It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, and the parking lot was already half full. Not bad for so early in the afternoon, even on a Friday. So the food had to be good, if animal flesh charred barbarously over an open fire could be good. Obviously, Edgar’s patrons did not share her dietary preferences. Tofu would, after all, fall right through those little slits on a grill.
Jennifer had thrown on a mid-calf, sleeveless cotton dress and a pair of sandals for the trip to Atlanta. It was hot, her Bug had no air conditioning, and she could almost feel stray strands of hair contracting into ringlets around the clip that held the hair off her neck.
By contrast, the inside of the restaurant was icy cold. Central Georgia was having one of those weeks of late spring when the temperatures topped ninety-five degrees and gave an early taste of what August would bring. Walking from that kind of heat into a refrigerator was enough to stop the stoutest heart. Jennifer settled for a good shiver.
At least the place was pleasantly bright, sunlight from the large windows bouncing off cream-colored stucco walls. Strains of country music twanged in the background.
A perky young woman dressed in cowboy boots and a mid-thigh sun dress greeted her, a menu in one hand. "Edgar Walker’s Down Home Grill welcomes you to the home of the Eddie."
"The Eddie?"
"Thin strips of succulent sirloin, batter-dipped and deep fried, served with Edgar’s Special Steak Sauce. One?" She looked around Jennifer as if expecting a bus load to follow.
"No, thank you. I’m here about a job."
"Oh," the girl said, stuffing the menu back under the podium. "We’ve had three girls quit." The girl leaned in confidentially. "The owner got himself murdered, if you didn’t know."
"Really?" Jennifer put on her best surprised look.
"Yep. Fortunately, it wasn’t here. I don’t go in for that blood and guts stuff. If I walked into, say, the kitchen and found somebody’s insides all over the floor—well, I don’t think I’d be comfortable working here anymore."
Jennifer nodded sympathetically. People did have to have some standards.
"Our new manager hasn’t come in yet so you really should be speaking with Mrs. Walker, but she stepped out about five minutes ago. And I don’t know when she’ll be back."
Lisa? Lisa was at the restaurant—and hiring the help? Somehow Jennifer had suspected she would be engaged in loftier pursuits—like painting her toe nails.
The girl was nodding. "Yep, and boy was she mad. Got some call from her lawyer’s office and took off like a bolt of lightning."
For someone who toted a shotgun, mad was not a good thing. Now might be a good time for her to leave, but the hostess wasn’t about to let her escape.
"We really are shorthanded. We’re only half full and the wait staff is already hopping. We’ve had to give them extra tables and in two hours this place is going to be nuts."
A young couple, each carrying a child under the age of three, came in, the wife toting a diaper bag bigger than her baby. Never too young to introduce those little fellows to the joys of red meat.
The hostess leaned over and whispered into Jennifer’s ear. "You have a seat while I get these folks settled, and then I’ll get Roy to help you."
If Lisa just left, Jennifer should be safe for at least, say, an hour. She could risk a quick conversation with this Roy, whoever he was.
The girl repeated her spiel and led the family off, a booster seat under one arm, a high chair trailing behind her.
Jennifer sighed and sat down on a bench where patrons waited when the place was really full. Too bad Edgar didn’t have one of those health food boutiques. She wouldn’t mind serving cappuccino and bran muffins. In fact, she could be enjoying a flavored coffee right now instead of fighting off the smell of seared beef.
A screech of tires drew Jennifer’s attention to the parking lot. A black Jag stopped directly in front of the door, and Lisa emerged, blonde hair flying, in black leather vest and mini-skirt, sunglasses covering most of her face. She slammed the door of the car with such force the front glass of the restaurant rattled.
"Here comes Mrs. Walker now," the hostess offered, returning to her station. "She must have forgotten something."
At least Lisa looked unarmed. Jennifer put on her best just-ignore-me-I’m-part-of-the-scenery face and scooted back toward a large fern.
