Puzzling Ink

by Becky Clark

  “Where’s my burger?” Mr. Chavez asked.

  “Coming right out.” Quinn hurried back to the kitchen to start his burger. She heard the door chime twice while she watched the burger sizzle on the grill. She kept checking to see if it was still too pink. When she was satisfied, she lifted it on to a bun and scooped a mound of fries next to it.

  When she placed it in front of him she noticed his wife had already finished her BLT. Quinn offered an “Enjoy!” that sounded much cheerier than she felt.

  She looked around to see whose order she should take next. “Where’d that couple with the two kids go?”

  “They left half an hour ago,” Mr. Chavez said. “Said they were afraid they’d miss the fireworks show.”

  “It’s not even dark out!” Quinn said.

  Mr. Chavez smirked and someone at a table nearby giggled.

  Quinn spent the rest of the dinner hour racing from dining room to kitchen to cash register. She knew if she just hustled, she could get everyone’s food served almost before they complained. Only once did people at the same table order the same thing. When she was able to carry out two plates at once, she felt like kissing them full on the mouth.

  Everything was a blur of charred burgers and fries. She’d made so many combinations of breakfast food she started to get fuzzy about what time of day it was. She sold out of Jake’s pot roast. She ladled gallons of redeye gravy over biscuits for the drunks, just as Jake predicted. He was wrong, however, that it was going to be slow.

  At one point she raced into the kitchen to find Wilbur flipping two burger patties on the grill.

  “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be back here!” Quinn tried to shoo the ringleader of the Retireds out, but he wouldn’t budge.

  “Larry wanted his burger rare and Silas wanted his well-done. You screwed up both orders.” Wilbur’s voice was gravel.

  Quinn grabbed the spatula away from him. “Why didn’t they just switch plates?”

  Wilbur stared at her. “Because they didn’t. That’s why.”

  “Get out of here before I use this spatula on you!”

  “I was just trying to help. You’re running around like a blind dog trapped in a smokehouse.” Wilbur untied the apron he wore and shuffled out of the kitchen. Quinn felt bad about her outburst until she heard him say loudly to the entire restaurant, “She won’t even admit she screwed up your orders, boys! Tried to say it was your fault for ordering the wrong thing.”

  Quinn leaned halfway out the pass-through window. “I did no such thing!” Her shrill voice embarrassed her.

  By the time the dinner rush ended, even without the burger debacle and the recalcitrant credit card machine, she had to admit it didn’t go very well. Everyone got food eventually, often what they had ordered, but it wasn’t pretty. Those who stuck it out were patient with her and generous with their tips to reward her effort, but she knew word would get back to Jake that she wasn’t quite up to the task. The Help Wanted sign was here to stay.

  Quinn was glum, clearing and wiping tables when she heard the tinkle of the door chime. She glanced at the clock for the forty-seventh time. It was still eighteen minutes before closing. There were only two tables still occupied—one by a couple in the middle of a quiet but highly charged political debate, and the other by a couple so in love with each other that they probably thought their food was cooked and delivered by Cupid himself. Quinn wished they’d all continue their activities at home, so she could too. She looked forward to snuggling up with Fang and teaching him all about Netflix binges.

  “Sit anywhere, but I’ve got to warn you the menu is very limited tonight. And I’m getting ready to close soon.” She watched as a man helped another man, clearly drunk, across the restaurant to the big corner booth. Quinn was glad she still had some biscuits and gravy left for him. Both men wore costumes. The drunk’s head bobbed, but Quinn saw his black fake beard-and-mustache combo. He looked like a cartoon Italian Santa. The other man wore a huge fake walrus mustache that covered his cheeks entirely, black bowler, and round eyeglasses.

  The sober one poured Drunky into the large booth and wedged him in, his back to the diner. Drunky dropped his chin to his chest, fast asleep. His friend slid in across from him and exhaled hard.

  “Costume party?” Quinn set two glasses of water in front of them.

  “Wrong. Murder mystery party.”

