Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
There were some discrepancies, of course, since it wasn’t a movie location.
The huge mural on the side of what appeared to be the local coffeehouse, called Aromacobana, an obvious indictment about climate change, being one. Another was the local cinema that had one of those old-fashioned lit overhangs above it. But there wasn’t a new release on that sign. It sported a double bill of “Walking Tall,” with the letters JDB next to it, and “Walking Tall,” with the letters DJ beside that.
But underneath those, it said, Only Mrdrs in the Bldg Fest with next weekend’s dates.
So, bizarrely, they were going to do an Only Murders in the Building festival next weekend.
Fantastic show.
But yes.
For a smalltown cinema, a newish TV show fest was kind of strange.
It was lunchtime, and in my car crawl through the town, I realized I was hungry when I saw what looked like a fifties diner that hadn’t changed since that time. It was called the Double D.
I decided my next adventure was to stop and sample a local restaurant.
It was on the other side of the street, so to experience more of the town, I took a left turn, drove around a block, which was all modest, well-kept houses, then back to the main drag to find an open parking space among the ones that were angled toward the sidewalk.
It was only then, a creeping sense hit me, and it got worse as I located a spot a couple of doors beyond the Double D, got out and started to walk back to the diner.
I couldn’t put my finger on it.
But maybe it was the near perfection of the place.
There was a flower shop, with stands of bright flowers out front, and a market with fruit and veggies on display. The sidewalks were clean and uncracked. The windows of the shops and restaurants were sparkling.
Main Street America in Misted Pines was maybe five or six blocks long, and the town itself wasn’t that big, but it was bustling, and from what I could tell, you could spend hours there buying not only flowers and the orangest oranges I’d ever seen, but also attractive hiking gear, homemade candles and greeting cards, and everything you might need to decorate your home in America! for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, because they had a dedicated holiday shop.
However, this place was very rural. I couldn’t imagine how these shops could not only stay in business, but apparently thrive.
I read in my research that Misted Pines was a tourist destination due to the many outdoor activities on hand, so that could explain the bustle.
But there was a vibe.
No.
An undercurrent that was exhilarating, at the same time oddly disturbing.
It wasn’t that eerie feeling I’d felt a couple of times at the lake. Although that was indisputably eerie, it also felt warm, welcoming.
No, this was bizarrely sinister. Telling you not all was as it seemed in Misted Pines.
This was my thought when I was about to hit the door to the Double D, and I saw her with several bags dangling from her fingers, walking my way.
I didn’t know who she was, I only saw she was very pretty.
That was, I didn’t know who she was until she smirked at me.
I’d never seen her face, but she’d obviously seen mine, not to mention, I’d seen that healthy brunette hair, and that smirk said, “You want him, but I’ve had him.”
She was the woman who’d passed out on top of Riggs post-coital.
Courtney.
I felt the nasty sting of jealousy it wasn’t mine to feel, but I simply dipped my chin to her and pushed through the door of the diner.
Once inside, I saw it was busy, perhaps not a surprise, because it was Saturday.
What was a surprise was that it was, indeed, a meticulously cared for diner straight out of the fifties, and this was to such an extent, I felt I’d stepped into that era.
I took a stool at the horseshoe shaped counter that dominated the middle of the space.
I’d barely sat down and grabbed a plastic-coated menu from its silver holder in front of me, when a woman in a knee-length diner dress, complete with little apron and cap, was in front of me.
And I was definitely feeling the strangeness when I saw her nametag said Dot.
Nothing wrong with the name, it was just that she looked younger than me, and it wasn’t exactly modern.
I must have been staring at it, because she didn’t greet me.
She said, “My real name is Maggie. But tips are better from the tourists if I go the extra mile.”
This explanation caused a wave of relief to hit me, and I smiled at her.
“Get you something to drink while you look at the menu?” she asked.
“Do you have Perrier or San Pelligrino or something like that?” I asked in return.