Treasure Me

by Christine Nolfi

  “You stopped stealing from me? Gee, I feel so much better.” The waitress snatched the bill from her fingertips and stormed off.

  After she disappeared into the dining room, Birdie managed to regard Finney.

  “I’m guessing Officer Tim will be looking for you,” the cook said with surprising compassion.

  “He won’t have to.” Hesitating, Birdie came to a decision. “I’m going to the police station.” For once she wouldn’t run.

  “You will, now? I don’t mind saying I’m surprised.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not exactly courageous.”

  Birdie pushed down her fear. She was tired of running. God, she was tired. If going to the police meant doing time then she’d do it. Pay her debts and call it even.

  The cook lifted her spatula toward the humming crescendo of the dining room. “There’s mayhem out there, thanks to you. Go and help Delia.”

  “Please don’t make me go out there.” She dreaded walking into the dining room with all eyes settling on her in excruciating judgment. Exactly what she deserved, but it was like entering a shooting gallery with every customer gunning for her.

  “You can’t hide forever, young lady. Say your apologies nicely. Let folks shout at you if they’ve got a bellyful of anger. If anyone is too harsh, I’ll come out with my skillet. You’ll do fine.”

  The gently issued words filled Birdie’s eyes with stinging tears. “I’m a crook—I admit it,” she said, her throat clogging with emotion. “I’ll do jail time if I have to. Just don’t ask me to face everyone. They hate me.”

  “Hate’s a mighty strong word.” In a mothering gesture, the cook brushed the hair from Birdie’s eyes. Which only increased the tears. “The money you took from purses and wallets. Did you spend it?”

  “What?”

  Finney released a labored sigh. “Do you still have the money you took from people in town? Lord knows you’ve been earning a living wage waiting tables. You didn’t need anyone’s cash to get by.”

  “I haven’t spent a dime of it. My paycheck covered my expenses.” Birdie realized where this was headed. “I’ll return all the cash, but I’m not sure what I stole from everyone. How will I figure it out?”

  “I have an idea.” The cook went into the walk-in cooler and reappeared with a massive jar of pickles. “Dump these. Clean the jar. Put it on the counter with a sign telling people to take whatever they’re missing.”

  “What if someone takes more than they’re owed?” Birdie cringed at her bone-deep cynicism. The way the cook was looking at her, you’d think she’d announced the town was filled with criminals.

  Blossom, forgotten in the corner, approached. “No one will take money if it doesn’t belong to them, will they?” she asked, breaking the uncomfortable silent. Which also hurt. If Birdie infected the kid with her cynicism she’d never forgive herself. “Right, Finney?”

  “Of course not, child.” Blinking, the cook glanced at the clock above the sink. “Blossom, are you cutting class again? If you are, I’m telling Mary.”

  “If Birdie has to take her lumps from the customers and Officer Tim, I’ll take my chances with my mom.” Winding an arm around Birdie’s waist, Blossom planted her feet. “C’mon, Finney—have a heart. Birdie needs a friend out there.”

  Delia stuck her head through the pass-through window. Some of the tinsel in her hair drifted to the floor but she appeared too livid to notice. “Someone get out here!”

  With her insides turning to jelly, Birdie shuffled across the kitchen. She flinched as a shout erupted from the dining room. It was followed by a whack! There was a moment of deadly silence, then a shuffling of feet, and the shriek of a banshee.

  Theodora?

  At Birdie’s elbow, the kid with the corkscrew curls grinned like a Cheshire cat. “After you,” Blossom said.

  Chapter 26

  Birdie stared at the dining room, aghast. Mayhem didn’t begin to describe it.

  Every table overflowed with loud, impatient customers. Many of the faces were unfamiliar, people from Akron who’d obviously seen the Register. A crowd teemed outside, puffing in the frigid air and waiting to enter.

  A balled up napkin whizzed through the air. Delia, scribbling an order at table six, ducked. A man tall enough to brush the ceiling snapped photos of the antique furnishings, the fidgeting people—even of Theodora, patrolling the perimeter with a broom held before her like an oversized nightstick.

