Lost But Not Forgotten

by Roz Denny Fox

  “I’m stronger than you might think,” Gillian said, reaching for the door knob. She hoped that was true. Normally she’d be in great shape from handling crates of flowers at the shop she’d once owned. That had been a while ago.

  “You’ll get a complete workout before the end of the day. I’ll spell you for breaks and meals. Otherwise, I sling hash onto plates while my husband, Bert, cooks. You okay with working a shift before we fill out employment papers?”

  “Sure. Okay.” Gillian looked over her shoulder. “Is there someplace I can leave my street clothes and purse?”

  Flo scooped things out of a drawer in the bottom of her cluttered desk. “Tracy left all this junk. She was big on running in to apply makeup every ten minutes.”

  Gillian uttered a genuine laugh. “I won’t do that, Mrs. Carter. What you see right here is what you get.”

  “Call me Flo.” She examined Gillian again. “Cops flirt a lot. They’ll like what they see in you. You sure you’ve waited tables before? I’d have pegged you for one of them fashion models.”

  “No way. I prefer anonymity.” This time Gillian’s laughter held a nervous edge. She’d waited tables during high school and college. And she’d never been comfortable with the way a lot of male customers felt they had every right to flirt with women servers. She used to have a knack for discouraging that sort, and hoped she still did.

  When she’d donned her uniform, Flo introduced her to Bert. Unlike most cooks Gillian had ever met, Bert was rail-thin. He was also bald as a cucumber.

  “Bert learned to cook in the Air Force,” Flo said after introductions were complete. “As we moved around, I began waiting tables for the NCO clubs on base. Buying this café once Bert retired seemed a logical way to pool our talents and get our kids through college.”

  “How many children do you have?” Gillian asked.

  “Two of our own. Off and on we’ve raised a slug of foster kids. One of the cops who comes in here convinced us to open our home to teens who need a healthier environment than what they have.”

  “How can you bear to let them go again? Doesn’t it tear your heart out?”

  Flo shrugged. “We provide a clean bed, good meals and a shoulder to cry on. Or in some cases an open ear. Sometimes that’s all they require to get them through a rough patch. You obviously don’t have kids, or you’d have requested to work shifts around school or daycare hours.”

  Swallowing hard, Gillian gave a shake of her head. She couldn’t bring herself to talk about Katie. Twice yesterday she’d driven past the lane where she’d left the suitcase. Once, a vehicle directly in front of her entered it first. Not the blue car she was trying to avoid, but a big pickup. During a second pass-by, she noticed a man herding cattle in a nearby field. Tonight, after work, Gillian intended to go back under the cover of darkness.

  Flo gave Gillian’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Now, don’t go fretting over your divorce. You’re still young enough to make plenty of babies. You have to concentrate on finding a good man to father them.”

  “A man of any kind is the last thing I want. Shouldn’t I concentrate on hitting the floor running? Do I have everything? Pencil.” Gillian pulled two out of her uniform pocket. “Order pad? A smile.” She hauled in a deep breath. “Well, here goes.” Waving, she disappeared through the swinging doors.

  Within two hours, Gillian discovered how out of shape she was. Luckily the technique for keeping orders straight came back to her before the large lunch crowd arrived. Good thing she’d had that experience, even if it was ten years ago, she mused, plopping down ketchup and mustard at a table of boisterous men.

  Three at the table wore police uniforms; a fourth had on street clothing but was undoubtedly a cop. He indicated that they were waiting for someone who’d just entered. Gillian had already noticed that man the minute he walked in. Sauntered was more like it, in spite of a pronounced limp. Gosh, she hoped he wasn’t offended by her lengthy stare. It wasn’t his limp that drew her attention but his attire. He wore dusty cowboy boots, worn blue jeans, a body-hugging denim shirt and a Stetson set rakishly on his head.

  Gillian had never seen a real cowboy in her life, and he was an eyeful. He seemed to be friendly with all the cops in the room. It took him a long time to reach his table because he stopped to talk with occupants at practically every booth along the way. So many people piped up to yell, “Hey there, Mitch, how you doing?” Gillian couldn’t help but learn his first name. Especially as she waited impatiently to add his order to those of his pals.

