No One Needs to Know (2 page)

Duncan had already brought in the sandwich board sign from the sidewalk by the entrance. He was mopping the kitchen floor—always his last chore for the night.

As she wiped down the counter with Windex and a sponge, Laurie prayed no last-minute customers would show up. In just a few minutes, she could lock the door and hang up the CLOSED sign. She was hoping to get out of there by 11:15.

She was about to pull the keys from the pocket of her waitress uniform when the man strutted through the doorway.

Laurie hadn’t noticed a car pull into the parking lot. She couldn’t help wondering if the guy had switched off his headlights as he’d approached the diner. But why would he do that? Was it because he didn’t want anyone identifying his car later?

Laurie felt dread in the pit of her stomach. She put down the sponge, and nervously wiped her hands on her apron. She tried not to stare at the man:
dark hair, pale complexion, medium build.
She guessed he was about thirty. He looked unwashed with his five o’clock shadow and greasy, unkempt black hair. Still, he was sort of sexy in a strange, dangerous kind of way. Maybe it was the unabashed, flirtatious grin on his face as his dark eyes met hers. He seemed so smug. Any other time, she might have been amused, maybe even slightly intrigued despite herself—but not now.

Please,
she thought,
just order a Coke to go, take it, and get out of here.
Hell, she wouldn’t even charge him for it if that was all he wanted.

The camouflage-pattern army fatigue jacket he wore seemed too big for his frame. With a grunt, he plopped down on one of the middle stools. Then he began to slap his hands on the countertop, keeping time with “My Sharona.”

Laurie worked up a smile and handed him the grill menu—which, thankfully, got him to stop pounding on the counter. “We’re about ready to close,” she said over the music. “But I can still fix you something to go.”

He studied the menu and frowned. “What the hell is the Rita Moreno Burger?”

Laurie took a deep breath. “It’s a ground chicken burger with hints of chili, lime, and cilantro, topped with guacamole, and served with beans and plantain fries.” The description was plainly there on the menu. Still, she refrained from asking,
Can’t you read?

“Doesn’t sound very Italian,” he muttered.

“It’s Puerto Rican,” Laurie explained. “Rita Moreno is from Puerto Rico.”

“Moreno sounds Italian to me,” he grumbled.

Laurie just shrugged.

Paul, the owner, was a big movie fan. His collection of framed vintage movie posters and autographed film-star portraits decorated the walls of the Superstar Diner. Every item on the menu was named after a movie star—from the Crepes Suzanne Pleshette to the Lee J. Cobb Salad to the Spencer Tracy Steak. Laurie figured this clever concept was lost on most of the truckers who wandered in for a fast meal.

His eyes on the menu, the stranger let out a long sigh. “Okay, give me three of those, two Myrna Loy Soy Burgers, three of the Gary Cooper Classics, one with cheese, and two Jon Hamm and Egg Sandwiches.” He slapped the menu down on the counter and smirked at her. “To go.”

Oh, crap,
Laurie thought, scribbling it all down. She’d be lucky to get out of there by 11:40 now.

“Regular french fries with each order, okay?” he grunted. “None of that plantain shit.” He reached inside his fatigue jacket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one up.

Laurie shook her head at him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here. It’s against the law.”

He drew in, and then deliberately blew smoke rings in her direction. “Know what else is against the law?” he asked. “Carrying a concealed weapon.”

Laurie froze and stared at him. Was he hiding a gun inside that baggy fatigue jacket? For a second, she couldn’t breathe.

“My Sharona” finally ended. She could hear Duncan in the kitchen, wringing out the mop. He had no idea what was going on. The sound of the kitchen door slamming made her flinch, and she realized he’d just stepped outside to empty the mop bucket.

Now she and this man were alone.

He took another long drag from his cigarette, and then he cracked a smile. “Hey, relax,” he whispered. “I’m just having a little fun with you, Laurie, that’s all.”

For a second, it baffled her that he knew her name. Then she remembered the name tag on her waitress uniform. She wore the uniform only on Wednesday nights.

With a shaky hand, Laurie grabbed a saucer and set it on the counter in front of him. It wobbled and clanked against the linoleum. “No smoking,” she said, hating the little tremor in her voice. “Put out your cigarette, please.”

