Part 8 (1/2)
Jessica adjusted the padding around her waist, hips, and torso and stared at her reflection in the mirror she'd purchased at a thrift shop and mounted on the bathroom door. The suit wasn't comfortable, but necessary, she knew, hiding her otherwise slim frame. She'd already donned the dark contacts and wig, then eyed her reflection in the mirror. Not bad. She added a little more makeup, far more than she ever wore, changing the contour of her lips and eyes, then slid a mouthpiece over her natural teeth, changing her smile before pus.h.i.+ng a pair of gla.s.ses onto the bridge of her nose. From a distance, the transformation would hide her ident.i.ty. Close up, if anyone really knew her and was on to her disguises, she might not be able to get away with denying who she really was.
Hopefully, she wouldn't have to; not until she talked to Cade and decided upon her next move. She struggled into her uniform, a gold-colored dress with a front zipper, gingham trim, and red piping, like something waitresses wore in a 1950s diner, something Nell Jaffe had decided would attract customers. Slowly, she was converting the bland interior of the diner into a copy of something straight out of American Graffiti, a movie she outwardly adored.
After locking the cabin, Jessica drove into town and kept one eye on the rearview mirror. So far, she thought she was safe. But she wasn't going to let her guard down. She'd been in Grizzly Falls only a few days so she was still on pins and needles, fearing that, at any moment, she would run into him again, that he would find her. Her stomach twisted at the thought and her chest became tight, feelings she battled by breathing slowly and relaxing her muscles, even stretching her fingers rather than holding on to the steering wheel in a death grip.
The falling snow had abated and the plows had been at work, ruts being replaced by smooth roads where pavement was visible in some spots. Even the diner's lot had been partially cleared. After parking in the rear of the restaurant, she grabbed her backpack and hurried inside where the furnace was working overtime and already the smells of warm coffee and sizzling bacon greeted her.
Near the storage closet where fresh linens were kept, she yanked off her boots and stepped into the shoes she'd brought in her backpack, then exchanged her jacket for an ap.r.o.n and started sorting silver ware. She was scheduled to work through the noon crush, then have some time off before dinner. Nell had asked her to return as two other waitresses were out sick. Nell had pulled a face and made quotes with her long fingers as she'd mentioned the flu, but as they were shorthanded, Jessica was fine with it. The more work, the better, though she'd probably have to put off tracking down Cade Grayson.
”Leave that for Marlon,” Misty advised as she swept through the swinging doors and caught Jessica wrapping napkins around sets of knives, spoons, and forks. ”Coffee's already on and, okay, the first of the local yokels who need their caffeine fix should be here in . . . uh”-she glanced down at her watch-”eleven minutes. Hear that, Armando? Kip Cranston will be pounding on the door soon. He'll want the usual.”
”Already got it going,” Armando said, not even looking over his shoulder as he tossed some onions onto the grill. They sizzled and filled the kitchen with their sweet aroma. Jessica's stomach growled and she realized she'd forgotten to eat her usual container of yogurt.
”Toast ready?” Misty called. ”You know Kip likes rye and Jimmy is always looking for a stack of pancakes. And Patch wants his sausage cooked all the way through, no pink.”
”S. I told you! I got this.” Armando flung the words over his shoulder then turned away and muttered something in Spanish under his breath.
None of it, Jessica suspected, was good.
”I'm unlocking the door.” Misty found the keys in a drawer and tucked them into her pocket.
”S, s. I heard you. Dios! Te crees que soy sordo?”
”No, I don't think you're deaf,” Misty replied, her lips pursing, her eyes, with their iridescent lilac lids, narrowing. ”Just stubborn.”
”Like the bull. El toro. Yes?” With a snort, Armando returned to his work.
Over his mutterings, the roar of the fan, and the popping grease, Jessica heard the thrum of heavy ba.s.s and loud rumble of exhaust pipes announcing that Marlon, in his tricked-out Honda, had arrived.
”The Das.h.i.+ng Dishwasher has decided to make an appearance,” Misty said before heading into the dining area. ”Now, it's officially showtime.”
Jessica followed her inside and sure enough, a group of men in their sixties and seventies were huddled under the portico. As Misty unlocked the door and pulled it open, they walked briskly inside. With red faces, stocking caps, bulky jackets, and gloved hands in their pockets, they streamed to the two tables that she had already pushed together.
” 'Bout time you opened the d.a.m.n doors,” a grizzled old fellow said good-naturedly. ”I was like to freeze, and Ed there, he claimed he'd have to go warm up in the cab of his truck where he keeps a bottle of Jack handy.”
”No need for extreme measures,” she said, falling into an easy banter. ”Coffee all around, except for you, Syd? You want decaf.”
”Yeah,” a short guy said, showing a wide girth matched by a grin that stretched from one side of his bearded face to the other. ”Not what I want, but I'd better if I don't want my ticker to start racing.”