  “Don’t worry about the reporters,” Blossom said. “Every time one comes in asking for you, Theodora gets pushy. She gave a woman from the Cleveland paper a goose egg.” The kid tapped the left side of her forehead. “Right here.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Honest. The lady said she was lawyering up—”

  “And Theodora told her to bring it on.” It was easy to admire the old woman’s chutzpah. “By the way, what’s Theodora doing with the broom?”

  Blossom smirked. “You’ll see.”

  And Birdie did. At table nine, a stranger in a scruffy jean jacket slowly rose from his chair. Slinking toward the wall, he reached for a painting—George Washington astride a horse, Ethel Lynn’s favorite.

  The moment his fingers touched the frame, Theodora lunged down the aisle. With a thwack from her broom, mere inches from his loafers, she sent him stumbling back to his seat.

  Birdie groaned. “The man is looking for clues behind the paintings. He’s trying to retrace my steps.” Apparently Ralston had spared no details in the article “I need to get my hands on a copy of the newspaper.”

  “No one’s got one yet. My dad, over at the Gas & Go? I called him on my cell, and he said Mayor Ryan sent someone down to Akron to get a bunch of copies.”

  “You called your dad? Does he know you’re skipping school?”

  “No way. I made it sound noisy, like I was in the hallway between classes.” With a sly grin, the teen produced a notepad from beneath the counter, tore off a sheet, and noisily crumpled the paper between her hands. “It’s easy to fake my dad out. Nothing personal, but grownups aren’t too smart.”

  Birdie cringed. She was an adult who’d managed to pit herself against an entire town. Not smart at all. “Are all of these people from Akron?” she asked, preferring not to think about what lay ahead.

  “Most of them. They read the article. Not that I believe it—Finney says the story about the rubies is hogwash. But everyone here thinks they’ll find clues.”

  It was true. A woman in a rust colored parka eased out of her chair and tiptoed up to a set of pewter sconces on the walls. Thwack went Theodora’s broom, and the woman fled back to her chair. At table one, two men, shifty-eyed twins with matching goatees, squinted lustfully at the vintage American flag on the wall. Nearing, Theodora growled.

  The pint-sized general was a one-woman army protecting The Second Chance from marauders. Birdie smiled despite her depressed mood. Theodora is family. My family. True, they didn’t have anything in common but their common blood.

  Pride bloomed inside her. It was enough.

  Delia slapped an order on the pass-through window. “Blossom—stop gabbing. Work the counter until Ethel Lynn gets back. And you—” she poked Birdie hard in the chest, “get over to table five. Mrs. Sanson wants a word with you.”

  Birdie paled. Mrs. Sanson, who owned the craft store on Route 44, was so deeply crimson she looked like her ears would explode off her head. I snitched a twenty from her purse right before Thanksgiving. Glaring, the woman swept her manicured fingers across her silverware, pausing at the knife.

  Delia shoved Birdie forward. “It’s only a butter knife. She’s trying to scare you.”

  “It’s working.”

  Humiliated, Birdie suffered through enough of Mrs. Sanson’s insults to scar her for life. During the next hour, she endured more of the same as locals fought their way past the treasure hunters from Akron. One by one they confronted her with raised voices and scowling looks.

  Beaten down, she kept her tone polit
e and her pencil moving. To her relief, Finney placed the massive pickle jar on the counter for locals to take what they were owed; she must have rifled through the pockets of Birdie’s army coat as well. All the cash the cook found—all of it, including Birdie’s hard-earned tips and weekly pay—were stuffed into the jar.

  No less than she deserved. If she was broke at day’s end, so what? She’d betrayed the entire town, making herself a pariah in the process.

  “Want something to drink?” Blossom asked when Birdie, exhausted, dropped onto a barstool behind the counter. The teen waved the coffee pot through the air. “You look like you need a jolt.”

  “Only if there’s something stronger than coffee in there.”

  Theodora came around the counter. “This is a dry establishment, missy,” she said, but she winked.

  Until now, she’d ignored Birdie. Oddly, her gravelly voice was a surprising balm. Or her expression was—she didn’t look angry.

  But she did look strange. Theodora sported a tall fur hat, which matched the distressing fur collar on her herringbone suit. The suit was straight out of the 1950s, a ghoulish creation with the head of a mink sewn into the collar of the jacket. Birdie prayed it wasn’t a real mink—the disembodied creature gave her the shivers. Knowing Theodora, it probably was.

