A Death In Calgary Read online

  Chapter Two: Calgary Creek

  The little town had grown up around a small railroad depot. Most of the activity at the ancient site had been limited to loading grain onto the railroad cars, so the growth was meager. The one motel in town had been enough to accommodate what few stay overs that Calgary Creek had seen in those days. Now-a-days, Calgary Creek was a town that people passed through on the way to better places. The farms, once the livelihood of the county, were now owed by corporations. The town was turning into more a shadow along the highway than into a hub of touristy fun or commerce. There had been some talk of building a museum but there was nothing to put in it. After years of stale ideas and waning hope, the townspeople moved on with their lives and accepted the days as they came to Calgary. Others moved on.

  Logan drove through the town to get his bearings and to check out the local eateries. Logan loved food. Some food had the ability to be sinful and heavenly at the same time. Eating also seemed to bring people together. He had found that if you wanted to know more about a town and its people, all you had to do was look for the local coffee crowd. There were two places in Calgary to consider: a local greasy spoon called the Pit Stop that catered to the long haulers, and in an almost hidden corner of town, a small restaurant with a faded sign where dew and grease stained the windows. The sign read, "Poppy's" and had a bench out front and a "smoking allowed" sign tacked to the screen door. That was the place Logan drifted toward. The heat inside the small, tight, little room hit Logan in the face as he opened the door.

  The interior was dark and smelled of onions. A long counter with well-worn soda-fountain stools began at the door and extended about three quarters the length of the room in a straight line down the narrow room on Logan’s right. There was enough space between the wall and the stools for a standing customer to order and squish back against the wall as customers who were lucky enough to grab a stool left the building. Behind the counter was a simple layout of an old grill, deep fryer, prep counter and refrigerator. The paint was a dingy gray and had chipped in several places. Grease, smoke and no telling what stained the walls. The rest of the room contained an old cola freezer, two white, chest-type freezers and an old milk dispenser. The guy that founded Waffle House must have been inspired by this place.

  "What'le it be fella?" the old cook was busy preparing an order and never looked around as he wiped his hands on his dirty apron that was tied around his skinny waist.

  "The daily special with milk," He had learned that cooks were happy to get to serve their "special" to a new comer and Logan ordered it as a way to break the ice. It was usually the restaurant owner’s way to get rid of leftovers, but what did he care.

  "No special here. No menus either. Hamburgers, hot dogs, fries, onion rings, chili and bean with cornbread. Wanna dress it up? We can add lettuce, tomato, onion and chili to anything. Chili dogs being our most popular. Wanna season things up? We got ketchup, mustard, mayo, none of that fancy stuff, salt, pepper and hot sauce. Want something to drink with ya meal? We got colas, with or without sugar, coffee and ice cold milk. So now, what'le it be for ya." The old cook never turned around or stopped his work of laying out balls of ground beef on the grill, smashing them flat and adding a fistful of onions. The burgers were a little heavy on the pepper too, if the tingle in Logan’s nose was any indication.

  Logan let a smile touch his lips. He was definitely in the right place. Death had a place here. The stools that lined the counter held four customers that had stopped their conversations for a gander and listen to the stranger.

  "A hamburger, plain, and a large milk." He replied to the cook.

  "Ain't no sizes either. Ya take whatcha get," The old cook never stopped moving. A woman came out from a backroom doorway that was covered with a curtain.

  "Hello there. I am sorry to keep you waiting. Had to visit the powder room a bit. Did Pop getcha?" The woman bubbled.

  He hated bubbly people too. The woman never stopped talking as she grabbed orders and placed them in front of the customers; addressing each as if she knew them well. She asked about families and farms, mundane stuff that filled a room with dull conversation. This was, however, the stuff that Logan listened to when he wanted to know more about his surroundings. The life people choose to lead could tell a lot about them.

  His lunch arrived on a piece of thin paper that he had only seen used to pick up donuts in those self-serve boxes at Quik Stops. It was already heavy with grease. The milk arrived in a tall glass. It was so cold that it chilled his hand as he drank and sent stabs of pain up to his head. He liked that. The hamburgers must have been a major source of heart trouble in this town, but they were hot and melted in his mouth, almost sinful, and he liked that too. He thought that he might not mind visiting this town again someday, maybe. Finally, after letting him finish his meal, the first local, ever so politely, addressed him.

