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Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

After I managed not to die of embarrassment, I dragged Adeena out of the dental clinic and shoved the paperwork at her. “You deal with this. I’d kill you now, but I’m already under investigation for murder. I’m going to go sleep for a few years. See you in time for lunch.”

I woke up an hour later even groggier than before my nap, which wasn’t ideal, but I couldn’t afford to waste any more time. A quick walk with Nisa to shake the cobwebs from my brain, another hot shower to make me feel human again, and then off to grab Adeena for some very late lunchtime reconnaissance.

We decided to hit up Stan’s Diner since it was the first on the list. Plus, we figured it was time we finally visited this supposed Shady Palms institution ourselves. See what all the fuss was about.

As I drove across town, Adeena pulled the suspect list out of her bag and looked it over. “OK, according to Auntie June, the owner is Stan Kosta. A bad review from Derek led to a surprise visit from the health inspector, who gave Stan a failing grade and made him hire a contractor to fix the problems so he could open up again. Got hit with a hefty fine as well.”

Hmm, just like Yuki Sato’s story. I was going to have to pay her a visit soon.

I pulled into the packed lot at Stan’s Diner—not the most creative name, though as someone whose family restaurant was called Tita Rosie’s Kitchen, I couldn’t really judge. At least that failing grade and fine hadn’t seemed to hurt his business all that much. Adeena and I exited the car and hurried through the last of the gray winter slush to yank open the door. A blast of hot air seared our faces, the warmth almost oppressive after the briskness of the wind outside.

“Hey, close that door, you’re letting all the heat out!” the big burly man working the grill bellowed at us.

We rushed to comply and studied the man in front of us. He looked like a diner cook from the 50s in his old-school paper cook’s hat and dirty white apron. The woman working the register, likely his wife, told us there was a twenty-minute wait for a table or we could seat ourselves at the counter.

I wanted to wait since I hate eating at the counter (honestly, who eats sitting next to each other?) but Adeena yanked me to a spot right in front of the grill. I was going to protest, but she nodded toward the cook. If I were to believe the dingy name tag hanging on the grillman’s apron, that put us directly in front of Stan Kosta, the owner of this establishment and first suspect on our list.

We looked over the menu. I appreciated a good greasy spoon, but most didn’t pay a lot of attention to their vegetarian offerings. Stan’s provided plenty of tasty comfort food, but not a ton of vegetal variety.

I leaned close to Adeena, so as not to offend Stan. “Will you be OK ordering here?”

“I think it’ll be alright. They offer an all-day breakfast menu, and the pecan waffles are just what I need right now. How about you?”

I looked over the menu, paralyzed by indecision. Since I’d moved back home, I’d mostly been eating my aunt and grandmother’s cooking. Don’t get me wrong, I loved it and I’d bet good money my family could cook circles around anyone in town, but once in a while you crave something different. And good ol’ greasy American diner food was something I missed from my late-night drunken college jaunts.

“You want a recommendation, go for the meatloaf. With a side of mashed potatoes and gravy, and maybe some green beans if you’re one of those girls who needs something green with each meal,” Stan said as he slid the bacon double cheeseburger he’d been grilling onto a toasted bun and topped it with a perfectly fried egg. “Order up!”

I smiled at him, figuring this was the perfect opportunity to get on his good side. “Usually the greens aren’t a prerequisite, but I’m definitely ordering dessert, so I have to pretend to be at least somewhat virtuous.”

He laughed. “I like that. In that case, go for the peach cobbler or apple pie. If you don’t like fruit, there’s plenty of other options and they’re all great. My wife makes all the desserts.”

He jerked his thumb toward the woman at the cash register. Ha, I knew she was his wife. Next to her sat a dessert case to rival some of Chicago’s best bakeries. If I weren’t trying to get my life back on track and prove to my family that I was an adult, I would’ve just skipped straight to dessert. There was a lemon icebox pie with my name on it sitting in that dimly lit case.

“So should I put in that order for meatloaf or what?” Stan asked.

I hesitated. I never really understood meat loaf—just dense, dry lumps of ground meat and bread topped with . . . ketchup? Even embutido, the Filipino version, never appealed to me.