  Birdie rubbed her temples. “I guess I’m stuck with coffee.”

  “You need something better. Come here.” Theodora walked to the corner behind the counter. “I’ll fix you up right quick.”

  “Fix me up how?”

  The old woman produced a gold flask from the side pocket of her skirt. “Drink this,” she said, unscrewing the flask and sending diesel fumes into the air. “It’s moonshine. My special blend.”

  The fumes bleached Birdie’s nasal passages. “Not a good plan. Your brew’ll kill me.”

  “You should be more worried about Mr. Berkins killing you. He just sat down at table eleven. Damn fool’s shooting fire at the back of your head.”

  “I’ve run out of ways to say I’m sorry.”

  “Next time try flowers.”

  “You’re a laugh a minute, Theodora.” Birdie grabbed the flask and swigged. Lava scorched her esophagus then hit her belly. “Now this is how you grow an ulcer.”

  Theodora took back the flask. “You’re welcome.”

  “I can’t take much more of this. Everyone screams at me. I’m a cockroach. Can’t Mr. Berkins simply get his money from the pickle jar? Will you ask him?”

  “I can’t right now. I have bigger fish to fry.” Theodora’s wrinkles collapsed into revulsion. “Look what the cat dragged in. Leaving the restaurant to get all gussied up! It’s time to give Ethel Lynn a piece of my mind.”

  A blast of arctic air blew in through the opened door. Startled, Birdie looked up.

  Posing with a movie star’s panache, Ethel Lynn let her velvet coat drop and shimmied her feathered shoulders.

  Feathers?

  Chapter 27

  Batting her eyes at the photographer, Ethel Lynn oozed an aged and heavily feathered femininity. Across the dining room, necks craned.

  Her gold sequined cocktail dress had arrived from the Roaring Twenties with peacock feathers on the shoulders and a line of vibrant plumage running down the low-cut bodice.

  Delia careened with her tray into the counter. Dishes crashed to the floor.

  Stepping over them, she tipped her head to the side. “Not bad for an old broad of seventy,” she murmured—her first civil comment all morning. Grateful, Birdie smiled. “If her boobs didn’t look like empty Hot Pockets, she’d actually look good.”

  Birdie nodded. “She looks pretty,” she agreed, wanting to prolong the conversation. Delia was coming around. “More glitter than necessary… but it is the holiday season.”

  Theodora banged her fist on the counter. “It’s an abomination. Ethel Lynn, hightail it over here and explain yourself!”

  She did, trailing sequins like fairy dust. She’d done her face up—sapphire eyelids and crimson lips. Even her wispy, silvered hair was pulled into a chignon.

  “Theodora, must you yell?” Patting her hair, Ethel Lynn favored the gawking photographer, struck dumb beside table nine, with a flutter of her lashes. “This is my first brush with fame. Don’t spoil it.”

  “You old coot. How will you wait tables dressed like a hussy?”

  “With elegance and finesse.”

  “Fool.”

  Sashaying closer, Ethel Lynn halted suddenly. “Hells bells! Theodora, there’s a beaver at your throat!”

  “It’s a mink.” Theodora tugged her collar and the little head bobbed up and down, its spooky glass eyes catching light. “Granite isn’t as thick as you. Can’t you tell one kind of animal from another?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s awful.”

  Delia stuffed gum into her mouth. “It is,” she agreed between chews. “I feel like those little eyes are following me.”

  Ethel Lynn waved dismissively. “Cover it up.” She was probably channeling Joan Crawford. She wasn’t usually this bold.

  One of the feathers on her shoulder poked Theodora in the cheek. Birdie smelled danger. If someone didn’t separate them, they’d soon come to blows.

  “Is there any ribbon in back?” Ethel Lynn was saying. “Someone ask Finney. Let’s blindfold the beheaded pet so it doesn’t stare at us.”

  “How dare you,” Theodora hissed. She threw down the broom, her attention skittering across the counter. “Where’s my gun? Insulting my clothing—you’ve gone too far.”

