The Lady of the Lakewood Diner

By Anne R. Allen

Who shot Morgan Le Fay?

Someone has shot the aging bad-girl rocker and threatens to finish the job. Is it fans of her legendary dead rock-god husband, Merlin? Or is the secret buried in her childhood hometown of Avalon, Maine?

Morgan's childhood best friend Dodie, the no-nonsense owner of a dilapidated diner, may be the only one who knows the dark secret that can save Morgan's life.

And both women may find that love really is better the second time around.

Smart, funny women's fiction for the Woodstock Generation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kotu Beach Press
• Release date: Jun 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9788834138588

Book preview

Allen

THE LADY OF THE LAKEWOOD DINER

a comedy

by Anne R. Allen

––––––––

The myth of the Golden Age springs from a longing for our own lost childhood: we have all dwelled in Atlantis in the watery haven of the womb. The land of milk and honey is no farther than our mother's breast; and in some half-remembered dream, all of us were once High Kings, defending bucket sandcastles in a long-ago beachside Camelot.

C. L. Brown...Camelot Dreams

© Anne R. Allen, 2013. All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. The resemblance of any characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Part 1—The Falsehood of Morgan le Fay: Dodie

Then all had marvel of the falsehood of Morgan le Fay; many knights wished her burnt....Thomas Malory, Le Morte D'Arthur

1—HAPPY ENDINGS ARE ONLY FOR FAIRY TALES

Morgan always said she wanted to be a witch when she grew up. I guess that's why most of us in her hometown of Avalon, Maine figured life wasn't going to have a lot of happy-ever-after in store for her.

Not that I'd ended up with much of a fairy-tale life myself, by the time that guy shot Morgan on network TV, with the whole world watching her blood splatter all over Joan Rivers' white suit.

When I got home from work that night, out straight after a crazy-busy Taco Tuesday at the diner, I still hadn't heard the news.

The grandkids were zombified in front of the old Zenith. I could see their faces through the window of the trailer, pale as a couple of space aliens in the blue TV light.

Okay, couch spuds, I said as I kicked the snow off my boots. Time to turn it off. I bet neither one of you has finished your homework.

Look, Gramma, Lily said. It's Morgan le Fay.

Big deal. Morgan is always on TV, doing infomercials for that boob-exercise machine of hers or advertising her Greatest Disco Hits CD. Yup. I could hear it—the boinky disco beat of City Girls was playing in the background.

What—am I talking to myself here? I glanced at the screen as I reached for the off button. It was some Hollywood awards show. Morgan, in a black see-through thing that showed off as much of her plastic surgeon's work as possible, towered over everybody with that wild hair, dyed a weird orange today.

In the corner of the picture, I could see a little guy move in close to Morgan. Then she crumpled and clutched her chest. Blood sprayed on Joan Rivers. Little Richard screamed.

I wanted to scream too, but no sound came out.

... you are watching our exclusive video of the scene outside this afternoon's People's Choice Golden Oldie Music Awards in Los Angeles, where one-time rock diva Morgan le Fay was gunned down by an unidentified assailant.

A skinny old man with a mustache, wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, ran into the crowd.

Morgan is in critical condition at Cedars Sinai Hospital, the TV voice said. Her assailant is still at large.

At large? My head felt about to explode. This guy shot a celebrity in front of the entire world, they can't find him? What is the matter with those cops in California? Are they all on drugs?

It's too weird, Gramma, Lily said. They chased the guy, but when they stopped his car, nobody was in it—just some old lady. She said the killer carjacked her.

The Entertainment Tonight guy came back on, all smiles, like he was having the time of his life.

Another witness claims to have seen a second gunman, he said. They say they saw a man with long white hair shoot at Miss le Fay from a second story window across the parking lot. This has given new life to the old rumors that Miss le Fay's late husband, rock legend Merlin, did not die when his motorcycle crashed off the coast of Maine in 1978. The fact Merlin's body was never found has fueled such stories for decades.

