Scary Sausage Waffle (The Diner of the Dead Series Book 13)

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  “Wow,” she said again. “And her?” She pointed at the young woman.

  “Well, she isn’t traveling alone, I don’t think. That jacket probably belongs to a man. Either that or she took it from someone before taking off into the night.”

  “A jilted lover?”

  “Maybe.” Sonja shrugged. Most of everything she was saying was just pure speculation of course. “Anyway, she has that book of Poe but hasn’t opened it once since we got here. She just plays with the bookmark a little every now and then and drinks her coffee.” She shrugged. “That’s it. So, she’s probably too nervous to read. Maybe she’s worried about something?”

  “The person she took the coat from?”

  “Possibly. Also, the fact that she’s reading such a nice copy of Poe either means she is well-read in literature, she loves nice versions of books, or it was a gift.” Sonja looked the girl over a little closer. “She sort of seems attached to the book, so my guess is it was a gift from someone very special to her, and she’d hate to lose it.”

  “You really are something,” Alison praised her friend.

  “It’s nothing,” Sonja admitted with a wave of her hand.

  Suddenly, the front door swung open, letting in a harsh gust of rain and wind. Sonja turned toward the gale almost expecting to see the ghostly hitchhiker standing there. Instead, a younger man in a leather jacket filled the doorway.

  “Close the door, son. You’re letting in the rain,” Barbra shouted, running forward. “We’re you born in a barn?”

  “Out of my way,” he snapped, stepping into the room and slamming the door.

  He had sort of a small-town boy look to him. His hair was black, matted, and greasy, and he wore a pair of clunky looking glasses on the end of his nose which had fogged up. A white shirt and leather jacket seemed to be his way of compensating for his mousy appearance.

  “Dillon,” he grunted as he walked across the room to the young girl.

  “Harvey,” she exclaimed, clearly shocked to see him there.

  The rest of the room watched him march over. The fisherman’s eyes widened in shock as he stomped by hard enough to rattle the condiment caddy on the table.

  “Why did you just run off like that?”

  “Harvey, not here.”

  “Not here? Not here!” he shouted. “I was worried about you.”

  “Just stop it,” she insisted, standing up, taking her book in hand. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Embarrassing you? You’re the one who took my good raincoat and left me standing there at that last gas station like an idiot.”

  Sonja felt the urge to stand up and stop the fight, to do something, anything, about it. She wasn’t sure what the young woman had done, but she hardly believed it was worth being yelled at and abused in front of other people like this.

  “Come on,” he insisted, grabbing her arm. “We’re going.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Son,” Brenda butted in, “the young lady said she didn’t want to go.”

  “I heard her,” he acknowledged, obviously not caring.

  “Excuse me,” the restaurant owner barked, her voice surprisingly loud, “but this is my establishment and you will not harass any of my customers while you are here.”

  “Look, lady. I don’t have time for this. Mind your own business.”

  “There is literally nowhere for you to go,” she continued. “With this storm going on, you’ll be lucky to even make it down the road before you get washed away.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Suddenly, Dillon tore her arm from his grasp and darted for the front door, pushing it open and stepping out into the night.

  “Hey,” the young man shouted, running after her. “Dillon, get back here.” Opening the door, he looked both ways for her before stepping out into the night.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  “I sure hope that girl is all right,” Brenda sighed. “If that boy doesn’t get her, I’m sure this storm will.”

  “Should one of us go out looking for her?” Alison asked, looking about the room.

  The two other men sitting at tables averted their eyes, clearly unwilling to accept the task.

  “Let’s just wait and see if she comes back, first,” Sonja offered. “There is no sense in all of us getting lost out there in the storm.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Ally nodded, “But I trust your judgment more than anyone’s, Sonja.”

  “I agree,” Brenda noted. “Meanwhile, would either of you gals care for a piece of apple pie?”

  At this, Alison perked right up. “Oh, I’d love one.”

  “And you, dear?” Brenda turned to Sonja.

  “I think I need to use the restroom,” she said, standing up.

  “Oh, it’s just past the counter there on the right.”

  “Thanks, I’ll just be a minute.” Walking across the restaurant, she found a dimly lit hallway and eventually the bathroom.

  Stumbling inside, she found the light switch and flipped it on. Piles of paper products and old kitchen appliances were stacked in one corner, and two stalls and sink took up the rest of the room. Moving toward the far stall and opening the door, a strange sound caught Sonja’s ear.

  It sounded like voices.

  Moving closer to the small window near the top of the ceiling, she realized she could hear the couple from the dining room still arguing outside, even above the sound of the storm.

  “I don’t want you running off back to Utah,” came the man’s voice. Harvey, if Sonja remembered correctly. “You belong at home.”

  “And where is that? With you?” she snapped back. “When I left, I said goodbye for good.”

  “Goodbye to me, your parents, or the whole city?”

  “All three.”

  “So, it’s all my fault.”

  “No, we talked about this then and I’m telling you now. There are a ton of reasons I left. You were just one of them.”

  “Well, for the sake of your dad then, come home with me.”

