‘If you ain’t th’ cuckoo clock,’ said J.C.

‘Leave him alone,’ he said. ‘Let the man order what he wants.’

‘But he’s not goin’ to like havin’ two children’s plates. You don’t even get a pickle with that deal.’

‘Children don’t generally enjoy pickles,’ he said, conciliatory.

‘And look around. Do you see any children in here? I don’t see any children in here, which tells you where this promo is headed.’

He examined the menu card.

‘I guess you read about Fancy’s sister coming in?’ asked Mule.

‘I did,’ he said. ‘Clipped the coupon this morning.’

‘She’s single.’

‘Aha.’

‘I heard she’s movin’ here to look for a husband.’

‘She might want to rethink that,’ he said.

Lunch and dinner only

No breakfast served, you are on your own

Soup of the day: Cream of chicken

Pie of the day: Cherry

Special salad of the day with our homemade poppyseed dressing

Try our house specialty: Banana pudding—sorry about leaving out the bananas last week

For restroom key, ask Mindy

‘I think I’ll have the special salad,’ he said.

‘Maybe I’ll have that, too.’ Mule looked hopeful.

J.C. did an eye roll. ‘Every wife’s dream—for hubby to have a salad.’

‘What’s in the special salad?’ asked Mule.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It just says special salad.’

‘You’d order a salad and not know what’s in it?’

‘Why not? Whatever it is, you get fiber.’

‘You order salad just for fiber?’

Why did he continue to have lunch with these clowns? Had he been a bona fide psychiatric case all these years and people were too kind to confront him with the truth? Lunch at home, that was the ticket. Or better still, in Wesley once a week, to get out of the house. Mule was too cheap to drive to Wesley for lunch, and J.C. went to Wesley only on Thursdays, so if he avoided going to Wesley on Thursday, he would have complete freedom the other four days to do what he wanted, and with no dithering conversation thrown in. It came to him that under such circumstances, he’d be at liberty to eat a whole pepperoni pizza with nobody the wiser. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of this before.

He rechecked the menu. ‘Or maybe I’ll have the vegetable plate.’

‘What are th’ choices?’

‘Green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy, cooked apples . . .’

‘I don’t like green beans.’

‘. . . black-eyed peas, coleslaw, glazed carrots . . .’

‘Nothin’ glazed for me,’ said Mule.

‘. . . sweet potatoes, or cabbage. Choose three.’

‘How would mashed potatoes and gravy go with cooked apples?’ Mule eyed J.C., who refused to comment. ‘But maybe not, maybe th’ gravy would run into th’ apples.’

Pizza, his wife would say to the coroner.

How do you know that, ma’am?

I smelled pepperoni. He could never fool me.

Their favorite server, a young mountain girl with consummate charm, was nowhere to be seen. Someone tall, big-boned, and tricked out in an apron and cowboy boots was taking orders.

‘That’s th’ new owner,’ said Mule. ‘She sold her other place down th’ mountain. Cracker Barrel came in and she went out. Heard this place was up for sale an’ jumped on it.’

‘News you can use,’ said J.C.

‘We pumped regular together at Lew’s this morning.’

‘Hello, boys.’

A hand shot his way. He stood and shook it.

‘Father Kavanagh?’ she said. ‘Wanda Basinger.’

‘Ms. Basinger, this is J. C. Hogan, editor of the Mitford Muse, and I believe you’ve met Mule Skinner, our erstwhile realtor, at the gas pump. Welcome to Mitford.’

‘So this is th’ Turkey Club I’ve heard so much about.’

‘Where’s that young woman used to wait tables here?’ asked Mule.

‘I had to let ’er go.’

‘Let her go? What for?’

Wanda Basinger raised an eyebrow. ‘She was nice to th’ customers.’

Mule adjusted the knot in his tie, stricken. J.C. mopped his forehead with his napkin. As for himself, he sat down.

