Chapter 7 - The Witness at the Diner
At 6:30 AM, the neon sign of the Dixie Belle Diner flickered against the gray morning mist, buzzing softly as it hummed through its final minutes of operation before shutting off for the day.
The diner was almost empty. A single trucker sat in a corner booth nursing a mug of black coffee, while behind the laminate counter, Mrs. Gable—who had known my father since they were kids in 4H—was wiping down the grease shield with a gray rag.
When the bell above the door chimed, she looked up, her expression tightening the moment she saw my uniform.
“We’re not open for breakfast yet, Victoria,” she said, her voice dry and flat. “Kitchen doesn’t fire up the grill till seven.”
“I don’t need breakfast, Mrs. Gable,” I said, walking over and sliding onto a cracked vinyl stool near the register. “I need a cup of coffee and five minutes of your time.”
She stopped wiping the counter, her hands resting flat against the Formica. She stared at me through wire-rimmed glasses that had seen better decades.
“Your mother was in here yesterday,” she said quietly. “Crying to the ladies at the Wednesday prayer circle. Said her own daughter came home in a uniform just to terrorize her and drag the family name through the mud in front of some Navy officer.”
“Did she mention the land transfer, Mrs. Gable?” I asked, meeting her gaze without flinching. “Did she mention why Vance & Bennett Holdings paid off her property taxes the day after the funeral?”
Mrs. Gable’s hands twitched. She tossed the rag into the sink behind the counter and turned around, crossing her arms over her floral apron.
“Everyone in this town knows your grandfather left that land to be split equally between your father and Dean,” she said, her voice dropping lower. “And everyone knows your father wanted you to have the house. But when he went into the home... things changed. Your mother started meeting men from out of town. Men in expensive suits who didn’t care about orange blossoms or citrus greening.”
“Vance Harris,” I said.
“I don't know names,” she replied sharply. “I just know what I saw. Three years ago, right before your father took sick, a crew of civilian contractors showed up with heavy machinery behind the old packing shed. They didn't bring tractors, Victoria. They brought fiber-optic cable spools and gray steel crates stamped with military seals.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“My father knew?” I asked.
“Your father tried to chase them off with a shotgun,” Mrs. Gable said, her voice softening with a sudden, aching sorrow. “He told your mother they were bringing trouble down on the family. That’s when she had him declared incompetent. That’s when the doctors started changing his medications.”
I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white.
“She didn't just lock him away to steal the deed,” I whispered. “She locked him away because he was the only one who remembered what was buried under the north grove.”
“He wasn't just my friend, Victoria,” Mrs. Gable said, reaching out to touch my hand briefly across the counter. Her skin was dry and warm, smelling faintly of flour and coffee. “He was an honest man. And he knew that whatever your mother and those men were doing out there in the dark, it was going to destroy whatever was left of this family.”
She pulled her hand back and turned to the coffee machine, pouring a steaming mug and sliding it across to me.
May you like
“The county clerk’s office opens at eight,” she added softly, staring out the window toward the misty highway. “If I were you, I wouldn't look at the recent deeds. I’d look at the original 1968 land patent. That’s where the real signatures are.”
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