He drew in one last puff, stubbed out the cigarette, and then exhaled a cloud of smoke in her face.

Laurie glared at him. Her stomach was in knots. “I’m sorry, but with a big order like this so late at night, you’ll have to pay in advance. I’ll total it up . . .” She started toward the cash register at the end of the counter. She remembered, in case she needed it, the button was there under the counter by the register—a silent alarm to the police department.

Suddenly, he grabbed her arm. “Listen, why don’t you skip that for now and start cooking up the shit you’re passing off as food, huh?” he said. “The sooner you get my order on the grill, the sooner you can wrap it up here and go home to your baby boy. Am I right, Laurie, or am I right?”

She automatically wrenched her arm away from his grasp. But she couldn’t move. Staring at him, she felt as if her feet were cemented to the floor. She couldn’t figure out how he knew about Joey.

He grinned. He could tell she was scared. That was the thing about him—it was as if he knew her every thought.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

Laurie barely got the question out when she heard the kitchen screen door slam again. It gave her another start. She turned to see if Duncan was coming back inside. But she couldn’t spot him through the window. For a moment, she imagined someone following him into the kitchen—with a gun at his bobbling head.

Laurie stole a glance at the silent alarm, just a few feet away. She had to go for it—even if it meant a split lip and a black eye.

“Is someone smoking out there?” Duncan called.

She swiveled around, and was grateful to see him—alone—peering at her through the pass-through window.

“Go back to your mopping, Einstein,” the stranger snarled. “Laurie and I are having a private conversation. Go on . . .”

Duncan blinked at him, and his head started to shake.

“Loser,” the man grumbled.

Behind the man, out the plate-glass window, Laurie noticed a pair of headlights coming up the road from the Interstate’s off-ramp.

“Laurie, are you okay?” Duncan asked.

She watched the vehicle turn into the lot. To her utter relief, she saw it was a police car. “Everything’s fine, Duncan,” she said evenly. “The gentleman’s just leaving . . .”

The man fiddled with a salt shaker. He looked so smug. He didn’t seem to catch on that a patrolman was just outside the restaurant.

Duncan retreated from the pass-through window. A moment later, Laurie heard the bucket clanking as he put it away.

“I have no idea how you know me,” Laurie said to the stranger. Her heart was racing. “But you’re acting like a total creep. Now it’s past closing time, and I don’t have to put up with you. Do you understand me? You need to leave—
now.
”

In response, he unscrewed the top of the salt shaker, and slowly poured out the salt. A little white mound formed on the counter.

Laurie nodded toward the window in back of him. “You’re going to have a tough time explaining that little trick to the state trooper out there.”

The man glanced over his shoulder, and then turned toward her again, stone-faced. “If he’s a friend of yours, he might be interested to hear how much you whored around while your hero-husband got shot at in Afghanistan. I could give him an earful, sweetie. You have everybody in this town thinking you’re somebody special, the sweet war widow . . .” He stood up. “But you’re just a fraud.”

Dumbfounded, she stood there with her mouth open. It wasn’t true. He didn’t know what he was talking about. She wanted to say as much, she wanted to scream it at him. But a grain of truth in his tirade kept her mute.

He sauntered toward the exit, slipping out just as the state patrolman opened the door to come inside. “Thanks, pal,” he muttered to the cop.

The husky, baby-faced patrolman scowled at him. Then he seemed to shrug it off. “Is it too late for a cup of caffeinated to go?” he asked, lumbering toward the counter.

Laurie listened to an engine start up outside. Through the window she watched an old, beat-up silver minivan pull out of the lot. This time his headlights were on. She thought she saw someone with him in the front passenger seat.

She had a pretty good idea who it was.

“Is it too late to get a cup of coffee to go?” the patrolman asked again.

Rattled, Laurie gaped at him, and quickly nodded, “Sure thing, coming right up.” She headed for the coffee station. She hadn’t switched it off yet. “It’s on the house,” she said, reaching for a Styrofoam cup. Her hand was shaking a little. “You want a large?”

“Sure, thanks,” the cop replied. He squinted at the white mound of salt on the counter—and the cigarette stubbed out on the saucer. “What’s this?”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Laurie said, pouring coffee into the large container. She set the container and a lid in front of him, and started to clean up the stranger’s mess. “Did you need cream or sugar with that?”

