2020-08-15 - WTF Cracker Barrel

The joint's nearly empty this evening. Some shitty country music is playing on the radio, the lone waitress on duty is checking her Friendzone feed rather than cleaning tables, and there's an elderly couple starting to look irritated at their order not having arrived yet. The only other patron is a dark-haired fellow in a GHPD hoodie with profuse tattoos visible where the sleeves have been pushed up to his elbows. He's working his way through a plate of fried chicken that he's swiftly coming to regret, while occasionally glancing at his phone next to him on the table, and scrolling with the tip of a pinky finger.

A car passes by occasionally, but not many people stop here unless they're tourists looking for a quick fuel up before heading out of town.

It is in fact, the last place one would expect to see Dante Taylor walking in to. The be-suited Brit looks distinctly uncomfortable the moment he passes the threshold, like a sinner in church. He also stands out even more than he normally does, in his denim coloured linen suit. He does actually have a reasonable reason for being here, but that isn't immediately obvious. "Good lord," he murmurs to himself. "I didn't think these places were real."

Alexander also looks uncomfortable - but really, that's just Alexander. He blinks at Dante, and his fancy suit, in this place. Then looks amused. "You've never been to a Cracker Barrel?" he asks. "You'll like it." A pause. "You probably won't like it. It's pretty much fat, flour, and grease, all arranged in stacks and covered in sausage gravy. If you're doing it right. But sometimes it's nice." One arm is in a sling - the arm is purple from shoulder to fingertips, and he pauses to hold the door open for someone behind him. Probably Isabella, unless one of the elderly tourists elbows her in the ribs and charges forward.

"You know, all the time this has been here, I never thought of checking the place out."

It is indeed Dr. Isabella Reede for whom the door is being held open, though she's dressed in her summer's best of jeans shorts, tanktop, University of Oxford hoodie and flip-flops with her dark-and-bronze swirl of tresses pulled back in a messy twist that looks more artful than an outright mess; some sort of feminine witchcraft to be sure when all of it is held back by a single pen, because an academic is never without one. It's just that hers today is doubling as an accessory. There's another concerned glance at Alexander's sling, but she does press her lips lightly on his cheek at the chivalrous gesture performed in spite of his visible aches and pains, before she steps inside fully and pushes her sunglasses up to the top of her head.

"Wow," she murmurs to the investigator when the smell of biscuits and gravy, and all of the empty carbohydrates they promise, hits her like a sledgehammer. "Suddenly all I want is a salad." Said with no small measure of good humor though.

The cop in civilian clothing looks up from his phone screen in time to spot Dante ambling on in, and he's forced to do a little double-take due to the pure absurdness of it. He is, in fact, so busy staring at the suited man, that he doesn't spot Alexander and Isabella until the former speaks. Dark eyes cut to the arm in a sling, his brows furrow, and his gaze slides across the brunette beside him and then away. He takes a bite of fried chicken, wipes some grease off his beard with his napkin, and flashes a smile to the trio in greeting.

Dante is so absorbed in the 'decor' that it takes him a second to realize he's being looked at, and then who is looking at him. He blinks, the way one does when seeing someone out of context. He nods once, then straightens his lapels, then glances back to Alexander. "That...sounds like absolutely everything I've not eaten in months. I don't think my body could take it." He frowns. "But my staff at the restaurant encouraged me to...sample various cuisines to understand how Sitka might attract more locals." And then, a murmur in response to Isabella. "Do they do salads?"

"I think they put sausage gravy on the salad, too," Alexander murmurs back to Isabella, taking advantage of her closeness to press his mouth briefly to her temple. "So, resistance is futile. You will be carbonated." He's in a weirdly good mood for someone who's been beaten to hell recently. But there might be a serial killer in town who isn't an ancestor of his, and that's cause to celebrate, surely. Well. At least Alexander finds it invigorating. He even smiles at Dante, without the hint of wariness often inflicted on the author. "It's good. You'll gain five pounds, and sleep for ten hours straight. Just go with it." As they're moving towards the hostess area, he notices Ruiz, and offers the man a wave with his good hand. "There's Javier. We should sit near him." Does Javier WANT them to sit near him? That question is not asked.

"You know," Isabella whispers back to Dante. "....if there's a place that'd fail in delivering on that end, it might be this one. We might have to look at the menu to test the theory." This followed by a smile. "Is Sitka doing well? I was hoping to drag Alexander to watch you perform now that the weather's conducive to fun again."