The video clip started again. I wanted to smash something. Instead, I went out to the vestibule and lit a cig. I try not to smoke in front of the girls—I know I gotta quit—but it was better than letting them see me lose it.

They're saying Merlin's not dead. Shouldn't we tell Aunt Vivie? Emilie called to me. She won't hear about it with no TV at the farm.

Homework! I said. Tomorrow's a school day. Vivie could wait. She'd been waiting near on forty years.

I took one big drag off my cigarette before I tossed it out the door into the snow. I went back to the den, plunked myself down in the Barcalounger and tried to work my feelings into thoughts. Poor Morgan, hardly even famous anymore, and some creep goes and shoots her. Now every teeny detail of her life would be on the news for weeks. Everything about her and Merlin—all the lies.

And everybody in Avalon, Maine would be up to our keisters in paparazzi.

I picked up the phone to dial my sister Vivie's number, then put it back. I wasn't ready yet. No matter how much Vivie tried to keep her gloating to herself, I'd know it was there.

Vivie's hated Morgan for a lot of years. Not that she doesn't have good reason.

Then darn if the phone didn't ring all on its own.

Yes, Vivie, it's true. Morgan got shot, I said, without waiting for her to start in. I don't pay for call waiting, but I usually got a sense of who's on the other end of the line. Call it ESP or whatever.

But my ESP seemed to be on the fritz.  Some man's voice came out of the receiver.

Ms. Hannigan?

Jeez. It was starting already. My name hasn't been Hannigan since I was twenty. They had to be looking for Vivie.

If you're looking for Vivienne Hannigan, forget about it, I said. She doesn't give interviews to anybody.

Vivienne, the folk singer? Is she still alive? The guy laughed like I'd told a joke. No, No—it's Dolores Hannigan I'm looking for. Dodie, people called her. She married someone named Bobby, but I can't remember his last name.

You a reporter? What kind of creep would call me and remind me about poor, dead Bobby?

I'm a novelist—C. L. Brown. I met Dodie and Bobby once, a long time ago. I'm a friend of Morgan le Fay. This number is probably thirty years old, but I thought I'd give it a shot.

C. L. Brown. It rang a bell. Not because I remembered meeting him, but because I'd seen him on Oprah or someplace. He got one of those Pulitzer Prizes. Camelot Dreams. That was the name of his book. My Celie couldn't stop raving about it.

I'm Dodie Codere. Are you going to tell me Morgan's dead? I think that's what I said. Something like that. But my voice choked up halfway through. We hadn't been friends for a long time, but still, I'd miss her.

She's still alive. Her manager just called me. He says Morgan is refusing to see anyone but himself and two other people. I'm one, and you're the other. I just called my travel agent. A ticket to LAX can be waiting for you at the Bangor airport. I'm on my way to Kennedy now, but the first plane out of Bangor doesn't leave until tomorrow morning at seven. Please say you'll come. Mr. Fischer says you may be the one person who can save Morgan's life.

Stony Fischer?

Yes, he said you might remember him.

I might remember him? Is that what he said?

Do you?

Maybe, I said.

Like Neil Armstrong maybe remembered going to the moon.

~

So I tossed some clothes into the only suitcase I could find. It had purple dinosaurs on it, but I did not want to snow-shovel my way out to the storage shed for my old Samsonite at that hour of the night.

I tried to sleep a little in the Barcalounger until Celie got home from her shift at the hospital.

When she did, of course I got an earful.

How can you want to help that woman? Celie said. You know she once threw a live wolf into the audience? That's animal abuse. And when you play her albums backward, there's hymns to Satan.

Did you hear that crap from Vivie? I grabbed the Barney suitcase and my parka. She knows not a darn word of that is true.

It's amazing how a lie can take on a life of its own, and even if you were there, you start believing the lies instead of your own God-given memory.

You're driving yourself to Bangor at this hour?

Yup.

Celie knew better than to argue.

~

All the way to the airport, darn if every station I could get on my car radio wasn't playing Morgan's old song, Happy Endings. The only way I could keep big, stupid puddles of tears from blinding me was to sing along, real loud—

Happy endings are only for fairy tales

Everything born has to die

So kiss me and say—

You'll remember today

With a smile, when it's time for goodbye.