  “How fun! Were you the detective? You look like Hercule Poirot.”

  “Wrong again. I am the victim.”

  “Looks like your friend isn’t much better.”

  “We need coffee.”

  “I can do you one better. I’ve got one serving of biscuits and gravy left. Best cure on the planet.”

  “Sold.”

  Quinn went to the kitchen. If Jake was here she’d call out, “Heart attack on a rack” and he’d reply, “Comin’ right up!”

  She brought the men their coffee and one large order of biscuits and gravy. The man in the bowler took the plate from her and slid it in front of Drunky. He nudged him. “Eat this. Best cure on the planet.”

  Quinn thought the man might have smiled at her, but his fake facial hair obscured everything but his eyes. She left them to their hangovers while she dealt with her remaining customers.

  It had slowed down enough that she could organize the diner and clean the messes from earlier. She finally felt more in control and realized it had been so busy she hadn’t had time to square corners or line up ketchup bottles. Now she did and it soothed her.

  Finally, all the customers had gone, except for the guys in the back booth. She wanted to shoo them out like bartenders did. “Last call, boys. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” But she didn’t want word to get back to Jake that she’d been rude. Not like drunks would remember, but still, this job was the one thing she had going for her.

  Quinn moved toward a table near their booth, loudly stacking chairs upside down on it, hoping they’d take the hint that it was long past closing time. She was dismayed to see the sober one had slipped out without paying while she wasn’t looking. Drunky had half his face in his biscuits and gravy.

  Rapping her knuckles on the table in front of him, she said, “Sorry. I’ve got to close. You’re going to have to sleep it off somewhere else.” He didn’t stir. “You want me to box this up?” She tried to pull the plate away, but even that didn’t rouse him. “Mister, I’m calling you a cab.” With one knee on the vinyl seat, Quinn reached for his shoulder and shook him, hard. “Wake up!”

  He didn’t.

  She looked again at his plate of heart attack on a rack with wide eyes. She felt his wrist for a pulse. Then the carotid artery in his neck.

  Scrambling backward out of the booth, she covered her mouth with one hand. Her eyes darted around the diner for help, even though she knew she was alone.

  She called Rico and told him what happened. He told her to stay put and not to touch anything. She dialed 911. Rico answered. “I’m just leaving. I’ve already called the paramedics. Go sit down. I’ll be right there.”

  She tried Jake, but he didn’t answer. She didn’t leave a message. A dead man in your diner was something to hear about in person.

  A dead man. Quinn gave an involuntary shiver. She’d never seen a dead person up close before, much less needed to touch one. Her knees wobbled and she dropped into a chair as far away from the corner booth as possible. She wanted to flee but knew she had to stay. The poor man deserved someone to keep vigil until the authorities arrived to deal with everything. How sad that his friend left him, probably so he could get home to his loved ones. Or maybe out of annoyance. Maybe this kind of overindulging was a regular occurrence for the dead man. People could only do so much for their friends, but Quinn knew as soon as his murder mystery friend heard about this death, he would mourn and feel so guilty. Her eyes filled and she brushed at t
hem with the back of her hand. At least his last night seemed fun. Before his heart attack, that is. She took some solace in that and it calmed her the teensiest bit, but she needed to do something, not just sit there staring at the deceased.

  She didn’t know what was appropriate, though, so she shoved the tables and chairs closest to the booth out of the way, so Rico and the paramedics would have room to work. When she’d cleared an area, one eye always on the dead man, she placed the chairs upside down on the rest of the tables, exactly at right angles, one inch from each corner. She was counting the taps of her foot as she leaned against the wall by the front door when Rico and the paramedics arrived. They checked the man for a pulse. None. One of them officially declared the man dead.

  Rico took a couple of photos of the man before maneuvering him enough to pull a wallet from his pocket. “Emmett Dubois.” Rico looked at Quinn and the paramedics. “That name ring a bell to anyone?” The three shook their heads.

  “What’s with his getup?” Rico asked Quinn.

