by D. J. Lutz
“So, you do know someone at Mint Street?” I had to find out if the whole interview had been a mistake. Working at the Cat and Fiddle was nice, and I could see myself doing it for a lifetime. But the siren’s call of a high–paying gig in corporate circles had started to crescendo.
“Winnie, and I mean no disrespect to you or anyone, but I know some of the board members at Mint Street. If they make you an offer, take the highest salary you can negotiate and then network like crazy to get a better job somewhere else a year or two down the road. Just watch your backside. Trust me, the CEO will be watching.”
This was not the news I had been hoping to hear. Learning how to cook a spicy crab popper was starting to sound appealing again.
“Francine, you said something about being able to help. What did you have in mind?” The girls had some connections, obviously, so I decided I might as well take advantage. Networking. That’s how it went in business, or so I’d been told. There could be no harm in that.
Francine took a deep breath and then smiled, knowing she had finally convinced me.
“Well, on our way back from Richmond to D.C.—that’s where we have our main office—Tricia gets a phone call from a big—and I mean really big—client. They are looking at relocating their headquarters to southeastern Virginia, somewhere in the Hampton Roads area. They are leaning toward building right here in Seaview, to be specific, and they need people. You could get in on the ground floor of this new office. It’s an awesome opportunity!”
“And,” Tricia added, “since not everyone in this company wants to relocate, we have been asked to help fill the gaps in their personnel. So naturally, we were thinking of places we could hold a mini job fair. As we drove by, I saw this little place of yours and thought it would be the perfect location, right in the center of the town’s business district. We wanted to ask if we could reserve the entire café on Thursday. And here we’ve discovered a connection of our own!” Tricia smiled, and I smiled back. “We’ll pay you a finder’s fee, of course, and compensation equal to your average Thursday revenue, plus you get the first and last conversation with the employer over coffee and biscuits.”
“That is a great deal, but also a lot of work. And as much as I appreciate the inside track, it would be very difficult to pull off something of this magnitude this week. We are having some family drama you don’t even want to know about. Could we make it next week?”
“I understand, dear,” Tricia said. “Executive positions aren’t for everyone. We can rent an empty storefront down the street.” She gestured at the vacant Bailey’s Family Bistro. “Fran, contact the realtor and have him open it. And hire a temp crew; we’ll have ourselves a job fair in no time. Maybe your friend here could serve drinks?”
I didn’t like what Fran’s boss implied. After all, she didn’t know me at all. Yet, I felt I had to defend myself.
“No, that’s not it. I really do enjoy the work here. But if I had to take a management position, my goal would a job in marketing, in a building where I have an office with a window, maybe a plant or two. I’m a contributor and feel I bring some good stuff to the table for any company.” I went for gold, hoping not to get it.
Tricia, proving she was a true professional, moved in to close the sale. “So you’ll host the job fair on Thursday?” Not giving me time to answer, she continued, “Outstanding. We’ll have a few meetings before then, of course. And I’m afraid it will take up a bit of your time, and you seem busy with, what did you call it? Oh, yes, family drama. But, I’ll take you at your word you can do it.”
Tricia refused to make eye contact again, instead opting to pour a little salt onto her square, white paper napkin. She placed her tea glass on top, lifting it a few times to ensure that the napkin did not stick to the condensation on the bottom of the glass. A delaying tactic. I could tell she was very good at the soft sell: finding what motivated people and then using urgency as a way of putting the screws on someone to get approval. Before I could answer, Tricia looked at me defiantly, flipping her hair again, and daring me to say something other than thank you.
I snapped my little black order binder closed and held it about a foot above the table top. The corners of my mouth pulled back into a smile as I simply let go. The pop of the binder hitting the tabletop caused more than a few heads to turn. One nearby woman gasped, thinking I was about to give a rude customer what she deserved. Two men at the counter gambled a ten dollar bill each, eagerly awaiting my move.
