Puzzling Ink Read online

  Besides, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

  She looked up from the chair legs. “All-you-can-eat pancakes for five—I mean seven—dollars coming up. Cash only. If you want fried eggs and bacon, line up at the pass-through in five minutes. Three bucks extra.”

  Quinn tied on her apron. Rico will investigate. Not me. My job is to make pancakes and keep the diner in business until Jake gets out.

  Chapter 7

  Quinn couldn’t believe it was possible for things to get worse at the diner, but they did. The constant stream of lookie-loos never abated. She ran out of pancake mix, eggs, bacon, and was running dangerously low on coffee. She searched for something, anything, she could make quickly that could feed a crowd. Rummaging her way through the pantry, she found a giant-sized container of marinara sauce and some bags of various types of pasta. As she checked her watch to see if it was too early for spaghetti, she spied a large container of quick oats and almost wept with relief.

  She manhandled the biggest pot she could find on to the stove, then filled it with the correct proportion of water to oats. She knew it was correct because it took her three tries to fill the liquid measuring cup to the precise level. As she waited for it to boil she went into Jake’s office and looked in the file cabinet for the employment files for Chris and Kristi, the weekend cook and waitress, who were also husband and wife. She’d only met them once, but they were her best hope. Not knowing their last name, she had to search through half the drawer before she found a folder with Chris’s name on it. She scanned his application to see if he’d listed Kristi anywhere, thus verifying it was his file and praying she was not deeply violating some privacy law. She added Chris’s number to the contact list on her phone, fairly certain she’d need to call him again before this ordeal was over.

  When he answered, she blurted, “You guys have to come in. Jake’s not here and I’m dying!” Quinn immediately regretted her wording. “I’m running out of everything and I don’t know what to do. Can you swing by the grocery store and get some stuff, then come in and help me?”

  “Who is this?” Chris asked.

  “It’s Quinn.”

  No response.

  “At the diner?”

  Still nothing.

  Then: “I’m just yankin’ you.”

  Quinn was so relieved, she forgot to be annoyed by his prank. She returned to the kitchen and glanced into the pot of water. Not even close to boiling. “When can you be here?”

  “Can’t. We already have plans.”

  “Can you break them? This is kind of an emergency.”

  “Well, darlin’, it might be an emergency, but it’s your emergency, not mine. My emergency today involves tubing down the river with an ice-cold six-pack, maybe with some fried chick—”

  “Seriously? You’re not coming to help me? Neither one of you?”

  “Kristi can’t come neither. She’s my DD.”

  “Your what?”

  “Designated drinker.”

  “You mean designated driver.”

  “I know what I said.”

  Frustration boiled up out of Quinn. “Have a nice day, then!” She disconnected and refrained from throwing the phone against the wall. Nothing else was boiling, so she hurried back into the office and yanked open the file cabinet drawer with all the employee files.

  Even though she, Chris, Kristi, and Jake were the only employees right now, the drawer was full. Clearly, Jake never weeded ex-employees from the file cabinet.

  Quinn pulled as many as she could from the drawer and plopped them on Jake’s desk. Then she ran out to the dining room to make sure everything was okay—or as okay as possible—under the circumstances.

  “There you are. Are you going to take our order anytime soon? I’ve got to get the salon opened soon.”

  “I’m trying, Mrs. Olansky. I should have some oatmeal ready in a bit.” Quinn was glad to see someone had taken the initiative to make coffee.

  “Oatmeal. Yuck.” Mrs. Olansky plucked her purse from the back of her chair. “C’mon, Henry. We’ll come back for lunch instead. Maybe there’ll be some news then too.”

  Before Quinn could respond to her, someone called out, “This is the worst coffee I’ve ever had. It’s too weak.”

  “No, it’s too strong,” another called.

  Quinn fled back to the kitchen, where the pot of water was finally boiling. She picked up the container of oats and dumped them into the water, then turned to find a big enough spoon to stir. By the time she turned back, the oatmeal was bubbling over, spilling on to the burner. Without thinking, she grabbed the handles of the pot to slide them off the heat. When they scalded her hands, she let out a shriek and dropped the pot. She watched helplessly as it teetered in slow-motion on the edge of the stove, then toppled to the floor. It landed with a loud crash.

  Quinn was rooted to the spot, shaking her hands in front of her as if she could wave away the pain. People crowded into the kitchen, and some peered in the pass-through window. Someone clicked off the flame under the burner. Silence reigned as everyone assessed the impressive display of oatmeal coating most available surfaces. A few wrinkled their noses at the acrid smell of burning oats.

  Finally, a woman in her forties wearing a skirt suit and sneakers steered everyone from the kitchen. “Show’s over, folks. You all run along home and eat your breakfast there today. And your lunch.” She flapped her hands in front of her. “Shoo. Go along now. Unless you’re going to stay and help clean up this mess.” The group shuffled backward out of the kitchen, with the woman herding them all the way out of the restaurant. “If you already ate, don’t forget to leave your cash. And give that poor girl a generous tip for going above and beyond.”

  The door jingled as everyone left, a few complaints hanging in the air of the suddenly silent diner.

