If there was one thing I did like about my job, it was the people. The owner--an ex-con named Larry--was a dream boss. The regulars were mostly seniors--I swear half the town collects social security--and they'd embraced me like a runaway come home. Even finding out who my birth parents were hadn't changed that.
This was my first shift back after Edgar Chandler's arrest. Everyone had heard what happened and they were all so pleased, so very pleased. Which seems a little odd, but in Cainsville "a little odd" was the norm.
"Such an exciting adventure," Ida Clark said when I brought her lunch. Ida and her husband, Walter, are probably in their seventies. It was their car I'd borrowed.
"A terribly exciting adventure, don't you think?" she said to Walter, who nodded and said yes, terribly exciting.
"Liv was shot at," said a voice from across the diner. "She watched a man die and had to hide in the basement while being stalked by a killer. I don't think 'exciting' is the word you're looking for."
That was Patrick. The diner's resident novelist. Also the only person under forty who'd dare speak to the town elders that way.
Ida glared at him. "It is exciting. She proved her parents are innocent."
"For two out of eight murders," I said.
"Still, that's grounds for an appeal. But what exactly happened to that poor young couple? The newspapers weren't very forthcoming. Did--"
"Good God, leave her alone," Patrick said. "You're monopolizing the only server, and some of us require coffee."
He raised his empty mug, and I seized the excuse to hurry off.
As I filled Patrick's mug, he murmured, "Don't tell them anything. I'm sure it's a messy business, and we don't want to tax their old hearts."
There was no way Ida could have overheard, but she aimed a deadly scowl his way. He only smiled and lifted his mug in salute.
--
After the lunch rush passed, I brought fresh hot water for the Clarks. Several others had joined them, most notably Veronica, one of the elders I knew best, though I can't say I knew any of them well, despite hours of chitchat. Mostly, they just wanted to talk about me, and if I swung the conversation their way, they'd deflect. "We're old and boring, dear," they'd say. "Tell us about yourself."
With Veronica, it was more of a two-way conversation, but only because she'd talk about the town and its traditions. An amateur historian. And, like all the elders, a professional busybody, though I say that in the nicest way. They don't pry--they're just endlessly curious.
Veronica had brought in a sheaf of papers. I only caught a glimpse of a dark-haired woman's photo. When I filled their teacups, she said, "You're in the city quite often, aren't you, Olivia?"
"Oh, we shouldn't bother her with this," Ida said.
"With what?" I asked.
"Posting notices for Ciara Conway," Veronica said. "I'm sure the police are doing all they can, but every little bit extra helps."
"Olivia hasn't been around since Friday," Ida reminded her. "With everything that was happening, I doubt she's even heard one of our young women has gone missing."
There were very few "young women" in Cainsville, and I'd met none named Ciara. When I said as much, Ida explained: "Her mother grew up here." Meaning Ciara had likely come to visit her maternal grandparents, which in the eyes of the elders made her a local. That was Cainsville. Gabriel had never lived here, either, and they considered him one of their own.
"When did she disappear?" I asked.
"Saturday."
I glanced at the papers. "So you're . . . posting flyers? That's certainly how it used to be done, but these days--"
"There are other methods," Ida said. "We know. But the old ways are still useful."
Veronica pushed the stack toward me. She said something else, but I was too busy staring at the photo on the flyer.
Ciara Conway was the dead woman I'd seen in the car.
"Liv?" Walter said.
"S-sorry." I wrenched my gaze from the photo. "Sure, I'll take some to the city. I'll be there tomorrow, doing work for Gabriel. Just leave me a stack."