Puzzling Ink Page 21

  She finished busing the tables and sweeping the floor of the restaurant, hoping this would not be the day of a surprise visit from the health department. As she leaned the broom in the corner, she saw the bundles of mail she’d dropped on Jake’s desk. She eyed the catalog, but couldn’t bring herself to study it until all the mail was sorted into three piles: important-looking, not important-looking, and oversized.

  When she finished, she pounced on the FUNdamental Restaurant Products catalog Jake had received. The multicolored font was the same as the one she swiped from the Crazy Mule, and the display ad on the lower half of the front cover looked the same until she studied it closer. This catalog had an ad for small appliances, not knives. This was the current catalog. The one with the knife sale was last month’s issue. It could absolutely have been used for those blackmail notes.

  But by Emmett? She didn’t know.

  Quinn wanted to rehash the events of the day with Loma, since they’d gotten along so well when they’d hung out. A week ago Rico would have been her go-to, but since she’d met Loma, she felt like they were developing a bond. And it was nice to have a friend besides Rico again. It had been a long time.

  She especially wanted to tell Loma about Margosha siccing the cops on her. Quinn still hadn’t decided if that was suspicious or prudent on Margosha’s part. She was leaning toward suspicious. Loma would know which was which. If Margosha was trying to ditch Quinn, that alone was suspicious, since Quinn didn’t believe she posed anything close to a threat. If Margosha was trying to permanently get Quinn off her back, that seemed like maybe Margosha had something to hide.

  And she wanted to talk about her visit with Jake. The abrupt change in his demeanor when she’d asked about the silent partner and if he’d lost any money worried her. Did Jake really believe that he’d lost everything when Emmett’s restaurants failed? What about the diner? Jake told her himself that he loved his diner, even though he sometimes yearned to create fancier fare. Jake seemed to have a great life in Chestnut Station. But maybe it was yet another reminder you couldn’t know what was under the surface for other people. Quinn looked down at the rubber band on her wrist. After all, people might look at me and see someone normal, someone who wasn’t fighting depression, someone who didn’t have to count chair legs or ceiling tiles—Quinn drew her hand back from the task she was methodically and very consciously undertaking—or line up salt and pepper shakers just so.

  With a sigh, Quinn returned to the dining room to see what else needed her attention. She mentally assessed the remaining work.

  “Are you sure we can’t help, Quinn?” Georgeanne asked. “I’m beginning to feel guilty just sitting here.”

  Quinn smiled. “You have two choices. You can quit feeling guilty, or you can go home and sit there.”

  “Maybe I’ll have another glass of tea, then. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m absolutely sure.” Quinn filled a pitcher of tea and a pitcher of lemonade and brought them both to the booth. “Knock yourselves out.”

  “Seriously, Quinn, do you need any help?” Dan asked. “I’m happy to—”

  “I know you are, Dad, but I’ve got this. I kinda want to keep busy right now. Plus, I have a … system.”

  Dan gave a slight nod and Quinn disappeared into the kitchen.

  As she loaded dishes into the dishwasher, she heard the tinkle of the doorbell. She peeked out the pass-through, hoping whoever it was only wanted a slice of pie. She grinned when she saw Loma striding toward the kitchen. Quinn dried her hands and met her at the entrance to the kitchen. “Am I happy to see—”

  “What do you think you were doing telling Rico to re-interview me for Emmett’s murder? He came to my office when I had a client there!” Loma crossed her arms in her power pose.

  Quinn took a step backward. “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t lie to me, girl.”

  “I’m not! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Loma glared at Quinn. “You have no idea why Rico came to talk to me again.” She said it with a completely flat tone, the one people use when they absolutely cannot believe what you just said.

  “No, I—” Ohmygawd, the crossword puzzle.

  Loma must have seen the guilty look that settled on Quinn’s face. “I knew it! What did you tell him?”

  Quinn couldn’t explain about the crossword, so she simply said, “Nothing. I didn’t tell Rico anything.” Not technically a lie.

  “Then why did he want to know about me asking Emmett to have an affair to get back at Jake? That sounds like your doing.”

