Until then, she’d just keep ignoring him and otherwise do her best. Because she couldn’t afford to lose this job, not when she was so close to turning her life around.
CHAPTER TWENTY
As I walked into the diner, the first people I saw were the elderly couple from the day before. Ida and Walter.
“Thank you for yesterday,” Ida said, giving my arm a pat. “I had my silk blouse outside. The rain would have ruined it.”
“Any more predictions?” Walter asked. “I’m taking the boat out tomorrow. Hate to drive all the way to the lake and have the weather turn on me.”
He smiled when he said it, but the look in his eyes was dead serious. Across the aisle, two old ladies leaned closer, listening.
“No predictions today,” I said. “I don’t even know why I said that yesterday. Just a hunch, I guess.”
“Hunch?” one of the women called over, loud enough to make me wince. “That’s no hunch. You read the signs. Some people can.”
Ida nodded. “There are always signs, dear. You just need to pay attention.” She moved over in the booth. “Come sit with us. Don’t worry. We won’t pester you for any more predictions.”
As I was sitting, the would-be novelist caught my eye and lifted his coffee cup. I hesitated. There was no sign of the server, but he was closer to the coffee station than I was. He could damned well get his own refill. And yet . . . Well, he gave me this feeling that said ignoring him would be . . . unwise. I wouldn’t mind a job here, so showing my willingness to work wasn’t a bad thing.
I got the pot and filled his cup.
“Looking for a tip today?” he said.
“Sure.”
He leaned over, voice lowering. “Larry’s in a foul mood. Breakfast isn’t even over and Margie’s already dropped two plates, including the one for Peter Marks, which landed on his lap, right before he took off for a big meeting in Chicago. Marks is the landlord—gives Larry a good deal on the place. Larry said if she screws up again, she’s gone. And he just might mean it this time.”
“Thanks.”
He lifted his mug. “Quid pro quo.”
I filled a cup for myself and took it back to Ida and Walter’s table. I looked around for Margie—I was starving—but there was still no sign of her.
“I hear you met Gabriel Walsh,” Walter said as I sat.
I nodded and took a wild guess. “Someone said he’s a local? Or he used to be.”
“Oh, yes,” Ida said. “But Gabriel himself never lived here. His momma did. Moved out when she was just a young one herself.”
I’d heard of towns where you were considered local if you were born there, but this seemed a little extreme. As I poured creamer into my coffee, I could hear Larry tearing a strip off someone in the kitchen. Margie, I presumed. The novelist was right.
I unwrapped my napkin-wrapped cutlery for a spoon to stir my coffee. Only a fork and a knife fell out. I lifted the knife.
Stir with a knife,
Stir up strife.
• • •
I hesitated. I glanced at Ida and Walter, but they were engrossed in their conversation. I glanced at the kitchen doors and started to put the knife down.
No, that was silly.
And even if it wasn’t, I shouldn’t . . .
I lifted the knife again and gave my coffee a quick stir. As I laid it down, I noticed the novelist watching me, his eyes dancing. I turned back to Ida and Walter, and I was about to say something when a construction worker rose, a twenty in his hand.
“Where’s that girl?” He peered toward the kitchen. “Margie!”
She came out bearing a tray of steaming plates. A couple across the diner looked up expectantly. She nodded and moved a little faster. As she rounded the corner to our aisle, Ida’s cane fell. It didn’t drop with a clatter, just silently slid to the floor.
Margie didn’t notice. No one seemed to notice. Margie was heading straight for it. I looked around. The writer caught my gaze. He looked at the cane, then back at me, smiling slightly, as if in challenge.
I glanced at Margie. Her expression was determined, but her nostrils were flared, her eyes a little too wide. Anxious. Exhausted, too, if the circles under her eyes were any indication.
I took another swig of coffee and lifted the menu. I thought I heard the writer chuckle. I didn’t, of course—he was too far away and the clatter of plates and murmur of voices would have drowned him out.
Margie tripped over the cane. Not just a stumble, but a full-out sprawl that sent the plates crashing to the floor, oatmeal splattering everywhere, including on the two diners who’d been awaiting their breakfasts.
Larry ran from the back, apologizing as he handed the customers damp towels and promised to cover dry cleaning. Margie picked herself up, babbling about the cane. I quietly slid from the booth and cleared away the broken bowls and plates.
“You’re fired,” Larry said, spinning on Margie. “Go on. Get your things. I’ll send over your last check.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” she protested.
“It never is. Get out.”
She started to say something else, but a glare from Larry shut her up, and she slunk away. Larry bent to help me with the broken dishes. “You still looking for a job, miss?”
• • •
Larry needed me to start right away. Fortunately, it was only until lunch, when the other server—Susie—could take over. I say “fortunately” because, while I may have been able to draft funding proposals and counsel abused women and prepare keynote speeches, when it came to taking orders and serving tables I was about as competent as your average five-year-old. Maybe less.
I took it slow and steady, not carrying too much, and writing down every order—complete with a numbered map of tables and descriptions of the diners—so I wouldn’t screw up. Luckily the breakfast rush was over before I began. Otherwise I might have been on the street competing with Margie for employment.
I took Grace back an extra-large steaming coffee and two scones. I returned her money, because I’d been late, but she still grumbled.
What she didn’t mention—and I’m sure she knew—was that I’d had a visitor. I opened my door to find a business card slipped under it. On the back, in thick strokes, someone had written: “In case you misplaced the last one.”
I turned it over. Gabriel Walsh. I tossed the card into the trash with the first and headed into the apartment. I sat at the dinette and took out the notes I’d made at the library—the list of things I needed to compile to apply for permission to learn where the prison system had stashed Todd Larsen.
