“Your husband?” I asked.
“Was,” she said. “I’ve been widowed five years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? You didn’t kill him. Since we’re sharing, I’ll tell you who did. Turns out we have a common enemy. It was the cops murdered my Jeffrey.”
“The cops?”
“Right on this highway, about three exits east of here. They tried to make it look like he’d done it himself, but I’m no fool.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just waited.
“Jeffrey ran a shipping company. Six drivers, six trucks. Cops around here are as crooked as the letter s. They want a piece of everything, and God help you if you won’t pay. Well, Jeffrey wouldn’t pay. So one morning I got a call. Jeffrey had one belt too many and drove his semi into a gantry pole. Jeffrey was a drunk, so that sounded about right. But then I went down to the scene. In addition to being a drunk—or maybe because he was a drunk—Jeffrey had a gut I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Acid reflux, hiatal hernia, something called a Schatzki’s ring—there wasn’t anything right with that man’s stomach. Only liquor he drank was tequila. Agave tequila, ’cause he couldn’t tolerate wheat or barley or rye or any of it.
“Well, they let me take a last look at my husband, and what did I find? Bottles of Jim Beam scattered all across the floor of the cab. They got that one detail wrong, and some nights that’s what I’m most angry over. ’Cause that one detail is enough for me to know, but not nearly enough for me to prove a thing.”
“You think they wanted you to know?”
“Honey, I’m sure of it. There are vindictive people in this world, and mostly they’re the ones who crave power. Which is why you’re going to need a good cover story. A better story than the one you’ve got now, Michelle.”
I said I agreed. I started to tell her my real name, but she held up a hand.
“Let’s stick with Michelle. We can build around that. For now, we should get over to the diner. I’ll put you on kitchen duty for tonight. Not sure how smart it’d be to have a fugitive circulating among the clientele.”
Kitchen duty meant mopping the floor, doing the dishes as they came in, fetching ingredients from the walk-in freezer, making sure Doris’s coffee cup was never less than half-full. Peeling carrots and potatoes was as close as I came to actual cooking.
On the one hand, it was busywork, but on the other hand, I couldn’t see how she got by without more help. For a cut-rate diner in the middle of nowhere, the place was hopping. Which isn’t to say there were people spilling out into the parking lot, but the steady stream never let up. And Doris was pulling double duty, cooking and covering the tables her lone waitress couldn’t handle.
When the last customer had left and the OPEN sign was turned to CLOSED, Doris came to keep me company while I finished the last of the dishes.
“You’ve got a work ethic on you,” she said. “I’ll give you that much. Now let’s see what you can do with this.”
She handed me a slotted metal spatula. At first I was confused. I thought she wanted me to wash it.
“Looks like it’s already clean,” I said.
“I’m aware of that. I wanna see what kind of chops you’ve got behind a skillet.”
She pointed to the stove, where she’d already laid out a half dozen eggs.
“You choked down my waffles earlier. We both know I can’t cook worth a damn. Truth is, quality or lack thereof doesn’t move the needle on your bottom line when 90 percent of your business drifts in off the highway. But since you fell out of the sky, I figure, why not make the place respectable? At least for as long as you stick around. So how about it? Wanna prove to me you’re ready for the breakfast stampede?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Call me that again and the deal’s off. Meantime, make me an omelet I can’t forget.”
An omelet is like the scrapyard of breakfast foods: you can throw in just about anything you want and end up with a meal that’s at least edible. I ran around the kitchen searching out the real crowd-pleasers: cheese (at least two kinds—one sharp, one mild), butter, onions (shallots are better, but Doris didn’t seem to have any in stock), mushrooms, finely chopped ham, spinach and/or kale.
Doris sat on a stool, watching me dice and mix, watching me angle the skillet as needed to make sure all the egg was getting cooked. When I was done, I slid the finished product onto a plate and handed it over.
“Oh, no,” Doris said. “Let’s do this proper.”
She walked through the kitchen’s double doors and took a seat at the counter. I followed on her heels. Half joking, Doris pulled a paper napkin from one of the dispensers and fashioned it into a bib. I set the plate in front of her, gave a little bow, then stared anxiously as she took the first bite.
“Well, well,” she said. “These are the tastiest unborn chickens I ever put in my mouth.”
I was sweaty and aching and tired, but I couldn’t stop myself from grinning ear to ear.
“So I’m hired?” I asked.
“Think you can do what you just did thirty times in an hour? I mean, you can cook—but can you line cook?”
She had a point. I’d never before had to
