As I left the building, I scanned the street and made sure Axton’s car was right where I left it.
“Hey,” I heard someone shout.
It was the nice cop from the other day. He trotted toward me.
“Are you here about your car?” he asked. He pointed to his badge. “Officer Goedecker. Remember me?”
“Of course I remember. No, Officer Thomas thinks it’s gone for good. Chopped into little bits by now.”
He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “That’s probably true.”
I shrugged. “It happens, right?”
“Despite our best efforts, it does happen. Sorry.”
“Thanks anyway.” I left him in front of the station and drove to the diner.
When I got to work, Ma waved me into the back office that housed cleaning supplies, an unused desk, and not much else. “How’s your friend, toots?”
“She’s not doing well, Ma. She can’t make bail and the evidence against her is airtight.”
“That’s too bad, hon. But all will be well. The truth always comes out in the wash.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. The longer Janelle sat in jail, the more worried I became. And the police weren’t interested in the truth. They had a perfect suspect in Janelle. She was Asshat’s unhappy ex and a hothead. Case closed.
“Now,” Ma clapped her hands. “I’ve got a mission for you.”
I blinked and focused on the task at hand.
“It’s an important one.” She opened the bottom drawer of the old faux wood desk and pulled out a stack of flyers. In the middle of the page was a drawing of a yellow chicken and large font pronounced—Ma’s Diner is now open for lunch. Chicken specials every day. Buy one lunch special get one free.
“This is it, our road into lunch. We offer chicken specials, rotisserie chicken, chicken and dumplings, and chicken soup, in addition to the rest of the menu. We’ll be known as chicken central.”
I didn’t think this idea was any more of a winner winner chicken dinner than the pulled puck. “Why can’t New Kid do this?”
“He doesn’t have a car and I’m not letting him take Cha Cha.” Ma insisted on calling her maroon eighty-seven Buick Le Sabre Cha Cha. Why? That was still a puzzler.
“Go to Rudy’s parking lot and put them on every windshield. Hand them out to everyone you see, too.”
“Don’t you need me here? You know how crowded it gets after eleven.”
She hustled me out of the office. “We’ll manage. Go on and don’t come back until the flyers are gone.”
With a sigh, I strode back outside and drove up the road. Rudy’s Roundup Restaurant lived in a strip mall off Apple Tree Boulevard with one cut-rate Dollarz store, a Chinese restaurant, an auto parts dealer, a nail salon, and a tropical fish paradise. A larger-than-life, fiberglass black and white cow stood on the roof, gazing out over the parking lot.
Before I got started, I ran into Dollarz and grabbed a pair of hot pink knit gloves. Thin as they were, they wouldn’t do much good to ward off the biting chill, but they were better than nothing.
I started at one end of the parking lot and made my way down the rows as fast as I could. I figured the sooner I got rid of the flyers, the sooner I could get back to the diner where it was warm. But I couldn’t grab the flyers with my gloved hand, so I had to go barehanded until my fingers were painfully stiff, then rip the glove off the other hand and start all over again.
When I finally got to the cars near the storefronts, a man from the Chinese restaurant wearing a chef’s coat and hat pointed at me. He grabbed a flyer off one of the cars and started yelling at me in a language I didn’t understand.
Soon, a tiny, gray-haired woman in a black sweater and slacks joined him. “You, go away.” She shooed me.
I kept one eye on the couple as I continued to slip flyers under windshield wipers.
“Shoo. Go or I call police,” she yelled.
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” I said. At least I hoped not. Getting arrested was not on the agenda today.
Without warning, the woman tucked her chin to her chest and charged at me like a Pamplona bull. I was twenty-five feet away, but so shocked, I stood rooted to the sidewalk. I glanced to my left, then my right. As she neared, I spun on my heel and ran as she chased me through the parking lot, losing one of my new crappy gloves in the process.
We must have looked like a couple of loons, me looking over my shoulder, her chasing me and shouting. She was a fast runner, too. She must have had forty years on me, but she was in much better shape. We dodged and weaved. I’d feign to the left and she’d circle to the right. My goal was to get to Axton’s car on the far side of the lot. But this crazy woman closed in on me at the opposite end.
She finally trapped me between a car and the busy street in front of the strip mall. When she advanced, I tried to maneuver around the car, but there just wasn’t enough room unless I wanted to get squashed by oncoming traffic.
She moved toward me and started slapping at my upper arms. “You go away.”
“Ow, stop that.” I tried to fend her off with the flyers, but they were slick in my one gloved hand and I lost my hold. In the brisk December breeze, the flyers took flight and scattered all over the ground.
“Look,” she yelled. “Look at what you do.” Smack, smack.
“Stop it!” I now held up my arms to shield myself.
I supposed I could have called the police, but with my luck, Officer Hard Ass would show up. The whole incident would get a write up in the paper and I’d never hear the end of it from my mother.
Tired of the woman’s slaps, I finally scampered over the trunk of the car, and running like I was a teenage rock star being chased by twelve-year-old groupies, I forced myself to go faster, even as the muscles in my legs burned. I made it to the Honda and glanced behind me. Standing in front of her restaurant, the crazy lady shook a tiny fist at me. I crammed myself behind the steering wheel and hauled ass out of the parking lot, gulping for air, my heart beating so hard I thought it might burst through my chest.