  The name suited him. Mitch was a strong moniker. He certainly appeared commanding in spite of his limp. What had caused it? she wondered. Probably a fall from a horse.

  Gillian felt herself blush as he turned, caught her still staring and tipped his hat. Hastily averting her gaze, she sorted menus to pass around at an adjacent table full of men wearing business suits. “I’ll be right back,” she told the group awaiting the cowboy, and dashed off to draw glasses of water for the businessmen.

  The cowboy needed a haircut, Gillian decided after he finally removed his hat and reached for a chair. A haircut was pretty much all he lacked, though. He had dark-lashed coffee-colored eyes and a ready grin that creased lean, tanned cheeks. In her estimation, he possessed more sex appeal than all the other men at his table put together. Except, perhaps for the other man not wearing a uniform. Mitch greeted him effusively, calling him Ethan, as he spun a chair around across from the plainclothes cop and straddled it. So did that mean the cowboy was a cop, too?

  At first Gillian thought they were brothers who hadn’t seen each other for a while. She nixed that idea based on snatches of conversation overheard on various trips past their table. Ethan, she saw, sported a shiny gold wedding band. Brand-new, she’d bet, mostly because he mumbled thanks but didn’t so much as lift his eyes whenever she brought something to the table. By contrast, his cowboy pal tracked her every move—to the point that Gillian found herself fumbling dishes. It occurred to her with a sudden start that maybe he’d seen her picture on a handbill. The fear galloping through her nearly made her drop a full tray.

  “Ma’am,” said a gravelly voice at her elbow. “You’re obviously new to Flo’s. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want you to be totin’ more than you can carry.”

  How he—Mitch—managed to check out her every curve while he steadied her tray, Gillian didn’t know. She just knew there wasn’t a wrinkle in her uniform he missed with those lancing brown eyes.

  “This is my first day here,” she said quietly. “While I appreciate your concern, if you don’t let go and sit down, you’ll make it look like I’m incapable of managing the job I was hired for.”

  Cops seated around the room watched the byplay openly. Few tried to mask their amused expressions. Finally, one round-faced rookie, whose wire-rimmed glasses constantly slipped down his nose, chortled. “Wouldn’t you know it, Flo gets a pretty new waitress to replace Tracy, and it just happens to be the first day Valetti shows up in town. I swear, he has radar when it comes to sniffing out gorgeous, single babes.”

  Gillian jerked away quickly and finished unloading the tray. She smacked one of the noon-time specials down in front of the loudmouthed kid. “Married or single, I’m not on the menu here.”

  Turning to reclaim her tray, she realized Mitch’s interested gaze had slipped to her ring finger.

  “Order up,” yelled Flo, pausing to slide several plates under the warming light. “Jeez, fellas, meet Gillian Stevens, okay? She’s new in town as well as on the job. Show a few manners. You’re Desert City’s finest. I’ll be in a very bad mood if you macho lamebrains scare her off.”

  The young cop immediately bent to his food. Mitch rolled his eyes, but he immediately released her tray and backed off—although not so far that Gillian didn’t have to brush against him as she squeezed between the tables.

  Mitch felt the waitress’s annoyance. Smiling to himself, he sat across from Ethan again.

  Ethan Knight leaned
back in his chair. His narrowed gaze rose to the exact level of Gillian’s swishing hips. “Down, boy,” he muttered.

  “Wha-a-at?” Mitch drawled, pretending interest in blowing on his hot coffee. “So what if I have a weakness for sassy redheads?”

  The uniformed cop seated opposite Mitch broke into the conversation. “Redheads. Blondes. Brunettes and every shade in between. Isn’t that why Amy threw you over for the D.A.? I heard she didn’t like the odds.”

  Mitch bunched his napkin, his expression shutting down.

  Leaning close, Ethan murmured, “Regan said you took my sister’s elopement hard. I’m sorry. Guess I missed how you really felt. So, if you’re ready to be fixed up with somebody nice, I’ll tell Regan. No reason to take chances on a perfect stranger.”

  “Listen, Buttinski, I can still rustle up my own dates. And I believe I’ll have my second cup of java at the counter.” Mitch stood up. Carrying his cup, he limped to the counter, where he reached for the pot and helped himself to a refill.