It wouldn’t hurt to butter the guy up though—might make him more talkative. Plus, I hate when people ask me for recommendations and then don’t take them. If you already know what you want, why even ask me?

OK, so technically I hadn’t asked Stan, but as the owner, he should know what he’s talking about, right?

“Yes sir!” I saw they had Filbert’s root beer and ordered one as well. Adeena asked for her waffles and some coffee.

“Comin’ right up.” Stan got to work prepping our order: mixing the batter and ladling it onto the waffle iron, slicing the meat loaf and hitting it with a nice sear, then plating everything up. Extra gravy on the side for me, with a mini carafe of real maple syrup and cup of whipped butter for Adeena. Oh my gulay . . .

The steam rising up from the platter enveloped my face in an oddly comforting, lightly herb-scented aroma. I took a deep breath, detecting a hint of rosemary and tarragon.

While I was participating in my olfactory delight, Adeena wasted no time in tucking into her plate of tasty breakfast treats. Waffles were her desert island food—as long as you switched up the flavor or toppings once in a while, she could easily eat nothing but waffles for the rest of her life.

My desert island food was just as versatile: crepes. Both savory and sweet, from the classic Filipino lumpiang sariwa to the simplicity of a sprinkle of sugar and squeeze of lemon, I couldn’t get enough of them. Maybe I could convince my family to do a Filipino-themed crepe bar on Sundays. Might be a good way to pick up new business.

“You just gonna sit there smelling your food or you gonna eat it?” Stan stood over me, hands on hips, still gripping his spatula.

“I’d think as the chef you’d want people to appreciate and savor your food,” I said, finally forking up a chunk of meat loaf.

“As the cook, I just want people to clear their darn plates. How fast or slow they eat the food is none of my business.”

“So why are you heckling me if it doesn’t matter how long it takes to eat?”

“’Cause you weren’t eating. Different story.”

“You’re a difficult man, Stan.”

He shrugged. “Tell me something I don’t know. Now go on, eat your food.”

I rolled my eyes, but obediently popped the piece of meatloaf into my mouth. My eyes instantly widened and then closed in pleasure as I chewed. “Wow. I was expecting something dense and heavy, even a little dry, but this . . . I didn’t know it was possible to make meatloaf that was so tender and fresh-tasting.”

He nodded. “It’s the herb mélange, plus my secret ingredient. And don’t even ask, you’re just wasting your time.”

That was rather presumptuous, as my mouth was full and I hadn’t planned on asking anyway (I hated handling raw meat), so his secret was safe from me. Well, about his ingredients, anyway. But about his involvement with Derek and the health inspector . . .

I turned to Adeena. “Can you believe Derek gave this place a bad review? The food here is amazing!”

She’d been too busy shoveling waffles into her face to get my cue, but she quickly caught on. “What? Oh, right! Yeah, this has got to be the best waffle I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot of waffles. They’re so packed with flavor, you don’t even need the butter and syrup.”

Stan grunted. “Doesn’t hurt though, right?”

“Real maple syrup and proper butter? Too much of a good thing is still a good thing.”

He refilled our water glasses, then raised the pitcher in salute. “Cheers to that.”

Darn it, he didn’t take the bait. I elbowed Adeena to continue.

She cast around for something else to comment on and her eyes fell on her mug. She picked it up and took a sip of coffee. “Hmm, he was right about the coffee, though. Your food is prime, but your coffee-brewing skills could use some work.”

He frowned. “Oh, and you’re some coffee expert?”

“Well, I’m the barista at Java Jo’s, so yes.”

“Ah, so you work at that hoity-toity coffee shop across town? No wonder I’ve never seen you in here before. You girls too good to stop by my place?”

Adeena said, “Dude, chill. We literally just said that your food is fantastic. These waffles don’t need your negativity stinking up the joint.”

Stan laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. And you’re right about the coffee, too. I never got into that fancy stuff. It’s hot and caffeinated, and that’s all you need, in my mind.”

He went to rub the back of his head and realized he was still holding the spatula. He put it down, saying, “It’s just that hearing that guy’s name still makes me so mad. What was his deal?”