”You got it.” Misty flitted around the table like the pro she was, juggling two pots of hot coffee while the regulars turned up the cups on their tables indicating they'd like a little morning jolt. She poured and chatted while a couple showed up and took a table by the window, away from the crowd in the middle of the room where the group of eight was talking, several conversations buzzing at once.
As Jessica brought water and tea for her table, she heard snippets of gossip. Dan Grayson's name was mentioned several times but there was another topic of interest, a woman's body found in a creek on a ranch several miles out of town. She told herself not to make more of it than it was, that it had nothing to do with her, but as she brought an order of a farmer's breakfast and a veggie omelet to a middle-aged couple near the door, she heard the word mutilation.
Her heart stopped for a fraction of a second.
”What do you mean mutilation?” the woman asked as she found Jessica hovering near the table. In her mid-seventies, she turned her face upward and lifted a hand, catching Jessica's full attention. ”Oh, dear, sorry to bother you, but could you get us a fresh bottle of catsup? This one”-she indicated the small, full bottle resting near the napkin holder and salt and pepper-”is a little, well, you know. It's got a little bit of gunk around the lid.”
Jessica picked up the offensive gla.s.s bottle though she saw nothing other than fresh red catsup within. ”Certainly.”
”And could I bother you for another knife? I see a spot on this one's blade.” Smiling, the woman held up the flatware in question and yes, there was a bit of a water stain on the stainless steel.
”No problem. I'll be right back.”
”Wait! Please bring some hot water, would you be a dear? My tea's already gone cold.” Her smile was beneficent, but a little malicious gleam shone in her eyes, as she narrowed her gaze on Jessica through rimless gla.s.ses. ”If you wouldn't mind.”
”Not at all.” Jessica was off and the woman turned to her husband again.
”Harry?” she said, catching his attention. ”I asked you what you mean by mutilation?”
Though he answered, Jessica couldn't hear the conversation, whispered as it was. When she returned with the requested items, the woman ended her conversation quickly, then eyeballed the new knife and bottle skeptically.
She took a sip of her tea after Jessica poured hot water into her cup and teabag, then let out a satisfied sigh. ”Aaah. Much better,” she intoned, finally sated, probably just because she was able to get someone to do her bidding.
Jessica had the sneaking suspicion that the little errands she ran for the fussy woman were more for the old lady's amus.e.m.e.nt than from any real need, but she kept her thoughts to herself and tried not to panic over the bits of information she'd overheard. A dead body had been found? It was a woman? There was mutilation? Oh. G.o.d. Jessica's stomach clenched and she nearly stumbled as she was carrying water gla.s.ses to a booth where a man and a woman in uniform had taken a seat.
Pull yourself together.
Fortunately, as they were at one of her tables, she was able to overhear their conversation, or at least snippets of it, as she waited on them. What she hadn't expected when she placed the ice water on the table was that the man was wearing a badge marked SHERIFF.
”Coffee?” she asked, reading his name. BLACKWATER. The man she'd heard was taking over Grayson's position, at least until the next election.
”Black,” Blackwater said, his eyes cool, his expression without the hint of a smile.
”Sure,” said his compatriot, a woman whose name tag read DEPUTY DELANIE WINGER. ”With sugar.”
Nodding, Jessica slid menus onto the table, then, her knees trembling a bit, motioned to the whiteboard hanging near the swinging doors. ”We've got some interesting specials today,” she said by rote, though she felt the sheriff's gaze upon her. ”Marionberry waffles, a BLT with a fried egg, and a peanut b.u.t.ter and chocolate smoothie. I'll give you a few minutes.” She was sweating nervously, her hands nearly shaking under his piercing glare, almost as if he could see through her disguise. Impossible. She'd never met Blackwater, nor the deputy he was talking to.
Servicing the other tables near the booth where they were seated, she heard bits of ”shop talk,” but nothing more than general information.
”Waiting on the autopsy,” the sheriff told his colleague. ”No, nothing yet from Missing Persons . . .” and ”checking other jurisdictions.”
That conversation, Jessica figured, was about the woman they'd discovered.
Then, very seriously, he said, ”. . . a shame . . . yep, a good man . . . irreplaceable, but I've got to try.” Words for Dan Grayson.
There was other talk about what she a.s.sumed were open cases, but she couldn't hear much as they spoke in low tones, and became quiet as she served a breakfast burrito to the deputy and a spinach and egg white omelet to the sheriff.
”Refills?” she asked on a second go-round when they were nearly finished.
The deputy said ”Yes,” and Blackwater nodded, so she started pouring the coffee.
Cras.h.!.+ The clatter of silverware rang through the building and Jessica jerked, slopping hot coffee as a stream of angry, rapid-fire Spanish emanated through the pa.s.s-through to the kitchen.
”Sorry . . . oh, I'm so sorry,” she said, seeing that she'd sloshed coffee onto Blackwater's wrist.