I parked behind the diner and staggered through the kitchen door.
Chapter 7
The place was hopping as it always was at noon. I grabbed a glass of water and downed it, then tied on an apron, snagged a pad, and got to work.
After one, we hit a wall. No customers, lunch or otherwise. Roxy refilled the ketchup bottles and New Kid sat at the counter and sipped a Coke.
Hands on her hips, Ma glared at me. “Did you put out all those flyers?”
“Most of them, but the Chinese restaurant people threatened to call the police and I had to fight my way out of there.”
“That’s terrible. It’s a free country. You have every right to put out those flyers if you want.”
I didn’t want.
Roxy and I found some busy work, but after dusting every square inch of the diner and cleaning the windows, we resorted to playing tic-tac-toe with the salt and pepper shakers. It was a relief when Axton came in at two-thirty.
He hopped up on a stool and dropped his backpack on the counter. He glanced over at New Kid. “Who’s he?”
“Ma hired him to bus tables. So, what’s up?”
“Well, I found out some info on Chicken Licker.”
Roxy walked by and lightly punched his arm. “Hey, Axman.”
“Hey, Rox. I dig the threads today.” She wore a dress with a laced up bodice and extremely short skirt. She paired it with knee high platform boots. Beer garden dominatrix. Quite a showstopper.
“So what’s the what on Crystal Waters?” I asked. “Gimme.”
He pulled a manila folder out of his bag and handed it to me.
I scanned through the pages and Roxy peered over my shoulder. Two arrests for domestic assault. Her drive
r’s license picture wasn’t half bad—long, dark hair, tan skin, lots of creative eye makeup. But her mug shot showed a different side. Dark streaks of mascara and eyeliner had left inky trails down her cheeks and her hair had been pulled into an uneven ponytail.
I laid the pages on the counter. “Domestic assault on a former boyfriend. Another good reason why Crystal is a suspect.”
“Crystal has a past history with violence and she was fighting publicly with Asshat in the strip club before he was attacked,” Roxy said.
“After work, we’re going to drop in on her,” I said. “You want come, too, Ax?”
“Sorry, I’ve got plans tonight.”
I leaned on the counter and stared at him. “Plans? You never have plans.”
“New game comes out tomorrow—Target Terminated 2: Target Eliminated. Joe’s been sleeping in a tent in front of the store for the last two days. Told him I’d bring him dinner.” Stoner Joe was Axton’s wasted roommate. His name said it all.
“Really?” Roxy asked. “Stoner Joe is more important than getting Janelle out of jail?”
“Sorry, but I made a promise.”
I sighed. “Fine. Go play your little reindeer games. Roxy and I will do the dirty work.” I packaged up the last two donuts and sent him on his way.
Crystal lived in an upscale condo just north of Apple Tree Boulevard. A gift from her rich lover perhaps?
Roxy and I walked into the building and found her unit, 3B. I rang the bell and waited.
Roxy put her ear to the door. “I don’t hear anything. Maybe we should check it out.”
I glanced around. No one poked their head into the hall to ask what the hell we were doing. Always a good sign. “Here.” I dug more gloves out of my purse and handed her a pair.
In seconds she picked the lock and gave me a thumb’s up. We slipped into the condo and quietly closed the door.
“Nice digs,” Roxy whispered.
Very nice. Apparently stripping and sleeping with rich men made a ton more than waitressing. Who knew? A white leather sofa and love seat were arranged in the small living room. Crystal decorated for the holidays with a mini tree on her coffee table. She forewent the traditional ornaments and draped the whole thing in ropes of fake diamonds. At least I assumed they were fake.
“Do you want to start in here, Rox? Remember to lift the cushions and check the vents.”
“You’re telling me the drill?”
I left her to it and hit the kitchen. I thought about all those places they say thieves look, like the flour canister—she didn’t have one. The freezer—three Lean Cuisines and four bottles of flavored vodka (cotton candy, bacon, whipped cream, and cookie dough). Ugh. I methodically, but quickly, went through every cupboard, her oven, and drawers. The missing money wasn’t hiding in her kitchen and I didn’t find any evidence she’d bashed in Asshat’s head. A written confession would have been nice.
I met Roxy in the hallway. “Nothing. You?”
She shook her head. “You want the bedroom or the bathroom?”
“Bed.” I moved down the short hall.
Crystal had one bedroom and it was très cheesy. Black wallpaper with pictures of diamonds covered one wall, the rest were painted eye-popping pink. The bed was a mass of black and pink satin.
I picked up one of the silver frames on the mirrored bedside table. She had a lot of photos of herself, but only one of a tall blond guy with lots of muscles. I studied the photo and put it back where I found it. He didn’t look like a sugar daddy.
I yanked open the shallow drawer and found condoms and sex toys and a day planner. Hello, Gorgeous. I stuck the planner in my purse to peruse later at my leisure.
I moved to the bed and lifted the mattress, checked the pillows and beneath the satin dust ruffle. Nothing. The dresser held a profusion of nasty underwear.