“You mean, why the bad reviews?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I don’t know. Maybe you had an off day? Got his order wrong? I can’t remember what he said in his article, but he never seemed to review restaurants he actually liked, so . . .”

He stiffened. “I have off days like everyone else, but not in the kitchen. That kid called my food ‘tired and generic, lacking flavor as well as class.’ I can take criticism as well as anyone, but that was just for starters. It’s one thing if he doesn’t like my food. Everyone has their own tastes, right? But then he started outright lying about what happened here. Said I served him chicken that was still raw in the middle and hinted that he saw something running around in the kitchen, and how those had to be health-code violations. And the one day, the one day that my freezer is on the fritz is the day the health inspector decides to pay me a surprise visit. Because of what that liar wrote. Had to pay a huge fine and hire a contractor to fix my freezer ASAP. The inspector wasn’t going to let us operate until it was done. Even tried to get me to hire a specific contractor, but I told him it was fine, I knew a guy. It didn’t scare away my old customers, but it sure ain’t bringing in any new ones.”

I said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. When he set his sights on you, it was like he didn’t care that he was trashing real people and harming their livelihood. The truth meant nothing to him. He just wanted a reaction out of people. What a sad way to live.”

I’d decided to go the commiseration route to see if that’d endear him to me, but the more I spoke, the more the truth of my words hit me. That really was the person that Derek had become. And I didn’t mourn that. But I did remember the person he was. The kid who’d cared for his mother through all of her troubles. Who’d had a wicked sense of humor and was always up for a good prank. Who’d been the first person to try all my baking experiments and make me feel like I really did have some talent in the kitchen, despite everything my grandmother said. And that filled me with immense sadness.

Stan leaned his elbows on the counter. “Sounds like you’re familiar with his brand of reviews.”

I shook off the curtain of gloom that was threatening to descend upon me. “Yeah, my family owns Tita Rosie’s Kitchen, which has been his latest target. In fact . . .” I trailed off, not knowing how to finish that sentence. I needed him to open up to me, but I couldn’t afford to be too honest.

Unfortunately, the rumor mill, as well as the daily paper, had already made its way to this side of town.

“Wait, why does that sound familiar? Oh sh—” Stan cut himself off and called his wife over. “Hey, Martha! Get on over here.”

She bustled over, annoyed at being interrupted mid-conversation with a departing customer. “What do you want, Stan? Can’t you see I’m busy?” She turned around and waved to her customer. “Come back soon, you hear? Bye, sweetie!”

“Stop your gossiping, will you? Now you won’t believe who this is—”

“The girl they think killed Derek Winter. Supposedly got arrested for dealing drugs as well.” She rolled her eyes at her husband. “Of course I know who she is. What do you think people been talking about since she came in here?”

Martha looked me up and down. “You don’t look like no killer. Though I can’t say anyone around here would blame you if you were.”

“Martha!”

“Oh come off it, Stan. Everyone around here hated that boy and knew he was full of it.”

“So Derek was well-known around here?” I asked.

Her lip curled. “He started coming here early last year, almost every day for a month straight. Tried just about every item on the menu and found fault with all of them. Never had a kind word come out of his mouth. No compliments, not even a thanks.”

The young waitress came around to refill Adeena’s coffee mug. “He was also a terrible tipper. Surprise, surprise.”

We hadn’t had a chance to talk to her since Stan took our orders, but she was good about working the room and making sure everyone had what they needed. Knowing what I did about food service and how tips were basically what paid your bills, that made me even madder at Derek. He was a poor tipper at our restaurant too, but I thought he just had a grudge against me and my family. The fact that he was like that with everyone told me everything I needed to know about the person he’d become.

“Yeah? He always tipped poorly at my place, but I figured it was ’cause he hated me. Can’t believe he was like that with everyone,” I said.

Adeena had polished off her waffles and was nursing a cup of coffee she’d doctored with a bunch of cream and sugar to cover the actual taste. “Tells you a lot about what kind of person he is. Or was, I guess I should say. He ordered coffee from the cafe all the time and never left a tip.” She shrugged. “Though he always insisted that Kevin be the one who made it for him, so it’s not like I was missing out on anything. Still, not cool.”

