The tired looking policeman flipped his notebook closed and adjusted his rump on the counter stool. He took off his hat and set it on the counter, wiping his damp forehead with his sleeve. "Damn it's hot. We'll have to wait for the boys from homicide, they're gonna want to ask you the same questions again."

"They'll get the same answers," Ted said. "Everything I can tell you is already in your little book there."

"Procedure." The policeman didn't offer anything more, instead he looked back over the counter at the pie case and sighed. "Always got a good chunk of pie from Nadine. We're really gonna miss her."

"So instead of sitting here, wouldn't it be smarter to go after the punk that did this?"

Weary eyes slid over Ted's face and spent a little time assessing. "My partner put out your vehicle description, such as it was. Isn't but one road runs west, unless you want to tackle the back roads and there isn't much to want on them."

"Maybe they turned around and went east." Ted offered. His faith in the policeman's theory was thin.

"You know, partner, I think if I was you I'd worry more about my own involvement in this."

"What, you mean sitting here eating pie and getting robbed and having a woman shot dead in front of me and my books tossed all over the place?"

The policeman glanced at the few books on the floor. "Soon as they dust 'em you can have 'em back." The most important part of Ted's retort seemed to be his books and the policeman bent over and read the title of one. "So what are you then, a teacher or something?"

"Nope." Ted looked at the officer and waited for the next inevitable question, surprised when he seemed to take a different tack.

"Mystery man. Huh. Well, people's business is mostly theirs I suppose. The homicide guys won't settle for that though. That book, it's all about politics and climate and stuff. What's that about?"

"I'm doing research for a novel. I'm a writer... or at least I'm trying to be."

"Published anything?"

"Nope. Gathering stuff for my first attempt."

The policeman slid off the stool as a large sedan braked to another dust raising halt in front of the diner, and wandered to the door. "Well you got some material now, don't you."

"Not what I was hoping to write about," Ted answered as the cop pushed out through the squeaking door and let it slam behind him.

The two homicide detectives arrived both wearing the same jaded expressions and went over the same ground only concentrating a little more on where, why and what he was planning when he left his bus and got off at the diner.

"So, Edward Wagner. What made you stop here? It's not the sort of place most travelers head for." The shorter of the two seemed to be the lead and Ted shifted on his stool to answer him directly. The other one directed a third man to start dusting the booth, the register and the books for prints.

"I was just tired of riding the bus and it looked quiet. I was hungry too." The detective looked at the unfinished pie and cold coffee. "Lost my appetite."

"Where are you going from here... and how?"

"No place special. Like I told the cop outside, I'm just doing some atmosphere research for a book I'm hoping to write."

"Atmosphere."

"Yeah, scenery, climate... the feeling of this type of country... you know. The people. Their work."

"Got yourself some atmosphere here didn't you."

"The cop outside said the same thing. Is it a script you all follow?"

"Bit chippy aren't we?"

"I just had a woman murdered in front of me, a woman I just met and was having some fun conversation with. I'm still hungry but my appetite is wrecked and I'd like to just get on my way."

"Hmmm. And how do you expect to do that now?"

"Hitchhike I guess, unless you want to drive me to town or a bus station or something."

"We could probably manage that. Do you know what happened to the cook?"

Ted glanced through the serving window. "I didn't even know there was one. Never thought about it really. The only person I saw was her." They stopped talking as the medical team wheeled the gurney carrying Nadine's body out to the waiting ambulance, shove it inside and slammed the doors.

"She wasn't here alone. The cook's name is Chester Diego. Musta taken off out the back when he heard what was happening."

"So why didn't he call you guys?" Ted checked the condition of his books before putting them back in his pack. There was fingerprint dust all over the covers and he used a paper serviette to try and wipe it off.

"Chester has a record, his only duty is to himself. We know where he lives. We'll pick him up later for his statement but it won't help much." The detective stood and stretched his back. "Damn sciatica, it's a killer some days." He shoved his hand into his back and grunted. "We'll wait for the print report then see if our Bonnie and Clyde are in the system. Guess that'll do for now."

"That mean I don't get a ride?"

"Oh you get a ride, Edward. We need you to come down while we type all this up and you sign it."

He made a face. "I owe for this stuff," Ted said as he shouldered his pack.

"Let's say it's on the house. We'll lock it up until Chester surfaces." The detective took Ted's arm and steered him toward the door. The silent partner held it open as they left the diner.

******

Paris Flats was a typical small western province town with a population mix of farmers, construction workers, retail and financial people all totaling around thirty thousand in number. There was a main street of commercial and business establishments and then a slew of secondary streets of mostly residential with a scattering of tiny plazas and convenience stores. Someone had attempted to beautify the main drag with planters and trees but the sun, wind and weather in general had left the planters with dry stalks and the trees sagging like out of luck unemployed.

The nearest major center to Paris Flats was two or three hours away on the one and only highway passing the town. A new building was rising to the dizzying height of six storeys a block away from the police station and the workmen watched Ted arrive as they ate their lunch, sitting on the back of a hard used flat bed truck. A couple waved to the detectives who waved back.

"Fan club?" Ted asked.

"Relatives."

They went inside and settled down while Ted's statement was typed up for signing. He sat patiently in the small office of the police station while the silent detective laboured over an ancient typewriter trying to align the information with the different boxes. When he was done he handed Ted the form and got a pen from his drawer, holding on to it until Ted was finished reading what he had typed, and then he handed it to him to sign.

"That it?"

The detective nodded and busied himself with filing the paperwork.

"Good. Okay then. So long."

"Hold on there, Edward Wagner." The big detective walked along side him. "We'll need an address from you at some point for possible testimony."

"You have to catch them first; I could be an old man with dementia by then."

"You got real stiff up for our procedures, don't you?"

"Guess I just haven't seen anything that shouts efficiency."

"Well you just see that your own efficiency doesn't get set aside and have an address ready for us before you get lost in our atmosphere."

Ted said he would and strolled out through the office to the street, hauling his pack of books with him. The afternoon sun was a beast and he tried to take some bearings before starting down the block toward a sign that optimistically read, Good Food.

After a more substantial meal with none of the previous excitement, Ted took the advice of another, younger waitress and applied at the local hotel for a room. The building was a red brick, four-storey structure only a few, heat-drenched blocks from the police station, with large arch-shaped windows over the front lobby, which was entered directly from the sidewalk like the adjacent businesses. Inside it was clean and bright but decorated and designed in the style of another era.

Large potted, artificial plants coupled with each of the high columns that climbed through the three-storey lobby to the balcony formed by the fourth floor. A massive chandelier with faceted glass dangles hung over the ancient, floral carpet, the focal point of the lobby and centred behind it all, facing the entrance, was the polished wooden front desk with the brass bell, a large red guest book and a straight pen and inkwell stand.

Ted couldn't help but smile as he signed in, listening to the merits of the hotel, delivered by a desk clerk much too modern in taste and style for the surroundings. His room on the third floor was in keeping with the same era as the entrance and he found it more than comfortable after spending long unpleasant nights on the road in the smelly bus.

He emptied out his pack and put away the few changes of socks and underwear he carried then stood all his books on the old writing desk by the door. A few other items he put inside the desk and then he called down to find out where he could rent the use of a computer.