“Forty minutes from the town square is twelve miles too slow,” I said.
“They had an accident out on the highway to deal with,” Carol said, though her voice lacked conviction. “At least, that is what the dispatcher told her.”
I placed the plastic bag into my jacket pocket. “I will go talk to Kayla.”
The diner was cold when I let myself in through the back door. Kayla Moore, the nineteen-year-old waitress, was already there, slowly wiping down the empty Formica counter with a white rag.
The brass bell above the front door remained silent as I walked in. The air smelled of cold grease and old floor wax.
“Kayla,” I said, pulling up a red vinyl stool.
She started, dropping her rag onto the counter before picking it up again. “Oh, Colonel Turner. I did not hear you come in.”
“I wanted to ask you about yesterday afternoon,” I said, watching her hands. “The men who were here before my mother fell.”
“I was in the back,” Kayla said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. She looked over her shoulder toward the empty kitchen. “I was getting a fresh tub of coleslaw from the walk-in. I did not see anything happen.”
“What about the security cameras?” I asked, pointing to the small black dome mounted in the corner near the ceiling.
Kayla wiped the same spot on the counter three times. “The landlord had some men come in last Tuesday. They said the hard drive was bad and took the whole unit box out.”
“Without putting a new one in?” I asked.
“They said they had to order the parts,” she said, looking down at her sneakers.
“Who is the landlord these days, Kayla?”
She hesitated, her eyes shifting toward the front windows. “Mr. Henderson still owns the building, but some agency out of Charlotte handles the rent now.”
“I see,” I said, standing up. “Did the deputy ask you about the cameras?”
