Lost & Found Cafe: A Sam Dawson Mystery (eBook)

Steven W. Horn (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
328 Seiten
Granite Peak Press (Verlag)
9798998710018 (ISBN)

Infos

In LOST & FOUND CAFE: A SAM DAWSON MYSTERY, photographer Sam Dawson and his daughter are ensnarled in a whirlwind of weather, intrigue, and murder while trapped in an isolated cafe in Wyoming-changing their lives forever.

STEVEN W. HORN is the author of the award-winning Sam Dawson mysteries. An Iowa native and decorated Vietnam veteran, Horn earned his doctorate in Colorado. After high-ranking careers in both Colorado and Wyoming, he turned to full-time fiction writing, drawing upon his diverse educational and career experiences in crafting his stories. Horn's critically acclaimed debut novel was ANOTHER MAN'S LIFE. LOST & FOUND CAFE: A SAM DAWSON MYSTERY is Horn's sixth book in the mystery series. He lives in Wyoming.

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On a day-trip to photograph a forgotten cemetery in eastern Wyoming, Sam Dawson and his daughter Sidney stop for lunch at an isolated cafe with no name in the least populated place in America. Each of the five people in the cafe has a story to tell. Each reveals the haunting secrets in their lives that will overshadow the reality of two murders and the threat of a violent storm-all of which collide on this single afternoon. The mysterious dishwasher seeks revenge against the man who has destroyed his life. The glib and sarcastic waitress has found temporary refuge from an abusive husband. The attractive woman customer is in search of the father who raised then abandoned her. Sam is at a crossroads both in his career and personal life yet continues to fall victim to his emotions and insatiable curiosity. Sidney is losing her vision, hearing, and opportunity for a personal relationship that even her wealth and legal training cannot correct. As in his other award-winning novels, Steven W. Horn perfectly blends humor with pathos and poignancy to probe the depths of human character and the boundaries people will bend or break to protect their secrets and the people they love.

Textauszug

CHAPTER 1

Noon

Brad Holcomb

Winston Tucker was dead, and brad Holcomb’s left hand began to shake. “Breaking news as we come on the air at midday,” the NBC news anchor had said with fabricated concern. “Winston Tucker, the failed presidential hopeful and charismatic CEO of one of the nation’s largest trucking and shipping corporations, was found shot to death at his Wyoming ranch today.”

Brad glanced around the cafe: three customers, a man and young woman in a booth, and a middle-aged woman with her back to the kitchen. They paid no attention to the dusty, vintage Sylvania portable television that hung above the cash register near the door. “Jessica’s Theme” played on the Seeburg Wall-O-Matic jukebox, two plays for a quarter, which sat on the table of each booth. The piano solo from the movie The Man from Snowy River was Brad’s favorite record on the playlist. The music competed with the noon news. “The eighty-six-year-old—, former secretary of defense—, Nixon insider—, Cambodia, Laos—, POW/MIA—, Republican frontrunner—, disgrace on the campaign trail—” were the soundbites that registered above the din of music and cafe clatter.

“Order up,” Joe Dobransky, the weedy-looking owner and short-order cook barked as he turned from the grill toward the counter. He wiped his heavy spatula on a greasy towel that hung from the pocket of his soiled apron and stared up at the TV. “Ever wonder why wicked bastards like that prosper while the rest of us wallow in misery?”

“Is that a question, Joe?” Ida Faye said, picking up the plate with one hand and grabbing the coffee pot with the other. “Or are you just spouting off as usual?” Her Texas Panhandle accent always manifested when she challenged authority. The yellow smiley face button on the lapel of her only waitress uniform contrasted sharply with the stern look she gave her boss, her eyebrows crunched together.

“The Bible says it’s fate,” Joe said. “Ecclesiastes, I think. ‘The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.’ You don’t have to be smart to be rich and fat. Just lucky; it’s all a matter of chance, simple as that. Given enough time, it could happen to anybody,” he said matter-of-factly and then pushed the bill of his Ranchway Feeds cap up with the business end of the spatula in his right hand. Since he had not shaved that morning, his salt-and-pepper beard stubble matched the shocks of hair that stuck out at right angles from beneath his hat.

Ida Faye paused, tipped her head sideways, and squinted at Joe. Her makeup and lipstick crudely masked her blackened eye and swollen, split lip. “That’s horse pucky! Fate had nothing to do with his wealth. The man was egotistical, arrogant, a liar, a bully, a womanizer, and a murderer. He was as crooked as they come. He got what he deserved.” She turned toward Brad. “Ain’t that right, Brad?”

Brad ran misshapen, arthritic fingers through his thinning, gray-white hair. Bulging blue veins coursed across the backs of his hands. He looked down at the floor and softly said, “Not soon enough.” He shuffled back into the kitchen, leaning precariously forward as he approached the sink filled with dirty dishes. He thought he might be sick. In the background, the TV news anchor continued to regurgitate and inflame: “Four hundred thousand dead in brutal Syrian civil war—, Surprising Brexit vote—, Racially charged Flint, Michigan water crisis—, Russian hacking of the Democratic National Committee—, Trump’s nomination at the Republican Convention.”

