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“Did they help any?”
“In fact, they did.”
Greta laid Toompas’s folder on the counter and pulled out a Toompas mug shot from a drunk and disorderly complaint. It could have turned into the more serious charge of assault, except that afte
r he started the fight, he got his ass kicked.
“Ever see this man?”
Doris squinted at the 2 x 3-inch photo and then went to the eyeglasses hanging on her chest by a strap.
“Oh. That jerk.”
“I take it you do know him.”
“I know he’s a jerk, which should be his name. Comes in about closing a couple of nights a month, complains about almost everything, tries to hit on any female available, and never leaves a tip.”
“Know anything about him?”
“Doesn’t tip, needs a bath. Has delusions of grandeur about how irresistible he is. That’s roughly it. No idea what his name is. Maybe one of the girls knows more. Is it important?”
“He was killed and the body dumped at the Tillamook/Lincoln County line in October.”
“Jesus,” said a subdued Doris. “I vaguely remember the news reports. I didn’t pay it that much attention, but I remember being glad it was in Lincoln County and not in Tillamook.”
There you go, Sheriff Wallace, Greta thought. The typical Tillamook voter you’re courting.
“I’ll need to talk to Shirley and Allie to check if they know anything about him.”
“Sure thing. Allie should be in any minute, and Shirley about noon.”
“I’ll ask the others the same questions, but do you recall anything at all about Toompas?”
“That’s his name? Toompas?”
“Howard Toompas. Went by Howie. Lived in Lincoln City.”
“All I remember is that he’d come in near closing on nights we were open late, sometimes just a few minutes before nine o’clock. Used to piss off Shirley. She’s the waitress into the evening when we’re open for dinner, and Juan, the cook. Couple of times he came in around ten minutes before closing and took his time ordering and eating. It’d sometimes be an hour past closing before he left. Then still no tip, the asshole.”
“Did he ever meet anyone here?”
“Not that I recall. Shirley might remember more.”
Greta waited for Allie, but the morning to afternoon waitress didn’t recognize Toompas.
Before heading home at the end of her shift, Greta returned to the café and talked with Shirley and Juan. There was no new information. The staff had talked about Toompas among themselves enough that what one knew, they all knew or thought they remembered—a matter of collective memory.
An hour after Greta got home, her phone rang.
“Hi, Greta. It’s Doris again. You asked if we could remember anything at all about this Toompas. Shirley remembered that he always ordered the same thing. Meatloaf with mashed potatoes. No dessert. Every time. Shirley said about the fifth time or so, she just told Juan to start thawing out the meatloaf as soon as she saw him come in.”
The news got Greta wondering, The same thing every time?
“How many orders of meatloaf do you get?”
“Four . . . five every day.”
“Hmmm . . . so the bill would be the same for all of them?”
