The diner’s bell resounded with less cheer on my second visit. Faye Jenkins, however, glowed behind the counter, red hair piled high like an undiscovered comedienne from the 50s. Vibrant energy lent a playful twinkle to her bright blue eyes. Her practiced knack for selling good food and juicy tittle-tattle brought comfort.

An aroma of baked pies wafted from the kitchen, blending with freshly brewed coffee. Voices murmured pleasantries beneath the easy country tune on the overhead. 

Faye’s soft, warm hand brushed mine as she passed me a menu. The touch might not have been necessary, but improved my mood considerably. She poured a steaming cup of coffee and asked in a warm and lilting Southern drawl how the town was treating outsiders. 

I frowned, a huff escaping me. A sip of the well-brewed joe tuned up my manners, and I toasted her coffee-brewing expertise. “Thanks for doing your part though.”

“A handsome detective needs his encouragements.” She said it with a wink, warming the parts the coffee missed. 

I blushed beneath my collar. 

It occurred that we’d have to converse about her suspicious husband. Jealousy might come up. A topic that seldom makes people chatty. Even the most expressive folks clam up about conflict in their own home. I wanted Faye as open as possible about local affairs. At least until I had a clearer insight into the social dynamics. 

Another reality had surfaced. Mountain people are tight-lipped and fiercely protective. Even when one of their own proved dangerous or potentially deadly. The geographical proximity to bears and badgers had not eased their paranoia from years of invasion by short-term residents like loggers, miners and railroad men, who often took more than they left behind. The personality type that gravitated toward the close quarters of life in the mountains just didn’t care to chat. For an out-of-town private dick, a town crier like Faye Jenkins had more value than any newspaper archive. 

I mulled over these ideas while the diner’s cook grilled up an exceptional cheeseburger. The juicy sandwich eased my churning thoughts, including the Sheriff’s disengagement in a missing child case. By the third bite, I’d decided the grumpy lawman just didn’t recognize that the missing Kayla was a case at all. To him, she was a domestic dispute and nothing to get worked up about. I wanted to know why.

“Keeps odd hours, that Sheriff de Lude,” I said to Faye as she topped off my coffee.

This lit her eyes up, and she leaned in, eager for a morsel of gossip. “How’s that?”

I did my part to feed the information mill. “Just over there before I came to eat. He rolled out of the dark office with his shirt undone and sleep in his voice.”

“Aw,” she said, a splash of disappointment in her tone. “Family stays in Whitefish. Whispers of trouble on that front. Probably spent the night over there and needed a nap. Lately, that’s a thing of his, driving back and forth all hours.”

This revelation made the day as good as I thought it could get. The lawman’s personal troubles kept him from methodical work. Might be leverage available for a troublemaker gumshoe like myself.

“Fair enough,” I said, dabbing a stray thread of ketchup from my chin. “He does appear less concerned for the well-being of the Peale child than I’d expect, family troubles or no.” The pilot light of righteousness ignited in my belly. I clenched against the stirring boil.

Faye smiled, mostly with her eyes. “Your heart is showing, Sir Galahad. Take care to protect it from misinformation and betrayal.” Her fingers tapped mine where they wrapped around the rim of my coffee cup. “I’m sure the sheriff’s more on top of it than he lets on. Those Peale’s have caused a local fuss on the regular. You heard about the boy who cried wolf.”

“I heard,” I said. Her words rattled like party-line dross. Not exactly what I’d hoped from Faye. 

Good for the kid if true. Less promising for my wallet. No one would pay for a case that solved itself. I crushed the uncharitable thought with another bite of burger and eyed the pies under glass on the counter. 

Another angel got their wings according to the ringing bell from a patron’s entrance. An oddly familiar presence passed behind as I ruminated over the last bite of burger. Mental gears shifted for a confrontation. My talent for drawing the notice of ne’er-do-wells may have followed me to the mountains.

The man slid onto the stool beside me. “How’s the coffee, Pard?” 

Recognition of his voice induced a sharp intake of breath. Fragments of that heavenly sandwich lodged in my air passage, blocking the flow of oxygen. Sucking and hacking, face ablaze, the chest spasms bounced me off the stool. Ten minutes of my previous life flashed before my eyes as I clung to the countertop to rescue myself from utter humiliation.