Martha put a hand on her chest, shaking her head. “I really don’t know what was wrong with that boy. His mother is so sweet. A little troubled, but sweet. And she worked so hard to raise him all on her own after his dad abandoned them.”

The waitress jumped in. “You’d think it would’ve gotten easier after she married that real estate guy, but I don’t know. She seemed quieter. Went out less. And Derek became . . . Derek.”

We were all silent for a moment before I asked, “So he was like this with all the restaurants he reviewed?”

The three of them nodded in unison. Stan said, “He chose a local place, frequented it for a month or so, wrote a bunch of vicious reviews about the place, then when he thought he’d caused enough damage, he moved on to the next one.”

Martha added, “I guess we were lucky that he was foolish enough to choose us first. We’ve been here in Shady Palms for over thirty years. He was just starting out and didn’t have a following yet. The only reason the health inspector came by was ’cause he’s friends with Derek’s stepfather.”

“Wait, what? The health inspector is friends with Mr. Long?” Hmm, Yuki did say the health inspector was a family friend of Derek’s. Mr. Long must’ve been their connection.

Stan nodded grimly. “Best friends. Which makes me wonder if that’s how he knew to visit that day we were having problems. Who else would’ve tipped him off? Why else would he have hurried over here if we weren’t scheduled to be inspected? Real fishy if you ask me. But it’s a small town. He’s the only guy we got. Who am I gonna report him to, you know? And like I said, not like we lost a ton of business or nothing. So we let it go. The Torres family though, that was ugly.”

I perked up and tried not to look at Adeena, but I knew we were both thinking that was the next name on the list, the owner of El Gato Negro.

“The Torres family? Who are they?” I asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

Stan and Martha exchanged glances. “They used to own a Mexican restaurant on the other side of town. But now it’s, uh . . . under new ownership, I guess you could say.”

“Let me guess: that was Derek’s work?”

“Bingo.”

“What’s their story?”

“They were new to town. You know how it is. People didn’t know them, so when they opened their restaurant, business wasn’t exactly booming. But it wasn’t bad. Till Derek started writing his reviews. That’s when the whispers started.”

“What were people saying?”

Martha fidgeted a bit. “You know, the usual. Food poisoning and unhygienic practices. Things like that.”

I could tell there was more to the story. “And?”

Stan shook his head. “Like I said, it got ugly. There were claims that the owners had, uh, what’s the right . . . undocumented? Yeah, undocumented immigrants working for them. Don’t know if that’s true or not, but they started getting threats soon after.”

Now it was time for me and Adeena to exchange glances. “Someone started a rumor that they had undocumented workers and that’s all it took to shut them down?”

Martha twisted a napkin between her fingers, not meeting our eyes. “The threats eventually escalated to vandalism. Someone shot out all their windows.”

I gasped and Adeena looked sick.

Stan shook his head in disgust. “I know. Luckily no one was hurt. They got kids, too. Young kids. Didn’t want them exposed to the hate that was spreading, so they packed up and left.”

“Last I heard, they moved in with the woman’s parents back in the city and are staying with them until they find work and a new place,” Martha added, shaking her head. “Such a shame. We chatted with them at church a few times. They were a real nice family.”

“How long were they in Shady Palms?” I asked.

“All said and done, maybe less than a year?” Martha hazarded, looking at Stan, who nodded agreement.

Yikes. To uproot your life, move to a small town to raise a family and start your own business, only to be run out by a pitchfork-wielding mob . . . they would’ve been my number-one suspects, but how could they kill Derek if they weren’t even here anymore? Unless . . .

“The people who took over the restaurant. Were they friends with the Torres family?”

“I think they’re related, actually. That’s what I heard, anyway. They look nothing alike, so not sure how true that is,” Martha said.

So maybe they had something to do with it after all. If the new owner was close to the family that had been driven out of town, it was possible they felt the need to retaliate. Seemed more likely than Stan and Martha, anyway. As they’d said, it had a slight impact on their reputation but not their business. The neighborhood locals clearly loved the place and the food was excellent. Speaking of which . . .