  Delia shook her head. “There’s gonna be nothing left but fur and feathers.” She grimaced, and Birdie followed her gaze across the dining room. “Uh oh. Tilly Solomon just walked in. Birdie, how much did you take from her?”

  Unsure, Birdie leapt back as Theodora threw her tiny fist at Ethel Lynn’s face. “Gosh, I don’t know. She’s a regular. I hit her more than once.”

  “Looks like she knows it, too.”

  Avoiding a left hook, Ethel Lynn shrieked. She came to her senses and raised her spindly arms in a defensive pose. The boxing match would’ve been entertaining to watch if Tilly hadn’t dropped her Gucci bag on the counter.

  “Birdie Kaminsky, I hope they put you behind bars! I’ve lived in Liberty all my life and I’ve never had to worry about someone stealing from me.” The woman’s hazel eyes spit fire, and Birdie’s stomach hit the floor. “How much did you take from me?”

  Birdie grabbed the huge pickle jar and slid it forward. “I can’t remember.” Behind her, the old women tussled. An aimless blue feather drifted past. “Will fifty cover it?”

  “You aren’t sure what you took?”

  “I’m sorry.” Miserable, she dug into the jar.

  “Then give me forty. I can’t take more if you aren’t sure.” Tilly snatched the two twenties from Birdie’s outstretched hand. “And do something about your friends. They’re both too old to be roughhousing.”

  My friends? Touched by the comment, Birdie regarded the scuffle behind her.

  Amazingly, Ethel Lynn had Theodora by the arms and was turning her around in a clumsy circle. Both sets of legs were spinning. Since all four were as old as dry tinder, she leapt into action. If she didn’t break up the fight, there’d be more than fur and feathers on the floor. There’d be blood.

  “Stop it!” She flung herself between them. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the photographer snapping away. “If you’re both dreaming about the ER, I’ll get Finney to come out here with her skillet.”

  More scuffling and Ethel Lynn screamed, “I’m sending her straight into surgery! Get back—I’m taking aim!”

  “Like hell you are.” Birdie grabbed the fist whizzing past her nose. “You’re both too old to settle your differences this way.”

  Theodora quivered with rage. “Then fetch my gun. We’ll settle this like men.”

  “Oh, Theodora—shut up. You probably load your gun with rock salt. You don’t have the balls to shoot anyone. Well, anyone bigge
r than Alice.” Despite her despair, Birdie grinned. “Assuming you did have balls.”

  Delia rolled her gum between her teeth. “Who’s Alice?”

  Birdie waved her into silence then wagged a finger at Ethel Lynn. “And stop shrieking. The sound goes straight to my molars.”

  Theodora glared at the cameraman. “Isn’t it time you skedaddled out of here?”

  When he shrugged, she lunged for her broom. He bolted out the door.

  Birdie rubbed her temples. She was starting into a headache. By the time she finished doling out apologies to the people of Liberty, she’d be working on a migraine.

  “If we all calm down, the day will go faster,” she said, helping Ethel Lynn adjust her feathers. “Can we please try? Yes? Good. Now, I’ll wait the tables in the front of—”

  Someone grabbed her from behind, sending her order pad hurtling through the air. Struggling for balance, she righting herself and spun around.

  She came face to face with Natasha Jones.

  Hatred glittered in the woman’s eyes. “I’m amazed Finney hasn’t thrown you out.”

  Screwing on her fur hat, Theodora rushed forward. “Calm down, Natasha. You’ll get back every cent she stole from you.”

  “It won’t make things right. My daddy went without his blood pressure medicine. He had to wait until the day after the Festival of Lights for me to come up with the money. I was scared he’d have a stroke before I got the prescription refilled.”

  Birdie’s heart plummeted with horror. In all her years of taking petty cash, she’d never considered how her actions might affect someone. Had she put a life at risk? The prospect chilled her to the bone.

  “Is your father all right?” she whispered.

  Natasha released a bitter laugh. “No thanks to you. My bakery is small. It’s all I can do to make ends meet. I work hard, Birdie, too damn hard to allow the likes of you to put my family in jeopardy.”

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “There is. Take your filthy predilections elsewhere. Leave the good town of Liberty.”

  The baker started off, then reconsidered. She wheeled back around and, swift as the wind, slapped Birdie across the face.