  "You look new in town," said the old man as he leaned in closer to take a good look at the stranger sitting down from him.

  "I haven't been new for years, old man." He kept his tone low and casual, almost sounding tired. Logan had heard all he thought important from these people and he threw a ten dollar bill on the counter from his back pocket. He rose to leave and reached toward the doorknob, then turning back toward the nosy man on the stool that sat in the corner by the door, Logan tilted his head as if in recognition, then paused as if thinking about something to say.

  "Go home; kiss your wife and the children. We will be seeing each other again soon." Logan starred right into the man’s eyes then turned and walked out.

  The door slammed behind Logan and the man felt like something sinister had left the building. Cold chills ran up and down his arms.

  "What's that fella think he is talking about? I've never saw him 'fore in my life and ain't expecting to again. Crazy people nowadays, do ya hear me, Pops?" the old man rattled on with a nervous tremble to his voice.

  "Go home, Hetty. Maybe you should spend more time at home." the waitress admonished. "Better there than here." she said to the other customers with a grin and a wink.

  Logan strolled over to a bench sitting outside, in the small corner, where the hamburger joint was located. He sat down and let his eyes shut, leaning his head back. He opened them as a shadow blocked the sunlight from his eyes. Then an old man sat down beside him and lit up a cigarette. He had to be in his 60s, and yet, was spry, and smiling as if the day was his first.

  "You don't belong around here, do you son?" The elderly man took a long drag off the cigarette as if waiting for an answer. Smoke drifted around the old man's head in a halo.

  Logan lowered his head to look out at the town and said nothing. He sighed. News gets around fast in this town. Then again, he was driving a hearse. He needed to borrow a different vehicle next time, maybe something in a Ford truck.

  "So are you a lawman, reporter, or just nosy?" Logan never glanced at the old man beside him as he answered with a question of his own.

  "Nope, none of those. Well, maybe a little nosy. My mama always said I always needed to know everything. But, no, it’s just that I've sat on this bench off and on for now onto two years. Here by myself, till the meeting at the church is over, unless I am needed somewhere else. The only time that anyone has ever sat beside me was to clear their soul or talk politics and since you don't look like you plan to do neither one, well, I just reckoned you were from out of town. That and the fact that everyone in town seems to be a bit taken by your choice of transportation and it has become the new topic of gossip by the women folk already. Elliot’s mom is the head of our local telephone grapevine. Not much happens in town that they can’t spread or distort." The old man brushed the fire off the cigarette and put the butt in the pocket of his faded chambray shirt.

  "People sure do talk a lot to say in this town. So what's your story, preacher-man?" Logan looked at the old man from the corner of his eye.

  "Now there's a titl
e I don't lay any claim to, not me. I ain’t no preacher by a long way. I am just plain old Samuel Livesay. Guess I am more of a listener than a preacher.” Sam chuckled a bit.

  "You talk a lot for a listener" said Logan.

  "What be your name, fella? You just drifting through, hiding out, maybe on vacation?"

  "I guess you could say, vacation, and just call me Logan." He turned for the first time to look at Sam. He seemed to look Sam up and down as if searching for something.

  "Eh, do I meet with your approval there, fella?" Sam was starting to feel a little uncomfortable.

  Logan turned back to the street and lifted his chin as he gazed out over the town. "I find you...interesting."

  "Well, I never been call that before but I have been called worse. But, to tell you the truth, ain't nothing interesting in this town except Miss Ray's meat pies. Nobody knows what she puts in those things but they carry the most interesting taste. Sorta sweet." Sam tapered off as if thinking to himself and began to rise.

  Sam stood slowly, giving his knees and back time to unbend.

  In a swift fluid movement, Logan stood up and looked across the street. Sam was just about to ask what the rush was when frightening screams could be heard coming from a small building located just of the town square. People began to run in the direction of the screams and someone stopped to tell Sam that Sally Harper's beauty salon was on fire. Sam took off at a limping run without looking back to see if Logan was following

  The flames had already come through the front window which had been busted by the volunteer firemen on the scene. Hoses were being pulled and water gushing out at the resisting yellow-orange flames and heat.

  "Everyone out?" Sam asked a bystander. A crowd was starting to gather.

