Keeping with the theme that could best be described as garage-sale chic, the floral wallpaper on the back wall of the café clashed with the green vertical stripes on the side wall where a giant garage door could roll up to reveal the overgrown courtyard beyond. Pink flamingo party lights were strung along the ceiling. At night, it often got so crowded and noisy that it was hard to hear someone’s order, but in the relative quiet of the late-morning crowd, all I could hear was the clanking of cheap silverware against thin plates and the music being piped in over crackly Bluetooth speakers. Today, it was nineties grunge rock.
Emilie motioned at me by putting two fingers to her lips and then slipped out to grab a quick smoke by the dumpsters out back as I circulated among the tables. Table Three was ready for their check, but for now they appeared to be content nursing their coffees and visiting with each other. A woman with three small children needed two more sets of silverware and a bottle of sriracha. A group that had pushed two tables together and were bent over a rousing game of D&D waved me off while arguing whether or not a level-twelve slingshot could pierce the armor of a mountain troll. Two men animatedly discussing the merits of a recent bestseller they’d just picked up in the bookstore ordered another round of beer.
I got their bottles out of the cooler and popped the tops with the bottle cap opener I kept on a string tied to my apron. When I first started waiting tables, I went through three of those before I learned to keep one tied to my person at all times, or they grew legs and walked away. As I headed back to the table, I felt the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
I took a step backward and collided with someone.
“Oof!” I exclaimed. As I caught my balance without spilling the beers, I turned around and realized I’d just slammed into Todd. “Sorry, boss!”
Untapped Books & Café senior manager Todd Morris wore rimless glasses and his hair, short and receding, was shot through with gray. He’d changed clothes since my shift had started. Now his hair was slicked back, and he wore a gold braided bracelet. In place of his neon green Untapped polo shirt, he wore a short-sleeved button-down with a narrow blue tie. And instead of his usual blue jeans, he had on a blue and green plaid kilt.
He liked to think of himself as young, but he was only a year or two younger than my dad, and often waxed poetic about the days back before dial-up internet and MTV.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that no one watched TV anymore, not unless it’s streaming.
Usually, Todd’s appearance in a room was followed by a few barked orders or, if he’d been feeling friendly, an inappropriate joke. “Hey, Odessa, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he said. I waited for the shoe to drop. The last time Todd wanted to talk to me, it was to ask me to regrout the tiles in the bathroom. “I liked your meme earlier. Got books? Funny stuff. It’s already got a lot of likes on the Twitter.”
“Um, thanks?” I was still uncertain, wondering when he would show his true form—the one with fangs and bat wings that was allergic to garlic and sunlight. But instead of coming back with some comment he thought was witty, he turned and continued on his way.
As soon as he was out of earshot, I took a few steps backward, until I could lean into the pass-thru to the kitchen. “Psst,” I hissed at Parker.
“Sup?” he asked. “Don’t let anyone order the tofu scramble. We’ve run out of turmeric and the chives are wilted.”
“Does Todd have a twin brother by any chance?” I asked, unable to take my eyes off my boss. He crossed the room to stand in front of the steampunk woman. After shaking her hand, he pulled out a chair and sat down across from her.
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I angled my head so I could see Parker out of the corner of my eye while still watching Todd. “He’s acting low-key weird.”
“Weird how?”
“He was nice to me just now. I think he’s on a date. And he’s wearing a kilt.”
Parker dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “He does that sometimes,” he said, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. Then again, maybe it was. Brooklyn was filled with a wide range of people from all walks of life, spanning the entire rainbow of human possibilities. It was one of the many things I’d grown to love about New York.
Back home in Louisiana, it was nothing to see a man in denim overalls sans shirt, cowboy boots, and nothing else. In Brooklyn, a person could walk around in an Elmo costume and no one would blink an eye. Compared to some of the things I’d seen here, a man in a kilt didn’t even register as a three on the weird meter, but this was different. This was Todd.
Todd shined his tennis shoes. He wore a calculator watch. His idea of a fashion shake-up was to wear dark indigo jeans instead of light indigo jeans, or if he really wanted to get bold, he would wear a black belt instead of his regular brown one. He got his hair cut on the cheap every other week at one of the nearby beauty colleges. He carried a briefcase instead of a backpack.
“You don’t think . . .” My voice trailed off as I tried not to think about whether or not he wore the kilt in the traditional fashion or not.
“Don’t ever ask,” Parker said. He slid a plate piled high with chocolate chip pancakes onto the pass-thru. “For the lady with the kids. On the house.”
I grabbed the plate and headed for the table, passing Emilie on her way back inside. She smelled faintly of cloves. “Table Three needs their check,” I told her. I dropped off the pancakes and plastered a neutral smile on my face before stopping at Todd’s table. “Can I get you something?” I asked.
“Beer,” he said.
“Coming right up.” I hurried back to the cooler and fished a can of Todd’s favorite from the back. He might be the only person in Williamsburg who actually preferred the big-name stuff, not counting the people who only ordered it ironically. As I headed back to the table, I pulled my phone out and took a few surreptitious photos. Even if Parker was nonchalant about Todd’s outfit and the fact that he was on a blind date, I couldn’t be sure anyone else would believe me without photographic evidence.