Lisa tore into the restaurant and pulled the shades from her face. Jennifer watched as the hostess seemed to shrink in height before her very eyes.
"Where the hell is—"
Lisa stopped cold, turned and stared at Jennifer. For a moment she looked shaken. Was that a spark of fear she detected in Lisa’s eyes? In an instant it was gone, the firm set of her jaw back in place. "You won’t get away with this," Lisa said, each word a distinct threat.
Get away with what? She hadn’t even ordered a salad.
Lisa turned back to the hostess. "Did you find a manila folder anywhere around here?"
The girl nodded and extracted something from under the podium. "I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was yours. I thought one of the guests—"
Lisa jerked it from her and faced Jennifer, her ample chest heaving with anger. "My lawyer is going to get this straightened out. You are not coming in here and taking over. I won’t have it, do you hear me, Jennifer Marsh?"
With that, Lisa left, her Jag spewing gravel.
Jennifer sat stunned, feeling like she’d been slapped in the face, her cheeks every bit as red. Maybe this would be a good time to leave. She stood, her legs a little shaky, and shouldered her bag.
The hostess’s face was as red as her own. "You said you were here about a job. Do I feel stupid!" The girl slapped her forehead. "Why didn’t you give me your name or at least tell me you were our new manager?" Smiling shyly, the girl extended her hand. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Marsh. We’ve been waiting for you."
New manager? Jennifer reached for the girl’s hand, more to steady herself than anything else.
This was all Emma’s doing. Didn’t she know infiltration, as she so aptly put it, had a sense of subtlety to it? Beheading the king and taking his place was not infiltration.
"We got the word not half an hour ago you’d be coming in. My name’s Suzy. I usually work five to eleven, but Louise was out today so I’m in early. I’ll tell Roy you’re here."
Jennifer should have made a run for it, but her reflexes weren’t working right, and, before she could bolt out the door, a hulking man, maybe mid-thirties, with closely shorn dark hair, wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt open at the throat, was standing over her. He looked like someone she’d like to have on her side in a fight. His manner seemed cautious, and she could tell he was sizing her up. He was talking but she missed the first part of his sentence waiting for the ringing in her ears to subside.
"...so why don’t you follow me? I’ll help you get settled in. Your office is back this way." At least his words were friendly enough.
Like a robot, she trailed after him. What else was she going to do?
He led her into the kitchen. "Grill’s over there." He pointed at a huge, open pit with enormous vent fans hanging above it in the center of the room. Steaks of every shape, size and kind were sizzling over coals, and an aroma as thick as Texas perfumed the air. A short man with Latin good looks in a white hat and jacket was hovering nearby.
"That’s Gus, the best chef in the state."
If that were true, Jennifer wondered, why was he wasting his time on steak?
Gus stared at her curiously, and then said,"Buenas tardes, senorita."
But Roy didn’t pause for introductions. "He doesn’t speak much English," Roy explained. "Your fry baskets are over there." He pointed to the right. "And your salad area is near the refrigeration unit, the potato and vegetable fixin’s on the far side."
"Vegetables?" Jennifer asked hopefully.
"Well, vegetable of the day—fried okra. Tomorrow it’s corn."
Variety. No wonder the place was so popular.
It was not at all what Jennifer had envisioned. It was small, windowless, with a cheap metal desk, file cabinets, and that utilitarian shelving usually reserved for garages or basements. And it was a mess.
"We start serving at eleven, stop at eleven with a cook crew of six and a wait staff of seven, ‘cept we’ve lost three waitresses with the fuss over the murder,” Roy said. “Leaves us a bit shorthanded."
"So Suzy was telling me."
"Well, I guess that’s about it." He turned to leave and then turned back. "I almost forgot. You’ll be needing these." He handed her a ring of keys.
"Roy," Jennifer said, taking them and tucking them into her pocket, "I don’t know anything about the restaurant business."
He smiled, she hoped at her candor but most likely at the foolishness of the situation. "Never stopped them from hiring anyone before." He looked her up and down. "Seems you’ve got the usual qualifications."