It was past time to take control of the negotiation. Looking Patricia square in the eye, I announced, “Tell you what we’ll do. You get the Cat and Fiddle on Thursday for the average revenue determined by the receipts from the previous ten Thursdays. My grandmother and I will work the room so you and Francine can run herd on the big dogs from your sponsor. I’ll take thirty minutes up front with the hiring manager and an hour after the event. As for prep meetings, I’ll also give you sixty, no, make that thirty minutes. Each day, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, to review the status of the event. This is a take–it–or–leave–it deal.”
I wasn’t sure if I could exhale. Or if I should.
Tricia smiled. “Frannie, we found our girl. The company wanted someone who wouldn’t take any crap, and it seems your friend Winnie here fits the bill.” She extended her hand as a sort of peace offering. “I’ll shake on your offer, Miss Kepler. And maybe you will end up with that office with a window, and a plant in the corner by the time this is all done.”
I liked how she called me Miss Kepler.
A firm hand grasp sealed the agreement. After a few subsequent hugs, Fran and Tricia left to find suitable accommodations for the week. While they may have been satisfied with the outcome of our negotiations, I was still skeptical. Had I just played into my grandmother’s plan to move me from the cash register to the corporate board room?
6
Velma came out of the kitchen, holding a tray of nasty–looking, burned hockey pucks. “This your work, Winnie? I taught you how to bake cookies better than that, yes?”
“Grandma, that is my first try at black bean burgers. It looks like I need to work on more elevation. Next time I’ll add more flour, maybe an extra egg, and then I think I’ll top it with some fried red seaweed. Tastes like bacon, you know.”
Everyone at the service counter laughed at my bacon comment. The man nearest me snatched his five–dollar tip from the counter saying, “You make a veggie burger with fake bacon, one that tastes like real bacon, and I’ll triple this tip. Can’t be done.”
“You’re on!” I might have been a novice cook, but I could figure anything out if someone was foolish enough to tell me I could not do it. I plucked the greenback from his paw. “Thanks for the down payment on my winnings.”
After the majority of the customers had finished, I took a break long enough to speak to Velma about the upcoming job fair. As we were putting the clean dishes away, I found to my surprise that she was in favor of the idea.
“Thursdays were always slow, business–wise,” she said. “And I think a college graduate like you shouldn’t be satisfied just running a small–town diner for the rest of her life.”
“I like it here, Grandma. You know that, right?” I tried putting up a good front. “But if you think I should take the best offer at this job fair, I’ll give it serious consideration.” I was a terrible liar.
We walked to the scullery, a traditional name for what the casual observer would call the dishwashing room. Velma always cleaned as she cooked, a skill and dedication I had yet to master. A few pots and pans were the only items left to clean and stow away.
I noticed that my grandmother moved slower than her normal fast shuffle. She meandered on purpose, pausing to speak, and then stopping, as if unable to find the right words. She picked up a wooden spoon as she faced me. Velma flicked the utensil at me twice. If she wanted my attention, she had it.
“Winnie, you are destined for great things. Not sure what they are, but they will be so much better t
han the choices presented to me when I was your age. Who knows? You may just like what you find. And if it doesn’t work out, the room upstairs will always be there.”
Surprise! No wooden spoon beat–down or looks of disappointment. Not even a guilt trip. What could I say? I gave her a hug. “Grandma, you always say the nicest things.” I didn’t normally get sentimental, but I think a tear formed.
Then Velma got all philosophical. She took my hand with both of hers and whispered. “Sometimes, what we want is not what we need.” Was she referring to what I thought I wanted? Or what she knew I needed?
Velma hung up her apron on a plastic hook on the wall. She finished her grandmotherly advice with a cryptic, “It helps if our eyes are open wide enough to see it. Whatever it is.”
Thanks, Grandma. What the heck is that supposed to mean?
A few minutes later, the last customers of the day had left. Before we locked the café for the night, the front door opened. It was Parker, still in uniform. I noticed right away the handcuffs were out of their pouch.