Pics or it didn’t happen, right?
“Excuse me, ma’am?” someone called, and I veered toward her table as soon as I’d dropped off Todd’s PBR. I wasn’t used to being called ma’am, not in New York. It was usually Hey, you! or Yo!
“Howdy, how can I help you?” She must have seated herself while I was rooting around for Todd’s beer because I didn’t see her come in. She was wearing large sunglasses despite the dim lighting in the café. Her short hair was cut in a cute bob, and I envied her cheekbones that let her pull off short hair and oversized glasses. I had a rounder face, so I wore my hair long to flatter the shape better.
Although, to be fair, I normally tossed it back into a ponytail.
“Do you have a braille menu?” she asked.
“Sorry, we don’t do printed menus,” I explained. “Our menu is different every day. I can tell you the specials, or if you have something particular in mind, I can ask the chef if he can accommodate.” I rattled off the specials. “Anything catch your fancy?”
She ordered the orzo pasta salad, extra olives, and an iced tea, then asked, “What would you do for your hard-of-hearing customers if you don’t have a menu?”
“There’s a board on the wall we update daily.” I fought the urge to gesture at the big, colorful board, knowing she couldn’t see it. “Also, our day-shift chef signs and several of our waitstaff can sign enough to get by.” I hoped to one day count myself in their number, as Parker had been teaching me a little ASL when we were slow. “I’ll put your order in, and grab your drink.”
Once the café was all taken care of for the moment, I took the couple of stairs leading up to the bookstore section. Izzy was behind the counter, alone for the moment. She was scrolling through her phone.
“Hey, glad to see you found a charger,” I said.
She
looked up guiltily and slid the phone under the counter. “Yep. Todd had a spare.”
I found that hard to believe. Last I checked, Todd was still using a BlackBerry. Something about liking having a real keyboard. Which also explained why before I took over the store’s social media accounts, the Instagram posts were either blurry or pixilated. In any event, Izzy wasn’t telling the whole truth, and that hurt my feelings but I knew she must have a reason, so I let it slide.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Todd’s on a date.”
“Really? What’s she like?”
I had to think about that one. I’d only had limited interaction with her and she seemed nice enough, but what kind of woman went out on a date with Todd? “Unique,” I said.
“I for sure have to see this,” Izzy insisted, hopping down from her chair.
“Don’t make a scene,” I warned her.
“I’m not a noob,” she replied. She peeked into the café. “Is that her? The one with the steampunk hat?”
“That’s her,” I replied. “And you can’t see it from here, but Todd’s wearing a kilt.”
“And?”
“And he’s Todd. And he’s wearing a skirt. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“It’s New York, Odessa. People can wear whatever they want and be whatever they choose. If Todd wanted to wear a skirt, or a full-on ball gown, that’s his choice. But a kilt isn’t a skirt. It’s traditional Scottish clothing.”
“But Todd’s not Scottish,” I insisted. I should know. I was a quarter Scottish, on my dad’s side of the family. And an eighth Greek, Irish, German, French, Czechoslovakian, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“And you’re not a boomer, but you were rocking those orthopedic loafers for a while, weren’t you?” She had a point. “You come get me the second anything interesting happens.”
I promised I would, and got back to work. For a Saturday, my shift was relatively uneventful. After Todd and his date departed, the most interesting thing that happened was Huckleberry, the shop dog, taking a nap in his favorite spot in the sun. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice to have a low-drama morning at work but the slow trickle of customers meant few tips.
I did manage to get an amazing shot of Parker’s carrot cake and posted it. Since my tables were all set for the moment, I took a few extra minutes to go back to Amanda’s Instagram account.
Her selfie game put mine to shame. She was an absolute master at getting the most flattering angles, with perfectly framed backgrounds in her pictures. I caught a glimpse of myself in the background of a few of her shots from the escape room, as well as Izzy and the other attendees, but no shots at all of her with Vickie.
That was weird. Why go to an event and not take even a single picture of the guest of honor?
Then again, these were just the shots she posted. Despite the Game Master’s warning that pictures weren’t permitted inside, Amanda had snapped photos more or less constantly the whole time we were inside. She’d posted half a dozen, which seemed excessive to me but at the same time, I knew she’d taken more than that. Ten times more, at least.
Which meant that there were plenty of pictures she didn’t deem post-worthy for one reason or another. Maybe the lighting was off. Maybe the angle was unflattering.
Maybe she’d caught a murder in the background.
11
Dizzy Izzy @IsabelleWilliamsburg ∙ July 13
i hate 2 do this, but if you’re in a giving mood, any1 wanna contrib 2 my gofundme? who’s with me? #payitforward
My uneventful shift dragged on for what felt like forever. I’d been on my feet a little over eight hours by the time the night crew started trickling in. Parker was replaced by Silvia Gómez, the second-shift cook. She wasn’t as imaginative in the kitchen as Parker, but considering the later customers tended to order nachos or French fries more often than a fresh acai bowl—an intimidating dish I couldn’t even pronounce a few months ago, but that turned out to be a deliciously simple fruit salad with granola—she wasn’t as challenged, either.
