Stone Cold: A Southern Mystery Thriller (Book 1 of the Zoe Nichols Van-Life Series) by Abby Rice

Author:Abby Rice [Rice, Abby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Clairitage Press
Published: 2023-11-18T00:00:00+00:00

Next morning, the line of hungry patrons was already out the door when I tied on my work apron. Every booth was jammed. The din approached rock-concert level. I couldn’t seem to brew the coffee fast enough to keep the mugs full.

I was actually grateful for the distraction. It kept me from thinking about my date with Kenyon in a few hours.

I caught my breath for a second while I waited for the cook to finish plating an order and risked a glance toward the back corner. Victor and Margaret had staked out their usual individual spots, one booth away from each other. Facing but ignoring each other. They seemed to be taking turns surreptitiously scoping each other out, however.

It finally occurred to me that their joint appearance every day for lunch wasn’t a coincidence. There was something going on between those two, much though they would both probably deny it. I wished there was a way to get the pair talking.

I drummed my fingers on the stainless steel counter, watching the cook scramble Margaret’s eggs. Victor’s meatloaf ticket still dangled from cook’s order wheel; his was up next. And that gave me an idea.

A half hour slid by. I waited until after Margaret and Victor had both cleaned their plates, then smiled sweetly as I placed their tickets, face-down, on each table. The wrong ticket.

Victor was first to react. His eyebrows shot up.

“Waitress!” he called, rising, the ticket in hand. As he strode past Margaret’s table his eyes slid sideways. Recognition dawned.

His hand shot out, snatching up Margaret’s untouched ticket. “Looks like they got our bills swapped by mistake,” he boomed, an awkward smile twisting his lips. “But don’t worry. I got ’em both. Always happy to buy a pretty lady a meal.”

Victor’s cheeks were rosy but he was still grinning as he slapped a pair of twenties on the counter next to the register. “Keep the change,” he leaned in toward me with a wink.

Behind him, still in her booth, Margaret was blushing furiously. “That’s very kind of you,” she murmured, gathering her purse and sweater as she slid out. “Guess I’ll just have to buy the next time, then.” She looked happy, too.

Victor held the front door for her and the bell tinkled as they exited the café together. Through the glass I saw them standing on the sidewalk, gazes locked, talking before going their separate ways.

I was the Cheshire cat for the next hour.

By now, the lunch rush was over, and I was able to catch my breath. Pretty soon the only patron left was another face I recognized, this time not quite so happily: the young, thin newspaper reporter from the night of the murder. The byline on those rumor-filled front page stories had given me his name: Harold Hocking.

There was a washed-out look about him. His hair was a nondescript dishwater blonde, and a tan button-down shirt hung loosely over narrow shoulders. The combination of faded hues did nothing to enhance his sallow complexion.

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