The sheriff was out, so Meeker left the sketch with his secretary. Though it would be a long drive back and the time she’d spent with Carole Hall had left her mentally drained, she still wanted to get back to Chicago rather than stay on the road.
But she wanted to get back because she had an idea that might generate some press. Maybe it would be seen as nothing more than a stunt, but she needed to bring that poor woman in Oakwood some kind of peace.
That peace had eluded her own family, and she didn’t want to see another family live that way. So if a wild stunt had a chance of working, Meeker was going to go for it.
A late-afternoon rain began falling around six thirty, and the wipers on the FBI-issued 1939 Mercury had a tough time keeping up with what the storm was dropping. Rather than continue to attempt to peer between the drops on her windshield, she pulled into the first juke joint she could find. A meal in her belly and a few moments spent with folks more interested in the laughing than crying might be the needed tonic to pull her out of this pit of depression, frustration, and helplessness she found herself in.
To a big-city girl, St. Anne was just another wide spot in the road. Yet the town of a bit more than a thousand people did have The Blue Note. According to the neon sign, it offered the best food in town, so she stopped. After running through the parking lot in the rain, she pushed open the door into a world she had rarely visited. A dozen or so tables sat off to her left, a well-stocked bar stood in front of her, and a bandstand and dance floor filled up a large area to her right. As she shook the moisture from her hair, a heavyset woman with bleached blond hair dropped a wet rag onto the counter and stepped out from behind the bar.
“How you doing?” Her voice was as loud as her orange and purple print dress.
“A little wet,” Meeker answered. “And hungry, too.”
“The band won’t be here for another three hours,” the lady explained as she picked up a menu and led the way to one of several vacant tables.
“I don’t have time to dance.”
The woman proved agile for her size, whirled on her heels, and chuckled. “Everyone should make time to dance, as well as laugh and sing. Those things keep us young.”
“I don’t feel very young today,” Meeker admitted as she sat in a chair and took the menu.
“Too bad, honey, a pretty thing like you should enjoy your youth. It passes you by quicker than a small-town’s Christmas parade.” She grinned before adding, “Got a girl who’ll come out and take your order in a couple of minutes. She’s a college student who’s just working for me for the summer. That’s our busy time anyway.”
A crack of thunder shook the building. “My,” the woman added, “that was a loud one. Hope this lets up before the band gets here. I’m looking for a big crowd tonight. I don’t need the weather to ruin it. Folks around here love to listen to Shaw’s Troopers. They play some swinging tunes.”
“I bet they do.” Meeker smiled and said, “If they have half the jive in their step that you do, then they’re cool cats.”
“Now you’re getting with the program.” The woman chuckled. “My name’s Thornton, Hanna Jean Thornton.”
“I’m Helen.”
“Nice having you here, Helen. Like I said, the little gal will be right out to take your order. And if you need them, the facilities are down the hall just past the jukebox.”
As the woman headed back behind the bar, Meeker studied the menu. The cook must have once served on an ocean cruise line, as there were dishes from all over the world. Though the Hawaiian pork chops sounded good and the italian meatballs over pasta were tempting, Meeker had a desire to play it safe. She was surveying the sandwich choices when an apron-clad waitress set a glass of water on the table and asked, “Do you know what you’d like?”
Without ever looking up, the agent posed a question the girl had probably heard a hundred times, “What kind of sandwich do you suggest?”
“BLT.”
“Then let’s go with that and maybe a side of creamed corn.”
“Sure. And what to drink?”
Looking up for the first time, Meeker answered, “A Coke will be fine.”
The young brunette smiled. It was a funny smile causing the left side of her top lip to rise higher than her right and thus partially closing one dark eye almost like a wink. Yet what really caught the agent’s attention were the woman’s dimples. They were on top of her cheeks, not next to her mouth but just under her eyes.
“You looking at my weird cheeks?” The waitress grinned. “Don’t worry if you are, I’ve gotten use to it. People always make fun of them. My friends call them dents.”
“They’re dimples,” Meeker corrected her. “And I like them. They’re cute.” Extending her hand, she said, “My name’s Helen.”
“I’m Alison.”
“You from here?”
“No,” the young woman replied, “just staying with my roommate and her family this summer. After Labor Day it’ll be back to the University of Chicago. I’ll be a junior this fall.”
“Good for you, the world needs more women with degrees.”
“I guess,” she shyly returned. “I’ll get your order out in a few minutes. Wave if you want anything else.”
As the girl disappeared, a man got up from the bar and walked over to the jukebox. He fiddled with this pocket, pulled out a handful of change, dropped a nickel into the music machine, and made a choice. A few seconds later, the strains of “Fools Rush in Where Angels Fear to Tread” was pounding from the Wurlitzer’s speakers and making the jukebox’s bubbling lights flash in time with Glen Miller.
The man who’d picked the number walk-waltzed back to the bar, grabbed the woman who’d first greeted Meeker, and led her out onto the dance floor. As the older couple moved to the big band swing music, the cares of the world disappeared, for at least a few minutes. Helen was glad for the reprieve, even if vicarious.