Stepping between my grandmother and the man with a badge, I asked, “What are you doing here? Has the VCID finished their work at the fairgrounds?” I couldn’t help but continue staring at the shiny shackles dangling from his hand. Velma excused herself to the kitchen so we could speak in private.
Parker straightened his tie. I didn’t know if he was using the accessory as a way to look more official, or if he couldn’t fathom how to tie a decent Windsor knot. But once he determined his ensemble was in good order, he resumed his task.
He reached into his back pocket, producing a small notebook, and then pulled a pen out of his front shirt pocket. Parker’s hands trembled. His attempt to balance everything in his hands while writing failed as he dropped the handcuffs.
The clang brought about another noise, this one from something scurrying from underneath the beverage station, out into the dining room, between my legs, up and down Parker’s uniform, with a short interlude swinging around Parker’s belt, and finally out the door. Parker was now as stiff as an Egyptian mummy.
I laughed, saying, “Tinkers! It’s okay.”
Parker exhaled. “Winnie, the cat can wait. I have to tell you, this wasn’t my idea. I argued against it, but the Captain gave me an order. In fact, he will call me back any minute now.”
“An order? And what order would that be?” I refocused on the situation, this time with a gut feeling that I already knew the answer.
“Once Captain Larson gets the paperwork in order, I’ll be forced to take your grandmother into custody for the murder of Pierre St. Pierre.”
“Are you kidding me? There’s no real evidence, just one statement. I think the video is misleading.”
My frustration meter surged into the red zone, but I didn’t want to let Parker see me upset. “Let’s think about this, shall we?” I gave him a smile and a wink, hoping to lower his defenses.
I sauntered up to the man, my chest almost touching his. My fingers crept up his shirt like a gentle spider, then latched onto the man’s shirt collar. I looked up, forcing Parker to maintain eye contact. So far, so good.
“Officer Williams, are you saying that based on a flimsy premise thrown around by a creepy television producer, you are here to arrest my grandmother? She’s as honest as they come; a regular church–goer. And above all, she’s innocent. That should count for something, right?”
Velma was walking back in from the kitchen carrying a tray covered by a kitchen towel. She had caught the tail end of the conversation.
“Don’t worry, Winnie. I expected this turn of events. This is the standard procedure. Do I need to pack an overnight bag? Oh, and anyone seen Tinkers? I have a treat for her.”
“Ma’am,” he said, “I have to inform you that once I place you under arrest, you will have the right to remain silent.” Parker droned on, reciting the Miranda rights from a small card he carried in his shirt pocket. “Do you understand your rights, as I have stated them this evening?”
Velma smiled. She was always smiling as if she knew what people would say and do. She never once looked worried. Her head remained high, her hands calm, steady as a surgeon’s. Velma’s feet were shoulder–width apart and her toes were pointing inward, giving the woman a commanding stance.
Parker’s body language spoke volumes, too. He wasn’t standing up straight. His eyes kept looking up and down, left, right, never finding that comfort zone of a point of focus needed to communicate well. Parker’s shifting body steamed of conflict on two feet. He was not being very successful in his attempt to satisfy both an intimidating police captain and me.
Velma surprised us all when she uncovered the tray, producing a baker’s dozen of fresh cookies right out of the oven, little wisps of steam rising from each. My stomach rumbled as Velma said, “Well, if I’m not under arrest at this moment, you can have cookies and I can still say what I want, right?”
Parker hunched his shoulders. “I guess so. It’s a free country, as they say.”
“Yes it is, so I say that I would like to be excused to visit the powder room. It’s right over there.” Velma motioned to a set of two doors in the back of the room. “You can stand guard at the door if you would like, officer. Oh, and please, help yourself to the cookies. They aren’t poisoned.”
Velma and I both laughed, leaving poor Parker wondering whether my grandmother was kidding. I gave him the same shrugged–shoulder routine, not helping him at all.
After Velma and I chuckled, I looked at Parker and said, “Oh, have a cookie, for goodness sake.” I found my cell phone and pressed button after button, trying to web–search an attorney. The Seaview criminal justice system was a new subject for me, and this problem was not like cramming for an exam in home economics. No, this was life or death, and I needed help.
