Page 25 of Brimstone Hollow

“What can I get you, hon? We’ve got—” She pauses as a younger woman with a tub of dishes passes behind her, stops in her tracks, and mutters something to Crystal before moving back into the kitchen. Crystal turns back to me, eyes wide.

“Oh!You’rethe private investigator!” she exclaims. She’s grinning, apparently excited. Amethyst earrings glimmer in the morning light as she tilts her head and gives me a long, appraising look.

“Yep,” I say. “That’s me.”

“My boyfriend was in here last night and he told me he saw a private investigator talking to Frankie. I was sorry to miss out, but I wassosick!” Her mouth forms a little, practiced pout and my dislike deepens.

“Are you really investigating Ezra King’s death?” she asks.

“That’s right.”

“Man,” she says, with a slow headshake. “That’s wild.”

“Did you know him?”

Her mouth drops open a little, as if she’s stunned. Like she hadn’t expected the private investigator woman she’d heard about to actually ask her any questions. But she recovers fast enough and says, “No. Well, I mean… everyoneknewhim.”

Behind me, someone clears their throat again.

“Sorry,” Crystal says. “What can I get you?”

All business now, apparently. I realize that even if Crystal does have anything juicy to tell me, I’m not going to get it standing here at the window with five more people now lined up behind me.

“Pork chop biscuit,” I say. “With cheesy tots. And a large coffee.”

I pay and move down the line to wait my turn at the pick-up window.After a few minutes, Frankie approaches looking somehow less exhausted than she had the night before. She holds out a little white bag stained with grease on the bottom, and says, “Oh hey! You’re back. I was gonna try to track you down later.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “My boss wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she’s—” She pauses and looks around and then hollers at someone behind her. “Hey! Where’s Zelda?”

“Out back,” a voice calls. “She was taking out the trash.”

“Out back,” Frankie repeats. “Have a good breakfast!”

I open the bag as I walk, pulling out a cheesy tot and popping it into my mouth. It’s a lava-hot explosion of salt, cheddar cheese, and grease, and I suck in air around it as I gnash. I probably look like a dog eating a hot dog, but I don’t care. I pull another one out of the bag and blow on it as I round the building. There’s a woman there in a Cherry Dairy uniform top with black jeans and black Doc Martens boots. Her hair is fiery red and very curly with several tight spirals hanging around her face and the rest of it pulled into a braid that hangs almost to her tailbone.

“Excuse me—” I say.

Apparently oblivious to my presence, she pushes open the dumpster and hefts in a bag.

“Excuse me—” I say again as I get closer. “Are you the manager? Zelda?”

She doesn’t respond and I take a few steps closer, getting within arm’s length of her. When she finally turns and sees me, there’s a moment of confused startlement, and then she brushes a curl away from her cheekbone and I see a cochlear implant processor hooked over her ear with the cable trailing back into her hair.

“Sorry. Didn’t have my ears switched on,” she says after adjusting the processor.

“Frankie said you wanted to talk to me,” I say. “I’m Annie Gore.”

“Oh! You’re the private investigator?”

“That’s right,” I answer.

She gives me an appraising look and I return it. She’s about my age, I guess, early to mid-thirties, with an impish quality that’s underscored by her rosy cheeks and swipes of gold-tinted eyeliner that shimmers in the sun.