Sunkissed cheeks round into faint apples at Alexander's affectionate token on her temple, threading her hand into his, though she does give him a soft groan when he tells her about gravy soaked salads. "Is this the plan? To feed me here so I can sleep for a week?" she quips. "I didn't think I was working all that hard, though you're quite chipper today. Did something good happen?" She may regret asking this question, but nothing can sway her curiosity once triggered. Ruiz's presence inspires a broad and brilliant smile, that unforgivably ebullient expression that lights up her everything when the investigator points out the Interim Chief. "Javier! Would you like company?" Alexander might not ask it, but she does.

Sometimes a man just has to break down and do something terrible for himself to remind himself why he's alive. For Cecil, that's coming to Cracker Barrel. It's something of a tradition from his days in Texas, but not all traditions are good ones. He already has dismay on his face as he steps in, and there are immediate regrets. The decor he regards with the careful analysis of a crime scene. Yes, take it in, be replete in one's shame. He came here on purpose. If Vyv ever found out, he could never hold his head high again.

When the hostess comes to seat him, he smiles politely. Yes, he's dining in, yes a table for one. As she gathers a menu, Cecil notices Ruiz, and he pauses. Should he hide is face or wave? He goes for the latter, lifting a hand toward the man sheepishly.

Javier's mouth happens to be full when Isabella asks her ill-timed question. He chews, and watches her, and chews some more, and swallows. And just when it seems like he might say no, he instead nudges out a chair with the toe of his boot. "Siéntete libre," he murmurs to the brunette, keeping his eyes on her while he dabs again at his mouth with his napkin. Well, until the movement in his peripheral vision draws his attention. It's that nerdy forensics specialist, and he looks distinctly.. awkward about something. "Evening, Harvey," greets the cop as Cecil passes by, tracking the younger man curiously.

"Sitka is doing well, thank you. It could always be doing better, but that's the razor-thin margins of the restaurant industry for you." Dante plucks a menu from a holder by the door that the hostess uses to store menus before escorting them to tables. He frowns, flips the menu, frowns, flips again. "I daresay I've been trolled by my staff. There is quite literally not a thing on this menu I could eat. And I don't mean that snobbishly. I've cut my carbs way down for health and, well, frankly, physique reasons." He clears his throat, slides the menu back into place and glances over his shoulder. "Not to be terribly rude but now I'm somewhat worried there's shenanigans happening back in the kitchen. So, nice to see you two. If you'll pardon me." He inclines his head to the gathered, and then, sheepishly, beats a hasty retreat.

Alexander watches Dante with amusement. He doesn't hide most of his emotions, so it's super clear on his face. "Take care, Mr. Taylor," he says, when the author makes his decision. Then turns to Isabella as they make their way to Ruiz's table. Alexander pulls the kicked chair out a little more for Isabella, one-handed, then takes his own seat. "The Cracker Barrel claims another victim, and without them even having to have the biscuits and gravy." At Isabella's question, he beams with excitement. "A park ranger was murdered. It's going to be very interesting. Ritualistic, even!" It's entirely sincere. Noting Cecil waving at Ruiz, he pauses before he launches into a delighted description of murder details, and instead stares at Cecil with mingled curiosity and wariness. "Who is that?"

That beaming expression becomes even moreso when Ruiz nudges out a chair; and when Alexander pulls it further out for her, she slips into it and lets her lover scoot her in, but once settled, her hand does come out to touch her fingertips lightly on the Interim Chief's cheek if he allows, in lieu of a hug that she can't give him since he's seated - gestures that hint at a degree of understated affection that she demonstrates to only a few others outside of Alexadner. Either way, that hand lowers, and green-and-gold eyes swing back to the investigator. The news he communicates has her blinking.

"Ritualistic murder?" Isabella wonders. "How so?" She hasn't heard much of it yet, clearly, though when the police chief addresses Cecil, that same curiosity diverts to the other man like a homing beacon, followed by an inquisitive incline of her head.

Cecil's steps slow as Ruiz greets him, and he says, "Hello, guv. Chief, sorry." He glances at Alexander and Isabella with all due apology, as awkwardness demends. "There was a murder?" The hostess is glancing at him expectantly, but this is murder talk, and that's totally his jam. "A park ranger, you said? What kind of ritualism, do you know?" He pushes his glasses up on his nose. "Has the... has the body been examined yet?"

Rather than have Cecil stand there and awkwardly grill him about murders while the waitress looks on owlishly, de la Vega blows a breath out his nose and indicates the last free chair at his table with a hitch of his chin. "Sit," sounds more like an order than an invitation, dark eyes cutting from the seat, back up to Cecil, and lingering on him a beat before he looks back to his other company. Namely, Alexander and Isabella. "Are you seriously giddy with excitement at the prospect of a new murder, Alexander?" he grumbles, downing a swallow of his coffee.

