Marcie's Murder by Michael J. McCann Page B

marches on?”
    “I don’t know. The peace and quiet might be nice for a change.”
    “Give me a fucking break. You’d be insane in a week.” She stopped talking as their orders arrived. Hank bit into his club sandwich. It was very good. Some kind of subtle flavor he couldn’t quite place.
    “Jeez,” Karen mumbled through a mouthful of steak sandwich, “this is really good. What is it with this town and food? Anyway, I can see the bikers getting too rough with her and then taking off.”
    “ Hall will check it out ,” Hank agreed, “but it’s a little fuzzy. Granted, they were bikers, but they came off more like businessmen in transit to some kind of convention or something. The stereotype’s changing. ”
    Karen snorted and took another bite .
    Hank lifted the lid on his club sandwich, took a dab of mayo on his fingertip and tasted it carefully. “Capers,” he said. “And sun - dried tomatoes.”
    “You did what?”
    “Puréed into the mayo. It’s really good.”
    “So the bikers are fuzzy, you think. What else have we got at this point? Other than Brother Charles, of course. We have two eyewitnesses placing him at the scene , the guy in the back and little Debbie , and he’s admitted to Branham he was there . He just wouldn’t say who he was going to meet. ”
    “What ’ s your take on him?” Hank asked.
    She shook her head. “I don’t know, I really don’t. I expected a creepazoid nut case but he seem s pretty level-headed. Didn’t quote a bunch of scripture, didn’t try to convert us, didn’t act condescending and know-it-all, like God was his special buddy and we were dog shit on his sandal. Didn’t panic at the thought of being arrested but didn’t like the idea, either.” She shrugged, sandwich poised an inch from her lips. “ He d oesn’t seem to fit for it .”
    Hank thought for a moment. “We need to work from the victim .”
    “Minefield,” Karen mumbled, chewing .
    “Apparently. How far do you think Branham w ill be willing to go?”
    Karen swallowed and took a swig of coffee before answering. “Pretty far, I guess. He wants to be chief, but he’s not the kind of guy who’ll stab his boss in the back . I’d say he’s an honest cop who won’t sweep anything under the carpet .”
    “So he’ll support Hall if he works the victimology,” Hank said.
    “He’d probably have a heart attack if Hall worked anything. Guy must have a liver like a bar sponge.”
    Hank said nothing, finishing his sandwich.
    “We’ve got almost none of the basics yet,” Karen grumbled . “Autopsy’s supposed to be today, so hopefully that’ll fill in some blanks . ”
    “Maybe Branham would be willing to call and get a verbal from the medical examiner when it’s done.”
    “Worth a try. He needs to get those goddamned reports from the s heriff’s o ffice.”
    “And Hall needs to call the s tat e police and get them to put out a BOLO on the bikers.”
    They finished their meal and went back to the c ash register. It was Hank’s turn, so he pulled out his wallet as the middle-aged brunette rang up their bill.
    “Are you Annie?” Hank asked, handing her cash .
    “In the flesh,” she smiled, setting his money on the top of the till and pulling out his change.
    “Excellent club sandwich, Annie,” he said. “Never tasted mayo done that way.”
    She gave him his change and looked at him, head tilted to one side. “What do you think was in it?”
    “Capers and sun-dried tomatoes,” he said.
    “Correct!” she grinned. “Congratulations, you’ve won a free copy of my self-published cook book, Annie’s Best .” She took a spiral - bound book from a pile next to the cash register and handed it to him.
    He accepted it, puzzled. “ Th anks.”
    “Gemmie and I have a little contest going,” she explained, glancing at the teenager in the kitchen who was wiping her hands on her apron and smiling at Hank. “Anyone who can correctly identify the secret ingredients of the day wins a