2—CAMELOT DREAMS

On the plane, I didn't order any of those little bottles of booze everybody else was getting, even though I was wicked nervous and felt like a darn fool after checking a bag with purple dinosaurs on it.

I guess a little whiskey would have calmed me down and let me get some sleep, but it was only the second time in my whole life I'd been on an airplane and I didn't want to miss anything.

The other time was when I flew down to Boston to identify my ex-husband's body after he OD'd. Having to identify the rotting corpse of the father of your kids is an experience you really want to get out of your mind.

Just once, I'd like to travel when nobody's going to be dead or dying on the other end of the trip.

All I could do was think about how I could have picked up a phone any time in the last thirty-whatever years and just say—

Morgan, what Merlin did wasn't your fault. It was about him and Vivienne. It was always about him and Vivienne. You just had a walk-on part in their drama.

Amazing how you can put stuff like that in some back corner of your mind and just not deal with it—decade after decade.

~

I didn't want to spend the money for the headphones for the stupid movies they had in the little TV thing on the seat ahead of me, and I ended up falling asleep and missing most of the flight anyway.

I dreamed about me and Morgan running around in snowdrifts when we were kids. But it turned into a nightmare with mean guys throwing snowballs at us.

When I got to L.A., I kind of felt like I was still in some kind of nightmare. There I was in a sweat suit, carrying my big old parka—wanting a cigarette so bad I was almost ready to risk getting arrested for lighting up. I couldn't see a smoking lounge anywhere. Just wall to wall scrawny half-naked people—in November for cripes' sake—all of them talking into those smart phones. None of them talking to each other. Not one. It was like everybody was in his own personal movie.

I've never seen the need to pay through the nose for a phone that lets people bother you wherever you happen to be. I need all the don't-bother-me time I can get. So smart phones never seemed all that intelligent to me.

Well, up till now. I had no idea how to call Mr. C. L. Brown or get to the hospital where Morgan was, or what to do next. I'd been so worried about Morgan, I forgot to ask him that stuff.

But first I had to find a place to smoke.

What made things worse was the TVs that were everywhere—all showing that same awful video of Morgan getting shot and her blood spurting all over Joan Rivers white suit. One minute of film and it was the only thing on TV. I stood and watched one for a while, thinking maybe there was news about how she was doing, but all the TV bimbo said was the same stuff from last night—that Morgan was being treated at Cedars Sinai Hospital in Hollywood, and her assailant was still at large.

At least she was still alive. Or they seemed to think so.

Luckily, Mr. Brown was waiting for me by the baggage carousel thing. At first I thought he must be talking to someone else when he came up to me, all silver-haired and magazine-handsome in one of those Italian designer suits.

Dodie? I'm so glad you're here. He held out his hand.

But I didn't shake it because I had to grab the Barney bag off the carousel, feeling like an idiot.

It's very nice of you to meet me Mr. Brown, I said. I didn't know what I was gonna do if I couldn't find you. I don't do the cell-phone thing.

Cal, he said. He gave me a movie-star smile as he took hold of Barney. Please call me Cal.

I looked at this man who was wearing clothes that cost more than my car and thought I'd be darned if I was going to call him Cal. But the name jogged my memory.

I could see him like he looked forty years ago—long-haired, with a ratty little beard, and braces on his teeth.

So have you seen Morgan? I said. How bad is she?

He looked choked up.

"I don't know. They haven't let me see her. I don't know when we'll be allowed into her hospital room. The medical people refuse to speak to me. I don't even know if she's still alive. This is nerve-wracking.

She might be dead? I did not want to hear I'd come 3000 miles for nothing. I was going to grieve for Morgan, but I didn't want to do it here. Without even a cigarette. Well, what am I here for, then?

Mr. Brown sighed. Right now, we're here to meet with Mr. Fischer.