An inked finger points at one man, and then the other in turn. "Cecil Harvey, forensics. Alexander Clayton, private investigator." And that concludes his round of introductions, apparently, since he's digging into his fried chicken again without any further attempt to engage anyone in conversation.

"His head was removed and an octopus replaced where it was, and symbols carved into his body," Alexander cheerfully tells Isabella and Cecil, adding to the latter, "I don't know. I haven't had a chance to try to and find out." If Ruiz is feeling a headache coming on, there's probably a reason for it. "Cecil Harvey. Forensics. I'll remember that," he adds, then gestures to Isabella. "Dr. Isabella Reede. She's an archaeologist. I'm not actually a private investigator. No license. I just investigate, and sometimes people pay me. Hi."

He pauses to order a soda, then glances at Ruiz. "Yes? Ritual murders are interesting." He says this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and he's mildly disappointed that he has to confirm it.

"Huh," Isabella says, leaning back against her seat as she picks up a menu, rifling through it. The fried chicken does look good, and she's sneaking glances at Javier's plate as he demolishes the rest of his dinner. She also checks if there's a salad, because she quite meant what she said earlier about the place inspiring her to put more vegetables in her body. Cecil's introduction, though, does light up her expression. "Forensics examiner?" she inquires, her sharp scrutiny falling on the other man. "Do you work with Yule Duchannes often, then?" The city's medical examiner. "He''s a good friend of mine, and a fellow researcher."

To Alexander, dark brows furrow faintly. "An octopus? There are easier marine life to fish for - cephalopods are smarter than most. Not going to lie though, there's something almost Lovecraftian about what you're describing. 'In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming'.” Alexander might have an aversion towards fiction, but the archaeologist has some appreciation for it at least.

Cecil takes the offered seat dutifully. "Thank you," he says, and there lingers a note of apology. The hostess hands him his menu and moves on. "It's nice to meet you both," he says to Alexander and Isabella. To the latter, he says, "I know the name Yule Duchannes, but I wouldn't say I'm overly familiar with the man. It's advantageous for me to examine the bodies at the site of their discovery. My forte is forensic entomology, you see." He glances at Ruiz, who is trying to eat, and doesn't elaborate on just what a forensic entomologist does. "Do you think these people take these Lovecraftian things seriously? I mean, honestly."

"Oh, bugs!" Alexander's eyes light up. "I've read a couple of very interesting textbooks on the basics of forensic entemology, particularly on understanding rates of decay and how to determine cases where the dump site was not the murder site by being aware of which flesh-infesting insects prefer outdoors, indoors, and various ambient temperatures and moisture levels, but it's nothing compared to actual experience," he admits. "I'd love to sit down and pick your brain one day, Mr. Harvey. I have questions about local species that might be most helpful in identifying bodies dumped in the area." It clearly doesn't even occur to him that other people are eating or plan to be eating, and they may not wish to have a conversation about the intersection of human corpse decay and flesh-eating insects. "Yule is very good, and you should definitely talk to him. I'm afraid the body was hauled off before I even arrived, though." A glance back at Isabella, and he hums. "Maybe there's some sort of ritual significance. It could be a call back to Lovecraft," he admits. Even someone who doesn't read fiction has heard of him. "I'll have to do some research on the symbols themselves, and see what comes up."

"Do you know what they look like?" Isabella asks, her curiosity piqued despite herself. She doesn't hold the same fascination for crime scenes as Alexander does, but the more cryptic and esoteric a particular aspect is, the better. She works with plenty of symbols, for instance, and part of her academic curriculum in Boston University and Oxford has seen no shortage of iconography and symbology courses.

"The symbols?" Cecil says. "I'm afraid the occult isn't my area of expertise. You would think living here I'd have picked up something, but..." He shakes his head. Mr. Science has no time for storytime shenanigans. He peruses his menu, as if he doesn't know full well he came here for chicken-fried steak and has been thinking about it all day. "I'd be happy to talk about bugs with you," he tells Alexander. "It's one of my favorite topics. That and, er, photography. I suppose that's part of the job, too."