“I do believe it’s dessert time. Martha, can I get a slice of your lemon icebox cake?”

Stan frowned. “You haven’t finished your meal yet.”

“Oh, and a box for my leftovers. After all this good food, I’m gonna need to go for a run later. Knowing I have this meatloaf waiting for me will provide a heck of a push.”

He chuckled and handed over a Styrofoam box while Martha went to get our desserts. I’ve never known anyone with the capacity for sugar that Adeena has. She’d demolished her waffles, which she’d drowned in syrup, and then ordered a slice of triple chocolate tuxedo pie, another sugar bomb. If I ate the way she did, I’d have lost a foot to diabetes by now.

Martha slid our desserts in front of us, and Adeena and I hummed in appreciation after taking our first bites. The lemon icebox cake was cold and creamy, with a background sweetness and a whole lot of tang. As I often did when sampling delicious desserts, I tried to deconstruct what was in it.

Graham crackers, cream cheese, whipped cream, and a ton of lemon curd seemed to be the basis of the recipe. Similar to the ginger calamansi pie I’d made, but simpler and no-bake, if I decided to buy the graham crackers instead of making my own. Definitely worth experimenting with, as I had a jar of calamansi curd tucked away in the fridge just begging to be used. I made a note on my phone to try this later, maybe as a summer offering.

As per usual when eating out, Adeena and I swapped plates so we could taste each other’s desserts.

“What do you think, girls?”

I grinned at Martha. “Delicious. I love how the lemon cake is sweet and tangy, but you don’t go too far in either direction.”

Adeena added, “It’s the perfect counterpoint to my chocolate pie, which is divine, by the way. Rich, creamy, and so satisfying.”

Martha beamed and left to go ring up a customer.

Stan nodded his satisfaction. “I like you girls. Feel free to come by anytime for some good food and gossip.”

I glanced at Adeena. “What do you mean?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You telling me you didn’t come here fishing for information about that Winter boy? You girls, who’ve lived here your whole lives and never once came to this part of town. You just happen to come to the diner the Winter boy wrote about, the Winter boy who happened to die earlier this week in your restaurant? That what you want me to believe?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Uh . . . yes?”

He shook his head. “Miss, I’m simple. I’m not stupid.”

I started to apologize, but he held up his hand. “It’s fine. I know why you’re here. Word is both you and your aunt are in trouble. You’re just looking out for your family, yeah?”

I bit my lip. “Yeah. We had nothing to do with his death. Tita Rosie’s a good person and these rumors are destroying her. She’s already worried they’re going to take away our restaurant, now she’s stressed that I’m going to be taken away, too. It’s too much, you know? It’s just too much . . .”

I choked up and couldn’t finish the sentence. Adeena put her arm around me and pulled me close. “We’re not gonna let that happen. You hear me? We’re gonna figure this out.”

Stan nodded. “I’ve met your aunt a few times, you know. Doing volunteer work at the church.” He paused. “I’ll keep my ears open. People ’round here like to talk. If I find out anything good, I’ll let you know.”

I didn’t know what to say. “I . . . thanks, I . . .”

He held up his hand. “Miss Rosie is good people. I can tell you’re cut from the same cloth. If you say your family didn’t do it, I believe you.”

Tears sprang to my eyes and I barely managed to choke out a “thank you” before running out to my car. I sat in the driver’s seat, tears rolling down my face, embarrassed by my overly emotional reaction. I guess it was just so reassuring that this complete stranger believed in us. Believed in me. Nice to be reminded of all the kindness there still was in the world.

A whoosh of cold air announced Adeena’s arrival as she opened the passenger door and slid in. She dropped my bag of leftovers in the backseat.

“You forgot that.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“And to pay your half of the check.”

I winced. “Sorry. I’ll get you next time.”

“Oh don’t worry, you’re paying for dinner. You also ran out before leaving your contact information, so I gave him both our numbers. You need to get better at this detective stuff, or we’ll never have any informants.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Thanks, Adeena. What would I do without you?”

“I really don’t know,” she said without a trace of sarcasm. “Here’s hoping you never have to find out.”

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