  “Don’t bring my father into this. You know they don’t like you, and you won’t get in their good graces by bringing me back.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

  “I’m grateful for what you told me, but it doesn’t mean I want to date you.”

  “Well, maybe I’m different now. Maybe I’m a better man.”

  “By the way you acted in the restaurant, I doubt it.”

  “Dang it, Dillon,” he snapped, clearly getting angry that she didn’t care what he said. “Why can’t you listen to reason?”

  “If I go back, I go back by myself, on my own terms.”

  “Always so independent, as usual,” he mocked her. “Well, look where that got you.”

  “You don’t get anything, Harvey. You have no idea about my life or what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, I think I do. I saw the kind of place you were working. What would your father think?”

  “He doesn’t have to know.”

  “Come on, Dillon. Just give me a chance to prove to you—”

  “You had a chance a year ago,” she interrupted him, “and you blew it.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay. How many times do I have to say it? I thought it was what you wanted.”

  “You told my dad we were planning to get married and then he flipped out at me. I never once agreed to marry you, and I didn’t want to. I just wanted my own life, but you twisted things all around and made me out to be the idiot.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? I really thought you wanted to.”

  “Just stop saying it. It doesn’t matter. I’m going home to help my father. the end.”

  There was a pause in the conversation. “Fine,” he grunted angrily. “Don’t be grateful for everything I’ve done for you. The only reason you’re going back is because of me. You wouldn’t even know the trouble your father was in unless I told you. Don’t forget it.”

  The sl
oshing sound of him stomping off into the night followed him.

  “I wonder what that was all about?” Sonja whispered, glad that it seemed to be over.

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  Stepping out of the bathroom, the odd exchange between Dillon and Harvey still weighing on her mind, Sonja was surprised to hear two more voices arguing. This time they were echoing from the kitchen. “Now what?” she muttered.

  “P.J. think of your blood pressure,” Brenda pleaded.

  “I don’t care,” the man snapped back. “I don’t care one bit.”

  Shuffling quietly closer to the swinging kitchen door, she stood on her tippy-toes and peered through the small window.

  The older couple who owned the place stood back near the walk-in fridge. P.J. was shuffling dishes onto a nearby shelf while his wife attempted to get him to listen to her.

  “But I do care about just giving away freebies to the masses.” He slid a pot in the lower shelf. “You know as well as I do that coffee and other drinks are where our real revenue comes from.”

  “I think we make more off of gas,” his wife shot back.

  “Food, Bren. Food,” he insisted. “I’m talking about food, not gas.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “I just don’t like it,” he admitted. “We already work so hard as it is.”

  “What’s so wrong about giving a few stranded people a warm drink?” she shrugged innocently.

  “It’s highway robbery,” he snorted, picking up a pot holder and hanging it on a hook. “That’s money we deserve, that we work hard for.”

  “Hardly, dear,” she laughed, shaking her head. “Besides, you know as well as I do that freebies also mean purchases.”

  “How’s that?” he grumbled, slowing down his pace for the first time. By the look on his face, Sonja figured he knew his wife was right.

  “You give everyone some coffee and then they want to order food with it. It’s cold and rainy and people want a nice meal to warm them.”

  “Food,” he exclaimed again. “We gave a free slice of apple pie to that girl. And now she’s run out into the night.” He huffed, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder. “She’s not buying anything, is she?”

  “Dear,” Brenda scolded her husband. “That girl needs our help and charity. She is a hitchhiker. She’s probably trying to run away from a bad life, from that abusive man.”

  P.J. shook his head.

  “You know I’m right,” she put her hands on her hips. “If that was our daughter, you would hope someone would do the same thing.”

  Sighing, he took off his paper hat. “Yes, dear. You’re right.” Glancing toward the dining room, he shrugged. “I hope she’s okay. I hope she comes back.”

  Sonja nodded and added her silent agreement. While she, just like the two gas station owners, wanted to intervene in the young girl’s argument, even wanted to go outside to stop things, she knew there was honestly nothing she could do.

  She would either just make things worse or end up getting hurt herself. She had no idea how volatile that man may be.

  “Hon, why don’t you go lay down in the back for a minute,” Brenda offered, patting her husband’s arm lovingly. “I’m worried about your blood pressure.”

  “What about the kitchen? What if someone orders food?”

  “I’ll handle the kitchen,” she nodded, encouraging him. “You don’t want to give yourself another heart attack, do you?”

  “No, dear, I don’t,” he agreed, tossing his paper hat in the nearby trash. “All right. I’ll go lay down for a while.” Untying the stained apron, he pulled it over his head, handing it to his wife.

  “That’s my hubby,” she whispered, standing on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Love you, dear,” he said, walking toward the door.

  Sonja quickly ducked away as the door swung open. Luckily, P.J. didn’t see her as he stepped out and walked the opposite direction toward the room in back—probably a break room or an office.

  She let out a sigh of relief when a familiar voice suddenly echoed in her ear.

  “Dear? Did you need something?” Brenda stood in the doorway, holding it slightly ajar.

