I couldn’t wait until Sunday.
Wednesday afternoon, I went down to the café myself. I sat at the counter and ordered a piece of pie I didn’t want, and I asked Bev Torgerson.
Bev has owned the Main Street Café for twelve years. She bought it from Lyle Dahl when he retired. She’s sixty-four and has a voice like a cement mixer and she’s the only person in Rushford Falls who has ever successfully told my mother to sit down.
“The man in the suit,” I said. “Tuesday morning. Navy blue. Nice watch.”
Bev wiped down the counter in front of me.
“You mean Craig Lundgren.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who’s Craig Lundgren?”
Bev stopped wiping.
“You don’t know?”
“Should I?”
She looked toward the kitchen door to see if anyone was listening. Then she leaned in.
“Craig Lundgren is Walt Lundgren’s boy.”
I knew Walt Lundgren. Everybody knew Walt Lundgren. He had a dairy farm west of town for sixty years, the big one with the blue silos. He was in his nineties now. He sold the herd a long time ago, but he still came into town every Sunday morning in his seed cap and church coat.
“I didn’t know Walt had a son.”
“Craig left when he was eighteen. Went to college in the Cities. Never came back. Made a lot of money in commercial real estate.” Bev’s mouth went tight. “He’s back now. Looking at property.”
“What property?”
Bev was quiet a second.
“This block,” she said.
I put my fork down.
“This block. This café?”
“The whole north side of Main. From the hardware store to the corner. He’s put in an offer on all of it. Lundgren Development. They want to put in a strip mall. Dollar store. A chain coffee place. Some apartments upstairs.”
“Are you going to sell?”
“I lease the building, honey. I don’t own it. The Feeney estate owns it. And the Feeney heirs all live in Arizona and don’t care.” She went back to wiping. “If Craig buys it, my lease runs out in August. And that’s that.”
I looked around. The red booths. The pie case. The old Hamm’s Beer clock above the door that’s been five minutes fast since before I was born.
“Does my mom know?”
“Your mother knows everything that happens in this town before it happens,” Bev said. “She knew last month.”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“Your mother doesn’t tell anybody anything. You should know that by now.” Bev paused. “He came in here Tuesday to look at the place. Walked around with a measuring tape. Took pictures of the kitchen. Then he sat down in her section like he owned it already.”
“And sent his eggs back twice.”
“And sent his eggs back twice. And then he left her that note.”
I sat there.
“Bev. Does Craig Lundgren know who my mom is?”
Bev looked at me for a long time.
“No,” she said. “I don’t believe he does.”
“Who is she? To him?”
Bev shook her head.
“That’s not mine to tell,” she said. “You come in Sunday.”
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