Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery (6 page)

“And you know this…how?” I asked.

“I was behind Jason in line. He was counting out his pennies and was short about fifty cents. Cindy took a dollar bill out of her own pocket, exchanged it for four quarters, and slipped two of them onto Jason’s stack of money so the kid couldn’t see. I guess that Mr. Haberton only saw Cindy taking money out of the till and slipping it into her pocket or something. Then he started yelling at her and said that she was fired.”

I put bread into the toaster and put the setting on dark. Then I took out two hamburgers from the fridge nearby and tossed them onto the grill.

Nancy shook her head. “Cindy and I both tried to tell Mr. Haberton that he was wrong, but then
Jason started crying, and then Cindy got upset. She tossed her smock on the counter and walked out with Jason.”

“And Cindy helps her mother with the bills. There are nine kids in the family, counting her,” Chelsea added. “Her father died a couple of years ago—boating accident on the lake.”

I decided to hire Cindy immediately; she needed a job. Then another question occurred to me: “Can she cook?”

They both shrugged, but then Nancy snapped her fingers. “She must be able to. There are nine kids in the family, and Cindy’s the oldest.”

That didn’t mean that she could cook, but the sweet girl obviously needed a job. We’d both learn at the same time and take Dinerese 101 together.

“Can someone call her? Tell her to come to the diner. I’d like to meet her.”

Chelsea whipped out her cell phone from the pocket of her apron. “I’ll do it.”

She punched in some numbers as I slathered axle grease on the toast and then flipped the burgers. They smelled divine. I had added a touch of Worcestershire sauce to the mix along with some bread crumbs, eggs, and my special herb mix.

“She can drive down now, but she has to bring her brothers and sisters. She’s babysitting,” Chelsea said, holding her cell toward me like the Statue of Liberty holding her torch.

“You can bring them all, Cindy,” I said, talking to the air toward the cell. “My treat, if they’re hungry.”

“Hear that?” Chelsea asked the cell, then turned to me. “They’ll be right here.”

“Tell her not to rush. The roads must be slick.”

Chelsea returned the phone to her ear. “Hear that?” she asked, then lowered her voice. “Yeah, Trixie’s okay. She’s nothing like Mr. Haberton.”

I smiled as I turned to look for the hamburger rolls, wondering if I was supposed to toast them. I decided to toast anyway. I added sweet pickles to the plate, dill pickles that Aunt Stella had put up, a tomato and some lettuce to the side, and topped it off with a couple of carrot curls around a radish rose that hadn’t had enough time to “bloom” yet in a bowl of ice water. As soon as I had time, I’d make more.

“Hey, Trixie, it’s cute, how you arranged the veggies,” Nancy said.

“Thanks. The radish roses are my favorites. My mother showed me how to do them when I was just a kid.” If I had more time to prep, I could really dazzle her, but I didn’t have that time. I was lucky if I knew where the axle grease was stored. I hurried to prepare the western omelet.

They both picked up their orders and left. I just had enough time to catch my breath before Chelsea tacked up another order, this time a large one.

“Four lead pipes with rounded cows, two pigs between two sheets, four grass clippings in the alley, and two groundhogs.”

I held up my hand to Chelsea. I was getting a headache. “Chelsea, stop!”

“Sorry. Make that four spaghetti and meatballs,
two ham sandwiches, four side salads and two hot dogs,” she said. All I could hear was the number of times I heard her slur an
S
.

“Oh, and Cindy Sherlock is out front. This order is for her brothers and sisters.”

“That was fast. Please ask her to come back to the kitchen. She can help me prepare this order.” This would give me an opportunity to try her out.

Cindy was a sweet, somewhat shy girl about twenty years old. She was tall—about five foot ten—and reed thin and pale, with a huge smile. She offered her hand to me, and her handshake was firm. Her fingernails were chewed down to the quick, and her bright cherry-red hair was thin and shaggy.

She had no piercings or tattoos that I could see. I was still old-fashioned in that regard and hated that look, especially on women, but neither would have prevented me from hiring her. I immediately liked the girl.

“I can’t be too long, Mrs. Matkowski, or my brothers and sisters will tear your diner apart.”

“Chelsea and I will watch ’em,” Nancy said. “Take your time, Cin.”

Cindy nodded her appreciation and turned to me with an uneasy smile.

“Can you cook?” I asked.