  “It’s not!” Quinn frowned. She had told Rico that, but that wasn’t why he was re-interviewing Loma. That was all Chief Chestnut’s doing. “I’m not the only one who knows about that. Don’t blame it on me. I don’t have that kind of power.” Or did I, now that I knew I could drop clues into the crossword puzzle? “Loma, you should have told me about that mess between you and Emmett.”

  “And you should have told me you were one hinge short of a nuthouse door!”

  Quinn instinctively covered her ears. She didn’t want to hear—or believe—Loma would throw her OCD back in her face, and worse, act like it made her mentally unstable in any way. That would be like me saying she was crazy for having diabetes. “That’s completely—”

  Loma pulled something up on her phone and read from it. “Someone should tie up the cook and force-feed him his own fettuccine Alfredo until he explodes. One less bad chef in the world.”

  Quinn fought to control her voice. “That was just an old restaurant review I wrote when I was mad. Asking Emmett to have an affair was germane to—”

  “Germane?” If Loma could have killed with the daggers she shot out of her eyes, Quinn would have dropped to the floor instantly. “I don’t owe you any explanation of anything. Certainly not of what went on—or goes on—in my marriage.”

  “No, of course you don’t, but—”

  “Ain’t no but about it. There’s no time, no reason, no way I need to tell you anything. Especially when you’re no sweet-smelling petunia in all this either.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I thought you were just an outsider trying to help your new boss, but that review you posted about the Crazy Mule, all those threats you made?”

  “Threats? Don’t be an idiot. I didn’t threaten anyone.”

  “So,” Loma glanced at her phone again. “I’m not seeing that you were going to get even with ‘the owners and proprietors of the Crazy Mule and everyone associated with them’? And didn’t you include a listing of everyone from the servers to the line cooks and the guy who printed their menus and the factory where they got their silverware?”

  Quinn deflated. She had said all that. Quietly she said, “I was really angry. They gave me food poisoning and I barfed all over my date’s shoes.”

  “So you say. Did you ever produce medical bills? Dry cleaning bills? Receipt for new men’s shoes?”

  Quinn shook her head.

  “Then there’s absolutely no reason to believe you.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “So what?” Loma snapped. “So was everything between me and Emmett.”

  “Was it?” Quinn’s mouth engaged before her brain did.

  Loma looked like she might explode. Before Quinn even realized it, Loma was in her face. “Don’t you dare speak one more word to your cop friend about me. It’s you he should be looking at. I’ve known it from the get-go. You’re the one who threatened Emmett. You’re the one who shows up here out of the blue. You’re the one begging Jake for a job you can’t even handle. And don’t forget”—Loma’s nose almost touched Quinn’s—“you were the only one around when Emmett died.” Loma stormed out of the kitchen.

  When Quinn heard the door chime, it sounded angry.

  Dan came in the kitchen and found Quinn le
aning against the sink with her hand to her throat. “I heard shouting.” His eyes got wide and he hurried to her. “Did she choke you?”

  Quinn quickly lowered her hand. “No, everything’s fine.”

  It was clear he didn’t believe her. “What was all this about?”

  Quinn waved a hand through the air. “Nothing, Dad. That was Jake’s ex-wife and she thought I did something I didn’t do.” Quinn began loading dirty dishes into the dishwasher. She couldn’t look her dad in the eye, but when she caught a glimpse of his face, he was still staring at her. She stopped what she was doing. “Really. It’s okay. She’ll realize nothing she said made sense and she’ll apologize. She’ll cool off.”

  “And you’ll be friends again?”

  Friends. Is that what they were? Quinn had thought so. It seemed we’d hit it off, but maybe Loma didn’t think so. Was this just a misunderstanding? Will she apologize? Should I?

  “Quinn?”

  “Yeah, Dad. We’ll be friends again.” She smiled wanly at him. “Why don’t you and Mom go home now? I’ll just finish up in here and be home in a bit.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. When I get home we can have some ice cream and watch some vintage Cagney and Lacey.”