Mr. Fischer. Stony. I was going to see him again. With me looking like a trailer park grandma. I had not thought this through. I have some nicer clothes. I didn't think to put them on. Not that it would matter. I'm an old lady now. Nothing was going to hide that.

I wanted to say, Um, I forgot my younger self back in Maine. I think I'll just go home and see if I can find her.

Instead I said, And what does Stony want us to do?

I don't know. But he says the stalker who shot Morgan has sent another death threat.

3—JUNGLE BLOOD

Mr. C. L. Brown even moved like a rich person. He kind of glided, like his joints were as slick and polished as his outfit.

As I followed him through what must have been about ten miles of terminal, he kept talking about what Mr. Fischer said.

I kept my eye out for a smoking lounge.

I don't know why Stony thinks I can help, Mr. Brown. You must know Morgan a lot better than me. I haven't seen her since the day she married Merlin, nearly forty years ago. Everything I know is ancient history.

Morgan and I are ancient history, too.

He gave a funny smile.

We haven't been close for a long, long time, he said. We had something of a reunion in the '80s—when her father was sick in the first wave of AIDS. I helped her with the funeral and selling his Manhattan nightclub, but I didn't see her again until I ran into her at the Oscars the year my film was nominated. She wasn't particularly warm. But she was with Jack Nicholson then, and I think he made her awfully insecure.

You haven't heard from her since then?

I called her a few times this last year, trying to get her to come to New York to read for my new play, but she turned me down. She seemed terrified of coming back east. I thought it was because of painful memories of her father, but maybe it was about this—this person who shot her. I guess this stalker has been harassing her for some time. That's what Mr. Fischer said.

Did he say how I'm supposed to be able to help her?

He thinks you and I might be able identify the shooter before she gets attacked again. She's been getting death threats for months, and she mistrusts pretty much everyone. He also said she's been paying off some blackmailer, but now that she's nearly broke, she can't pay and he might be the attacker.

Morgan with no money. How could that be? Her family owned most of Avalon. She wasn't born with a silver spoon in her mouth. It was more like platinum.

Mr. Fischer can't get Morgan to tell him who the blackmailer is. He thought I might know, but I don't have any idea, do you? Mr. Brown looked as baffled as I was.

Not a clue. A lot of people probably hate Morgan, but how do you blackmail somebody who's famous for being wicked? Threaten to tell the media that they never inhaled or something?

Mr. Brown laughed. A real laugh. It made me like him better.

But I shouldn't have brought up inhaling.

Sorry, I said when we got outside. I gotta have a cig.

Mr. Brown's face went back to frowning and he gave me a look like I'd announced I was going to take a dump in the middle of the parking lot.

I ignored it and lit up.

Did you say Morgan's broke?

He nodded. Just about, according to Mr. Fischer. He's taken over her finances since she fired her whole management staff, and he says everything is a mess. She has a big tax debt. That's why she's doing those god-awful infomercials.

What about the money she inherited from Merlin? She was his wife. She got everything. Did she go through it all?

We'd come to Mr. Brown's car. A silver Lexus. Natch. I took a last drag on my cig and tossed it on the asphalt as he held the door open for me. He gave me the eye daggers again.

Merlin didn't leave Morgan anything but debt, he said. The record company owned his catalogue and image. And he put everything he had into that Malibu property. I think she's got the place mortgaged to the hilt now.

~

Wow. All those years I'd been mad at Merlin for not leaving some of his millions to Vivie. Millions that never existed. I tried to get my brain around that as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic on some freeway. Aside from the palm trees, this place wasn't much different from Boston. Same burger places and mall stores. So far California wasn't impressing me. 

So if Morgan's lost it all, why doesn't she borrow money from her brother, our illustrious congressman? Now that the Bradford Corporation makes computer stuff instead of paper, he's some kind of trillionaire, isn't he?

Apparently she'd been feuding with him.

I'm with her on that. Congressman Tree-Hugger isn't real popular down our way. People talk about him on TV like he's the next JFK, but when he closed our mill and blew up the dam—he may have made some horny little fishies happy, but he put 90% of Avalon out of work.