"I didn't get to look at the body," Alexander tells Isabella, with visible disappointment. "But if I get to see some of the symbols, would you look into them for me?" There's something oh so careful about his tone as he looks at Isabella, then glances to the cop and cop adjacent scientist, then back to Isabella. He's...very bad at being subtle, but clearly has something he'd like to show Isabella, whether he's sharing it with the cops, yet, or not. But he eases back and smiles at Cecil. "That sounds like fun. I don't know as much about photography, but if it's about crime scenes, I'm interested." Then, his pocket buzzes. He takes his phone, frowns at it, and says to Isabella, "Mm. Have to take this. Be back soon." He stands, and leans over to kiss her forehead before wandering towards a quiet corner. Not the same corner as Ruiz. But a corner, nonetheless.

"Of course," Isabella says, furrowing her brows at the careful look before flashing him a fond smile. "You know I'll always assist you with whatever you need, you don't even really need to ask." Lashes shutter when Alexander kisses her forehead, watching him wander off to take his phone call.

"So..." she begins, turning to look back at Cecil. "Bugs? Is that old anecdote true, then? About how forensic entomology got its start because of a murder in a farming village and the investigator asked everyone to hold up their shovels so flies could gather on the one with microscopic bits of blood clinging to it?"

Cecil watches Alexander go off, then looks to Isabella and smiles. He closes the menu, resigned to his gravy-rich fate. "I don't know if it's true or not," he says, "but that's how the story goes. It's an old Chinese tale." He orders from the waitress when she comes by, and he puts on a brave face. He's just missing Texas is all, for some god-forsaken reason. "Most of my work is with blow flies. They're usually first on the scene."

With the waitress coming around, Isabella orders....a salad, and thus effectively wusses out of the entire Cracker Barrel experience. "Did you always want to become a forensics examiner?" she wonders. "Or was that a choice made later in life?" She grins at him, though there's nary a shred of apology in it. "Forgive me, Alexander's not the only one who asks a lot of questions." She does, also, but that's how she often gets into trouble anyway - this inability to prevent herself from touching all the things.

Cecil ducks his head and says, "I don't mind questions. I'm actually awful at coming up with things to talk about, so they're quite handy. I actually wanted to be a cop, but I was sick as a boy, and it left me weak into my teens. I never did attain the kind of demanding physical prowess the position demands." He's a bit on the thin side, but hardly sickly now. "I was good at science, though, and I liked bugs. Forensics still allowed me to work with law enforcement, so I suppose it was a natural fit."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Isabella replies; she can't relate, she's always been athletic and troublesome, but she isn't completely devoid of sympathy there. "You took to the work though, it sounds like. The world could always use another good brain to parse out its problems." She takes a sip of her water now that the waitress has returned to fill their glasses. "But you're not from around here, though? I don't recognize you in the least."

"Oh, goodness," Cecil says, "I couldn't be a cop in America. I can barely handle a gun." He smiles wryly, adding, "I'm from England. I've worked in the US for awhile now, but only Gray Harbor recently. I don't know what brought me here, to be honest. Maybe I missed having seasons." He starts to fidget with the utensils on the table, then folds his hands neatly in his lap. "It seems like the kind of town where everyone knows everyone, though."

"Gray Harbor's seen a steady influx of outsiders in the last few years," Isabella tells Cecil. "I was born here and raised here half my life, but I left for over a decade before a project brought me back. So I'm not quite a townie, not quite an outsider - it's a strange limbo to occupy." She grins faintly and tugs on her hoodie. "I just received my doctorate from Oxford, actually - I spent quite a few years there. Normally when someone tells me that, I would ask why but this town has a strange way of pulling others into its clutches."

Frowning when she receives a call, herself, she rises from her chair. "I have to take this," she tells Cecil apologetically. "I'll be back, let me kick Alexander back over here so he can inundate you with more insect questions, eh?"

"It was lovely to meet you, Isabella," Cecil says. "You'll have to tell me about that doctorate when you get back. I'm all ears." He doesn't seem to mind the table departing for phone calls. He looks about as comfortable as he's going to in a Cracker Barrel.

Isabella's just leaving to take a call, when the police captain returns from his. Work related, no doubt, given the look on his face as he switches his phone off, shoves it back into his jeans pocket, and reclaims his seat. His gaze follows the archaeologist for a beat or two, then returns to what remains of his food. Then up, to land on Cecil and his vortex of awkwardness. "Doing all right?" is mumbled with an attempt at a smile that falls characteristically flat. Master conversationalist, he is not. "With, uh, you know. After what happened."