  Ethan made it a point from then on to study the new waitress. Until his contingent of friends came over and one of them nudged him out of his stupor. Trailing after his pals, Ethan paused behind Mitch’s stool. “Regan’s planning to make sour cream enchiladas Friday night. Why not come on over? We’ll invite a fourth, and after we eat and get the kids to bed, we’ll play a few hands of poker.”

  “You’re being a little obvious, Ethan. Thanks, but no. You and your bride saw too much of my ugly face over the past three months.” Mitch realized both he and Ethan had zeroed in on Gillian Stevens as she lifted three hot plates off the warming counter. “Two bits says, with that long lean body, she’s a jogger,” Mitch said thoughtfully. “You know, the doc recommended I stretch the muscles in my injured leg.”

  Ethan scowled. “So make an appointment with Gil Peterson, the precinct’s physical therapist.”

  Mitch flashed Ethan a wicked grin. “Gil puts me in mind of a sumo wrestler. Besides, my man, if I remember right, you hauled your ass out of bed at the crack of dawn to chase Regan around a few tracks. And you don’t even like exercise.”

  Mitch had him there. Ethan said something indistinct and undoubtedly rude. Before stomping off, he announced that there were plenty of single women in town who were dying to go out with Mitch. Wearing a thunderous expression, Ethan joined the men waiting for him outside the café.

  Gillian watched the drama with half an eye. She wished the plainclothes cop, Ethan, had succeeded in talking his pal at the counter into leaving. Her heart did a funny jig once it became evident that Mitch Valetti wasn’t going to budge. She told herself it was first-day job jitters. She wasn’t attractive enough to draw more than a passing glance from a man like Mitch Valetti. She was too tall. Too thin. Her chin was too pointy and her mouth too wide. Her eyes weren’t even an exciting color. Blue was blue was blue. So what gave her the idea he’d stuck around because of her?

  Gillian managed to stay convinced that he hadn’t until the lunch traffic waned enough to slow her hectic pace. He was still there. And he snagged her arm as she darted past.

  “Hey, Flo,” Mitch called, hunching to peer into the kitchen via the pass-through. “Isn’t there a state rule requiring employees to take regular breaks? Appears to me that Gillian, here, is overdue.”

  Flo stuck her head out around the kitchen door. “Gilly-girl. Climb up there on the stool next to Mitch and take a load off. I said earlier you’ve got to eat. What’ll it be? Bert’s special is chicken-fried steak. But, shoot, you’d know that. You’ve served a gazillion plates of the stuff so far.”

  Gillian would have rather sat anywhere than beside Mitch Valetti. Unfortunately, a mob of high schoolers bounded in at that moment, filling the remaining empty seats at the counter. “Uh, Flo. I’ll just take these kids’ orders first. I can eat later. A dinner salad will do me, if you want to set one aside. The house dressing looked good.”

  Flo came all the way out of the kitchen. She fanned a ruddy face with the tail of her apron. “All that bunch of twerps ever order are french fries and Cokes. I’ll handle ’em. You eat.”

  “Skinny as you are,” Mitch observed, “you ought to eat something more substantial than a damned salad.” He rounded on Gillian. “You’re not anorexic or anything, are you?”

  She felt her jaw slacken and snapped her mouth closed. “Are you always so free and personal with someone you haven’t even met?”

  “We met. Flo introduced you earlier.” Mitch stuck out his hand and grasped hers gently. “I’m Mitch Valetti. Detective. Er…former detective.” He acted flustered, quickly releasing her hand to curl his wide palms around his coffee mug instead. “Guess you could say I’m a rancher now.”

  “I’m sure there’s a story somewhere in that statement.” Allowing a reluctant smile along with a small sigh of capitulation, Gillian slid onto the end stool. “A detective turned rancher has the makings of an intriguing book.”

  “Are you a starving writer, then?”

  She shook her head. “Gee, I thought I was a bona fide waitress.”