  Quinn had to clear her throat twice before she could get any words out. “The guy he came in with said they were at a murder mystery party.”

  “Around here?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “Did you know the guy he was with?”

  “No. But he had a big fake mustache too. Covered his whole face.” Quinn’s gaze turned to the upturned chair legs on all the tables. One, two, three, four. Two, two, three, four. Three, two, three, four.

  “Quinn. Quinn.” Rico snapped his fingers in her face. “Where’s Jake?”

  She squinched her eyes tight until she saw stars and not chair legs or dead men. “Not back yet. I haven’t seen him since, like, two this afternoon.”

  Rico dialed his phone. “Jake, when you get this, call me immediately.” He turned back to Quinn. “Who else ate biscuits and gravy today?”

  Quinn’s hand fluttered to her throat. “I—I don’t—I’ll have to… Do you think that’s what killed him? Did I—?”

  “No.” Rico put his arm around her shoulders and steered her to the Retireds’ table on the opposite side of the diner. “Just sit. I’ll call your parents to come get you. We can talk more tomorrow.”

  “No! I don’t want to worry them.”

  Rico stared at her, ready to argue, but Chief Chestnut arrived.

  He barked, “Secure this crime scene! What are you doing just standing around?”

  The paramedics and Rico jumped into action.

  “It’s not a crime scene.” Quinn spoke in a whisper that yearned to be a roar. “It can’t be.”

  “What’s that?” Chief Chestnut stepped in front of her face.

  “It can’t be a crime scene.” Her voice quavered.

  “It ain’t a junior prom,” he snapped.

  Quinn recoiled, both at his voice and the sudden boom of the fireworks show. Glancing out the window, she saw it was full-on dark. She hadn’t realized how late it was.

  Chief Chestnut gestured at the plate of biscuits and gravy. “Get this tested, Rico.” Then, turning to Quinn, he said, “Give me a list of everyone you served this to.”

  Rico said, “Can it wait until tomorrow, Chief? She’s had a day.”

  Quinn didn’t wait for an answer, fleeing the diner as a flurry of fireworks lit up the sky and split the night.

  She pounded across streets and through Square Park, dodging the ooh-ers and ah-ers in camp chairs watching the fireworks show. When she got home she found herself blessedly alone, her parents still at the festivities. She flung herself into the bathroom, where she retched into the toilet. She felt a little better after spewing and flushing the day’s stress and bile.

  When her parents got home, they found her sitting at the kitchen table hugging Fang’s bowl.

  “Quinn? Are you all right?” Dan dropped to one knee next to her and she buried her face in his shoulder.

  Georgeanne stroked her hair. “That Jake,” she fumed. “I knew working for him was a bad idea. Tomorrow I’m going to march right over there and give him a piece of my mind. How dare he make you work so late and—”

  “No, Mom. It’s nothing like that.”

  “Then what?”

  Quinn told them the whole story. “And now I have to make a list of everyone who had biscuits and gravy.”

  Georgeanne jumped up and tore a sheet from her shopping list notepad. She scooped up a pencil too. “That shouldn’t be too hard. Let’s make a list while it’s fresh in your mind.”

  Quinn placed both hands over her face. “It was crazy there. I’m not even sure I looked everyone in the face. And there were people I didn’t recognize.”

  “You don’t worry about that. I’ll put the word out tomorrow. But for now, just tell me everyone you can remember and I’ll write them down.”

  Quinn closed her eyes and tried to rewind the clock. She rattled off names of people she could remember. When she got to the Retireds she said, “Silas was there and …the guy whose wife died? Drives the cab but never charges anyone?”

  Georgeanne nodded and added to the list. “Larry.”

  Suddenly Quinn dropped her hands from her face. “And Wilbur. I found him in the kitchen at one point.”

  “Doing what?” Dan asked.

  “Flipping burgers.”

  “That Wilbur,” Georgeanne said. “Always willing to pitch in and help.”

  More like stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong, Quinn thought.

  They worked on the list until Quinn said that Beyoncé had ordered a chili dog. Georgeanne gave her a hug and shooed her off to bed.