I had just started to rifle through an alarming amount of shelf bras when I heard a key slide into the front door. Shit.
“Roxy,” I whispered.
She sped into the bedroom and we glanced around for a place to hide. She finally grabbed me and hauled me to the bed and we slid underneath.
My heart beat double time and it seemed like my breathing was really loud. Cold sweat trickled down my forehead. What if Crystal called the police? What if she had a gun?
I heard shuffling, then creaks from the leather furniture in the living room. Footsteps down the hall. Someone entered the room.
“I haven’t found it.” This had to be Crystal. I assumed she was talking on the phone and not to herself. Her voice was high-pitched and a little squeaky. The closet door opened and closed. “Of course I’ve looked.” She sat on the bed.
I held my breath and prayed she wouldn’t look underneath for any reason.
“I know. Okay, bye.”
Something thumped against the wall and my whole body tensed. Then she moved off the bed and wandered around the room. I heard drawers opening and closing. I hoped she didn’t need her day planner.
After a few minutes, she left the room and the shower turned on. I reached out and squeezed Roxy’s hand. She squeezed back.
I lifted the dust ruffle and peeked out from beneath the bed, relieved to see she wasn’t in the room. Straining my ears, I listened for any movement other than the water. It was now or never. I scampered from beneath the bed, Roxy right behind me.
We quietly made our way to the bedroom door and I poked my head into the hall. Around the corner, I spotted Crystal’s silhouette through the opaque shower door. I nodded at Roxy and we fled the condo, running through the building and out into the parking lot.
With fumbling fingers, I shoved the key into the ignition, and raced off. My heart didn’t stop pounding until we were a mile away, parked in a convenience store parking lot.
I glanced over at Roxy. “That was close.”
“Way too close.”
I jerked my purse onto my lap and dug out the day planner. I paged through it, but there was no appointment for today’s date, so I flipped through the last week. Crystal had a very busy life of manicures, salon trips, waxing appointments. Then I saw the name ‘Daddy’ and flipped the book to show Roxy.
“So, she had lunch with her dad,” she said.
“At three on a Wednesday afternoon? There were no pics of him in the place. Strippers tend to have daddy issues.” I checked back a few weeks. “Lots of Wednesday afternoons with Daddy.”
Roxy glanced at me, her blue eyes wide. “Sugar daddy?”
“That would be my guess.” There was no contact info listed in the address part of the book. No personal info on Daddy at all. “But we still don’t know who he is.”
“Do you think that’s who she was talking to on the phone?”
I sighed. “Don’t know.”
Our next stop was the muffler shop. According to Sondra, Asshat used to work here, and from what Janelle told me this morning, his friend Marcus still did.
I pulled into a lot with at least a dozen other cars. A dark tow truck was parked off to one side. Being here reminded me I needed an oil change. And if I still had my car, I’d totally get one.
I strode into the waiting room and Roxy followed behind. A strong mix of rubber, oil, and gas filled the air. Banging and clanging sounds from the garage echoed through the room. A man in a filthy blue shirt with an embroidered nametag that read ‘John’ stood behind the counter.
“Is Marcus here?” I asked.
He scratched his cheek with an oil-stained hand. “Who’s asking?”
“A friend of Sheik’s.”
“Just a minute.” He left through the glass door that led to the garage. While I waited, I glanced around at the plastic tan chairs, the coin op toy machine, and the empty coffeepot in the corner.
A tall, cute African American ma
n walked through the door, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. We’d like to talk to you about Sheik.”
His eyes flicked over me. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jane.”
Roxy, who had stuck two quarters in the toy machine and was turning the knob, waved. “I’m Elizabeth.”
Marcus looked a little taken aback by her outfit, then lowered his brows. “What do you want to know about Sheik?”
“We’re interested in all that money he was throwing around.”
“What the hell business is it of yours?” He narrowed his brown eyes and set his fists on the counter, the rag clenched in one hand.
“From what I hear, he’s unemployed,” I said.
“So where did it come from?” Roxy asked.
“I don’t know who the fuck you are—”
“Friends of Janelle’s. She’d like a piece of Sheik’s pie.”
“She’s got kids to feed, you know,” Roxy said.
The waves of anger coming off him beat at me. “That bitch tried to kill my Holmes. She’s lucky she’s in jail where I can’t touch her.”
“She didn’t hit Sheik, Marcus. She’s innocent.”
He scoffed. “If she didn’t do it, who the fuck did?”
“Crystal?” I asked.
“Nah, Crystal’s got a temper. She’d bitch slap someone, maybe take off her shoe and whack him, but she wouldn’t put him in a coma.”
“Crystal and Sheik had a big fight at The Bottom Dollar last week,” I said.
Roxy walked up to the counter to stand next to me. “And she was arrested for domestic assault twice.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s a matter of public record,” I said. “Who else was Sheik dating?”
“Sheik doesn’t date, he hooks up.”
“Who was he hooking up with?”
“It doesn’t matter. Janelle’s the one who did this. End of story.” He strode toward the glass door, jerked it open so hard the handle banged against the wall.
2 Last Diner Standing Page 6
