“Have you ever read MacBeth?” The older server asked.
The sun had peeked up halfway over the treeline and through the blue, cloudy sky, and started to steadily creep into the rustic-looking diner. The furniture and style reflected a very colonial aesthetic. There was a nice navy-blue, almost jean-colored wallpaper that looked like it was starting to peel in some areas, exposing the oak wood interior walls. There was also a missing persons board that was full of listings of various people, with no consistency to the demographic.
“I have. I did it for a school project, in my sophomore year,” the younger journalist responded. She wore practical overalls over a green live-laugh-love t-shirt. She had tanned, warm-colored skin, and curly reddish hair which she twirled on her finger in front of her, watching herself do so absentmindedly under her ribboned straw hat.
“A friend of mine was clearing out some ol’ stuff since he’s movin’ soon and asked if I wanted it,” he said in his gruff, restrained voice, hinting at a history of heavy cigar usage, “so I thought I’d ask the bookworm if it was worth a try.”
He continued to wipe down the counter with a wet towel which created a faint squeaking sound, mostly drowned out by the burgeoning fireplace in the corner of the building. The layout was generally asymmetrical, in a way that showed the owner didn’t really mind how the marble furniture ended up. There were also a few ugly looking taxidermied foxes mounted along the wall, creating a cruel diagram of a forest.
“It’s good, not exactly my genre but a pretty enjoyable read. I think you’d like it, since you were into A Song Of Ice And Fire. But for me, I dunno… knights and kings and queens are just kind of boring to me.”
The server couldn’t help but scoff somewhat sarcastically. “Well,” he retorted, wiping down his dirty brown apron with the number 23 in big red numbers on it, “I guess it’s hard to compare kings and queens in a royal court to the stuff you read. I could never handle Stephen King and all that horror stuff… gives me the heebie-jeebies.” He rolled up his white sleeves, showing off his unrequitedly hairy, muscly arms, and passed a little ceramic mug to her. “Here ya go, the uz.”
The server was a taller and more muscular man who wore his apron over a tank top despite it being only 60 degrees. He had a brown, bushy mustache that covered his mouth entirely, and a shoulder tattoo with his mother’s initials. His hands were stained from cleaning the diner for years.
“Aw, c’mon,” she joked, swirling the straw around in her strawberry mocha latte, accentuating the aroma throughout the room, “don’t judge me just because I’ve read all of his novels. And have the newest one already preordered-” Interrupting her was her phone ringing, playing the Friends theme song loud enough to be heard by the server. She chuckled, moderately embarrassed, before answering it.
“Yoo-hoo?”
“Yo, girlie, it’s Walt,” a thick Bostonian accent rang loudly through the phone.
“Hey boss, how’s it-”
“There’s the town renaissance faire comin’ through, at the ol’ campground, right? I need ya to do a panel for us advertising it. Sayyy, by Thursday night?”
“Thursday…? You mean, two days from now?” A concerned smile appeared across her face.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Yeah, they’re getting it set up as we speak. Better get to interviewing soon. Chop chop, writer girl.”
As he hung up the phone, she downed the latte at lightning speed, getting a concerned glare from the server, as she slammed it back onto the counter. She sheepishly chuckled as she stared back at the balding man already washing out the latte mug.
“I gotta go.”
“Sounds urgent. I’ll leave you to it, Daisy.”
“Thanks. Oh, right…” She had almost forgotten to pay, but slid the server a crisp $5 bill. “Keep the change, Louie!” She said as she dashed out the diner door with a bit more pep in her step.
・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・
She walked past the streets of the town towards the parking lot with Kate Bush blasting on her airpods, bopping her head periodically in rhythm. The muted sound of gravel and cobblestone followed her footsteps as she glanced through the familiar buildings of Midridge- The Hummingbird diner, Green Meadows High School, Pines’ Motel, and her dads little cafe, Yin & Yang. She continued moseying down the street, before getting a text on her phone, slowing her pace as she pulled it out of her pocket and held onto it by the pride flag popsocket she had glued onto the case.
“You got the renfaire panel? Jealousss” It was from her coworker Blythe, who she had set to an animated Jigsaw profile picture in her messages app.
“Yeah dude, I just got called a few minutes ago, I’m on my way to the quarry now,” She responded back while pacing on the sidewalk.
“Lucky, I’m stuck doing the boring burglary one :P”
“What?? That’s the one I wanted!!”
“It’s not as good as you think I promise, the guy literally could not have screwed up more, I’m shocked that it’s still in contention”
“Still, I would’ve liked clue gathering more than some overpriced cosplay con”
“Fair enough lol”
She pocketed her phone before climbing into her red Honda Civic, steering towards Ivory Rd, driving only a few miles over the limit towards Stanton’s Quarry. She put on the radio and changed the channel to local news, pulling her seat forward closer to the pedals and the steering wheel.
“And why do you think these disappearances have gone on for so long, sir?” A female reporter asked the interviewee.
“Ohmygod, Hermia,” Daisy said under her breath excitedly. She had a sticker for Soliloquy 98.8 on the back of her car, and her favorite reporter was Hermia Bowman… who she also had a car sticker for. Car stickers were something she liked to collect.
“There’s absolutely no possible reasoning for any kind of ‘curse’ on our town,” a male voice responded agitatedly, “as other mayors have tried to say for years. We’re a strong, established town in Illinois, USA, not some fairy village filled with frogs and witches. Our problem is simply our lackluster detective agency. They’ve been failing at their job as long as I’ve been around. We’re restructuring the training and entry process for any aspiring detectives.”
Daisy grumbled disappointedly as she mumblingly mocked the man.
“But sir,” Hermia retorted, “what about the other mayors? You do realize that many of them have gone missing too. Even the last mayor, Sean Palmer, was found dead.”
“We’ve determined that this is some kind of organization bent on sheer terror and fear. They benefit when the people of our town are afraid and make mistakes. But I can assure you- our townspeople will be safe, and we will bring these devils to justice, if we get the funding for our detective agency reform.”
“Thank you, Mayor Rollins.”
“Thank you.”
“We return to our lead analysts back in Windy City-” Daisy changed the station over to 330 Frontier FM, and some generic country song that she was pretty certain was Tim McGraw but still wasn’t 100% sure played, as her thoughts cleared and she focused on thinking about the questions she’d ask the renfaire workers.