  Grinning, Mitch took another swig before setting his mug back on the counter. “Touché. I deserved that. You’re a good waitress. At least, you managed Flo’s lunch crowd better than her niece, Tracy, ever did. Say, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t,” Gillian said, glancing up as Flo placed a huge taco salad in front of her. “Hey, this isn’t what I ordered.” Frowning, she dragged her fork through the mountain of lettuce, black beans, olives, avocado, chicken and grated cheese heaped inside a crisp tortilla shell. She’d never be able to eat even a quarter of this.

  “Are you allergic to any of that stuff?” Mitch enquired.

  Gillian’s frown deepened. “No. Not that I know of.”

  “Then stop complaining and chow down. I guarantee Bert makes the tastiest taco salads in town. Add a generous splash of his homemade salsa and you’ve got a lip-smacking meal.”

  “So now you’re a detective turned rancher turned restaurant reviewer?” As she spoke, Gillian brought a forkful of the concoction to her mouth.

  “You gotta forgive this guy,” Flo said, scooting past them again, hands laden with steaming platters of french fries. “He’s still recovering from an on-the-job injury. Must be the medicine making him act so smart-aleck. He’s never been shy, but usually his mouth is connected to his brain.”

  “Oh? A head injury, was it?” Gillian didn’t know what had gotten into her. She rarely teased people she knew well; being sarcastic to a stranger was unthinkable. Especially since she was trying to keep a low profile.

  Mitch and Flo found her remark amusing. Flo broke off laughing first. “At last, Valetti. A woman who can toss back all the baloney you dish out. I hope you cultivate her acquaintance. I’ve always said you flit from date to date because the ladies you ask out bore you to death within a week.”

  Tilting his head, Mitch stared at Gillian so long she choked on a slice of olive. An infusion of heat seeped up her neck and across her cool cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was rude of me. I don’t know you well enough to crack jokes about your injury.”

  “I’d like to get to know you better,” he said, gazing directly into her eyes.

  Excitement fluttered in her stomach before tightening into a coil of apprehension. Gillian hadn’t fielded a pass in so long she’d forgotten how to extricate herself gracefully. She wasn’t sure what words to use. “Look,” she said at last. “I’m, uh, sure you’re sincere. And nice. But I, ah, have been married before.” It was lame, but the first thing that popped into her head.

  Mitch stiffened visibly. “Bitter divorce?”

  “No. A relief.” Gillian responded more honestly than she’d intended.

  “Then what’s the problem? I’m more than willing to keep things simple.”

  As Gillian scrabbled for a comeback that would end his pursuit, the door opened and a petite blonde dressed in a police uniform walked in. “Mitch. Hi!” Beaming,
she waved and looked as pleased as a cat who’d found a fat goldfish. “Ethan said I’d probably catch you here. He told me you might be taking on some private investigative work. I have something that may strike your fancy if you’ve got some free time. My sister Lori said you could be busy—that you had a strange case fall right in your lap.”

  “It’s not really a case,” Mitch admitted, casting Gillian a quick apology with his eyes. “I posted an ad in the paper for a week, but only one person responded. A sicko, at that. So, what’ve you got, and what does it pay? My pension covers my bills. But if I want to increase my herd, I need extra cash.”

  The woman took Gillian’s measure. “You’re involved at the moment,” she said to Mitch. “My case is confidential. I’ll be at the station if you want to swing by later. Or come to Lori’s house tonight. I’ll fix dinner and we can talk. Lori has a class at the college, so we won’t be disturbed.”

  Mitch rubbed his neck. Christy Peck-Jones was a good cop. She was also separated, not divorced, from a bad-tempered husband. Tangling with Royce Jones was the last thing Mitch needed or wanted. While Christy had indicated her interest in him more than once, she didn’t ring any bells for Mitch. Even if he was attracted to her, he’d never act on it unless she was free. Some guys on the force didn’t have much integrity when it came to honoring their wedding vows or those of women cops they worked with. They found it easy to blame their betrayals on an excess of adrenaline from being thrown together in life-and-death situations. Mitch had met death face-to-face, twice. Both experiences had only served to solidify his values. This last time, he really thought he’d bought the farm.

  Which could be why he felt an uncustomary urgency to meet the right woman. He’d been given a new lease on life. Now he’d like kids and even grandkids. The next time he met his maker, he wanted to look back and see that he’d accomplished something worthwhile. Men ought to have a legacy to leave behind.