Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery Read Free Page B

head. I left his money as a tip for Nancy.
    He tweaked his hat, pivoted on his boots, and walked away.
    Yes, he was definitely born to wear jeans. Not that I cared. Not now, especially not now.
    The Monte Cristo specials appeared. As I dug into my meal, a visibly disappointed Nancy packed Ty’s into a white foam container.
    Finally alone, I made some notes in my notebook: “get estimates for floor, fancier garnishes on plates other than lettuce leaf and tomato, lightbulb out behind counter, offer chicken or turkey on Monte Cristo.” Leaning back into the worn red vinyl seat cushion, I looked out the window.
    Then a bloodcurdling scream came from the kitchen.

Chapter 2
    I leaped up from the booth, hurried up the aisle, and pushed the silver double doors that opened to the kitchen.
    Scanning the room, I didn’t see anything out of order—well, other than Juanita standing on the top rung of a step stool. She brandished a bread knife in her hand like a medieval knight with a sword.
    “Juanita? What? Are you all right?”
    “M-mouse.”
    I took several deep breaths and hoped that my heart would stop pounding in my ears and slide back into my chest where it belonged.
    Max and Clyde, the handymen whom I’d met earlier, were chuckling by the back door. Juanita pointed the knife at them and swore in crystal-clear English.
    I glanced uneasily at the pass-through window to the front of the diner, hoping that Juanita’s swearing couldn’t be heard over the clinking of the silverware and the murmur of voices in conversation.
    “He was this big,” Max said, holding his palms apart widely.
    “Bigger,” Clyde teased.
    Then a string of Spanish phrases, probably not G-rated, hung in the air next to her English cursing, just like the instructions that came in every do-it-yourself project.
    I held out a hand to take the knife from her. She bent down and carefully gave it to me. Then she stood, crossed her arms, and shook her head. “Where is the mouse?”
    “Godzilla is in the Dumpster,” Max said.
    Juanita pinched her lips into a tight, white line, yet her eyes twinkled at their joking. “Please get to work,” she said. “Adios.”
    “I second that, gentlemen,” I said. “There’s a lot of work to do around here to get ready for spring. So, please get to it. Or clear more snow.”
    Like a pair of children who’d just been chastised, they hung their heads and left the kitchen. But Clyde gave Juanita a sideways glance, and his expression told me that they weren’t a bit sorry for teasing her.
    I held out my hand to Juanita, this time to help her down. She took it and backed off the step stool as regally as a queen.
    “I don’t like mice,” she said.
    “I don’t like mice either—not where I eat, anyway.”
    She smoothed her pristine white apron, shaking her head. “Max and Clyde—they smoke. They smoke too much. And they open and close the back door all day long. They come in. They go out. And the mouse, it come in.”
    “Have you ever had a mouse in here before?”
    “No. No mouse. Never.” Juanita scooped up the knife again and began slicing a loaf of Italian bread.
    I wondered for a moment if there really had been an actual mouse or if Max and Clyde were just playing a joke on Juanita and she’d fallen for it.
    What was this? Fourth grade?
    “I’ll speak to them,” I said, with more authority than I felt.
    “Never mind. I quit.” Juanita shrugged.
    Something drained out of me—my sanity.
    “Juanita, I need you.” As much as I wanted to roll up my sleeves and start my life as a short-order cook at my own diner, I was just too tired for a baptism of fire. I wanted to gently glide into the kitchen and observe, study, learn, eat.
    And stall, just a little longer until I got my bearings.
    I put a hand on her shoulder. “I promise to talk to them and tell them that their teasing isn’t welcome, but don’t let them drive you away. Aunt Stella told me that you’ve been here a long time.”
    “Seven