‘We’ll start with you, Mr. Skinner, what are you havin’? I can recommend the special salad with Gruyère, sliced figs, and onion.’

‘Sliced figs,’ said Mule, dazed. ‘Onion. No, thanks.’

‘The cows’ll come home before you get an order out of him,’ said J.C. ‘I’ll have th’ chopped barbecue plate, double hot sauce, double fries, double pickles, and a large root beer.’

‘A man who knows what he wants. Father?’

‘The vegetable plate. Coleslaw, black-eyed peas, sweet potatoes, hold the corn muffin.’

They all looked at Mule; J.C. drummed the table with his fingers. ‘Sink or swim, buddyroe.’

Mule faced the wall, avoiding eye contact with Wanda Basinger. ‘I don’t know,’ he snapped. ‘Ask th’ father.’

‘Bring him two children’s plates,’ he said. ‘One at a time.’

•   •   •

‘I’M NEVER COMIN’ BACK HERE.’ Mule stared at children’s plate number two, disconsolate. ‘Who would fire a girl like that? She was th’ best thing they had goin’. She always gave me an extra roll and butter, and extra whipped cream on th’ chocolate pie. Since when is it a crime to be nice to customers? Right there is what’s wrong with th’ world today.’

‘How was the barbecue?’ he asked J.C.

‘Good. Real good. Amazing barbecue.’

Wanda was patrolling the room with a water pitcher. ‘Everything all right over here?’

Mule shoved his untouched second order to the side.

‘Would you like this in a take-out, Mr. Skinner?’

‘For my dog.’

‘Whose barbecue was that?’ asked J.C.

‘It was yours, honey, you’re payin’ for it.’

‘What I mean is, who made it?’

‘Somebody in east Tennessee.’

‘The menu says it’s North Carolina barbecue.’

‘You do not have to live in North Carolina to make North Carolina barbecue. Just open th’ vinegar bottle and pour it in there, you can do that in Tennessee, Mississippi, or Detroit, Michigan.’

‘May be a little misleading,’ said J.C.

‘North Carolina is a style of barbecue,’ said Wanda, ‘just like Memphis is a style of barbecue. My husband makes Texas barbecue without steppin’ foot out of our backyard on Little Mitford Creek.’

She filled their water glasses.

‘If you know what you’re doin’—an’ my husband, Lloyd, knows what he’s doin’—it tastes like the real thing, you can’t tell it from th’ real thing. You take Kansas City barbecue, they make it over in Alabama and Arkansas and all around down there . . .

‘. . . which,’ she said, taking her leave, ‘would make that a style of Kansas City barbecue.’

‘Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide in this town,’ said J.C., slapping a couple of quarters on the table.

•   •   •

THEY STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK and watched Mule head out with his Styrofoam box.

‘I didn’t know Mule had a dog.’

‘He hasn’t had a dog since fifth grade,’ said J.C. ‘He’ll eat the second go-round when his stomach settles down. That woman needs to be rustlin’ cattle, not hustlin’ food.’

‘She does make Velma look cordial.’ J.C. had engaged in a verbal brawl with Velma Mosely, co-owner of the old Main Street Grill, thereafter taking his lunch trade to the tea shop.

They stared at a black limo moving north on Main, the driver in uniform.

J.C. gawked. ‘Who do you think that is?’

‘A tourist with money to burn,’ he said, walking.

‘Didn’t look like Ed Coffey at th’ wheel.’

Ed Coffey, liveried to the max, had driven Edith Mallory for years in a black Lincoln town car with tinted windows. ‘Ed Coffey’s in Florida with Edith,’ he said. ‘I hear she’s having a tough recovery.’

He remembered the inferno boiling into the night sky, and the looping shriek of fire engines. He’d run out to the street and looked at the ridge above Fernbank where Edith Mallory’s Clear Day was ablaze. By the time their local engine and a backup from Wesley hacked through the overhanging rhododendron, the house was destroyed and Edith had suffered a severe head injury.