  Dan gave her a hug. When he went out to the dining room she heard him say, “Okay, pack it up, everyone. We’ve worn out our welcome here. Quinn’s almost done fixing the damage we did in the kitchen and we don’t want her coming out here finding more to do.”

  Quinn heard them all chatting and laughing and the door chime as they left. She wiped her hands on her apron to go out and lock the door behind them and almost crashed into her mother.

  “Oof.”

  “Sorry, dear.”

  They spoke simultaneously.

  Georgeanne: “I just wanted to remind you to lock the door.”

  Quinn: “I was just coming out to lock the door.”

  They shared a laugh, as if everything was okay. Quinn knew it wasn’t and by the look on Georgeanne’s face, she knew her mother didn’t think so either.

  * * * *

  Quinn found extra things to do in the kitchen to avoid going home. She even found a video about how to fix the ancient cash register. It kept her brain and fingers busy for a while. If her parents went to bed, she could too and try to forget everything that had happened, at least for a couple of hours.

  She drove the few blocks home. The July sun set late. The twilight surrounding her was dreamy and surreal, almost with a movie quality to it. Exhaustion made it difficult to keep her OCD at bay. It forced her to count the seconds she stopped at each red light. When the lights turned green, it only let her proceed when she reached an even number. She wished this personal film of hers would end so she could drop her OCD like a torn ticket stub, then step out of the theater into a dazzling summer day into a world where Emmett Dubois had never died. Because if that was true, then Jake wouldn’t be in jail, she wouldn’t be trying—and failing—to run the diner, and she most likely would never have become friendly with Loma. Sorrow washed over Quinn. And Rico would not have looked at her the way he did when he’d confronted her about the online review. Maybe she could rewind the film so far back that she’d never written that dumb review. At the stop sign on the corner she counted to twenty before making her turn. What if the film could rewind to before she interviewed at the academy?

  When she got home she sat in her car in the driveway. She hoped her parents had gone to bed. She suddenly felt depleted, completely drained. Her legs refused to move. She had no energy. She glanced at the rubber band on her wrist and didn’t even have the strength to snap it. The familiar feeling of her depression was settling upon her, the x-ray vest pressing hard on her chest. She knew it and knew she needed to fight against it before it held her down and she couldn’t get up again. She’d been doing well enough with the medication, but the events of the day—the week—must have ganged up and sapped her energy.

  She forced herself out of the car and into the house, one plodding step after another. When she finally stepped into the kitchen, she felt like she’d run a marathon. Not that she knew what running twenty-six miles felt like, but she knew it couldn’t feel worse than this. She leaned against the doorjamb.

  Georgeanne turned away from the stove and smiled wide at her. “I’m so glad you’re here. Your dad couldn’t wait up, though. Told me to tell you he was sorry, but that he’d watch Cagney and Lacey with you tomorrow.”

  At that moment Quinn was overwhelmed with love for her mother and so very thankful she’d waited up. She rushed to her. Georgeanne wrapped her in a hug and let her sob for a bit. When the oven timer beeped, Georgeanne steered Quinn to a chair and plucked a tissue for her.

  “You just sit a minute while I get these out of the oven.”

  Quinn blew her nose. “After cooking all day at the diner you came home and…cooked some more?”

  “I knew you needed some redneck ravioli.”

  Quinn wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but gave her mother the benefit of the doubt. A plate of mashed potatoes and melty cheese stuffed in piecrust bites worked when she was a kid reeling from an insult that she was a stinky dum-dum head, or when she got frustrated when trying to learn that impossible piano sonata. But now? For this?

  Georgeanne slid a few raviolis on a small plate and placed it in front of Quinn. She sat in the chair next to her. “Now tell me what’s going on. Your father and I heard that lady yelling at you. He said it was Jake’s ex-wife?”

  Quinn nodded. The exhaustion roared back. She wanted to tell her mom everything, that there was a high probability Jake was a murderer. That she’d be out of a job and never be able to move out on her own like other people her age. Never be normal.