CHAPTER TWENTY
As I walked into the diner, the first people I saw were the elderly couple from the day before. Ida and Walter.
“Thank you for yesterday,” Ida said, giving my arm a pat. “I had my silk blouse outside. The rain would have ruined it.”
“Any more predictions?” Walter asked. “I’m taking the boat out tomorrow. Hate to drive all the way to the lake and have the weather turn on me.”
He smiled when he said it, but the look in his eyes was dead serious. Across the aisle, two old ladies leaned closer, listening.
“No predictions today,” I said. “I don’t even know why I said that yesterday. Just a hunch, I guess.”
“Hunch?” one of the women called over, loud enough to make me wince. “That’s no hunch. You read the signs. Some people can.”
Ida nodded. “There are always signs, dear. You just need to pay attention.” She moved over in the booth. “Come sit with us. Don’t worry. We won’t pester you for any more predictions.”
As I was sitting, the would-be novelist caught my eye and lifted his coffee cup. I hesitated. There was no sign of the server, but he was closer to the coffee station than I was. He could damned well get his own refill. And yet . . . Well, he gave me this feeling that said ignoring him would be . . . unwise. I wouldn’t mind a job here, so showing my willingness to work wasn’t a bad thing.
I got the pot and filled his cup.
“Looking for a tip today?” he said.
“Sure.”
He leaned over, voice lowering. “Larry’s in a foul mood. Breakfast isn’t even over and Margie’s already dropped two plates, including the one for Peter Marks, which landed on his lap, right before he took off for a big meeting in Chicago. Marks is the landlord—gives Larry a good deal on the place. Larry said if she screws up again, she’s gone. And he just might mean it this time.”
“Thanks.”
He lifted his mug. “Quid pro quo.”
I filled a cup for myself and took it back to Ida and Walter’s table. I looked around for Margie—I was starving—but there was still no sign of her.
“I hear you met Gabriel Walsh,” Walter said as I sat.
I nodded and took a wild guess. “Someone said he’s a local? Or he used to be.”
“Oh, yes,” Ida said. “But Gabriel himself never lived here. His momma did. Moved out when she was just a young one herself.”
I’d heard of towns where you were considered local if you were born there, but this seemed a little extreme. As I poured creamer into my coffee, I could hear Larry tearing a strip off someone in the kitchen. Margie, I presumed. The novelist was right.
I unwrapped my napkin-wrapped cutlery for a spoon to stir my coffee. Only a fork and a knife fell out. I lifted the knife.
Stir with a knife,
Stir up strife.
• • •
I hesitated. I glanced at Ida and Walter, but they were engrossed in their conversation. I glanced at the kitchen doors and started to put the knife down.
No, that was silly.
And even if it wasn’t, I shouldn’t . . .
I lifted the knife again and gave my coffee a quick stir. As I laid it down, I noticed the novelist watching me, his eyes dancing. I turned back to Ida and Walter, and I was about to say something when a construction worker rose, a twenty in his hand.
“Where’s that girl?” He peered toward the kitchen. “Margie!”
She came out bearing a tray of steaming plates. A couple across the diner looked up expectantly. She nodded and moved a little faster. As she rounded the corner to our aisle, Ida’s cane fell. It didn’t drop with a clatter, just silently slid to the floor.
Margie didn’t notice. No one seemed to notice. Margie was heading straight for it. I looked around. The writer caught my gaze. He looked at the cane, then back at me, smiling slightly, as if in challenge.
I glanced at Margie. Her expression was determined, but her nostrils were flared, her eyes a little too wide. Anxious. Exhausted, too, if the circles under her eyes were any indication.
I took another swig of coffee and lifted the menu. I thought I heard the writer chuckle. I didn’t, of course—he was too far away and the clatter of plates and murmur of voices would have drowned him out.
Margie tripped over the cane. Not just a stumble, but a full-out sprawl that sent the plates crashing to the floor, oatmeal splattering everywhere, including on the two diners who’d been awaiting their breakfasts.
Larry ran from the back, apologizing as he handed the customers damp towels and promised to cover dry cleaning. Margie picked herself up, babbling about the cane. I quietly slid from the booth and cleared away the broken bowls and plates.
“You’re fired,” Larry said, spinning on Margie. “Go on. Get your things. I’ll send over your last check.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” she protested.
“It never is. Get out.”
She started to say something else, but a glare from Larry shut her up, and she slunk away. Larry bent to help me with the broken dishes. “You still looking for a job, miss?”
• • •
Larry needed me to start right away. Fortunately, it was only until lunch, when the other server—Susie—could take over. I say “fortunately” because, while I may have been able to draft funding proposals and counsel abused women and prepare keynote speeches, when it came to taking orders and serving tables I was about as competent as your average five-year-old. Maybe less.
I took it slow and steady, not carrying too much, and writing down every order—complete with a numbered map of tables and descriptions of the diners—so I wouldn’t screw up. Luckily the breakfast rush was over before I began. Otherwise I might have been on the street competing with Margie for employment.
I took Grace back an extra-large steaming coffee and two scones. I returned her money, because I’d been late, but she still grumbled.
What she didn’t mention—and I’m sure she knew—was that I’d had a visitor. I opened my door to find a business card slipped under it. On the back, in thick strokes, someone had written: “In case you misplaced the last one.”
I turned it over. Gabriel Walsh. I tossed the card into the trash with the first and headed into the apartment. I sat at the dinette and took out the notes I’d made at the library—the list of things I needed to compile to apply for permission to learn where the prison system had stashed Todd Larsen.
