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Authors: Christine Lynxwiler
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liquid and frowned. “Taste this.”
“Wonder what they wanted with Harvey ?” I stared at the soup. That conversation I’d overheard between Harvey and Alice the night of the murder had not been about soup. The question was, what had it been about?
“I’ve no idea. But I guess you’re going to try and find out.” Carly added some garlic powder to the pot of soup . “I don’t think John will tell you.”
I ignored her allusion to my curiosity and called Susan who agreed to come in and do an earlier shift. When I hung up, I quickly got into my apron and hit the floor running.
“Welcome to Down Home Diner, m a’am.” Marco ’s voice floated to the table where I was writing an elderly couple’s order. I glanced up in time to see a flamboyantly dressed woman pat Marco ’s cheek.
Her voice didn’t float . I t trumpeted across the packed diner. “Well, s weet t hing, you can welcome me anytime, anywhere.”
Marco blanched, grabbed a menu, and fairly raced to an empty table in my section.
“Your waitress will be right with you.” He wiped his brow and headed back to the front of the diner, making strange grimaces in my direction. I assumed he meant, “We’ve got a live one here.” I finished the order I was taking and excused myself.
As I walked to the table, I studied the new arrival. She was one of those people who se age isn’t readily apparent, but I guessed her to be somewhere in her forties. Her jet black hair was teased within an inch of its life and piled high on her head. Her eyes were so heavily mascaraed I was surprised she could blink. More noticeable was her dress, or lack thereof. We had the standard N o S hoes , N o S hirt , N o S ervice sign on our door. We might need to revise that.
She had on a skirt and a top, of sorts. The white top was the scantiest of halters , and the skirt, black leather, was short enough to qualify as micro-mini. Her white boots were straight out of the sixties. Beside her brilliantly red lips was a beauty mark. A tattooed snake crawled up her right arm and coiled lovingly around her neck. As I approached the table, she gave me a cheerful grin.
“Welcome to Down Home Diner. What can I get you to drink?” I gave her m y standard opening as I pulled my order pad and pencil from my pocket.
“I’ll have a beer in a bottle. The best you’ve got. I’m celebrating.”
“Sorry, m a’am. This is a dry county. We don’t serve alcoholic beverages. But we have really good sweet tea or lemonade.”
“What kinda b u rg have I landed in?” she asked loudly. “A gal can’t even get a drink?” She lowered her voice slightly, “C’mon, s weet c akes, I know you got the good stuff stashed somewheres. Just bring it in a tea glass. I won’t rat you out. It ain’t every day your ship comes in, but mine did , and I aim to celebrate.”
“I’m really sorry. We don’t have anything alcoholic on the premises. But our tea is worth celebrating. Tell you what . I’ll bring you a glass on the house. If you don’t like it, you won’t be out anything.” Carly gave away pies to police officers ; surely she wouldn’t mind if I gave tea to keep the peace.
“Well, the price is right. Go ahead.”
As I returned with her tea, I noticed others in the café were eyeing our unusual customer with interest. She was returning the favor, meeting glances all around the room. I rattled off the specials , and she ordered, but as I turned to hand the order in, she wrapped long fingers topped with pointed, blood-red nails around my wrist.
“Hang on a minute, h oney. Let’s talk . ”
“Let me turn your order in.” I gingerly disengaged my wrist. “ Then I’ll take a break. That way I can talk without getting jumped by the boss.” I was careful not to say this loud enough for anyone to hear and repeat it to Carly. I really didn’t want to get jumped by my big sis. I handed the woman ’s order through the window to the kitchen and returned to her table. As I sat, she
“Wonder what they wanted with Harvey ?” I stared at the soup. That conversation I’d overheard between Harvey and Alice the night of the murder had not been about soup. The question was, what had it been about?
“I’ve no idea. But I guess you’re going to try and find out.” Carly added some garlic powder to the pot of soup . “I don’t think John will tell you.”
I ignored her allusion to my curiosity and called Susan who agreed to come in and do an earlier shift. When I hung up, I quickly got into my apron and hit the floor running.
“Welcome to Down Home Diner, m a’am.” Marco ’s voice floated to the table where I was writing an elderly couple’s order. I glanced up in time to see a flamboyantly dressed woman pat Marco ’s cheek.
Her voice didn’t float . I t trumpeted across the packed diner. “Well, s weet t hing, you can welcome me anytime, anywhere.”
Marco blanched, grabbed a menu, and fairly raced to an empty table in my section.
“Your waitress will be right with you.” He wiped his brow and headed back to the front of the diner, making strange grimaces in my direction. I assumed he meant, “We’ve got a live one here.” I finished the order I was taking and excused myself.
As I walked to the table, I studied the new arrival. She was one of those people who se age isn’t readily apparent, but I guessed her to be somewhere in her forties. Her jet black hair was teased within an inch of its life and piled high on her head. Her eyes were so heavily mascaraed I was surprised she could blink. More noticeable was her dress, or lack thereof. We had the standard N o S hoes , N o S hirt , N o S ervice sign on our door. We might need to revise that.
She had on a skirt and a top, of sorts. The white top was the scantiest of halters , and the skirt, black leather, was short enough to qualify as micro-mini. Her white boots were straight out of the sixties. Beside her brilliantly red lips was a beauty mark. A tattooed snake crawled up her right arm and coiled lovingly around her neck. As I approached the table, she gave me a cheerful grin.
“Welcome to Down Home Diner. What can I get you to drink?” I gave her m y standard opening as I pulled my order pad and pencil from my pocket.
“I’ll have a beer in a bottle. The best you’ve got. I’m celebrating.”
“Sorry, m a’am. This is a dry county. We don’t serve alcoholic beverages. But we have really good sweet tea or lemonade.”
“What kinda b u rg have I landed in?” she asked loudly. “A gal can’t even get a drink?” She lowered her voice slightly, “C’mon, s weet c akes, I know you got the good stuff stashed somewheres. Just bring it in a tea glass. I won’t rat you out. It ain’t every day your ship comes in, but mine did , and I aim to celebrate.”
“I’m really sorry. We don’t have anything alcoholic on the premises. But our tea is worth celebrating. Tell you what . I’ll bring you a glass on the house. If you don’t like it, you won’t be out anything.” Carly gave away pies to police officers ; surely she wouldn’t mind if I gave tea to keep the peace.
“Well, the price is right. Go ahead.”
As I returned with her tea, I noticed others in the café were eyeing our unusual customer with interest. She was returning the favor, meeting glances all around the room. I rattled off the specials , and she ordered, but as I turned to hand the order in, she wrapped long fingers topped with pointed, blood-red nails around my wrist.
“Hang on a minute, h oney. Let’s talk . ”
“Let me turn your order in.” I gingerly disengaged my wrist. “ Then I’ll take a break. That way I can talk without getting jumped by the boss.” I was careful not to say this loud enough for anyone to hear and repeat it to Carly. I really didn’t want to get jumped by my big sis. I handed the woman ’s order through the window to the kitchen and returned to her table. As I sat, she
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