Jennifer’s cheeks burned.
Roy stared at her briefly, as though light were dawning somewhere in that massive head of his. "At least the qualifications Mr. Walker usually looked for in his staff."
He’d left her an opening, and if she were lucky, it’d be just enough. "Like I said, I know nothing about the restaurant business. I’m here because..." Maxie, why the heck am I here? Could she trust Roy? Did she dare? She could almost hear Maxie sigh at her ineptitude.
"Actually, I’m an efficiency expert hired by Emma Walker," Jennifer rushed on. "She thought it best I come in under the guise of a manager. I won’t be here long. I’m to assess the situation, the current staffing and future needs, ultimately recommend a new manager." Nothing like throwing a bone to a harried employee. Besides, it wasn’t exactly a lie. It was quite possible she would influence the ultimate staffing needs. "But I’d rather the rest of the staff not know why I’m really here. It’ll make my work a lot easier."
"Special consultants, efficiency experts." Roy shook his head. "Look, I’ve been working here for the last seven years. I know everything there is to know about it, and this place runs like a charm. It’s very simple really. We cook good food and we serve it."
And if she had anything to do with it, the restaurant would continue to hum along as it always had. She had no intentions of upsetting the harmony of Edgar’s Down Home Grill. And she certainly wouldn’t dream of depriving the patrons of their carnivorous cravings. As long as Roy was around, she felt sure they would remain well fed. "But you’re not the manager?"
"Mr. Walker kept that title for himself."
"Assistant manager?"
He nodded, a smile playing about his mouth. Why didn’t he care about the title if he was doing most of the work?
"If I’m hearing you right, you were the one overseeing what goes on here."
"About sixty hours a week worth. Every day except Wednesdays."
"With all that experience, why didn’t you leave?"
Again he grinned at her. "You’ll figure it out soon enough."
"And Lisa?" Even as the words escaped her mouth, Jennifer realized what a risk she was taking by asking.
"What about her?" Roy seemed a little wary.
"Is she around much?"
"More than I am."
"Really." So Lisa took more than a passing interest in the restaurant’s operation. "And how do you like working with her?’
Roy shrugged. "She’s tough, but she’s fair. She doesn’t ask anybody to do anything she wouldn’t do herself. Anything else?"
So Lisa had at least one supporter. Jennifer shook her head.
And with that he left, pulling the door shut behind him.
Jennifer made her way to the desk, pulled out the swivel chair and collapsed into it. She only had a short amount of time. Lisa would be back, and when she got there, she’d come straight after Jennifer.
Chapter 9
"Okay, I’m looking for three T-bones, four sirloins, and a filet mignon, all overdue. What are you doing? Strolling out to pasture to round up cattle? Try looking in the fridge. Let’s move it, move it, move it!" Jennifer snapped her fingers for emphasis, just like her mother used to do. Man, how she’d hated that. Silently she promised Jaimie she would never snap her fingers at her/him when she/he was born. She balled her hand into a fist to keep herself from doing it again.
"People are starving out here." She clamped her other hand over her mouth, in an attempt to squelch the urge to say even more. She didn’t know what had come over her. All that power. She’d only been at the restaurant a few hours, and already she felt like she was king of the mountain.
And the amount of meat now gracing the grill was unimaginable. It was like witnessing deforestation, only this was cattle, not trees. And she could only stare at it, like a really bad car crash.
A platter filled with a huge, sizzling steak and a baked potato bigger than her fist, whizzed by her at the warming bar. One of the waitresses picked it up before it came to rest and took off for the dining room.
"We’ve got a complaint at Booth 17. Want I should get Roy?" Suzy asked from behind her.
Jennifer shook her head. "Roy’s busy helping Gus. I’ll handle it. Just point me in the right direction."
Booth 17 was nestled next to the fish tank and was occupied by a distinguished-looking man with gray hair wearing a suit and tie, dining alone. A piece of steak hung from the end of the fork he had poised over his plate.
