customers were seated in pairs, all of them women aged within a sixty to seventy span. One of the couples was comprised of Miss Berry and Mrs Letterman who were still wearing their mourning black.
‘Would you like anything more than just a cup of coffee?’ Muriel Mandrell’s question obviously broke a silence that had not existed before she invited Edge into the café. She indicated an extensive display of cakes on plates aligned along the countertop at the rear of the room. But although he had not raided the larder to make breakfast for himself at the Quinn house none of the heavily sugared and multi-coloured topped confections stirred his appetite right then.
He shook his head, took off his hat and sat down while she made a note on an order pad, went to the end of the counter and spoke through a bead-curtained archway behind it. Then he smiled at the matrons and greeted evenly: ‘Good morning ladies.’
Some offered politely spoken responses and others gave prim nods. None attempted to match his amiable expression and they all quickly looked away from him to re-open their interrupted conversations. Thus a buzz of unobtrusive talk was filling the place when a girl of twenty or so came through the archway to bring the cup of coffee. She looked like she could be a daughter of Muriel Mandrell even though her hair was jet black, her eyes were blue and she had a fuller figure. The apparent family likeness was emphasised by now the two women were identically attired for work in black dresses and pink gingham waist aprons. She executed something close to a curtsey as she set down a fine china cup and saucer on the table beside Edge’s hat, briefly smiled and then was abruptly grave-faced. Then seemed about to turn on her heels and scurry nervously away, but got an encouraging nod from her mother who had moved behind the counter.
‘Mister?’
‘Just what kind of advice do you think I can give you ladies?’
‘You’re the gentleman who is going to track down the brutes who killed Nancy and her ma, ain’t that right?’ the girl asked.
‘I’m going to try.’ He sipped the coffee that was a little weak for his taste.
‘So since you’re kind of working for Mr Quinn, even though the poor man is dead, do you happen to know what’s going to happen about this place? And the house?’
The room became hushed again as every ear was attuned to the talk at just one table, but all the gazes of the eavesdroppers remained firmly averted from the centre of avid interest. The girl hurried on:
‘See, me and ma . . . I’m Blanche Mandrell and that’s my ma at the counter if you didn’t know it already? Well, like you see, we work here. And ma, she does cleaning at the Quinn house once a week. We ain’t been paid for the work we done so far this week. And we’d like to know where we stand about working now. Keeping the place open? Or if ma’ll be needed to do any cleaning at the Quinn house while it’s empty?
Edge listened as closely as everyone else in the café did while he considered rolling and lighting a cigarette. But then decided the acrid aroma of tobacco smoke would not be welcome in this genteel establishment where the trapped air was scented by feminine perfumes mingled with smells of fresh baked cakes and pastries and brewing coffee. When she was through he asked:
‘I guess this place is making money?’
‘I’m not sure if it would be right for me to – ‘ she began anxiously.
‘It’s a little gold mine, I’d say,’ the grey haired, emaciated looking Mrs Letterman cut in on the apprehensive Blanche.
‘I don’t see that it’s any of your business, Edith!’ Muriel Mandrel rebuked sternly. Another elderly patron pointed out: ‘But surely, Muriel, if Blanche and you choose to broadcast confidential business to a total stranger in a public place it’s only natural that folks are going to – ‘
Edge broke in evenly: ‘I figure what you ladies ought to do is take what you’re owed out of the
‘Would you like anything more than just a cup of coffee?’ Muriel Mandrell’s question obviously broke a silence that had not existed before she invited Edge into the café. She indicated an extensive display of cakes on plates aligned along the countertop at the rear of the room. But although he had not raided the larder to make breakfast for himself at the Quinn house none of the heavily sugared and multi-coloured topped confections stirred his appetite right then.
He shook his head, took off his hat and sat down while she made a note on an order pad, went to the end of the counter and spoke through a bead-curtained archway behind it. Then he smiled at the matrons and greeted evenly: ‘Good morning ladies.’
Some offered politely spoken responses and others gave prim nods. None attempted to match his amiable expression and they all quickly looked away from him to re-open their interrupted conversations. Thus a buzz of unobtrusive talk was filling the place when a girl of twenty or so came through the archway to bring the cup of coffee. She looked like she could be a daughter of Muriel Mandrell even though her hair was jet black, her eyes were blue and she had a fuller figure. The apparent family likeness was emphasised by now the two women were identically attired for work in black dresses and pink gingham waist aprons. She executed something close to a curtsey as she set down a fine china cup and saucer on the table beside Edge’s hat, briefly smiled and then was abruptly grave-faced. Then seemed about to turn on her heels and scurry nervously away, but got an encouraging nod from her mother who had moved behind the counter.
‘Mister?’
‘Just what kind of advice do you think I can give you ladies?’
‘You’re the gentleman who is going to track down the brutes who killed Nancy and her ma, ain’t that right?’ the girl asked.
‘I’m going to try.’ He sipped the coffee that was a little weak for his taste.
‘So since you’re kind of working for Mr Quinn, even though the poor man is dead, do you happen to know what’s going to happen about this place? And the house?’
The room became hushed again as every ear was attuned to the talk at just one table, but all the gazes of the eavesdroppers remained firmly averted from the centre of avid interest. The girl hurried on:
‘See, me and ma . . . I’m Blanche Mandrell and that’s my ma at the counter if you didn’t know it already? Well, like you see, we work here. And ma, she does cleaning at the Quinn house once a week. We ain’t been paid for the work we done so far this week. And we’d like to know where we stand about working now. Keeping the place open? Or if ma’ll be needed to do any cleaning at the Quinn house while it’s empty?
Edge listened as closely as everyone else in the café did while he considered rolling and lighting a cigarette. But then decided the acrid aroma of tobacco smoke would not be welcome in this genteel establishment where the trapped air was scented by feminine perfumes mingled with smells of fresh baked cakes and pastries and brewing coffee. When she was through he asked:
‘I guess this place is making money?’
‘I’m not sure if it would be right for me to – ‘ she began anxiously.
‘It’s a little gold mine, I’d say,’ the grey haired, emaciated looking Mrs Letterman cut in on the apprehensive Blanche.
‘I don’t see that it’s any of your business, Edith!’ Muriel Mandrel rebuked sternly. Another elderly patron pointed out: ‘But surely, Muriel, if Blanche and you choose to broadcast confidential business to a total stranger in a public place it’s only natural that folks are going to – ‘
Edge broke in evenly: ‘I figure what you ladies ought to do is take what you’re owed out of the
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