  “Yeah, that was Jake’s ex-wife. I thought we might be friends, but I guess I was wrong. I think I’ve been wrong about everything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…everything.” She wanted to tell her mom everything about Jake, Loma, Margosha, Rico. How out of control her OCD felt. But what she said was, “I’m completely delusional, thinking I could run the diner. The stress is too much. I can’t handle it. I can’t do anything, Mom. I’ll never have a normal life.”

  “Oh, pish.” Georgeanne plucked a ravioli from the plate and took a wary bite. “They’re cool enough.” She pushed the plate toward her daughter. “Have one.”

  Quinn picked one up, not because she wanted it, but because her mother wanted her to. As she brought it close to her mouth, she inhaled the comforting aroma of butter basted over a stuffed pillow of hot piecrust. Quinn knew the potatoes were mixed with Georgeanne’s favorite spices: pepper, a jerk seasoning mix, a little cinnamon, a pinch of allspice—or was it cloves? Quinn couldn’t remember. As she bit into it, a new flavor erupted in her mouth. She furrowed her brow.

  “Like it? I added just the tiniest bit of chocolate pudding. All the comfort food you could want in three bites.” Georgeanne opened one palm as if it was a ravioli and mimed as she spoke. “Piecrust square. Plop of mashies. Pinch of cheese. Then”—here, her face lit up—“teaspoon of pudding. Another piecrust square on top. Pinch it closed. Brush with butter. Bake and voilà!”

  Quinn chewed thoughtfully, finishing the entire square. “It’s weirdly delicious, Mom.”

  “I knew it! Comfort food was exactly what you needed.”

  “But why do you call them redneck ravioli?”

  “Why did they call Twinkies Twinkies? It’s a mystery for the ages.” Georgeanne bit into another one and a shower of buttery pastry flaked to the table. “Maybe I’ll change it.” She nodded. “Yes. Now they’re called comfort squares.”

  Quinn ate another one and her eyes got wide. “Is this cream cheese and jelly?”

  Georgeanne nodded and began pointing. “Peanut butter, cheddar, and chocolate pudding. Hummus and black olives. Cream cheese an
d green olives. Peanut butter, banana, and bacon bits.” Then she pointed to a very unattractive comfort square. “I’m not happy with how the mandarin oranges and chocolate pudding turned out. They’re good, but much too messy.”

  Quinn chose another one, this time with lacy edges of baked cheese that had oozed out, turning them crispy. She bit carefully but still caused another cascade of pastry flakes to flutter to the table. “Cheddar and black olives?”

  Georgeanne nodded. “Now. Tell me everything.”

  The depression steamrolled over Quinn again. She wouldn’t burden her mother with that. Georgeanne was too worried about her already, as evidenced by the cookie sheet of comfort squares. “I’ve told you everything. I’m just really, really tired. Working at the diner was hard before, but now, doing Jake’s job too…” Quinn trailed off. But before Georgeanne could speak she said, “I’m just tired. And I really thought Loma and I could be friends.”

  They each ate another comfort square and Georgeanne replaced the empty plate in front of them with the entire cookie sheet.

  Quinn thought about how sweet her mother was and always had been. What other mother would be content with as little information as I provide her? Quinn knew she was itching with a million questions, but also knew she’d ask when the timing was better, preferring to allow Quinn time and space. It reminded her of what the cop in Denver said today, that Chief Chestnut seemed scared of her. “Hey, Mom, what’s that dirt you have on Chief Chestnut?” If Quinn knew, maybe she could use it to manipulate him out of his job and Rico into it.

  “You just leave Myron alone. He and I go way back.” Georgeanne took another bite. “Don’t tell your dad, but Myron was always sweet on me.”

  “That’s no secret.” Quinn and Georgeanne both jumped at the sound of Dan’s voice. He reached for a comfort square. As he bit, his pajama top was covered in crumbs. “Whole town knows Myron Chestnut is sweet on you.” Dan addressed Quinn. “Didn’t you notice him following her all around the festival?” He shoved the rest of the comfort square in his mouth, then brushed the crumbs to the floor.