When we finally arrive at the diner, the place is packed. We find Uncle Will and Ian at a small table to the right of the door. The pair have a clear view of the door and seem to be watching it closely. I can’t help but wonder what they’re up to. We grab a couple of chairs that have just been vacated and prepare to squeeze in when Uncle Will shoos us away.
“We are a couple of single gents out on the town. We don’t need our style getting cramped by old fogies like you two. Go over there.” He says and waves us towards the other side of the diner.
The two furthest booths are empty. We take the one that is not in the corner, neither one of us is too keen on eating in the dark. Pulling a menu from between the salt and pepper shakers, we begin looking for dinner.
I look up from my menu to study Uncle Will and Ian. “Those two are acting weird.”
“They just have a little cabin fever.” Detective Farina says without looking up from his menu. “Who knows. Maybe they’ll get lucky.”
“With what? Bingo? It’s Sunday night.”
“Maybe they just want to blow off some steam.” He says as he lowers his menu to the table. “Maybe I wanted to be alone with you.”
I look at Farina.
“I think we need to talk about the murders, the suspects, and why we can’t seem to agree on who’s behind them...”
“I agree.”
The waitress approaches the table and takes our orders.
Farina dives in. “The FBI’s preferred suspect, Desmond Parrish...”
“...is not the killer.” I finish his sentence.
“We both agree on something.” He says.
“It’s about time.”
After dinner salads full of interrupted sentences and dirty looks, we both agree that we should discuss why our suspect is the actual killer and why the other person’s is not at the farm. Where there’s better coffee and visual aides. Not to mention detailed notes and police reports.
By the time the salad plates have been replaced with open faced turkey sandwiches with the best gravy in the Midwest, we have agreed to disagree and move on to a lighter subject for the time being.
“Heather said she was happy?” Detective Farina asks.
“She did.”
“She deserves to be.” He says.
“She does. If nothing else for putting up with all of us.”
“What do you mean by that?” He asks. “I am an excellent roomie.”
“Excellent yes. Perfect no.”
The detective looks disappointed.
“You’re not perfect,” I say looking at Farina, “but you are perfect for me.”
He reaches out and takes my hand in his. He smiles. “I found something,” Farina gets so excited reaching for something in his coat that a thumb hooks his fork and it goes flying towards his lap. He catches it just in time, puts it back on his empty plate and retrieves one of my grandfather’s old journals. He opens it to the page that he’s marked with an old playing card and hands it to me.
“You said that Heather told you it is possible that Clyde and Desmond knew each other when he was four or five. I found a passage where your grandfather writes about Clyde telling him about an intensely curious little boy who helped him every minute that he was on his last job. Some of the servants even referred to the pair as CD because D follows C. He recalls a story about how Clyde had just fixed the oldest clock on the client’s property. It was so old that he had trouble finding a replacement part. Clyde came home for the weekend and crafted his own using pieces from a similar clock. The client and his wife were so pleased they complimented him repeatedly on his work, calling him “Amazing,” a “Genius,” and an “Artist.” Clyde told them he was none of those things, if he was anything he was a clockwork cannibal, because he cannibalized one clock so that he could make another clock work. Clyde told your grandfather that a day or two later, he heard from the staff and the other children living in the house that the four year old was telling everyone he met about his amazing friend the cannibal. There were a few concerned phone calls from the parents of the small boy’s playmates.
“Clockwork Cannibal?”
“It’s quite a story.” The detective says.
“Hmmm...” I look at the detective.
“I know that look.” He says. Farina raises a hand to get the waitress’ attention. “Could we get those
desserts to go?”
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