Eavesdropper by Vinnie Hansen

I’m hungry for a story. Hipsters flock to Charlie’s Grill, a retro greasy spoon, on weekends. But by 10:30 on a Monday, I’m alone at the counter except for the smell of bacon. The previous customers were singularly boring. 

Banging pots, the hiss of the grill, a crude joke in Spanish. Nothing of interest emanates from the pass through. 

The waitperson, Kailey, checks on the mom, dad, and kid in a booth to my left. They yielded zilch—their noses stuck in their phones. 

I’ve hoovered up the juicy crime stories in the San Francisco Chronicle and fold it near my right forearm. The newspaper now serves only as a prop. 

Kailey breezes by, plucks up the coffee pot, aims her baby blues my way. “Refill?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Through the years, I’ve overheard enough spicy tidbits at the last minute to make it hard to abandon a spot. 

Kailey pours and hustles back to the family. 

At the entrance, a man leans on his cane to hold the glass door for a woman—presumably his wife. She scampers in, then presses back against the door so he can hobble through. They stop dramatically, casing the joint before taking up residence at the farthest booth to my right, the man facing my direction. Silver hair spirals from a small pink circle at the crown of the woman’s head. 
When Kailey glides over there with the menus, I scooch one stool nearer to them. They decline coffee.

Suspicious. 

Kailey leaves to “give them a minute.” 

“What are we doing here?” the man asks.

“Having breakfast.” A crisp response. 

He dispels my initial thought of dementia when he replies, “You know that’s not what I meant. We should be taking care of—”

She shushes him.

Why does “taking care of” require shushing?

She tosses her head in my direction and whispers, “She could be listening.”

“What?” He glances my way. I study the newspaper.

“Turn up your hearing aid,” she says.

“If I do, all I’ll hear is clanking silverware.”

She sighs. “What are you having?”

“Pancakes?” 

“What do you think you’ll put on those pancakes?” 

“Syrup.”

I risk turning my body slightly.

“You can’t have syrup,” she says. “That’s the same as sugar. A killer.”

His droopy cheeks droop more. “I wish Sarah was here.”

“Sarah is here.”

“Pfft.” He spins a knobby hand. “You know I don’t mean you.”

“Just trying to lighten the mood.” She slaps down her menu. “I’m having scrambled eggs.” She picks up her paper napkin bundle of silverware. 

“Lighten the mood?” he echoes. “Someone is dead.”

Sarah shushes him again. My ears prick like a bunny’s. My neck cranes their direction until a vertebra pops. 

“Listen, Fred: what do you think Sarah could do?” In spite of her previous shushing, her voice rises. She flips both palms upward and fork, spoon, and knife clatter to the Formica table. “She’s two thousand miles away.” She twists and strangles the napkin with both hands.  

“She’d back me up about calling the police.” Fred lays down his menu. “I’ll get eggs, too.”

“Not fried,” she says.

He folds his arms over his blue cable-knit sweater. “I’m getting bacon.”

Silently relenting, Sarah smooths her mangled napkin on the table. A red line must have been reached. 

Kailey drops off the check to the family and circles to take the couple’s order. When the waitress leaves and reaches a safe distance, Sarah says, “Sarah doesn’t have money to hire us a lawyer.”

“Why would we need a lawyer?”

My thought exactly.

Kailey’s shouted delivery of the order drowns out the start of Sarah’s response. I hear only “–coming with an eviction notice. No one will believe it was an accident.”

“Look at us.” Fred points an arthritic finger at her, at himself, and then back at Sarah. “No one would think we killed him.”

Sarah’s back straightens an inch. She swats Fred’s finger, not playfully. “We were going to lose our home--motive.” She lowers her voice. I strain to hear. “We were present--opportunity.”

“But he slipped,” Fred protests. 

Sarah corrals her fork, spoon, and knife. Rewraps them for no reason.

“Well… ” Sarah twists around—and I wonder if she’s caught me whipping back to gaze at my newspaper. “Was that woman on that stool when we entered?”

The door smacks shut behind the departing family.

“What?” says Fred. “I really don’t think we should be out eating breakfast. Why are we doing this?”

Sarah leans far over the table to speak into Fred’s hearing aid, then plops back to her booth bench.

“You know that doesn’t work,” he says, starchily. “It’s like wind on a microphone.” His volume climbs. “I heard rug. And water? What the hell are you saying? Pulled what?”

“What I’m saying,” her voice ratchets up to match his, “is that—”

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Motive. Opportunity. Just when we might have reached means, Sarah is saved by the bell. 

I slide a fiver on the counter—enough to cover the coffee, tax, and tip—and swing around. This old lady is a dangerous criminal. A murderer. 

But my eyes don’t validate my ears. Sarah’s neck bends and her shoulders slump, fragile blades poking at her blouse. 

 “Shhhh, shhh, shhhh.” Fred quiets her in a gentle tone. “It’s okay.” His gnarled hand palms his wife’s. “It was an accident.” His head nods assent to his statement. “We’ll call the police.” His thumb tenderly caresses her wrist. “That’s our story. He slipped.”

As I stride toward the door, I decide that will be my story, too. Nothing I want to report. It’s colorful hearsay, that’s all. 

​© 2025 Vinnie Hansen

About the author:

The day after high school graduation, Vinnie Hansen fled the howling winds of South Dakota and headed for the California coast. There the subversive clutches of college dragged her into the insanity of writing. A Silver Falchion and two-time Claymore Award finalist, she’s the author of the Carol Sabala mystery series, the novels Lostart Street and One Gun, as well as over seventy published short stories. Vinnie lives in Santa Cruz with her husband and the requisite cat.