Background
Miranda is trying to figure out what happened to Dougie.
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So far, Miranda Jessup Buckley has set her sights on finding what happened to Dougie Wilcox, Waylon's dad. But her co-worker needs help to uncover her own mystery.
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Nights at The Little Eagle can be busy as all get out or they can be dead. I prefer busy. Quiet time can give me too much time to think. I'm a doer not a thinker. Especially when the things I tend to think about involve murder and other bad things.
For a long time, Mitch and even my mom were trying to get me to talk to someone. But, I'm fine. You know how I know I'm fine? Because I survived. It's is in the past. End of story. I'm not throwing shade on people who need therapy, not in any way, shape or form. I just know it would be a waste of time for me.
Tonight, it's quiet. I've done my nightly check list, even swept and mopped the whole store. With an hour left, I sit on the stool behind the counter and thumb through one of the magazines Rita brings in. That kills about ten minutes.
Car lights flash in the windows. The car sits at the edge of the parking lot. My stomach flutters nervously. That night I was shot at fills my head.
Shake it off, Miranda. You can't go wetting your pants every damn time you see car lights. I stroll over to the door, carefully maneuvering to the side so I'm not a bulls eye target.
The car starts moving again. Slowly, pulling up to one of the pumps close to the store. It seems like forever before the driver gets out and walks around to the pump.
This guy must have never pumped his own gas because he just keeps lifting the nozzle and pressing the fuel button, but he doesn't put his credit card in.
After a minute of mild entertainment, I go over to the intercom and talk to him.
"You have to put your credit card in first."
I see him looking around, unsure where the voice is coming from.
"Sir, put the nozzle back and then insert the card strip down. Then follow the directions on the display screen."
He nods and does as he's told but still doesn't put in his card. He steps around his car and waves his hands.
"Oh, geez. Why is there always a problem at closing time."
I push through the front door and head over to the car.
"Did your card not work?"
This hunched over old man with a pinched up face shakes his head. "I've got cash. Do you take cash?"
"Yes, sir. You just need to come inside to pay with cash."
"I'm a relic, I know I am. Nobody uses cash anymore. Everybody wants me to pull out a card. I don't use cards, if I don't have to."
I nod, letting the old man rant about how cash used to be king, and how cashless society is going to be the downfall of America.
"I'll take your money and go turn on the pump, okay? How much do you want?"
He smiles and starts to walk back around to the pump. "Thirty dollars worth, please."
I run back inside to set the pump and get him his change from the two twenties he handed me.
When I return he's still fumbling with the nozzle. I feel bad for the old guy. He's from a different time. Things have changed and he hasn't been able to keep up.
"I tell you what, sir, today you are getting full service for the not so low price of self-service." I ease my way around him and start filling his tank.
He steps back, giving me space. "That's mighty kind of you, sweetheart. What's your name?"
"Miranda, and it's my pleasure."
"Alvin Starling. I'm glad I stopped in here tonight. Usually fill up on Fridays, at that Exxon near the Piggly Wiggly. But, I thought, Alvin, best get your old keister out tonight, there's a storm brewing off the coast. Can't wait until Friday. It'll be a mad dash for the pumps then." He puts his change into his wallet, glancing at the spinning meter to make sure he gets his full thirty dollars worth. "Yes sir, I'm glad I stopped in tonight. It's nice to meet you, Miss Miranda."
I tap out the last few drips into his tank then screw the cap back on.
"Well, it was nice to meet you, too, Mr. Starling. And, if we do end up getting that tropical storm, you take care."
I step away and wait patiently as he fixes his seat belt, before putting the car in drive, clipping the curb and driving off.
Poor old guy. I understand feeling like a relic. Some days the world is a comfortable place to be. Some days it's a foreign and unfriendly place.
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A familiar black car is parked in front of my trailer. Maybe he changed his mind and is hand delivering that ticket.
I can see him, leaning against the hood of his car.
Without a word I waltz right by him. He reaches out, pulls me back and into his arms.
"You still mad?"
I twist to look him in the eyes. "Was that really necessary? "
"From my viewpoint, yes. It was very necessary."
I try to wriggle out of his arms. He waits, holding on to me. "Where were you coming from?"
"I have to know what happened, Mitch."
His grip loosens but he doesn't let me go. His jaw is set as he nods. "Damn, Miranda. We went over that area with a fine tooth comb. There isn't anything out there."
"I found two beer bottles."
Mitch laughs, but it's an exasperated sound. "So what? Miranda, people go out there all the time."
"It was his brand. Only one store in the entire county carries it. When I used to go pick it up for him, the clerk said I was the only one whoever bought it. He told me they might stop carrying it. I had to beg them not to."
Mitch let's his hands fall away from me. He looks down. "Miranda, are you still in love with him. Just tell me the truth. Cause I just don't know what to do right now."
Tina Turner comes to mind. What does love have to do with it? A man is missing. His son needs answers. But, I've said it all before. "No. I don't love him, Mitch. I love that boy in there. He needs us to figure this out. I could use your help, but if not your help, then your support."
He looks up, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. "I just needed to know."
"Don't waste time worrying about problems that don't exist. You're stuck with me." I snuggle up against him, drawing in the scent of his aftershave. "But, make no mistake, if you ever try that little stunt from this morning again, you will regret it."
I pull back to look at him. His eyes are closed and he has a peaceful smile on his face. "Are you going to sleep?"
He shakes his head. "No. Just thinking about your face when you had to hand me your license and registration."
He doesn't gloat, or act like a jack ass. He knows that wouldn't fly with me. Mitch Danner isn't like any man I've ever met.
And that, my friends, is a very good thing.