  Sam happened to glance over his shoulder and saw Logan looking intently at the fire. He was standing just behind Sam to his left. Sam did not even hear him walk up. Logan’s head was tilted slightly as he seemed to be studying the flames that licked out of the interior of the shop. Hair styling chemicals were burning hot and black. The air smelled of ammonia. Screaming, exploding cans were hindering firefighters' efforts to contain the fire. Sam's attention was pulled away with a shout from a fireman. Someone may still be in the building they were shouting! Frantic eyes and worried hands awaited the answer of who was still unaccounted for and may still be in the raging furnace that was once a quaint little brick building.

  Edith May Booker had been tanning in one of the older tanning booths in the back of the shop. Edith was not a great supporter of change and she would rather get her tan on in one of the old tanning beds in the storage room, in the back of Sally Ann's House of Hair, than to use the new more modern versions. Sally Ann kept replacing the old bulbs but they were getting harder to find and expensive. But Edith was not about to give in easily, so Sally Ann kept on keeping the old tanning bed running the best she could for Edith’s own personal use.

  People ran here and there, checking to see if anyone had seen Edith. Logan walked closer to the fire, seeming not to feel the heat. Sam approached Logan's side and could feel the pull of his skin as the flames scorched his reddening face. Sam backed up to stand slightly behind Logan, who seemed unbothered by everything going on around him, including the inferno burning so close to him. Firefighters ran to push them back away from the danger of flying aerosol cans.

  "Well, heck of a thing. They think someone may be still inside.” Sam spoke to Logan’s back. His eyes were searching for some reaction from Logan. “I wouldn’t worry about Edith too much. She is a tough old bird.” Even if not too bright, thought Sam. “I reckoned they'll find her fine, just fine, with a towel wrapped around her, hiding behind a bush, waiting for all the handsome firefighters to leave so she can come out without being seen all undone." Sam gave a worried chuckle that betrayed his own disbelief in his words.

  "She is gone." Logan stated without the excited emotional overtone that passed through the crowd now gathered to watch as the roof caved in on the collapsing structure..

  "Yep, she has probably gone home. Best always to think on the bright side," said Sam, not wanting to think that the tall stranger may have meant something else. Sam could feel the skin at the base of his neck tingle.

  Logan turned and walked through the late comers running to the burning attraction. He stopped and turned to look over his shoulder one more time towards Sam. Then without looking back again, Logan walked away from Sam. Sam watched him go and wondered what brought a man like that to this insignificant town. Logan was a different kind of drifter but Sam just couldn’t put his finger on what was so unusual about Logan. Just a feeling in the bones is what Emily would have said. Sam never cared much for those kinds of feelings; the kinds that make a person lose sleep at night.

  Logan went back to his room at the motel, leaving the townsfolk to douse the flames and Sam wondering just why he felt like a possum just walked across his grave. He

  Edith May Booker was found later, in the hot ashes of Sally Ann Harper’s House of Hair, still encased in the now charred tanning booth.

  It was later found that a faulty cord in the old tanning booth had started the fire. The fire investigator would later tell everyone gathered around the coffee drinkers' table, at the Pit Stop, that Edith never had a chance.

  Sam had lived in Calgary Creek for over 60 years, since the day he was born actually. He was a hometown boy. He served his country and came back to marry his high school sweetheart. He was still in love with her, even though she had passed a couple years ago. Nowadays, he was starting looking forward to the day when God would take him too, so he could be with her again. Although, he had no intention of rushing things. He and his wife, Emily, loved their little town of Calgary Creek. Sam had never had any dreams other that making a modest living and being a good husband and father, but God had other plans. He and Emily had not been blessed with children so they busied themselves within the community, helping those that needed a hand. Sam had lost count on how many casseroles had been made in their small, farmhouse kitchen. They helped build barns, comforted the sick and even housed a couple of scared runaways till their parents could pick them up. Emily, however, found a way to bring life into their small home. Five birds, (two wild and being tended), eight dogs (a mixture of every breed), any number of cats (People seem to think that if you have a cat, you obviously want more, with or without your consent or knowledge.), and the miscellaneous creatures, here or there, being "tended," made up their happy home. Samuel and Emily lived in a rural zoo and shared their abundant love with their community, be it human or beast.

  Most of the creatures and pets had now gone, either by placement or old age. He just didn't have the heart to keep them after Emily died. They were her pets, her loves, just like him. She was the life and breath of the old farm that had been in Sam's family for five generations. Sam wondered what he was going to do with the old home place. He'd had a couple offers but could not bear to leave the memories that the old walls held.