It was late and I couldn’t find any law offices open for business. I was certain the nearest bail bondsman was across the water in Virginia Beach, a long drive to make under such circumstances. But I’d go, if it meant I could get the help.
I noticed Parker opening the clasp of one handcuff. That set me off. I had tolerated the charade long enough. I slammed down my phone and demanded an explanation.
“Parker, how could you?”
“Winnie, I don’t want to. I have to. Captain Larson got a call from the magistrate. The Commonwealth’s Attorney received enough information from his preliminary report to force an arrest warrant. But I understand the judge will let her come back home after processing. Believe me, we don’t want your grandmother in jail, either. At least, I don’t.”
On her way to the restroom, my grandmother had heard me tell off Parker. She stopped short of the door to pass on one more bit of wisdom.
“It will be all right, Winnie. The truth always prevails. But if you want to call someone, try to call Doc Jones. You remember him from when you came to visit as a kid, right? He and your grandfather took you and the other kids to the park to pick blackberries? He’ll know just what to do. Tell him it’s just like old times.”
“Doc Jones? The man’s almost ninety, Grandma. What can he do for you?”
“He’ll know. Trust me. And no matter what happens tonight, don’t lose sight of your young man there. He’s going places. Knows what’s right and stands his ground to protect it. Not half bad–looking, either. A keeper, I think.”
Parker blushed, the only thing saving him from total embarrassment being the cell phone—his, not mine—buzzing. It was the Captain, asking if he had taken Velma into custody yet. Parker stumbled, trying to explain the delay.
“No, sir. Not yet. You told me to wait until you got the official warrant. Remember?” A few moments of silence followed. “I understand, sir, but I don’t think that’s legal, is it?”
Now I could hear the voice on the other end of the conversation. Yelling. Definite yelling. Parker had the look of a dog with its tail between its legs.
“Yes, sir,” Parker said. “I understand, sir. No, sir. No problem at
all, sir. Yes, sir.” Before he could say another word, he cupped his hand over the phone to keep the conversation private. However, it was too late, and we both knew it.
There was no mistaking the Captain’s intent. We had all heard the direct orders being repeated over and over from the phone’s tiny speaker. Parker stood up straight, clicking the back of his heels together and locked his free hand down at the seam of his trousers. “Right away. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. Five minutes. Yes, sir.”
I could tell the answer was hollow just by looking at Parker’s eyes. That and the insubordinate smirk that graced his countenance. Perhaps my grandmother had been right?
Not wanting to take any chances, I grasped his arm with just enough force to draw Parker back to reality. “Parker, you can’t mean he gave you five minutes to arrest my grandmother? I need more time. I have to find Doc Jones and a lawyer. Can’t you wait for a few more minutes, Parker? Please?” I did not like to beg. It wasn’t in my DNA.
Parker held his palms out showing he had nothing to offer. “Winnie, you heard the man. He’ll call back in a few minutes once he has the warrant in hand. Then I will have to arrest your grandmother. But like I said, she’ll be processed and then released to await arraignment. I think this will end up going to a grand jury anyway, and they will drop the charges based on a lack of solid evidence. Your grandmother was right, this is more of a procedural thing. Nothing personal. At least, I hope you don’t hold me responsible for all of this. You don’t, do you?”
I needed Parker’s help, so it was not time to tell him how wrong he was acting. I ignored his somewhat rhetorical question. Velma was a smart cookie, and she always chose her words carefully. I could not help but think she was trying to give me a clue. To what, I did not know, but why mention an old physician who had nothing to do with any of the events of the day?
And Parker was a keeper?
If I could get Velma out of this immediate trouble, I would not have much time before I would need to face the next big problem, that being the job fair at the Cat and Fiddle on Thursday. What if the judge decided Velma needed to stay locked up until bail could be posted? I had a few dollars saved up, but not enough to get someone out of a murder charge. And I had turned into a decent server, but I wasn’t certain I could handle a full rush at the café by myself.