“Sorta. Kinda. I cook for my family. I mean, I can learn how to do this. And I really need this job.”

“Okay, help me do your order, and we’ll talk.”

Cindy was a quick study. She’d do fine in time.
I remembered being glued to Aunt Stella’s side as she instructed me how to fry eggs just the way the customer ordered. And right by the big shiny steam table, I remembered Uncle Porky teaching me how to make spaghetti sauce, the Matkowski way. Basically, you tossed in every veggie and chunk of meat within a five-mile radius and let it simmer on the stove for a month.

After Nancy and Chelsea carried the order out to her family, I motioned for Cindy to take a seat on the kitchen stool.

Yes, that kitchen stool.

I planned on tossing it in the Dumpster soon because it would always remind me of the poor health inspector.

“Can you work days or nights?”

“Any. All. Both. I just have to arrange things with my mother.”

“And there’s this whole language you’ll have to learn. Dinerese.”

She laughed, uneasily. “I took French in high school.”

Oh good, she had a sense of humor. I liked that.

“I don’t think that’ll help you much.” I smiled at her. “I’m sure there’s paperwork for you to fill out, but I’ll have to find it first. Do you think that you can train with Juanita for a couple of days?” I crossed my fingers, hoping that I could convince Juanita not to quit. “I’ll be training with you, too.”

“You mean I’m hired?”

“Anyone who can manage eight kids can certainly manage this kitchen,” I said.

She took my hand and pumped away. “I really appreciate this, Mrs. Matkowski. I’ll be the best cook you ever had.”

“Great! And call me Trixie.” And call me optimistic for hoping that I could talk Juanita into returning.

“Okay…Trixie.” She fished around in her little purse. “I’d like to pay you for the meals, and—”

“Absolutely not. It’s on me. I dragged you here when you were babysitting.”

I could swear there were tears in her eyes. She took a step forward and raised her arms like she was going to hug me, but then she dropped them and stepped back. “I am so happy to be working for you.”

She looked more relieved than happy, but if she wanted to stand on her feet and cook for a good seven hours at a stretch, I figured that Mr. Haberton must have been a real beast, and she really needed the money.

She seemed so young and overwhelmed. I could relate, well, at least to the overwhelmed part. I couldn’t help myself, so I pulled her into a bear hug. With a happy sigh, she hugged me back.

I had an urge to feed her, to put some meat on those protruding bones.

“You didn’t get anything to eat, Cindy. How about a—a—” I looked at the steam table. “How about a rounded cow on done dough with…um…red sauce?”

“A meatball sub with spaghetti sauce?” she asked.

I looked at her, astonished. I’d made the right decision; she was already fluent in Dinerese.

Just as Cindy walked out the double doors with her meal, in walked Nancy and Chelsea with several more orders. Before they could say a word, I held up a finger in warning.

“Okay, okay. English,” Nancy said, and proceeded to read each order and stick it to the metal clothespins. Chelsea did the same.

I used to wonder why waitresses in a short-order restaurant read the orders. Now I knew that it was for the cook to get her bearings. I began to pull out dishes and place them on the steam table and pull things out of the fridge.

I was finding my rhythm, which was good. It was just like cooking for my ex, times fifty.

“Trixie, I just want to give you a heads-up. All the pastries and pies are gone,” Nancy said, “and we’re low on ground coffee.”

“Would you check to see if there’s anything in the walk-in cooler that we can use? Or maybe the freezer?” I’d forgotten the huge freezer on the other side of the storage room.

“I already did,” Nancy said. “You gave away a lot of freebies. It was like a feeding frenzy.”

“Do you know where we get the pastries from?”

“Sunshine Food Supply.” Chelsea stuck out her tongue, and the gold ball piercing made a long appearance. She didn’t seem impressed with the quality of our dessert menu. “I know where you
can get delicious, freshly baked stuff-pies, turnovers, brownies, and just everything. You name it, she can bake it.”

Chelsea was an avalanche of information. “Okay. What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Stolfus. Right, Chelsea?” Nancy asked. “The Amish lady?”

“Yup.”

“Mrs. Stolfus just moved to Sandy Harbor with several other Amish families. She’s totally the best baker.” Nancy nodded. “She sells her goodies at Chuck’s Gas and Grab on Route 3.”

I flipped over a steak and quickly sliced some onions to fry. “Okay. Give Mrs. Stolfus a call, will you, Chelsea?” I asked.

Chelsea and Nancy both laughed.