Outside, a noisy truck loaded with Wyoming cattle rushed east on U.S. Highway 20 into Nebraska. The cafe trembled. Maybe it was the wind, Brad thought as he slowly slipped his swollen hands into the hot dishwater. Lately, he had felt as if the earth was quaking, some seismic event that no one else seemed to notice. Maybe it was his body finally sighing with relief that the great Satan was dead. Thirteen years was a long time to plan.

Ida Faye Mensinger

“Authorities in Lusk, Wyoming, were called to a disturbance at the Lamplighter Motel, where they discovered the body of a Texas man. They have described it as a crime scene and are releasing no details until next of kin has been notified.” A young, corpulent, big-eyed brunette read the news from an unseen monitor, her eyes moving slowly right then darting back left like the carriage on a typewriter. She stuttered on words with more than two syllables. KNEP, the NBC affiliate serving Scottsbluff and the Nebraska panhandle, also provided local news for east-central Wyoming.

Joe and the diners had watched the animated discussion between Ida Faye and an officer who had been summoned outside by a man with a uniform and badge. The cook looked up with tired eyes at the grease-streaked TV then casually glanced around the cafe. He absently rubbed the stubble on his chin with his left hand, still holding the spatula in his right. No one was watching the television or him. Joe had told Ida Faye the television and rabbit ears antenna were high-tech investments for a cafe twenty miles from nowhere, where nothing ever happened, and even if something did happen, no one watched.

He had bought the abandoned Standard Oil station seven years earlier and turned it into the easternmost eating establishment in Wyoming. He informed everyone he would name it the State Line Cafe and paint the name in the deserted oval of the Standard Oil sign that loomed over the parking lot. Like so many of his projects, he never got around to it.

“Moving on to local news,” the news anchor said with a disturbing smile, “a Scottsbluff City Council member has been arrested for driving a motor vehicle while intoxicated…”

Again, Joe looked out the window at Ida Faye. She stood in the cafe parking lot looking both bewildered and aggressive as a Niobrara County sheriff’s pickup truck spun gravel and lurched onto U.S. 20 from the cafe parking lot and headed west toward Lusk.

Ida Faye rushed back into the cafe and made a beeline across the dining room and through the kitchen, her ever-present cowboy boots scuffing across the linoleum floor. She fumbled for the cigarette pack in her dress pocket. She pushed open the back door and flicked the disposable lighter in a fluid movement practiced a thousand times. She inhaled the smoke deeply and then bent over, placed her hands on her knees, and exhaled loudly. She shook her head.

“You all right?” Brad said, holding the door open with one hand and steadying himself against the frame with the other.

“It’s finally over.” She straightened up, not turning to face Brad. Her bruised eye and swollen lip were clearly visible. “Darrell is dead. Somebody killed the dirty rotten pup.” Ida Faye never cursed. “They want me to come by the funeral home and identify him. I told them I never wanted to see him again, dead or alive.” She pulled another drag on her cigarette then blew the smoke upward by funneling her lower lip outward. “They found a picture of me in his wallet and my address written on the back of a private investigator’s card that was stuffed in his shirt pocket. The sheriff took one look at my face and said he wanted me to come by his office and answer some questions.”

Brad said nothing. He maintained a neutral expression as he stared at his friend, his only friend. Ida Faye was a handsome woman, no longer beautiful and too old to be considered pretty. Trim and energetic, she moved quickly, seldom still. Her light brown hair was streaked with gray and cut short. In her early sixties, she was comfortable in her skin and could easily pass for a woman ten years younger. “Estranged” was the word she used in describing her marital status. Too afraid to seek a divorce from Darrell or involve the law, she had disappeared. A neighbor woman from Borger, a boom-and-bust oil town in the Texas Panhandle, had taken her northwest to Dumas, where she caught a bus and headed north through the Oklahoma Panhandle, eastern Colorado, and into Wyoming. That was six years ago.

“We knew he’d find you,” Brad said quietly. “It was only a matter of time.”

With a trembling hand, she brought her cigarette to her lips. She studied Brad’s face as she blew smoke between them. “I’m glad he’s dead. He was a monster. I’ve wished him dead for a third of my life, but—”

“No buts, Ida Faye. It’s a good thing. No looking back, no second-guessing. Think about the future. That’s what you tried to teach me. You’re finally free.”

“Is that how you do it, Brad?” she said accusingly. “You’re not one to talk. You’ve been looking back for most of your life. I can’t count the times I’ve told you to bury the past. The future doesn’t wait forever. Look at us.” She flicked the cigarette in an arc toward the dilapidated single-wide behind the cafe. “We’ve waited too long. The train has left the station. What are we going to do now?” Her eyes became glassy as tears formed.

“What the hell am I paying you two for?” Joe shouted from the back door. “We’ve got paying customers in here that need waiting, and dishes are piling up.”

Ida Faye extended her middle finger in Joe’s direction without looking at him. “Tell me, Brad, what do we do now?”

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Her father had disappeared. Jessica Martindale wanted answers. She had wanted them for a long...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 10.7.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 9798998710018 / 9798998710018