Chapter 1
I was in the middle of the dinner shift when the front door of the cafe flew open and banged on the wall. At the host stand Jeffrey, the cafe’s owner, flinched, and I knew he was immediately calculating the cost of any damage to the plaster and paint.
Blair Orion, a tall man who’d once been handsome, stomped in and thrust a finger at Jeffrey.
“Where is he?” Blair yelled. “Is that coward hiding out in here? Does he think he can avoid me forever? Does he think he can hide behind that chippie he hired and never have to face me like a man?”
Jeffrey murmured something too quiet for me to hear.
“Kerwin!” Blair yelled, pushing past Jeffrey to glare around the cafe at the surprised late dinner crowd. “Kerwin Phillips, I will find you, and you’ll be sorry!”
The room went silent while everyone seemed to hold their breath all at once. Blair gave another menacing glare and stomped back out the front door, banging it against the wall again. Everyone let their breath out and the noise level rose to its usual clatter of dishes and hum of conversation. I picked my way over to the host stand.
“What was that all about?” I whispered to Jeffrey.
“You know Blair. Something about the art festival, I imagine.”
I did know Blair. He was a painter, and the possessor of a giant ego. I’m a painter too, but only carry the minimum required level of ego. Waiting tables for a living helps with keeping the ego in check. Blair had been fairly well-regarded at one time, but his star had fallen in the last decade or two. He’d been one of the strongest voices in favor of the town’s new summer art festival.
I went back to work, and the last couple hours of the dinner shift sped by. The March Street Cafe, where I wait tables, is a darling little place with a French motif. There is a patio out front with tiny wrought iron tables for two, and the interior is full of fleurs de lis, French flags, and local art on the walls. A couple of my own paintings grace these walls, which goes a long way toward putting up with the cheapness and stinginess of the owner.
After the last customers left and I bussed their tables, I took a moment to stretch my back before sliding the dirty dishes into the soapy water. The cook was supposed to stay and wash up, but somehow Ricardo always slipped out the door and left me to do it. In a way it was better, because then at least I didn’t have to listen to his comments about my body. Putting up with Ricardo is another thing that having my paintings on display helps with.
I did the dishes as fast as I could, and then did a once around the kitchen with a cloth to clean and polish. Something seemed slightly off by the chef station; maybe Ricardo had changed up his knife arrangement. I gave the area one last swipe with the cloth and tossed the cloth in the bleach bucket.
I wiped my hands on my apron and hoisted two heavy trash bags, doing my best to ignore how the delicious smells of the day’s menu had turned into a stinky melange of garbage.
“Looks good in here, Kelly,” Jeffrey said. “Take those out and you’re done for the night.”
I nodded and shoved the door to the alley open, my mind already on the night ahead. I’d rush home to Grandma Iris’s house and make sure she was comfortably tucked into bed, then take Buddy, her bulldog, for his nightly walk. Only after that could I take the time to shower off the day’s grease and grit and get a little sleep.
I stepped toward the dumpster. The alley was darker than usual. The light outside the back door was usually on, lighting things nicely, but tonight the alley was dark. I stepped inside and flipped the light switch. Nothing. It had been out last week too. I shook my head at Jeffrey’s cheapness, to buy light bulbs that didn’t even last a week rather than something better.
No matter, I knew the way to the dumpster. It was right between the back door of the cafe and the back door of the gallery next door.
I took another step and my foot caught on something. I tried to use the trash bags for balance, but it was no good. I tripped and fell forward, landing on something warm and squishy. My knee hurt, but it felt like just a bruise. The palms of my hands stung from catching my fall. But what on earth had I tripped on?
The moon came out and I saw what it was — a body. I screamed.
The back door of the cafe opened and Jeffrey appeared silhouetted in the light. “What’s wrong?” He saw me lying prone. “Are you ok?”
“No, I’m not ok. Call 911. Call 911 and tell them to send police, ambulance, oh just send everyone!”
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” The concern on Jeffrey’s face appeared genuine, but I wondered if he was actually calculating workman’s comp rates if an employee got injured on the job.
“I’m fine. But he’s not.” I finally managed to push myself off the body, letting Jeffrey get a look.
“What is that?”
“Not what. Who.”
“Who?”
“Just dial 911 already.”
Jeffrey disappeared back into the kitchen to make the call.
The quick arrival of sirens and flashing lights reminded me of one of the perks of small town living — if you were in town, everything was nearby. I waved my arms to signal the paramedics.
“He’s over here,” I called.
A bright beam of light shone down the alley. I squinted and put a hand up to protect my eyes, though any night vision I might have had was shot. A police officer, the source of the bright light, approached me.
“You found him?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Paramedics hauled a stretcher our way while the cop played the light over the scene, throwing eerie shadows against the brick walls. A paramedic knelt beside me.
“Could you move back please miss?”
I stepped back to let the paramedics do their thing. Maybe we’d found him in time, whoever it was, maybe they could get him to the hospital and help him.
One of the paramedics made a sound, sort of between a grunt and a sigh. I looked over in time to see him shaking his head. I gasped, inhaling the foul smell of the alley, where the odor of trash mingled with other, more awful smells.
“Is he…” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say ‘dead’, but the slump of the paramedics’ shoulders told me he was.
The police officer shined the blinding light on the body. “Do you recognize this man?”
I did. It was our neighbor, the art gallery owner. Kerwin Phillips was dead.
Chapter 2 is coming next week, or you can buy the book and read it now: https://books2read.com/u/bowP7A
Good characters and story line. Looking forward to 'the rest of the story'.