I figured I'd better change the subject before I said something I shouldn't. I could tell Mr. Brown was most likely a tree hugger himself.

Here I am going on about me and our hometown troubles. What about you? I've seen you on TV, right—maybe on Oprah? You won a prize for that book called Camelot something—or was that a movie?

"Camelot Dreams was the book title. He gave a twisty smile. But they called the movie Jungle Blood. Stallone was horribly miscast."

I remembered Jungle Blood. I think I must have seen it pretty soon after my husband Bobby died. It was one of those real depressing 70's Vietnam movies—about a Puerto Rican artist who got blown up saving his buddies in a battle. All I could think of at the time was that Bobby might have been better off if he'd died doing something like that—at least he would have left some medals for the kids to be proud of.

"Camelot Dreams is a prettier name. I don't know why they went and changed it."

We were off the freeway now. The palm trees that lined the street looked like big hairy lollipops, swishing in the wind.

They changed it because my book was about how JFK's dreams of a mythic America led to the horrors of Vietnam. Mr. Brown let out a sigh. And how one heroic gay man gave up his life for that myth.

Heroic gay man. Now I remembered what he talked about on Oprah.

But the movie was about blowing things up in a jungle. Mr. Brown gave a silly laugh. And Mr. Stallone's muscles, of course.

So were you and Morgan really—you know—together, back then in Cambridge? Because I thought you told Oprah you were, you know, a queer.

Lord, I sounded like a hick. Gay. The word was gay.

He laughed again. I don't like labels. I had a shrink in West Hollywood who calls me a 'Po-mo sexual'—for post-modern.

You're post-modern-sexual? I was confused now. But you used to be gay?

Luckily, the conversation ended when he pulled into the driveway of a fancy hotel.

~

There he was in the lobby: Stony.

He looked so much the same I felt like I was time-traveling. Maybe he was a little thicker around the middle, with gray hair—and more expensive clothes, but amazingly the same. Not handsome, but the sexiest man I've ever met.

I think I stopped breathing for a minute there.

Then Stony ran up and threw his arms around me.

I felt blood rush to my face. I couldn't talk.

Hey, Red, he whispered, as if my poor hair wasn't pure gray now. I've missed you.

And...darn if I didn't start to cry.

Is it Morgan? Mr. Brown froze. I guess he thought I was crying for some good reason. Is she...still with us?

Stony gave a look I could not read.

But Mr. Brown looked as if he might cry, too.

4—WITCHMOBILE

Stony gave a weird laugh. Then he broke into that grin I always see when I dream about him.

Morgan's alive and kicking. And she'll kick me if I don't get you to the hospital ASAP. They're about to discharge her. Come on. I've brought the Witchmobile. She insisted.

What do you mean? Mr. Brown said. She's out of intensive care? What about security? Isn't she still in danger? You said somebody might attack her again.

Yes. That's why the hospital people want her out of there. The last thing a hospital needs is a crazed gunman stalking the patients.

They're throwing a dying woman out of the hospital? I felt like I'd missed something. Where the heck are the police?

Stony put a hand on my shoulder and steered me out toward the door.

Let's get to a more secure area. You never know who might be listening.

You think the attacker is here—listening to us? I looked around the lobby, wondering if one of the skinny, tanned people around us might be about to pull out a gun.

Or the media. They'll play right into his hands, I'm afraid.

They still haven't found this guy? Mr. Brown gave an angry sigh. He actually hijacked a woman's car and disappeared—in freeway traffic?

Apparently, Stony said. If it's a him. And there's the mystery of the second shooter.

It could be a her? I hadn't heard anybody say that on the TV news, but I remembered the weird dramas at Morgan's wedding. Her lesbian friend from New York showed up and tried to get Morgan to run off with her.

It wasn't that Susie Schwartz again, was it? I said. You'd think she'd have figured out by now that Morgan's not a lesbo.