I was surprised when Nan came in to take over my tables. I’d been at Untapped for almost six weeks, and I was usually stuck on the day shift where customers were quick to turn over and therefore left minuscule tips. Nan had been on staff for only a few days and she already had a Saturday-night shift? If I didn’t know that my time in New York was limited, I might have been jealous.
Then again, Nan was a striking woman. She was tall and built like a professional athlete. She sported an intricate tattoo on her bald head and spoke in a Dominican accent. She had a great memory, stellar approach to customer service, and laser attention to detail, which undoubtedly led to amazing tips. I had to admit that she was a good choice to schedule for the busiest night of the week.
Kim Takahashi, a gorgeous waitress who typically wore all black except for her neon green uniform shirt, and Betty Davis—no relation to Bette—who was so quiet and unassuming I sometimes forgot when she was in the room, rounded out the rest of the waitstaff. Emilie had left after the lunch rush, leaving me alone until the dinner crowd started arriving, but now that it was getting late and business was picking up, there were three servers to handle the café.
I closed out my tabs and hung up my apron. When I ducked into the kitchen to retrieve my bag, Silvia gestured me over. “Don’t tell the other waitresses, but when I told my mama how much you raved about her tamales, she insisted I bring you some more today.”
My eyes grew wide. “You’re kidding! Your mom makes the best tamales I’ve ever eaten in my life.”
I grabbed the plain white bakery box that Silvia indicated and opened it. Six corn husk–wrapped tamales were lined up inside. I took a big sniff, and the delicious spices filled my senses. Silvia snapped the box closed. “Are you trying to start a riot? Put that away before everyone smells them.”
“Tell your mom a million thanks for me,” I exclaimed, shoving as much of the box as I could into my messenger bag and hoping no one noticed the edge of the box sticking out of the top. I waved and headed for the front door, feeling guilty that I wasn’t sharing the tamales with the rest of the staff. Andre was working the front register, as he usually did at night. Izzy was tidying up a display of books on one of the endcaps. “You’re still here?” I asked her. That was a change for her, to come in early and stay late on the same day.
“Waitin’ on you,” she explained. She waved at Andre and we went out together, the bell above the door chiming as we exited.
There was still at least an hour of daylight left, but after working inside through the heat of the day, it was starting to cool down. It was almost comfortable outside with the temperature hovering in the mid-eighties. “Whaddaya wanna do?” Izzy asked.
“I need to talk to Aunt Melanie,” I replied. I wanted to run my mom’s idea by her that I should stay with her until she was fully healed. I hoped she would say yes, because if not, I’d have to pack my bags and head back home sooner than I was ready. I patted my messenger bag. Bringing home half a dozen homemade tamales would go a long way toward buttering up my aunt. Since Izzy was vegan, I didn’t have to feel bad about not offering her one.
“Been thinking about that,” Izzy said, linking her arm through mine. “I don’t think you should go back to Louisiana.”
“You’re right,” I agreed.
“No, hear me out . . .” Izzy stopped so abruptly that a person walking behind us slammed into me. I apologized, but he glared at us anyway. “Wait a second, you’re down?”
“Of course,” I told her. “I’ve been thinking about what you said this morning about us getting an apartment together, and I totally agree. I’m hoping to convince my aunt to let me crash with her for a few weeks in exchange for me helping her out while her foot’s in the cast. During that time, we can look for something together.”
“Brilliant. I’m so happy you still
want to be roomies.”
I smiled. “Of course I do! It would make things way easier. No way could I afford a place on my own, and I don’t feel comfortable moving in with someone I’d only met online. Besides, you’re my best friend.” I hesitated, unsure how to phrase the next part. I didn’t want to sound like a snob, but some of Izzy’s past living arrangements were cringy, to say the least. “But, I wouldn’t feel comfortable squatting in an abandoned building, either.”
“No worries,” Izzy said brightly. “Leave everything to me. But in the meantime, who do you want to interview next?”
“I don’t know, Izzy. Shouldn’t we leave the investigating to the cops?”
“You didn’t think so after Bethany was killed. You were all eager to play detective then. Why is it different this time?”
“Solving Bethany’s murder was a fluke. Not to mention it almost got me killed. I’d rather avoid murderers than chase after them,” I said.
“But aren’t you curious?”
“Well, sure,” I admitted.
“And doesn’t Vickie deserve justice?”
“Of course she does.”
“What’s the harm? I know you, Odessa. This is eating at you. I bet you’ve already considered your next move.”
I sighed. She was right. As much as I didn’t ever want to get tangled up in another murder investigation, I wasn’t sure I could avoid it this time. Like it or not, Izzy and I were both already involved. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind talking to Amanda. I want to see all the photos she took yesterday, the ones she didn’t post. See if maybe she caught something we didn’t notice at the time.”
No Memes of Escape Page 10
