Newsletter Exclusive – Blondie’s Diner Prologue

Many of you may remember Blondie’s Diner from years ago, but this story has evolved in ways I didn’t expect. Below is a brand-new prologue, written just for my newsletter readers, that introduces the cozy mystery heart of the series and reveals what happened to an important character in the small town of Twisted Oaks. This excerpt isn’t available anywhere else — it’s my thank-you to you for being here and supporting my work.

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Blondies Diner Prologue

Three years ago.

 

The charming storefronts and cozy cafes of Twisted Oaks would soon be ablaze with gossip, speculation, and suspicion about Chantelle McKenzie’s last moments, tearing apart the cohesive, close-knit community.

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As Chantelle pulled up to the quaint dress shop nestled on Main Street, her heart fluttered with anticipation. She parked her car along the curb and stepped into the cool morning air. The old wooden door creaked open, echoing through the quiet street as Chantelle stepped inside, the scent of roses greeted her from the antique wooden countertop.

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A white-haired shop owner, clad in a reserved navy A-framed blouse over white slacks, replaced a dress on the rack and glided toward her, pressing her pink shimmery lips together. “Chantelle, dear. It’s so good to see you. Come, try on the dress. The hanger doesn’t do it justice.”

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It was impossible to suppress her giddy joy. Chantelle clapped her hands and followed Mrs. Weaver’s stocky form to the back room, passing through a hallway with exposed brick, showing the age of the building. “I can’t believe it’s here. Were they able to match the crystals?”

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The older lady didn’t respond with words but instead grabbed the hem of the dress hanging on the door and flared it out, an enormous grin lighting up her plump face.

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“Wow, it’s even more beautiful than I remember.” Chantelle ran her hands over the sparkling beaded bodice, marveling at the small cap sleeves, which before alterations had been long and gauzy, and, to be honest, hideously old-fashioned. “How did she find the exact crystals?”

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Mrs. Weaver beamed, pride showing through. “My girl in Pennsylvania is pure magic.” She flipped the dress over, grabbing the hanger and gathering the full skirt to show her the back. “Look at the changes here.”

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Chantelle ran her fingers over the delicate crisscross straps and the re-crafted back panel, which had once been the same faded-to-ivory lace covering of the sleeves. The transformation was incredible. “Oh, look!” Overcome with emotion, she wrapped her arms around the dress shop owner’s neck and pulled her tight, catching a whiff of Estee Lauder scent. “You’re a genius! I was skeptical. But you were so right!”

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Mrs. Weaver stood stiffly, probably not used to such displays of affection. “Come now, let’s get this on you and make sure it fits. We still have time to make adjustments if we need to.”

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Overwhelmed with emotion, Chantelle burst into tears, wiping frantically at her face. “I’m dying to show Mama.”

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Mrs. Weaver’s smile faltered, and she cocked her head to the side. “How is your mother, dear?”

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“Fading. I’m hoping she’ll have a good day for the wedding. Aunt Ophelia is going to be by her side, so I can enjoy my big day and not worry about Mom.” Her mother was suffering from dementia. Some days she was her old boisterous self, others, she didn’t recognize her only daughter.

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Mrs. Weaver nodded solemnly. “Do try it on, dear. I have another appointment coming in soon. I want you to have the place to yourself when you see this gorgeous gown on you.”

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Chantelle blinked away tears, feeling slightly rebuked. Perhaps Mrs. Weaver wanted to avoid a repeat of the extended emotional outburst from the last time she was in the shop. “Yes, ma’am.” She stepped into the delicately appointed dressing room with a small crystal chandelier hanging from the ancient plaster ceiling. She slipped off her jeans and tank top, hanging them on the old crystal doorknob, converted into a stylish wall hook. Then, standing in her underwear, Chantelle stepped into the dress Mrs. Weaver was holding open for her.

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It weighed more than she’d expected, but the antique gem fit perfectly, cap sleeves sitting prettily on her shoulders, with a scoop neck showing off the tops of her breasts just as she’d imagined.

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Something poked in her rear, and she heard the zipper going up. Mrs. Weaver’s intrusion was crisp and professional, but still unsettling. Her subjugator unboxed a pair of size six, two-inch white heels and set them on the floor in front of the three-way mirror. “Oh, my dear girl, you look stunning. Come here and slide your feet into these, and we’ll check the length.”

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She glided forward, straining to see her reflection. The older woman held out a hand to balance her as she slid her feet into the heels and stepped onto the platform in front of the mirror.

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Chantelle covered her mouth and stared in disbelief. In the reflection, the spitting image of an old photograph stared back at her. She was a modern version of her mom’s blonde, slim frame, heart-shaped face, and oversized eyes. In a tiny voice, she whispered, “I look like Mama. Don’t you think?”

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Mrs. Weaver glanced her up and down, her lips disappearing between her false teeth, her head cocked to the side. Blinking rapidly, she nodded. The old battleaxe did have emotions. “You look just like her, dear. I was at her wedding to your dad. May he rest in peace.”

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The battleaxe handed her a mirror. “Just look at the details on the back.” She slid a hand over the straps, smoothing a twist along the way.