Cecil is himself not that great at the art of conversing, so Ruiz's attempt at a smile is taken at face value and returned. "Yes," he says after a moment's thought. He nods slowly. "I'm actually doing all right. Dr. Kincaid heard I wasn't sleeping well, so she offered to let me stay with her." He ducks his head and admits, "I took her up on it. I admit, it's nice to have someone to come home to." Quickly, he adds, "It's strictly a friendly arrangement. There's nothing untoward going on. Anyway, I'm doing well." Fumbling a little over his words, he adds, "How are you?"

Ruiz arches a brow slightly when Kincaid's name is mentioned, but manages to look neither shocked, nor overly amused by this revelation. Then the inevitable walking back of things, and he holds up a hand, palm first, and shakes his head. "None of my fucking business." Then he musters up another twinge of a smile - this one actually teases crow's feet out of the corners of his eyes - and settles in properly with his cold coffee. It probably tastes about as appealing as it looks.

"Well, I'm glad you've been talking to her. I put in an official referral, but I didn't think it'd gone through yet." He watches the younger man's eyes for a moment, then looks away, toward the window. Beyond, the forested stretch of highway and the occasional wash of headlights smudging the dark. "Mm." The cop makes a moue with his mouth. "I'm fine." Sip.

Cecil watches Ruiz with a keen eye, but his scrutiny is disrupted by the waitress bringing by his chicken-fried steak. With his own food to tuck into, the forensic nerd doesn't pry any further, save to say, "That's good to hear. I can't imagine the weight on your shoulders, given your position." He looks like he's about to elaborate, but instead, he says, "Anyway, she's a nice woman, Dr. Kincaid. I can see us working together in the future." He starts cutting off a bite of battered steak smothered in gravy. Mmm, good.

One set of headlights slides across the window and turns off. A moment later, Itzhak is rolling in, sauntering really, looking like a stretch of rough road. He doesn't hesitate or ask to come swagging up to Ruiz's table, saying, "Are you still here?" in a tone best described as fond annoyance. Then he looks at Cecil, looks him over not even bothering to pretend he's not, and hikes his eyebrows. "How's by ya." That's on the aggressive side of neutral.

A nice woman. That may not have been the first qualifier that came to mind for the captain, or so suggests the amusement that fleets across his eyes. "Just the bill, please," he murmurs to the waitress who stops by to ask if he'd like anything else. And he's already digging for his wallet when another set of headlights swims into view, briefly floods the parking lot, then fades away in advance of that tall drink of mechanic who comes rolling on in.

"No, I'm a figment of your fucking imagination," he sasses right back to Itzhak as he tosses a couple of crumpled bills on the table, then hitches his chin to the forensics expert. "Cecil Harvey. Itzhak Rosencrantz."

Cecil is shoveling a big bite of chicken-fried steak into his mouth as he's introduced. He looks at Itzhak as he chews, then chews some more, then holds up a finger to signal that he should bide a moment while he finishes chewing. Finally, he swallows, and he says, "Hello. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Rosencrantz." He's got no aggression in him whatsoever. Hell, he's practically apologetic.

Itzhak smirks at Ruiz with a twist of his mouth, like he'd really like to say something extremely inappropriate. But he behaves himself. "Yeah, yeah ain't you the new forensics guy?" he says to Cecil, then pulls a face. "Look, do me a favor, don't call me Mr. Rosencrantz, makes me feel like I'm getting arraigned. I know not everybody can say Itzhak, if you can't just call me Rosencrantz." He's got a hell of a New York accent on him, sharpening all the consonants and flattening the vowels.

Ruiz might have some idea of what Itzhak would like to say to him. At least, he thinks he does, what with the sly wink he gives the lanky musician. No smile, no particular sauciness from the grizzled cop. Just a little twitch of one eye that might be missed entirely, and then a dimpled smile is Cecil's parting gift as he pushes to his feet. "My chariot apparently awaits," he murmurs, dropping knuckles to the forensic scientist's shoulder as he passes. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"

Cecil nods and says, "Yes, that's me. The forensics guy." His accent is English, London specifically. "It's nice to meet you, Itzhak." He smiles, and though he's a hopeless nerdlinger, he has a nice smile. It brightens his eyes. "Sure, chief," he says to Ruiz. "I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good night, both of you."

Itzhak seems pleased enough with the wink he gets, looking smug as hell. "Seriously though, Cracker Barrel?" he says to Ruiz as the other man gets up. "What, you didn't want anybody chasing you down at the Twofer?" To Cecil, he jerks his chin and eyebrows in a tough-guy farewell. "Yeah, probably see you around. Maybe about that body they found on the beach." Well, he found on the beach, but he doesn't say that either. Then he's heading on out with Ruiz, because mysterious parting statements about bodies is just a Gray Harbor kinda thing.