The man slapped a hand between my shoulder blades and knocked the obstacle loose. Tears of gratitude welled as air rushed in.

“Damn, Connor,” he said. “You might warn a guy that you’re gonna die if he sneaks up on you.”

I waved the joke away, reveling in heavy batches of oxygen and nitrogen. The character’s form, blurred beyond recognition, carried the chummy voice I knew well. 

His broad, curling mustache came into view, exaggerated size drawing attention to a warm face full of laugh lines. 

“Tony,” I said in a weak, raspy tone. “They set you free from the compound?”

His lips curved into a roguish grin that showed off his pearly white teeth. Exaggerated tips perpetuated the mustache for a devilish quality. “Figured I’d stop in for a chat.” Chocolate-brown eyes danced with amusement. “Looks like the right idea. I might’ve missed the funeral.” 

A swallow of coffee resolved my embarrassment. “Couldn’t have that. Just, maybe, phone ahead next time? Avoid the drama?” I smirked then wrapped an arm over his shoulders. “It’s good to see your cheerful face, compadre.”

Faye poured a steamy cup for my brother in arms. “Who’s your friend?”

“Aw, yes, me lady,” Tony said, head cocked high and hand over his heart. “This blackguardly artist is Connor’s long lost sideman, Tony, the bandoleer, Ruiz. Presumed lost in the Rockies, attempting to use a paintbrush for a compass.” 

Faye shook her head with an easy chuckle. “Very nice to meet you,” she said, presenting a demure hand. “I’m Faye, owner and operator of ye grand café.”

Tony clasped her fingers with a bow.

She giggled. “A gentlemen you are, sir. Few and far apart in these rugged hills. You must be a part of the Artist in Resident Program at Glacier?”  

“You really do know all things related to the Rocky Mountain way,” I interjected.

Tony beamed. “You know it, m’lady. Quite worth the trip.”

“And lucky,” Faye said. “They usually won’t run past September.” She rested the pot on its burner. “Been once is all. Hard to get free from the grind.” Her open palm implied the diner. “A warm year, this one. Makes it easy for travelers. Keeps this place busier than a beehive in spring.”

Tony’s cheeks wrinkled in frustration, giving his giant mustache a comical tilt. “A bit disappointing for me. I was hoping for a lot more snow.” 

“I’m sure,” Faye agreed. Her glow proved Tony’s talent for endearing strangers. “Might get inspiration from our little town. An eclectic group with plenty of dramatic interest. As you probably know from your friend’s raison d’être.”

“Oui oui,” he replied with a twist of his handlebar. “The little trouble, he can find it, Mademoiselle.”

“Oh yes. Since his arrival an innocent has been arrested by the local police,” she said. Before she could go on, a customer waved her over. “Love to talk art with you, Tony. If you get the chance.”

Tony nodded. “Will do, Faye.”

She carried the coffeepot down counter.

Mention of that innocent victim, who Faye knew to be my sister, almost sounded strategic. The desire to engage Tony in Renée’s release scorched the left half of my brain. My hand unconsciously massaged the back of my neck. Words of pleading tickled my tongue. 

Tony was a Custer County Deputy, on foreign ground, out of his jurisdiction if there is such a thing, and on vacation. Not to mention, getting tangled with the local LEOs on my behalf would certainly get him into trouble with his boss and my favorite sheriff, Ox Crandall. No way I was on Crandall’s Christmas list, and involving his best deputy would not improve my standing at home. 

“Something on your mind, friend?” Tony asked. His ability to discern unspoken agitation caught me off guard. 

I wrapped my hand around the warmth of the coffee mug. “Nah,” I mumbled, and bit my lip. 

Renée would just have to sit in jail. When Tony found out, it would be hell to pay that I hadn’t included him. 

That was for a later time. I kept my mouth shut. He could tell me about the joy of painting in Glacier National Park over our coffee and be on his way.

Tony took a sip from his coffee and asked, “You want to let me talk to the Sheriff and try to get Renée released?”