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Chantelle turned around and held the mirror up, glancing at the three-way through the reflection. “It’s exactly how I’d imagined it. You are so good, Mrs. Weaver. Your vision matched what I’d described, even though I didn’t know how to tell you what I wanted.”

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The older woman blinked a few times, a satisfied smile spreading, bunching up her plump cheeks. “Thank you, dear. It is exactly how we discussed it. I told you, my girl up north is pure magic. Let’s get you out of this.” She hesitated, as if remembering Chantelle’s opinion was the final say. “Are you happy with the length?”

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The bride-to-be turned around, glancing in the mirror at the tips of her shoes. “It’s perfect.”

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The dress shop owner nodded, satisfied, and unceremoniously unzipped the dress. “That’s it then. Along with you now. Get dressed, and we’ll settle up.”

 

***

 

Chantelle pulled her car up to the drive-through window.

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“Name and birthdate. Oh, it’s you, Chantelle.” The neighborhood pharmacist, clad in a white lab coat, greeted her with a warmth that seemed at odds with his microphoned voice.

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“Phillip, how are you?”

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“Great, Miss Chantelle. What is that hanging in the back? Is that your wedding gown?” An edge filled in the cracks of his mechanical voice.

“Why, yes, it is. Are you going to join us on Saturday to celebrate?”

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The ceiling light bounced off Phillip’s balding head, casting golden-red highlights in his brown hair as he nodded. “I’ll be coming with Mother. I have your medicine almost ready. Just give me a minute.”

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Phillip disappeared from view. Chantelle wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. Phillip had been sweet on her since she’d arrived in Twisted Oaks, but was so awkward about it. Poor guy didn’t take it well when she announced her nuptials.

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He returned a minute later. “Here you are.” The red metal drawer opened, extending towards her car. Chantelle paid with her debit card, and he returned a form for her to sign.

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“Have a wonderful evening, Miss Chantelle. I bet you have a lot to do to get ready to be married to that guy.” He said the words sweetly, but the dark look in his eyes gave her the creeps.

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She grabbed the bag with the meds and the drawer snapped closed. “Yes, thank you, Phillip. See you on Saturday.”

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Phillip’s lips pursed as he turned away from the window, giving Chantelle a chill up her spine. He really wasn’t taking this well. It wasn’t like he’d been interested enough to ask her out, despite being very flirty every time she came in for her mother’s prescriptions. He’d stopped coming into the diner after he’d seen her and Don together in the back booth. Small towns can be too interconnected. She’d moved back to be near mama, but the call of the metropolis still lived in her heart. No one knew who you were, and she rather appreciated that. Especially when it came to the one and only pharmacy in town.

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Eyeing the bag on the seat next to her, she pulled into a parking slot. I should take my meds before I forget. Chantelle cracked open the container and swallowed two pills, washing them down with the bottle of water in her cup holder, scrunching up her nose at the hot, stale taste. As she drove away, the phrase that guy echoed in her mind, and she tried to shake the uneasiness from her encounter at the pharmacy. What did he mean by that?

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After a short drive up the hill, she pulled up to her house, parking out front. Chantelle grabbed the small bag of medicine and the dress, then opened the front door, traipsing into the kitchen, hanging the dress on the upper cabinet’s handle. “What a weirdo.” She sighed, wanting to laugh off the unease by telling her fiancé about the encounter.

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Plucking a glass from the cabinet, she filled it from the faucet, washing down the pills that still felt caught in her throat. Then she popped a piece of bread into the toaster, waiting impatiently for it to finish. Would the meds burn her stomach as they sometimes did? She should have taken them with food.

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Chantelle buttered the toast and carried it to the breakfast bar, quickly taking a few bites. But as she swallowed, a flush of energy surged through her veins, leaving her feeling queasy. A trickle of sweat dripped down her back, soaking into her tank top. When she picked up the glass to take another sip, her hands shook so badly that she nearly spilled it down her front.

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Pressing against her stomach, she felt fresh sweat break out along her forehead. What was happening? A pounding grew in her ears, and she pressed into her throat to feel her pulse, which tapped away incessantly like a nervous toddler kicking his legs after being forced to sit still.

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The scent of old, stale lace from the dress lingered on her hands, and she stood to wash them, her knees weak and legs shaking. She pulled the phone from her back pocket and dialed her fiancé, then made her way to the couch by the window to lie down.

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He answered the phone. “Hi sweetie. Just about to take out the last booth. Want to come down for lunch?”

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Chantelle’s throat was dry now, and she croaked out the words. “I don’t feel right, Don. I’m having a weird reaction to something.”

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Panic laced his words. “Babe, what kind of reaction? How bad is it?”

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“Bad, I’m shaking like a leaf.” She struggled to draw in a breath, feeling dizzy now. “I need help.”

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“I’ll be right there. I’ll call you right back.”

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Chantelle closed her eyes, draping an arm over them to block out the harsh sun peeking in through the window. “Oh no! It’s bad luck for him to see the dress.” Struggling to her feet, she took a few shaky steps toward the dress, accidentally pulling the receipt off the hanger as she fell to her knees. Abandoning the dress, she stumbled back to the sitting area, clutching the receipt in her hand, but collapsed short of the loveseat, landing hard on the floor. The final image tattooed in her mind was of the receipt fluttering under the couch before everything blacked out.