  “Oh, no. nothing,” Sonja said.

  “Oh, well I just saw you peeking through the window and wondered if you changed your mind about that piece of pie.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to make your husband upset.”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks,” she smiled, waving a hand down the hall. “He’ll never know.”

  “Oh all right,” Sonja smiled, glad to accept the food.

  “You’ll have to wait for a little. I gave the last piece to that young woman.”

  “Dillon?”

  “That’s the one,” she smiled. “I hope she’s okay

  “Me, too,” Sonja agreed. “Would you like some help in the kitchen?”

  “Oh, no, dear. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “I’d be happy to,” she offered. She was already feeling a little stir crazy being stuck there, and the idea of being able to cook or bake a little helped her to feel better. “Besides, I own my own diner out in Haunted Falls.”

  Brenda’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “The Waffle Diner?”

  Sonja couldn’t help but laugh a little. “That’s the one, all right. How do you know about it?”

  “How can I not know about it?” she gasped. “Everyone talks about how you serve the best waffles in the state.”

  “The state?” Sonja asked, taken aback by the comment. “I doubt that.”

  “Oh, don’t be modest, dear. I’d love to have a few pointers on waffles from you. Would you mind at all?”

  “I’d love to show you,” Sonja agreed.

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  After Brenda went into the walk-in freezer and got the pie, she put it in the oven to cook. “I know this might look bad,” she admitted, indicating the frozen food she was cooking up to serve to customers, “but I swear it isn’t. I make my pies fresh and then keep them in the freezer until I’m ready to bake them.”

  Sonja shrugged. “You don’t have to justify anything to me.”

  “Any pies that don’t get cooked or eaten by the end of the day, go into our personal freezer for P.J. and me to eat.”

  “Makes sense,” Sonja agreed. “A lot of restaurants and diners do the same thing. At least you aren’t just buying pre-packaged frozen foods and just warming them up to give to people.”

  “Oh, dear, never,” Brenda said with a gasp. “I’d never be that type of a business.”

  “Agreed.”

  She wiped the little bit of flour from the pie off on the same stained apron that P.J. had been wearing moments before. “Okay, if you want to show me a few tips and tricks with the waffle iron, I’d be in your debt.”

  “Well, maybe not in my debt,” Sonja laughed. “I actually had an idea recently for a new waffle I wanted to try.”

  “A new waffle?” She squeaked excitedly. “Right here in my own kitchen?”

  “If you have the right ingredients, yes.”

  “What do you need? Anything, just let me know, dear.”

  “Okay,” Sonja clasped her hands, slipping on the fresh apron that Brenda had handed her with little chickens on it. “We’ll need flour, eggs, buttermilk, salt, brown sugar, baking soda, maple syrup, sausage, and bacon.”

  “Oooh, this sounds delightful already,” Brenda exclaimed as she ran about the kitchen picking out the ingredients and necessary cooking tools.

  Once they had everything gathered out on the counter, Sonja began mixing in the dry ingredients together. “Now, no matter how great a specialty waffle is, it’s never any good without the perfect waffle batter.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, first I mix half of the dry ingredients—the flour and salt.” Setting that bowl aside, she pulled a second bowl close and cracked the eggs into it. “Then I mix the wet ingredients in a separate bowl, like this.” Sh
e poured in the milk and then used the hand beater to mix the liquids. Next, she poured this into the dry bowl and mixed the two together. “Can you start heating the griddle?” she asked. “Let’s throw the meat on now.”

  “On it,” she announced, dashing over and turning up the griddle and slicing open the packages of bacon and the breakfast sausage patties.

  “Okay, to finish off the batter, we add the final ingredients.” Pouring in the baking soda and mixing the batter, everything began to froth up. Next came the sugar, evening it all out perfectly.

  “It looks beautiful,” Brenda praised.

  “One more thing,” Sonja picked up the bottle of maple syrup. “Just one tiny dash of this.” Pouring in the amber colored condiment, she stood back. “There.”

  “What next?”

  “Now, the meat,” Sonja announced, heading over to the griddle. “Do you have a brush?” she asked.

  Brenda instantly found a marinade brush and handed to her. Taking it, Sonja poured a small amount of maple syrup into a little bowl. After a few seconds, she flipped the meat over to show the browned side. Lapping up the syrup on the brush, she then added a light coating over the browned meat.

  “My, what an idea,” Brenda commented. “I would have never considered cooking in maple syrup.”

  “This helps to infuse the flavoring into the meat itself.” Flipping the meat, she let the syrup side sizzle on the griddle and coated the second side. “It’ll also add an extra caramelized crispiness to the dish.”

  The kitchen was beginning to fill up with the familiar morning smell that Sonja associated with roadhouses.

  “Okay, this should be done soon,” she nodded, “Let’s get the waffle iron heating up.”

  “Okay,” Brenda complied, running over and plugging in the iron. It was one of the older styles in a square shape that cooked thinner waffles. It wasn’t Sonja’s preference, but it would work for her little experiment.