  Quinn realized she was still shaking her hands. She held them close to her face to see how badly she’d burned them. She jumped when the woman touched her elbow.

  “Let’s get some cold water on those. Did you grab the pot without mitts? Why didn’t you just turn off the gas?”

  Tears filled Quinn’s eyes because of the pain, the stupidity, the unfairness, the humiliation, and the woman’s act of kindness in taking care of everything.

  “Never mind.” The woman steered Quinn toward the sink and gently placed her hands under cold running water. After a bit, she lifted one and inspected it. “That doesn’t look so bad. I don’t even think they’ll blister. You were lucky.” She placed Quinn’s hand back under the water.

  “Thank you. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Cynthia. I’m Abe the handyman’s daughter. Looks like you got yourself a doozy of a cleanup.”

  Quinn turned off the water and dried her hands. “And I better get to it before the lunch rush.” She glanced toward the pass-through window. “Or anyone else looking for breakfast.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I locked the door. People can do without the Chestnut Diner for a while until you get yourself squared away.”

  “Thank you so much for taking charge like that. My brain just shut down completely. I couldn’t even count.”

  “Count what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I wish I could stay to help you clean up, but I’ve got to get to work myself.”

  “You’ve already done enough. Thanks again.”

  “How are those hands?”

  Quinn opened and closed her fists a few times. “I think they’re okay.” They both inspected her palms closely. “See? It’s just red. No blisters or anything.”

  “Your instincts were good to drop the pot, even though you knew it would make a mess. But maybe next time just turn off the gas under the burner. And wear oven mitts!”

  “Thanks.” She studied the mayhem forlornly. “Better get to it.”

  �
��Walk me out and lock the door behind me. You don’t need customers for a while.”

  “Jake’s gonna kill me if he hears I closed up the diner.”

  Cynthia cocked her head.

  “Not kill me…just be real mad…but not real mad, just the regular, appropriate amount of mad.” Quinn winced.

  “Close the diner. Jake will understand.”

  Quinn twisted the dead bolt behind her and hoped that was true. Twisting the dead bolt caused her brain to rev. A battery pack of intensity ramped up to overload. A cascade of worry wove its way through her. She felt like the needle of a sewing machine. She’d always liked when her mom let her press the foot pedal on the machine to create perfectly even and straight stitches in the fabric. Today, however, each rhythmic thunk of her anxiety signaled another catastrophe.

  Jake will be mad.

  Jake will yell.

  Jake will fire me.

  The diner will fail.

  Jake will be bankrupt.

  He’ll lose his house.

  Jake will sue me.

  Mom and Dad will be disappointed.

  They’ll try to pay Jake and lose their house too.

  They’ll kick me out.

  I have no money.

  I’ll be homeless.

  I won’t be able to afford my meds.

  I’ll never get back to normal.

  Chapter 8

  It took Quinn more than an hour to stop her cycle of catastrophizing. From her research about OCD, she knew that’s what was happening, but nowhere did the research tell her how to end the cycle. She stopped it by letting her mind go blank while she cleaned up the oatmeal, spoonful by spoonful.

  One thousand and fifty-six of them.

  When she was done, she collapsed in Jake’s office chair and felt sorry for herself for a few minutes while she gulped ice-cold lemonade.

  Exhausted but calmer, her palms only throbbed a little from the burn. But this would not do. She could not keep working like this, especially since she was definitely not a short-order cook.

  The employee folders were still on the desk, and she pulled the one on top toward her and opened it. She found the section of the job application where it asked what position they were applying for. After sorting all the files into cook or waitress piles, she started making calls to the ex-cooks of the Chestnut Diner, all men. Maybe she could persuade one of them to come back temporarily.

  The first guy she called told her he’d moved to Chicago.

  The second one said, “Absolutely not. That job was hard! I work at a print shop in Denver now. Much easier.”

  The third one said, “I’d love to—you sound cute—but I’ve got a sweet gig mooching off my girlfriend.”

  Eww.

  The next dozen were all variations of the same.

  Quinn dialed the last one, hopeful when she saw it was a local prefix.

  “Is this Michael Breckenridge? I’m calling from the Chestnut Diner and—”

  Click.

  Quinn dialed back. “I’m sorry, I just called you but the call must have dropped.”

  “No, it didn’t. I hung up on you.” Which he did again.

  “Well, I guess there’s no love lost between Michael Breckenridge and Jake.”

  She decided to try the waitresses too. Maybe one of them had cooked on occasion. Or might be willing to try. But all the responses were the same: they didn’t live here anymore, got another job, didn’t want to, really didn’t want to, and a new excuse, pregnant.

  With a sigh, Quinn surveyed the contents of the refrigerator and pantry areas and made a list. Then she dragged the erasable sandwich board from the storage room into Jake’s office, gathered some colored markers, measured and marked out evenly spaced lines, and wrote on both sides, Hot dogs, hamburgers (no cheese), salad, fries, chili. While it lasts. Cash only.

  When she was satisfied, after wiping off any stray marks and erasing one side completely three times because it seemed crooked, she unlocked the door and manhandled the heavy sign to the sidewalk in front of the diner.

