The Haunting of Shandy Bay Part II
By: P.G. Barnett
Tags: Short Story, Fiction Series, Fiction, Henry And Sunny, Fiction Writing

My name is Sunny Alexander. And I’m Henry James, and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Conclusion

There comes a point when you have to ignore the ass chewing our boss Rick McDonnell is going to dish out and just say what the hell.

Why not?

Fate, or it’s ugly stepbrother, dumb luck, put us in the pristine tourist town Shandy Bay at precisely the same time. Although we came for different reasons, we now had a single motive. Find and dig up the bodies.

Not that there are always bodies, but with a certain person’s propensity to shoot things you just never know. For the record, It was car, a limo for God’s sake. Not like anybody got killed.

“Okay Henry, any ideas how we’re going to approach this?”

My phone in the back pocket of my jeans gave my right butt cheek a miniature massage.

“Hang on. Let me take this.”

It was a text message from a writing buddy of mine. I’d known Chris Patterson for a couple of years and we’d swapped stories over beers. His text was asking me if I had a minute to talk.

I didn’t.

I texted him back, Dude, I’ll talk to you later, then slid the phone back into my pocket.

“So where were we?”

“Ideas. Do you have any?”

“Yeah, I got a couple.”

“Are you going to share or do I have to guess?”

“We’re going to eat.”

“Uh, that’s your plan? Really Henry?”

“Listen up my little Nubian sister. There’s a diner in Shandy Bay, and we’re going to sit our asses there over a really long lunch and use what God gave us to our best advantage.”

“We’re going to sit there, eat and do what Henry? Talk about the weather?”

“You know for a smart woman, you can get kinda dense at times. We’re going to eat. First because my stomach thinks my throat is cut. Second, we’re going to watch and listen.”

“Watch and listen.”

“That’s right. People do things which makes you take notice even when they don’t think you do. They talk Sunny, and they talk about a lot of things. Most of the shit you’ll hear won’t make a lick of sense. Some of what you see you won’t give a rat’s ass about, but every now and then you strike pay dirt.”

“Eat, watch and listen. Wonderful plan Henry. Simply amazing.”

“You got a better one?”

“Well, we could start off by finding the local authorities and try to get some background info on the people who disappeared. Knowing who we’re looking for may help us discover why or how they vanished.”

“Remind me to sit at your poker table when you play.”

“What?”

“You really want to tip your hand that quick? We don’t know what we don’t know. The last thing we want is to raise suspicion by asking a shit load of questions. Besides, people in small towns aren’t extroverted by nature. They kind of shy away from strangers.”

“Yes, but this is a tourist trap Henry. All the shop owners have to be friendly if they want to make a living.”

“Speaking of, did you notice the lack of tourists?”

“Of course I did.”

“Did you notice how clean and well maintained everything is?”

“Again, yes Henry. This isn’t my first time around the block.”

“Where is the money coming from?”

“Damn Grandpa, you’re quite the genius aren’t you?”

“Why yes, yes I am. Follow the money. Your car or mine?”

It was a short drive to the diner and though we knew it wouldn’t be crowded with tourists we expected to see several of the locals hanging about. We weren’t disappointed. All seven of the counter bar stools were occupied.

We registered the different men and women, in our memories. Some were wearing jeans and dusty looking boots, some wore dress pants and short sleeved white shirts, some were decked out in halter tops, shorts and sandals.

The diner was a local hang out for sure.

Most of the men seemed to be in the same age bracket of a certain writer who uses the back of his car as a dump site for junk food wrappers.

Certainly not as young as a writer whose car insides are so sterile you’re afraid to breathe for fear of contaminating the ecosystem.

We chose a table in the center of the diner. It was a strategic choice because it was within ear shot of the bar stools and the four booths along the front wall.

It didn’t take long for a waitress, wearing a top which fully accentuated her assets and a pair of jeans we both assumed had been painted on, to make her way to us.

After taking our drink order and providing us the ubiquitous iced water in a plastic glass she plopped a pair of menus down then scooted away.

The waitress brought our drinks. Soda for the gent, sparkling water with a twist of lemon for the princess in our midst, then took our order.

“I’ll have the chicken fried steak, and the mashed potatoes with extra gravy.”

“You get two sides sir.”

“Okay, then I’ll have the mac and cheese.”

“Henry, you’re going to eat artery clogging slop like that in front of me?”

“Yes Miss Alexander I am.”

“Fine, but when you blow a valve don’t say I didn’t warn you. Miss, I’ll have the Cobb salad. Could you please take out the cucumbers?”

“It doesn’t come with cucumbers. What salad dressing?”

“Do you have red wine vinaigrette?”

“No.”

“Balsamic?”

“No.”

“Blue cheese?”

“No. All we have is Thousand Islands and French.”

“Maybe you should try a little of my gravy on it.”

“Shut up Henry. I’ll have the Thousand Islands on the side please.”

After the meals were served we both lapsed into silence while we ate. Both of us picked up on a conversation between two men sitting opposite each other in a booth. They were leaning forward, hunched over cups of coffee, and though their voices were lowered the acoustics were working in our favor.

“…tonight. Same as usual.”

“I don’t know dude. This shit can’t go on forever. Somebody’s eventually going to slip…”

“Ain’t nobody going to slip up. If they do, they’re dead and they know it. Enrique will cut their balls off and feed ’em to them just before they croak.”

“What if somebody spots them coming in?”

“Then we’ll take care of them the way we took care of the other four.”

“I don’t know man.”

“Just do your job ass wipe. Midnight. Same as usual.”

The man nearest to us slid out of the booth, tossed some money on the table then turned away. Having learned the fine art of inconspicuous, we continued eating, watching as he lumbered to the front door and pushed out onto the sidewalk.

“Henry, I need to powder my nose.”

“Your nose looks fine to me.”

“Do want me to ID the dude’s car or not?”

“Be sure to wash your hands before you come back to the table.”

“Bite me James.”

While Sunny was off ensuring her makeup was still attached to her face in all the right places, I called for a receipt and a couple of to-go boxes. I was signing off on the receipt when my partner in crime sat down.

“Red Chevy pickup. Tool box in the bed behind the cab.”

“Don’t suppose you got the license did you?”

“What, do you think I’m a rank amateur? Of course I got the plate.”

“Okay, let’s go back to your place. I need to book a room then we need to figure out what to do next.”

READ ON THE HAUNTING OF SHANDY BAY PART III

Let’s keep in touch: paul@pgbarnett.com