“What?” I slapped some American cheese on the burgers that I had been frying.

“She’s Amish!”

“Oh. No phone.” I put some buns in the toaster that reminded me of a Ferris wheel, ladled some chicken soup into a bowl, and quickly made an antipasto. “Do you know where she lives?”

“I’ll draw you a map,” Chelsea said.

I’d take a ride over to Mrs. Stolfus’s just as soon as I could.

Suddenly my back and feet started aching. I was never going to make it.

We still needed yet another cook. Maybe Stella and Porky could do twelve-hour shifts, or Stella and Juanita, but this thirty-something-year-old woman could not. As good as Cindy seemed to be,
she still needed some time to get the hang of things. Me, too!

“Mrs. Stolfus lives on Route 173A in a huge white farmhouse with green shutters. There’s a green shed out front that says ‘Handmade Baskets’ on it,” Chelsea said, then must have noticed the blank look on my face. “I’ll draw you that map.”

“Thanks.” I prayed that she made hand pies.

Nancy walked back in with a load of dirty dishes on a cart. “The snowplow drivers are coming in. They’ll be mad that there isn’t any pork and scalloped potatoes tonight. And nothing sweet is left either.”

I took a quick inventory of the fridge. “Tell them that they can have steak and fries for the same price. And sweet corn is the veggie.” I shut the door. “Do we have any ice cream?”

“Yes,” Nancy said.

“And ice cream is free tonight for plow drivers.”

“Free?” Chelsea asked.

“Yes, free.” I was giving away a lot of things tonight. Why not ice cream, in the middle of a blizzard, to snowplow drivers?

I wiped my face with a paper towel. If I wasn’t so hot from being in the kitchen, I’d shiver at the thought of eating ice cream with snow falling.

Ty Brisco took that moment to walk into my kitchen. Chelsea and Nancy greeted him profusely, ogled him behind his back, and then reluctantly left the kitchen.

I wasn’t as welcoming.

“I see you’re busy,” he said. I surreptitiously studied him. He looked around; then he stared at me. “You seem tired.”

“I am.” I pulled off the next order, but a chunk of the paper stayed on the clothespin. I pulled that off and pieced it together. Four orders of the steak special: two rare and two well-done. I hid my face in the fridge as I unwrapped four New York strip steaks. “Did you come to arrest me, Deputy Brisco?”

“You know, I liked it better when we were just Ty and Trixie.”

I slapped the steaks on the grill a little too hard. One skidded across the hard surface, plunked into the deep fryer, and started sizzling. I quickly bailed it out. “That was before you accused me of being a murderer. Which I’m not. I’ve never even had a parking ticket before.”

“I know.”

I knew how he knew. “You ran a background check on me, didn’t you?”

“Yes. And on Juanita Holgado.”

Holgado was Juanita’s last name. Now I knew, but it didn’t make me feel any better to know that Juanita was a suspect, too.

“I just got back from the Happy Repose Funeral Home. Hal Manning, the coroner, definitely thinks that Cogswell was poisoned, Trixie. Hal doesn’t know what kind of poison yet, but the mushrooms are a good bet. The New York State Police lab will be testing them.”

I braced myself with my hands on the steam table before I fell over.

Ty tapped his fingers on the steam table, and I wanted to slap them with my spatula.

“Mushrooms were on the plate that Juanita served him. You saw them yourself. I’m sure that the state police will find traces on his fork, too.”

“But there aren’t any mushrooms here. You and I looked,” I said. “None. And there weren’t any mushrooms in the four big pans of the special that Juanita had cooked earlier. The pans that you confiscated.”

“I didn’t see any there either. And we checked the garbage, too.”

I hadn’t thought of the garbage.

“So, they were just in Mr. Cogswell’s meal,” I said, sorting things out in my mind. Yeah, this was a puzzle, and my head felt like someone was hitting it with a hammer.

“Juanita. What did Juanita say?” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Some magazine article I’d once read said that doing that would help with headaches.

“She doesn’t have a clue as to how they got there. She said she scooped out the special from the big pan in the steam table to serve Cogswell. Juanita had been serving the special all night. We checked on all the other patrons who ordered it. Only Mr. Cogswell had a reaction, a fatal one.”

“I don’t know how the mushrooms got there either, Deputy Brisco, but this is my diner now, and I’m sure as hell going to find out who poisoned Mr. Cogswell.”