  She’d only closed for a few hours and was open for lunch, so Jake couldn’t complain too much. Plus, his kitchen was probably cleaner than it had even been before. Thinking about Jake getting mad at her made Quinn’s heart race. She pressed her right thumb to each of her fingers in turn, then did the same with her left hand. Soon, her breathing slowed.

  Customers wandered in right away, some not even aware she’d been closed.

  The Retireds, on the other hand, shuffled in complaining, Wilbur the loudest and most annoyed with her.

  “What do you think you’re doing, little missy, closing the diner like that?” Wilbur grabbed the Panama hat off his head and slapped it against his thigh, making Quinn jump.

  “For the ten-thousandth time, Wilbur, my name’s not Little Missy. And you should be happy I closed. There was a … kitchen mishap.”

  “Mishap.” Herman stared at her, as if he was hearing the word for the first time. Quinn didn’t know if he was asking a question or just checking the mouthfeel of the word.

  Larry put a hand on her shoulder and asked quietly, “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine, Larry, thanks.” Quinn patted his hand. Ever since he lost his wife just after Quinn started at the diner, he’d been desperate for company and human touch.

  “At least the diner’s open now, eh?” Bob did a little soft-shoe before he sat down at their regular table.

  When Bob finished his dance, Silas said, “A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer in your pants.”

  Quinn placed two full pots of coffee on their table. “Go nuts, boys,” then she went into the kitchen and dumped a bunch of hot dogs into water to boil. She readied buns, organized condiments for do-it-yourself fixins, tossed a huge bowl of salad, dumped cans of chili into the huge pot she’d just cleaned oatmeal out of, placed oven mitts nearby, and said a prayer to the fryer.

  Lunch went much better than breakfast. People seemed happy enough to order from the limited menu, except for the Retireds, who peppered her with a million questions, all of which she answered with “No.”

  By simplifying the menu and streamlining her prep, Quinn easily kept up with the demands of the kitchen and the front of the restaurant. Generally, she wasn’t wild about having OCD, but if it was her albatross, sometimes having something to obsess over—like the diner—was useful. As long as she was obsessing about something external, she could keep her compulsive rituals at bay.

  As she was in the kitchen between customers, eating a hot dog herself, Quinn heard the door jingle, then Loma’s voice. “Jake? Hey, Jake, I need to talk to you.”

  Before Quinn could finish the last bite, Loma was in the kitchen, snapping the rubber band on her wrist. “Where’s Jake?”

  Quinn held up one finger while she swallowed.

  Loma snapped the band fast and rhythmically, eyes darting around the kitchen. “Is he in his office? I really need to talk to him.”

  What is she so guilty about? Quinn wondered, following Loma into Jake’s office. “He’s not here.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you tell him to call me? I have something important to tell him.”

  Quinn debated for a hot minute not to tell her about Jake, but decided she’d find out soon enough. “Loma, Jake’s been arrested.”

  “Makes sense. It’s criminal how good he still looks after all these years.”

  “I’m not joking. He’s been arrested.”

  Loma choked off a laugh. “For what?”

  “Murder.”

  Loma narrowed her eyes. “You’re playing with me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Who’d he murder, then?”

  “A guy he used to work with. Emmett Dubois
.”

  Loma wobbled and grabbed the desk for support. Quinn could see she wanted to ask more questions, because her mouth kept opening and closing.

  “Sit down. I’ll get you some lemonade.” Before Quinn got through the doorway, Loma had pushed her aside and was running through the dining room.

  As Quinn watched her go, she couldn’t help but wonder what Loma needed to talk to Jake so desperately about. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why she thought Loma looked so guilty. Maybe the nervous snapping, coupled with her warning yesterday to Jake: “You’ll be sorry.” Sorry about what? Loma seemed surprised that Jake had been arrested, but maybe she was a good actor. Or maybe she wasn’t surprised about Jake—maybe she was surprised that Emmett Dubois had been murdered. She probably knew him too, if Jake had worked with him back in the day.

  “Stop. Just stop it.” Quinn put her hands on either side of her head, as if that would choke off the thoughts swirling around in there. All of Quinn’s questions were unanswerable right now. Easier not to ask anything.

  Not much was happening with the late-lunch crowd, but she kept her brain occupied by refilling drinks, accepting a couple payments, and wiping off tables. As she did, she thought about the murder. It just didn’t make sense. Why would Jake serve mushrooms only to Emmett? And why did Emmett come to the diner afterward? She wondered about the guest list for the fundraiser. Who else was there besides Jake, Donnie, his mom, and the governor? The murder mystery guy.

  Finally, she called Rico. “What’s happening with Jake? Did his ex-wife show up?”

  “Show up where?”

  “At the station. To see Jake.”

  “Nope. She hasn’t been here.”

  “Weird. She rushed out of here and I just assumed she was going to see Jake. She came in the diner all hot to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know.” Quinn paused. “What else is going on over there? Any leads? Is Jake getting out soon?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Tell me more about this fundraiser thingy that he was at.”