“Black’s fine,” the policeman said.

Laurie wanted to tell the cop what had just happened, but she couldn’t. Right now, she couldn’t tell anyone.

She stole another look out the side window—at the access road. The minivan’s front beams and taillights disappeared in the darkness.

But she didn’t feel any relief. The dread was still rooted in the pit of her stomach.

She knew it wasn’t over. The silver minivan would be back.

Tonight was just the beginning.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Wednesday, 11:12
P.M.

T
he code to set the alarm was *72. The keypad was on the kitchen wall by a pair of saloon doors to the dining area. Once she set the alarm, Laurie had sixty seconds to leave through the front exit and lock it—or the damn thing would go off. As usual, Duncan waited for her outside, because the whole business of having to get out of there within a minute flustered him. Tonight he had the state patrolman keeping him company. After what had happened at Paddy’s Pantry six nights ago, the cop said he’d stay until she’d closed up—just to be safe.

Laurie knew her last customer of the night had nothing to do with the armed robbery at Paddy’s Pantry. He’d had no intention of robbing the diner tonight.

No, he’d come there for her.

But she couldn’t admit that to the cop—or to Duncan. For them, she tried her damnedest to act as if nothing was wrong. Yet all the while she felt as if her whole world was about to crumble. She couldn’t breathe right. She just wanted to get home and make sure Joey was safe.

At closing, they always left on the big lighted Coke clock and the red neon sign in the window spelling out BREAKFAST-LUNCH-DINNER. The dim, scarlet-hued light was enough for Laurie to navigate her way through the shadowy restaurant.

She slipped out the front door and locked it with thirty seconds to spare. A cool night breeze hit her, and she clutched together the front of the black cardigan over her waitress uniform.

Duncan said he’d see her tomorrow, and then he mounted his moped, which always sounded like a defective lawn mower whenever he started it up. Waving good-bye to her and the cop, he took off. The sound of the sputtering engine grew fainter as Duncan headed up the access road toward town.

Laurie turned and smiled at the state patrolman. He had no idea how he’d rescued her tonight, even if it was just temporarily. “Well, thank you for sticking around,” she said. “It was a comfort—”

A static-laced announcement came over a mic strapped to the cop’s shoulder, interrupting her. The patrolman pressed a button on the device and spoke into it. “This is car seventeen responding . . .” There was more gibberish from the mic, which apparently he understood. “I’m at the Ellensburg exit by I-90 right now. I’m on my way. Over . . .” He turned to Laurie, his eyebrows raised. “Are you okay on your own from here?”

Nodding at him, she reached into her purse for the car keys. She backed toward her Toyota Camry on the other side of the small lot. “Oh, yes, I’m headed straight home . . .” She turned and pressed the device on her key ring. The car lights blinked.

She glanced back at the cop, who was already ducking inside his patrol car. He started to talk into his mic again, and then shut the door.

She was about to call, “Thanks again,” but he wouldn’t have heard her.

With a sigh, Laurie climbed into her car. She put the key in the ignition, and then remembered something she’d left behind in the diner.

The prowler’s headlights and rooftop red strobes went on as the cop pulled out of the lot.

Biting her lip, Laurie watched him drive away.

She’d promised Paul that when she got home tonight, she would bake four orange cakes for tomorrow. So on the way to work, she had stopped by the grocery store and bought all the ingredients, which she’d stashed in the diner’s refrigerator. Her orange cake was a hit at the Superstar Diner, and would go on the special dessert menu Thursday night. She would be baking one more cake—to send to Cheryl Wheeler, the owner of Grill Girl, a popular Seattle food truck recently profiled on the Food Network. Paul didn’t know it, but for the last two months Laurie had been sending her desserts to various Seattle and Portland restaurateurs in hopes of getting hired—and getting out of Ellensburg.

She nervously tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. One of the last things she wanted to do right now was go back inside the diner, deactivate the alarm, and retrieve a bunch of groceries. She’d have to go through the whole lock-up procedure all over again, alone this time. And she couldn’t be certain if her last customer of the night hadn’t stuck around to see if the cop would leave before her.