"Does this look like medium rare to you?" he asked before Jennifer even had an opportunity to introduce herself. It’d been some time since Jennifer had tasted steak, let alone inspected it, but this piece was definitely oozing red with a telltale area of pink.
"I can see that piece is underdone. I’ll be glad to—"
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. "This is medium. I ordered medium rare." The man dropped the fork with a clank. "Get me a new steak. And make sure you leave some life in it this time."
"Don’t you watch 60 Minutes or 20/20? Haven’t you heard about the hazards of eating undercooked animal flesh, not to mention—”
"Mr. Arnett, good to have you back, sir." Roy reached around her, offering the man his hand and nudging Jennifer away. "Let me get that out of your way. One of the servers must have picked up the wrong order. I’ll see that you get an Eddie sent out right away with our compliments while we get another steak grilled for you. By the way, Ms. Marsh, you have an urgent telephone call."
Who could be calling her at the restaurant? No one knew she was coming to Atlanta, no one except, that is, Mrs. Walker. She swung through the kitchen, scooping up a bowl of okra on her way. Once in the office, she picked up the phone and punched line one, which was blinking red.
"Jennifer Marsh," she said, popping a fried morsel into her mouth.
"How’s it going?" Mrs. Walker’s sweet voice floated across the line. Johnny Mathis was singing "Chances Are"—loudly—in the background.
On occasion Mrs. Walker suffered from a bit of paranoia. Fortunately it was nothing that a bit of overblown music to defeat any potential listening devices couldn’t cure. Usually she preferred Wagner. At least Johnny was easier on the ears.
"Why didn’t you tell me you intended to make me the manager?" Jennifer asked, trying to control her anger.
"Oh, that. It never pays to start at the bottom. Besides, I wanted to get you access to the files. You have had a chance to look through them?"
"I was doing that when they called me out to help. This place is unbelievable. We’ve got them waiting in a line down the porch."
"Of course you do, dear. They come for the Eddie and for Edgar’s special steak sauce. Have you tried it yet?"
Jennifer had grabbed a baked potato about five-thirty and dabbed on a bit of sauce, just for a taste. She’d wound up burying the spud in its creamy goodness. "It’s delicious. What’s in it?" she asked, chomping on some more okra.
&nb
sp; "It’s a secret, of course. Edgar never would tell me. I think he was scared to death someone might get hold of it and bottle it."
"Like you?"
"Well, of course, dear. Do see what you can find in those files. Who knows when we’ll have an opportunity to have at them again. Roy will take care of everything out front. He’s quite efficient."
"So he told me."
"Actually, I called to ask you to stop by, if you have time, before you head back to Macon this evening. I know how hectic it can get there, but try to be here at least by nine if you possibly can."
Jennifer hadn’t yet recovered from their Monday morning adventure. But she couldn’t turn down Mrs. Walker.
"I’ll be there."
Jennifer hadn’t even hung up the receiver when the door burst open. She blinked hard. For a second, Lisa looked like some kind of super hero—back-lighted, hair flying, tough as nails—standing there in the doorway with the anger of the righteous, ready to fight injustice.
Unfortunately, Jennifer had a terrible feeling she was on the wrong side of this fight.
She sucked in air and took a better look at her adversary. Actually, Lisa looked more like a biker chick. Even less reassuring. And there was only one way in and out of that office, and Lisa was standing smack in the middle of it.
Jennifer stood, pulling her purse onto her shoulder, and edged along the backside of the desk.
"Out!" Lisa roared.
Whatever was left in those files could not be worth bodily injury, at least not Jennifer’s. Besides, she was the interloper here. "I’m going, I’m going," she soothed, inching toward the door.
When Jennifer got within a yard of her, Lisa blocked her path. "I want you to take a message back to Emma."
Jennifer prayed it was a verbal message, nothing like a human ear or, heaven forbid, a horse’s head.
Dying to Get Even Page 4