Ziggy. What brings you to town?”

“He’s a private detective looking for a missing person,” Twink supplied.

“Someone from here in Homer?”

“It’s a kid who used to work for you—” I began, but Zig stopped me cold.

“Chris Danielson?” he asked.

I was shocked that he knew the name of the missing person in question with only that tiny smidgeon of information.

“You remember him?” I asked.

Some unidentifiable surge of emotion crossed Zig Norquist’s face. Without another word he turned on his heel, strode away from our table, and disappeared behind the swinging door that led into the kitchen. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. Had I somehow offended the man?