  Chapter 4

  Quinn tossed and turned the rest of the night, finally giving up and going to the diner earlier than normal. She needed to talk to Jake about all this. The sun had barely cleared the horizon by the time she reached the diner. Her shadow stretched all the way across the street, making her look like a macabre marionette.

  Jethro was sprawled across the sidewalk in front of the door, all sad eyes and droopy face. When he labored to his feet, Quinn saw a puddle on the sidewalk. He gave his head a mighty shake, long ears flapping much too loudly in the silence of the hour.

  Quinn rubbed his head, then yanked on the diner door. Locked. Stunned that Jake wouldn’t be here yet, she fished out her keys, calming when it occurred to her that he probably had the door locked because he wasn’t ready to open yet. She could appreciate that. Maybe they shouldn’t open at all today.

  She got the door open and followed Jethro into the dark diner. Jethro headed straight for the big corner booth. Before she could stop him, he had wedged his big body under the table and was investigating all the odors from last night. Horrified, Quinn called him back. She watched as he then continued on his regular rounds, sniffing into all the nooks and crannies of the restaurant. He veered abruptly to the back booth again, nose sniffing the air and the linoleum.

  He must smell all the extra people who were here last night. Quinn gave a shudder. Could Jethro smell death? She was thankful someone had cleaned up everything. “Jake?” She checked his office. Empty. Kitchen too. She even opened the back door to see if he was in the alley. He wasn’t.

  Jethro ended his tour of the diner by planting himself in front of Quinn. He stared at her with his woebegone face.

  Quinn felt like he was accusing her of something and she felt a pang of unidentified remorse. Where was the unconditional love dogs were so famous for? Was Jethro’s hiding under all that loose skin and wrinkles?

  She called Jake’s cell for the eighty-seventh time since last night. Still not answering. “Where are you?” she said to herself. She dialed again, this time leaving a message asking him the same question. Chestnut Station was a small town. Surely by now he would have heard what happened.

  Quinn made a pot of coffee and listened to the refrigerator make weird noises. Had
it always sounded like that? She wasn’t sure. Everything was upside down today. She sat on a stool in the kitchen sipping coffee, waiting for Jake.

  Jethro forlornly waited for his bacon paycheck.

  “Sorry, dude. Can’t help you.”

  Can’t or won’t, he seemed to say, staring at her with bloodshot eyes.

  Quinn poked around half-heartedly and found a raw carrot for him. He accepted it, but was not happy about it. Carrying it in his mouth without eating it, he left the kitchen. Quinn heard the door chime and she knew he’d pushed the door open and left. She wondered if she’d find the carrot carefully placed across the threshold, like some kind of Don Corleone–style warning. She tiptoed through the dining room and locked the door.

  After her third cup of coffee, a rattling on the front door made her jump from the stool in relief. She didn’t want to startle Jake, so she flipped the light switch and hurried out to meet him. But it wasn’t Jake. Instead, old Mr. and Mrs. Carver peered inside with cupped hands around their eyes.

  Quinn twisted the dead bolt, intending to tell them the diner was closed, but they pushed past her.

  “Hello, dear. We’re so glad you’re open. Jeb here needs to get to Denver for some testing at the hospital and we wanted a nice breakfast before we go.” Mrs. Carver removed the sweater draped around her shoulders and settled into a nearby table.

  Jeb leaned toward Quinn. “Got a bad ticker, they say. Guess we’ll find out soon enough. Gonna have me a plateful of bacon today, just in case they say I can’t have no more.”

  Quinn looked into their expectant faces, choking back the fear of another possible heart attack at the diner on her watch. “Okay, let me just get you some coffee, then I’ll see what I can do.”

  She returned with the pot and two mugs, expecting to see Jake at any moment. After she poured, she handed them menus, but Jeb waved them away.

  “I know what I want. Three scrambled eggs, more bacon than seems right, a slice of sourdough, heavy on the butter—and I mean heavy.”