Split Second - Catherine Coulter [102]
Kirsten pulled off her driving gloves. “Get me coffee.”
The girl looked her over, rose, straightened her red uniform with its stupid white handkerchief sticking up out of her single breast pocket, and walked behind the cheap laminate counter to pour some obviously old coffee from a nearly empty carafe into a chipped mug.
Kirsten said, “Bet you don’t get much business here.”
“Enough,” the girl said, and shoved the mug toward her. “But not today. You want anything else?”
You’re rude, little girl. Kirsten shook her head. Five minutes passed, and no one came in. Kirsten timed it. She had to admit, it made her consider the possibilities—that sweet young thing lying at her feet, making her journey to the hereafter, the sullen, rude little bitch. She watched the girl return to her seat and the novel. She ignored Kirsten.
Kirsten said, “You got a cook in the back?”
That broke the dam, and the complaints burst out of her. “The putz went home, sick to his stomach, he said, from stuffing down too many nachos last night watching a dorky football game. He made me stay even though all the regulars know I can’t cook and they won’t come in until he’s back.”
“I guess you made the coffee. It sucks.”
“Yeah, I did. Hey, it looks like you’ve got crappy taste, since you drank all of it. You want a refill?”
Kirsten had to laugh; the girl had a mouth on her. Like the redhead last night, like Suzzie with two z’s. This girl was pretty, fine-boned, with the greenest eyes Kirsten had ever seen. Nice, she thought, succulent, the way her daddy preferred them. Young, she thought, and probably dead broke. Kirsten bet she had a yearning to do a whole lot else that wasn’t this. Kirsten shook her head, put her palm over the top of her mug. “No coffee. Why aren’t you in school?”
“I graduated last May. I’m saving to get out of this dump. Hey, I’ll get you a piece of pie if you promise to give me a good tip.”
“What kind of pie, and who made it?”
“Strawberry. It’s fresh. Dave made it this morning before he got sick and went home. How about an extra-large tip for an extra-large piece?”
Kirsten smiled at her, a scary smile, but she didn’t know it. The girl took a step back and tried to mask her alarm with a shrug.
Kirsten said, “Sounds good to me.” It did, indeed. Kirsten realized she was starving, hadn’t eaten since—when? She couldn’t seem to remember. The past hours were a blur of panic and pain and rage. But life had to go on, that’s what her daddy would say, and so she’d eat a slice of strawberry pie, and then she’d see.
Ann Marie Slatter felt something cold slither through her when the weird woman smiled at her. The knife she was using to cut the strawberry pie slipped out of her nervous hands and dropped to the floor. She picked it up, wiped it on her apron. She gave the woman nearly a quarter of the pie, left only a sliver so Dave could complain about it when he came back, whenever that would be. He loved strawberry pie, particularly his own, and she knew he was looking forward to eating it when he got back.
“That big enough?”
“That’s very nice of you.” Kirsten cut a bite and ate it. Delicious. She ate steadily until it was gone. She sat back and rubbed her stomach. She said, “You won’t believe the size of the tip you’re going to get.”
Ann Marie shrugged again, tried to act blasé, but realized she was frightened to her bones. She wanted to run out the door and never see this woman again. She stared at the woman’s red hair, in thick, short spikes, and her face, it was dead white, like—something nagged at her, something just out of reach, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
The door to the diner opened, and Ann Marie was so relieved she nearly shouted with it.
Kirsten watched two older men stroll in, shrug out of their jackets, and slide into a booth. Hayseed farmers, one paunchy, the other skinny, both wearing faded jeans, flannel shirts, and boots older than she was. The bald guy, skinny as a windowpane, called out, “Hey, Annie, two coffees for Frank and me.