Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [45]
Asha chuckled. “A wet cat is a funny sight, but one doing a Goodyear Blimp imitation is beyond words.”
Picking up the plate Sam placed on the warmer, Delbert asked, “Why doesn’t your counterfeiter let his kitty inside? He should take better care of his pet. Cats don’t like to be out in the rain.”
“Counterfeiter?” Netta pushed her shades to the top of her head. “Did I miss something exciting?”
“Just our Asha being overimaginative—again.” Delbert poured himself a cup of coffee. “She raised a question whether Fitzgerald is a counterfeiter because of all the hundred-dollar bills he tosses around.”
Netta walked over, and tapped on the glass window with a long red nail, getting the cat to bat at her finger. “He’s Jago’s cat? Cool.”
“Not exactly,” Asha said. “I think the cat’s declaring adoption. Anyone ever see him lurking about The Windmill before?”
Delbert stabbed his egg yolks with his fork. “He’s not a stray—not unless he goes around eating small dogs. From the looks of him, he hasn’t missed a meal in a blue moon.”
“We’ll have to name him,” Netta suggested brightly. “How about Flexie—you know like the old cartoon?”
“I think you mean Felix.” Delbert paused, toast halfway to his mouth. “Maybe Fitzgerald wants to name him, it being his pet after all. The cat must be waiting for him to come back.”
Asha tried to sound casual, but nearly cringed when the words came out sounding too eager. “Jago went somewhere?”
Delbert nodded, leaving both Asha and Netta in suspense. After a couple slurps of his coffee, he informed them, “He went off first thing this morning with Derek.”
Asha noticed Winnie’s head snapped up at the mention of Derek’s name. Delbert returned his attention to his breakfast, leaving all three women hanging. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, Asha went to the fountain and fixed herself a lemonade. She took a drink, waiting until Delbert finally decided he’d milked the pregnant pause for all it was worth.
“Figured you’d know about it, Asha, seeing as you were with him all night,” he said, deadpan, gray eyes watching her for a reaction to his prod.
Netta made a big O with her mouth and lifted her eyebrows. “Glad one of us had a good night.”
“Delbert’s yanking your chain. I went to bed, then Jago came rapping at the door before dawn saying someone was in the restaurant.” Asha shook a finger at the night manager. “You’re being naughty, Obi-Wan.”
“Didn’t find anyone, did you?” Delbert inquired, in a manner that convinced Asha that he hadn’t expected them to find anyone.
“No, we didn’t.”
Netta nodded. “Ahhhh.”
“Ah,” Asha agreed.
The jukebox spluttered to life for the first time all morning, the lights glowing. Asha held her breath, waiting to see what the deranged thing would play. “You better be good after last night’s performance or you will be playing, ‘They’re coming to take me away—ha ha, hee hee’.”
Asha couldn’t stand the kitty crying in the rain any longer; she let him onto the glassed-in porch off the end of the restaurant. From there, he could see into the lunch-room and have a nice dry place to clean his fur. It was either that or play dodge-the-kitty each time someone went in or out of the restaurant. She bundled him in a towel and gave him a good rubdown, then left him on the glider swing. She warned, “Sorry, Puss. No kitties allowed in the diner.” Before dashing off to her 11:00 a.m. appointment at Juanita’s Wash and Curl, Netta went and patted him.
The Windmill was still dead. No lunch rush. No Jago.
After the jukebox had gone into spinning “Purple People Eater” endlessly, Asha had unplugged it and now had on her portable CD player. She glanced over at the silent Wurlitzer and stuck out her tongue. “Nanabooboo—and not a single one of them from the 1960s.”
She turned up the music and set about decorating the restaurant for Halloween. She loved this time of year. Kentucky’s landscape was stunningly gorgeous painted with brilliant reds, oranges and yellows, especially along The Palisades of the Kentucky