Actually, Morgan and Susie developed a close relationship after Merlin died. Mr. Brown's voice took on a snotty tone. But they've both moved on. Susie's partner now is Harrie Wainwright, the philanthropist. I can assure you this attack doesn't involve Susie.

I didn't know what he meant by close relationship.

Maybe Morgan had turned into one of those po-mo-sexuals, too.

I concentrated on how good Stony's hand felt resting on my shoulder.

So how's your wife? I had to ask. Will she be coming to the hospital? And your little Analisa?

Stony gave a big laugh.

My ex? I hope not! She's running a boutique in Palm Springs. And as for Ana—she's an executive over at Disney. She doesn't have a lot of time for small-time players.

He led us to the biggest, blackest old Rolls Royce I'd ever seen. Even the windows were black so you couldn't see inside. The license plate said GDWITCH. Inside, it was upholstered in black suede. My brother-in-law would have traded his whole car dealership for something like that.

I didn't know exactly who Stony meant when he was talking about smalltime.  If this car was small-time, I was a goddam bug.

5—MORGAN'S SECRET

Morgan was cranked up in the bed, with bandages across her chest. She didn't look much like the Morgan I knew. Her hair was straight and kind of thin—she'd always had big, crazy-curly hair as a kid—and her lips were puffy and beat up-looking. Otherwise, she didn't look that bad.

I didn't know whether to be relieved or pissed off.

She reached for Mr. Brown's hand.

Cal! I'm so glad you've come. Her eyes went teary as she brought his hand to her cheek. Thanks. I can't tell you how much this means.

She looked up at him, all kind of drifty, like she was watching him in a movie. She talked in a funny monotone without moving her lips. After a minute she sat up a little straighter and gave Mr. Brown his hand back. She didn't even seem notice I was there.

So I guess Stony told you I was desperate to see you. You get kind of nutty when somebody shoots you. You forget how long it's been...I would have phoned you myself, but somehow my phone got lost.

Her eyes were tearing up again.

Lord, I can be such an idiot. Now I got it. She was still in love with the guy. A queer. Her true love was never Merlin. Or even Susie Schwartz. It was this guy. Poor Morgan. She's the only woman I know who has more awful taste in men than me.

She finally seemed to register who the fat old lady with the gray hair was.

Dodie! She squealed like we were a couple high school girls running into each other at the mall. Dodie Hannigan! Is that you? What are you doing here? She pulled me toward her with her free hand and said, kiss kiss, into the air, not getting her lips even close to me.

What's wrong with your face? Mr. Brown had been looking at her kind of misty-eyed, but now it was like he saw her for real instead of through a nostalgia haze. I thought you were wounded in the chest. Has there been another attack?

I figured I'd get some collagen as long as I was in here getting good pain meds, Morgan said.

She was using her phony voice. She used the same fakey tone when she was lying at the age of ten. I had no idea what was going on, but I was beginning to feel conned.

Collagen? Mr. Brown turned to Stony. She's at death's door and they're giving her cosmetic surgery?

Death's door? Morgan gave her old goofy laugh. Stony, didn't you tell them?

Tell us what? Mr. Brown was starting to look pissed off.

The bullet—it just grazed a rib, Morgan said. I'm going to be fine.

Now I was confused. But all the blood—I saw it on TV.

The bullet hit me in the boob. All that dramatic spurting was from my implant—saline mixed with a little blood. But it looked so dramatic; we figured we'd let people think it was serious. You can't beat the publicity.

Now I was mad. But I didn't say anything.

Well, we figured if the shooter thought he'd succeeded, I'd be safe for a while, Morgan's voice sounded more real now. You wouldn't believe how scary it is when somebody wants you dead.

I looked in her eyes and saw a little bit of the Morgan I used to know—a real Morgan, real scared.

6—AVALON BURNING

So the threats aren't bogus, Mr. Brown said to Morgan. Even though this emergency is?

I think the word for how he looked is glowering.

There's a real emergency, all right. The hospital is discharging me, since my cheapskate insurance company won't let me stay another day. Morgan turned to Stony. "You may be right about this psycho. I just got another note,