The gravel parking lot is almost empty when I walk up to the door. It’s open, so I push through and enter the restaurant. In the back, chefs and servers are busy preparing for the lunch rush, boiling and steaming and chopping, wiping down counters, filling out the chalkboard with today’s selections, shouting to one another in English and Spanish. The smells of garlic and butter make me reconsider whether I’m here for business only.
Seated in the dining area, alone, is Justin Rivers, wearing a flannel shirt that he fills out very well, thank you very much, and blue jeans. He’s got a pencil poised over a section of newspaper—a crossword puzzle.
Must be nice, being the owner, relaxing while the employees bust a move to get the diner open.
He glances up at me with those boy-next-door looks and smiles widely.
“Detective!”
It’s like a punch in the stomach. But I don’t correct him. I’m not going to lie if he asks, but if he wants to think I’m still a cop, all the better.
“Hi, Justin. How’re you doing?”
“Great, great.” He looks down at his watch.
“I’m not here for lunch,” I say. “I was hoping to speak with you a moment.”
“With me? Okay.” He stands up. “You wanna …”
“Maybe we could step outside?”
“Sure. I’ll be right back,” he calls out to his staff, though nobody seems to notice.
He follows me outside and faces me, beaming, clean-cut and handsome.
“Good to see you,” he says. The million-dollar smile, the hair swept to one side, the broad shoulders.
“Um—thanks. You too. Listen, I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh, you mean, official stuff?” His face dropping a bit, like he’s disappointed.
I nod. “If that’s okay. Did you think there was some … other reason?”
“Oh, uh.” His face turns red. “Now I’m embarrassed. Oh, I feel stupid.”
It sometimes takes me a while, but I get there. He thought I was going to ask him out.
“A guy can hope,” he says.
Now we’re both embarrassed.
“Oh, Justin, I’m sort of—I mean it’s not that I wouldn’t—”
He raises his hands. “No explanation required. My fault. My fault totally. God, this is embarrassing.” All the blood has reached his face at this point. “Go right ahead and ask, Detective.” He nods for emphasis.
“Okay,” I say, hoping that if I get down to business, both of us will feel less awkward. “Melanie Phillips. Your waitress.”
“Sure.” The mention of her name is enough to sober him up. “Great kid. Everyone loved her.”
“Well, I’m wondering if anyone seemed to take an interest in her while she worked here.”
He looks at the sky, thinks it over. I’m tempted to prompt him with a name, but I want to see if he comes up with it himself.
“Well, I mean, she was very pretty, so lots of guys would stare and stuff. But, like, obsess over her?”
“Yes, obsess.”
He runs his hand over his mouth. “Mmm … nah, not really. I mean, she and Noah had that breakup, like everybody knows.”
Noah. Not the name I was looking for, but since he mentioned it, I might as well see where that goes.
“What did you think about Noah for a suspect?”
“Me? Oh, jeez, I’m no cop. I always liked Noah, tell you the truth.”
“I noticed he still eats here, since he’s been out.”
“Yeah, sure. We get a lot of blue-collar types. Probably because we’re cheap.”
“But … I assume if you thought he did harm to Melanie—”
“Oh, right.”
“—you wouldn’t let him back in.”
“Definitely. I never thought Noah would do something like that. He always seemed like a good guy.”
“Okay.” I scribble a note in my little pad. “Change of subject. What can you tell me about Aiden Willis?”
“Aiden?” He smiles, shakes his head. “Well, he’s a good guy. He’s one of a kind, but a good guy.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“I mean, he’s … unusual, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe we all are. Good man, though. Good man.”
This guy’s Mr. Sunshine. Never speaks ill of his fellow man, as my favorite bartender would say.
“You said he was unusual.”
“Well, I mean—he comes in alone. Sits there and reads some book. Doesn’t talk much. Comes in for beers at night sometimes but pretty much keeps to himself. Grew up here. Went to Bridgehampton School. I think Noah did, too.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“Me? I grew up in Sag Harbor. Not far.”
“You didn’t go to school with Aiden and Noah?”
“No, I went to Lanier Academy in East Hampton.”
Oh, a private school. A rich kid. I was hoping to talk to someone who went to school with Aiden and Noah.
“You didn’t know them growing up?”
“Aiden and Noah? Nope. Hey, Aiden’s not some kind of suspect, is he?”
I give a noncommittal shrug. “Just basic questions, at this point.”
“I mean, he’s kinda odd, but not like that. Odd, but in a funny way, not scary.”
That seems to be the prevailing sentiment. I don’t remember laughing last night, when he had a shotgun aimed at my head.
“Well, anyway,” says Justin, “Aiden didn’t kill Melanie.”
I snap my focus off my pad to him. “How could you know that?”