Chapter 30 - Is Myrna Loy With You?

"Are you William Powell?" Vera stood over Spinoza, pencil tucked firmly behind her ear and a nearly illegible note in hand. Spinoza occupied the same booth Tannehill always sat in.  What is it with these middle-aged men and their penchants for booths near the door?  Did age so ravage them that walking a few steps further down the counter would leave them breathless?  He was sopping up the final drippings of a late lunch by stabbing pointedly at the last potato on his plate.

"No," Spinoza drawled.

"Have you ever been mistaken for William Powell?"

"Possibly from a distance and by someone with poor eyesight.  Never for acting ability."

Vera squinted. "You're relatively tall, thin, and kind of cute in a Powell-esque way."

Spinoza blushed.  "You know The Thin Man wasn't named after the detect..."

"Detective.  Yes, I know.  It's named after the victim.  I've seen the film," she shifted the weight of her feet with a change in topic, "are you here to buy me a pastry?"

"I'm sorry?" Spinoza's eyes widened.  

"No?"

"No, I'm sorry...no."

"Perplexed by this whole exchange?"

"I'd be lying if I admitted otherwise," Spinoza stuttered but began to relax now that he realized he wasn't dealing with a lunatic.

"You're not the only one, buddy" Vera continued, beaming.

Confusion continued to reign in Spinoza's eyes.  Vera thrust the note on the table.  Misplaced drippings from his afternoon offering began to soak into the paper.  However, Spinoza could clearly make out that Can't come! William Powell - bye you a cake at bakery was clearly inscribed on the dry portion of the note. He looked up from the note, no further elucidated with the recent exchange than when she first skipped over to his table.

"It's a note from our other waitress, Flo.  She's not the most, um, literary type.  So, Mr. Powell, would you care to inform me why you plan on giving me a farewell pastry?"

"I don't think I'm the William Powell you're looking for."

"I don't think the real William Powell is likely to venture this far north and hang out near the docks."

"As flattered as I am to think that I should be waiting for someone as lovely as you, I'm waiting for a friend who's late."

Vera ignored the compliment.  "Who?"

"A private investigator."  Spinoza braced for a flurry of intrusive and prosaic questions about the nature of mysteries and the hard-boiled life.

"Tannehill?" was the only one he received.

Spinoza's response changed from confusion to shock.  His body sunk further into the leather upholstery of the booth in sympathy.

"And you're headed off to Loving's Bakery?"

Spinoza nodded, still stunned.  "How did you know?"

"My psychic powers amaze and impress."  

Spinoza harumphed at this response.  

"No?  Well, how about this Watson?  You've been tapping your fork impatiently for the last 15 minutes I've been here.  I made an educated guess that you were expecting Tannehill, because he's the nearest PI to this wonderful culinary establishment.  When Tannehill was in here last, he had a dusting a confectioner's sugar on his shirt cuff.  It's obvious from his attire and demeanor that he doesn't bake on the side, as his suit is rumpled and indicative of a cramped apartment.  And, when he was last here, he seemed distracted, so his excursion to Loving's wasn't likely successful, so it's elementary that he'd attempt another journey."

Spinoza's mouth dropped open.  "You were able to deduce all of that?"

"No, of course not."  Spinoza once again exchanged surprise for perplexity.

Vera sighed.  "What is obvious is that he didn't tell you he brought along a charming, debonaire waitress from The Happy Hour Diner to accompany him on his adventure to Loving's.  So," she drew out her exhale, "when I see someone I'm supposed to meet who's supposed to look like William Powell, who, in fact, does look like William Powell, it's not hard to begin putting some of the pieces together with the occasional direct question."

"Go on," Spinoza's gaze finally settled again on impressed.

"Well, it's not hard to tell you're annoyed about something, because you have been tapping your fork impatiently for the last 15 minutes that I've been here.  You should really carry around a novel to keep yourself occupied.  What do you do for a living?"

"Journalist."

"Oh, nevermind then, wordplay wouldn't be up your alley."  Vera continued before Spinoza could retort.  "Then you confirmed you had a late friend who's a PI, so I made an educated guess that it was Tannehill, since this ain't The Thin Man and there isn't a PI on every corner.  Once I pieced that one together, I was able to work through Flo's literary license and figure the rest out.  My guess is the message was intended to read something like 'I can't make it.  Please have Vera accompany a man who looks like William Powell to Loving's for another try at finding something significant.'"

"Then why didn't he say that?"

"He probably did, but you've seen the note and can likely use your own deductive powers to guess the state of the author's mental acuity."  What was left of the note had now consumed all of the gravy left on the table.  The word bye waving goodbye before turning brown.

"Good point, but how did he know that you'd be here if you're not even on shift yet, and it's 1:45?  I was supposed to meet him at 1."

Vera shrugged, "lucky for you, I got out of class early and you're a slow eater. While I greatly like and respect our mutual friend, he occasionally glosses over details.  But hey, he's a PI, they're to details what journalists are to words."

"Give him a break, you don't know his entire backstory.  It's been rough."

"True.  It's not the life of a 1930s woman working as a waitress at Capital City's most epicurean hotspot while attending school part-time." She extended her hand, "I'm Vera."

Spinoza took it, "I'm Phil.  Everyone calls me by my last name though."

"Which is?"

"Spinoza"

"Oh, you're the crime beat reporter.  Maybe next go around you can stick with something more rewarding like philosophy," she pulled him up by his arm and extended the crook of her elbow, "shall we?"

Before he could acquiesce, she shouted to the kitchen in back, "I'm leaving, I'll be back in about an hour."

A harsh, bellowing voice shouted back, "Vera, your shift is about to start.  What if we get a rush?"

She looked around, one customer was asleep in the booth farthest from the door.  Another was sitting at the counter savoring a three-day-old jelly donut.

"Wait, was this the month we were supposed to get a rush?"

A brief pause, "fine, but I'm docking your pay for the hour," the voice shouted back.

"No, you're not."

Another brief pause and then quieter, "no, I'm not."

She dragged Spinoza toward the door.  "Be honest, you were hoping I was just another cute waitress flirting with you."

Spinoza colored again,  "so are you a film buff?"  Spinoza asked, eager to change the subject.

"I know the secrets of the film industry better than I should," she mumbled as they exited the diner and stepped into the sunlit afternoon.

[Author's Note: Today's post is 1212 words and probably the fastest I've cranked out a chapter.  Whenever Vera's involved, I find her eager to chew the scenery, so I just let her go.  The current running total for the book is 32836.  This is beginning to look like it could be something real.]