The Arsonist. Mary Burton
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“And why do you care?” Darcy mumbled as she tightened the rubber band around the thick handful of hair. “This is just a temporary stop. Deal with it.”
She started down the back staircase that led to the kitchen. As she approached the last step, she heard a man singing “When the Saints Come Marching In.” The voice was deep, the tone so off-key it made her smile.
Darcy found a stocky man standing in front of the stove stirring a pot of chili. He wore a white cook’s uniform with the sleeves rolled up over tattooed forearms. A rawhide strip held back thinning gray hair in a tight ponytail.
“Hey,” she said. Her mother had told her the tavern had a new cook. His name was George Paris.
George didn’t look up. “What did you do to my kitchen?” Each word was coated in a thick Alabama accent.
Darcy glanced around and seeing no signs of her mother assumed the comment was directed at her.
“Saved it.”
“It took me a half hour just to clean the flour out of the burner.”
The chili smelled good and she remembered she’d not eaten since breakfast. “You’re lucky to have a burner or a job for that matter. If I hadn’t shown up, Mom would have torched the place.”
Nodding thoughtfully, he tossed a handful of chili powder into the pot. If he’d worked here six months, he knew her mother could be a bit scattered at times. “Then I owe you my thanks. Unemployment doesn’t suit me so well.”
She snagged an apple from a bowl of fruit on the island. “Me either.”
He studied her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Your mother said you are the new waitress.”
“That’s right.” She bit into the apple.
“You don’t look like your mother or Trevor.”
The apple tasted tart. “I take after my father.”
Eyeing her one last second, he turned back to his chili. “You can start making the dinner salads. Lettuce, two tomatoes, cucumber and three red onion rings.”
“I know the drill. I’ve made a million of those in my past life here.” Holding the apple in her teeth she washed and dried her hands. She took another bite of apple set it aside and crossed to the refrigerator. She pulled out a bag of precut lettuce, a box of cherry tomatoes, a cucumber and red onions. She set it all down on the island.
“Remember, only three slices of cucumber per plate,” he said.
She set the apple aside. “Tomatoes on the left, cucumbers in the middle, onions on the right. I remember.” She grabbed a stack of plates from the shelf on the wall above the sink and started to line them up assembly line fashion. She hated having to deal with this mundane stuff while knowing Nero could be alive, but for now she had to make like a waitress so no one would suspect her motives.
“Where is Trevor? Shouldn’t he be here now?” she asked.
He crushed a handful of dried red pepper flakes in his hand then dumped them into the pot. “He called your mother and said that he’ll be back by five o’clock.”
She noted a hint of irritation in his voice. “Trevor likes to play it fast and loose. Deadlines don’t get to him. Used to irritate his football coaches no end.”
“Then he is in the wrong business.” George sounded annoyed. “Restaurants are nothing but deadlines.”
“Mom says the business is doing well.” She kept her voice neutral, but she was fishing. Natural curiosity had been one of the reasons she’d become a reporter.
George shrugged. “I don’t think about things like that as long as I get paid on time.”
“Which you do?” She figured she had a right to know how Trevor ran the place.
“Most times.”
Frowning, she tore into the lettuce. She’d hoped when Trevor had taken over the restaurant that he’d grow up and become more responsible.
Let it go, Darcy. This gig was strictly a stepping-stone to her Pulitzer. “And Mom is where?”
“She is rolling the napkins and checking the bar.”
“Okay.” Darcy set out thirty plates on the center island. As she started to lay torn lettuce leaves on each, a truck pulled up in the back alley.
George wiped his hands on his apron and glanced out the screened door. “It’s about time Thompsons got here. We are just about out of everything.” He went to the door and waved. “Hey, Harvey. You can bring our order right in. We’ve got to get those chickens started if they’re going to be ready on time.”
Harvey Thompson, a tall thin man in his mid-fifties, came in the back door, with only a clipboard in his hand. He glanced over at Darcy. “Hey, Darcy, when did you get back in town?”
She grinned. “Just today.”
“You look good. You lose weight?”
She smiled. “Sure did. Twenty pounds this last year. Thanks for noticing.”
George looked impatient. “Harvey, you can start unloading any time.”
But the man hesitated. “I’m going to need a check from Trevor.”
“What do you mean—we have to pay C.O.D., Harvey? You always bill us,” George said.
Harvey’s face turned red. “You’re behind.”
George muttered a curse. “I’m a cook, not a bookkeeper. I shouldn’t have to deal with these kinds of things when I got a roomful of customers showing up in less than two hours. Wait right here.” He stormed into the dining room in search of Darcy’s mother.
Harvey glanced awkwardly at Darcy. “I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. But my boss said no cash, no delivery.”
“Trevor that far behind?” Darcy said.
Before Harvey could answer, George returned with Mrs. Sampson. “Tell Mrs. S. what you just told me.”
Harvey’s face reddened as he addressed Mrs. Sampson. “I’m going to need cash on delivery today, Jan. No money, no food.”
Her mother’s laugh had an edge. “That can’t be right, Harvey. I know Trevor just sent you in a check last week.”
“It bounced,” Harvey said in a low voice.
“It didn’t bounce,” Mrs. Sampson said. “I made a huge deposit only last week into the account.”
Harvey shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. All I know is no cash, no delivery.”
Her mother looked flustered and embarrassed now. “This has to be a mistake.”
Darcy stepped forward. “How much would you need today to make your delivery?”
“If it were anybody else, I’d need it all. But seeing as it’s y’all, I’ll take a thousand. I figure this is just a paperwork glitch.”
Her mother had never been one to handle the business end of the diner. Her father had while he was alive, and since his death, Trevor had.
“I don’t keep that kind of money in my personal account,” Mrs. Sampson said.
“I can bring the order back tomorrow,” Harvey said.
“We need today’s order or we won’t be able to open tonight,” George said.
“Don’t know what to say,” Harvey said. He looked as if he’d just endured root canal work.
The last thing Darcy wanted was to be drawn further into tavern business. She only had twelve hundred in her checking account and most of that was earmarked for her credit card bill, which was due