2 Days 'Til Sundae (2 'Til Series Book 1)

by Heather Muzik

  Sidling up to the counter, she propped herself on one of the perfectly typical red vinyl spinning stools that was permanently attached to the floor. She grabbed a syrup-sticky menu and peeled it open to find an exceptionally mouthwatering selection of lunch options. She had forgotten how much she loved a good diner. Pennsylvania was infested with them and she had been in her fair share over the years.

  Catherine had just made up her mind about what to eat when a woman with a nametag that said Mel came over. She had to stifle a laugh, thinking back to Mel’s Diner from the show Alice that she used to watch when she was little. Mel flipped over the clean coffee mug in front of her and leaned in, pressing her ample breasts against her side of the counter to pour a cup of coffee, uninterested in whether Catherine even wanted one. Then she marked the coffee down on her receipt pad as if that were the cover charge for taking a seat.

  “So, what can I sell you on?” the woman asked, her voice surprisingly feminine considering her name and size.

  “Um, does the turkey club come with thin or thick-cut bacon?” she asked, her eyes still on the menu.

  “It’s bacon.”

  Catherine looked up into Mel’s practical, if not slightly humored face. “But is it really thick and fatty, or thin and crispy?” she prodded. There was a time when she wouldn’t really have cared or asked, but with age and wisdom and more refined tastes—

  “It’s fried bacon. If you don’t like it, you can take it off,” Mel said, unperturbed but also unyielding.

  “Okay.” Catherine rolled her eyes at the menu since she had no one else to commiserate with her. “And the bread—”

  “It’s sandwich bread.”

  “Are there any other options?” she asked, squinting up at her as if afraid she might be struck for asking.

  “Usually we have a wide selection of five-grain and twelve-grain, pumpernickel and rye, but we’re all out,” Mel answered drolly.

  Catherine gave a tight smile in return, knowing she was dangerously close to having her bread dropped on the floor or wiped along the underside of the cook’s nose before being made into her sandwich. “Just give me the club—however you normally do it.” She tried to sound completely undemanding and unworthy of kitchen shenanigans.

  “That’s the only way we do things. Anything else?” Mel asked, eyeing her carefully.

  She gulped, unable to resist the pie that sat prominently on a raised platter under a clear dome, inches away from her on the counter. “A piece of peach pie, please.”

  “It’ll be a few minutes,” Mel said, wandering off.

  “Oh, but—” She stopped herself before requesting a half serving of fries and a coleslaw substitute, knowing any further conversation about changes to menu items would likely land her with a booger pie for dessert. She could always just limit herself to eating half of the fries she was given—willpower, Catherine Marie. She only hoped that damn Catherine Marie would be there for her thighs even though she was totally pissed off right now.

  She heaved a sigh of relief that Mel hadn’t even heard her call out, as she was already down at the other end of the counter refilling coffees. And the other customers were ignoring her too, engrossed in newspapers and puzzles, or chatting with friends and playing poker with toothpicks that Catherine hoped didn’t end up back in the dispensers. She spun a one-eighty on her seat and looked out the plate-glass window between the stenciled blue backward letters that spelled “Diner on the Main.” The larger sign on the brick above the awning outside was simply “DINER”—it must have been a bargain. There were café curtains on the lower half of the window, but they had been pushed wide to let in the sun. The trucks that had been parked next to her out at the curb were gone now, and in their place were normal-size cars that made her back end look like it was sticking out into the street. She could see adults about her age strolling along the sidewalk and little kids skipping along behind them. It was like a movie set from the nineteen-fifties, except people were decidedly current and even fashionably dressed, which surprised her.

  Catherine turned back toward the counter in answer to a short, sharp whistle and was face-to-face with Mel again as she slid a plate piled high with a triangular cut triple-decker sandwich and french fries and a huge half of a deli pickle. She was suddenly starving and couldn’t even remember why she had cared about the cut of bacon that might or might not be on her sandwich. Just as she laid hands on the first half of her sandwich and brought it to her mouth, crunching through the toasted white bread and chewy, crisp bacon and layers of turkey and cheese, another plate came sliding in, bumping her lunch. A massive slice of peach pie. She almost wet herself in ecstasy.

  Just as Mel was about to retreat again, leaving the check behind, Catherine called out, “Wait!”

  The woman stopped, waiting for the out-of-towner’s next request.

  “Could I have a glass of water?”

  “Bottled or tap?”

  “What do you have on tap?” Catherine answered with a smile that coaxed a begrudging smile back.

  She watched Mel grab a glass and scoop some ice into it before filling it with an aerated hose. The water bubbled and percolated for a moment before settling in the confines of the glass. Then Mel set it before her and stood for a moment as if she expected there had to be something more. And there was more. Now that Catherine had gained a little respect for turning the tables—

  The front door opened and Mel looked past her, motioning toward a Styrofoam takeout container at the other end of the counter before setting her gaze back on Catherine again.

  “I am actually looking for someone,” she said, unnerved sitting under Mel’s careful stare. She played with a fry, hoping the gesture, coupled with the calm, almost lackadaisical way of her words, would help make her seem interested in an answer but not too interested. “It’s a guy who lives in town. His name is Joel Trager.”

  Mel just shrugged her shoulders in response.

  “You don’t know a Joel Trager?” she almost scoffed. She knew damn well that Joel Trager lived here somewhere. Maybe there was some weird town code in Nekoyah that said that people didn’t share other people’s business. If so, this must be an alternate universe because where she came from people loved to share everybody’s business.

  “Ma’am, we don’t have any Joel Trager living around here that I know of.”

  Ma’am? Seriously? That’s twice in one goddamn day! What is with you people? It isn’t a sign of respect; it’s a personal affront. And how the hell old are you, Mel, anyway? But she said none of that, swallowed it all back to deal with the real issue at hand. “I was told that he lived out here with his daughter? Lost his wife recently?” Catherine spoke in questions, gently prodding her to recognize anything familiar, hoping to break her down.

  “Nope. Don’t know him.”

  Catherine was stunned speechless.

  “Is this kin you’re lookin’ for?” Mel asked.

  “Well, distant kin,” she lied. Like anyone was going to take the time or effort to trace the truth. They could be fifth cousins, twice removed for all these people needed to know. What mattered at this point was a disastrous trip was turning into a dead end.

  “How about in the surrounding towns? Is there anything nearby?” she asked, knowing that her tone was snarky. “I know he has a P.O. Box here and I just figured—”

  “That we all know each other, or maybe we’re all interrelated in some way?” Mel challenged.

  “Well, no,” Catherine said unconvincingly. Of course that was what she’d thought. The town was worse than a fly speck on the map. How could they not know everybody?

  “Unlike you, we don’t get in each other’s business. There are plenty of people living here and keeping to themselves.”

  Catherine looked around the diner at all the people not getting in each other’s business. There wasn’t a single eye still on its own plate or paper or conversation. Everyone was turned toward her, soaking up what she assumed might be the only excitement they had s
een in months—an outsider searching for a man who didn’t exist.

  Joel Trager, where the hell are you?

  -14-

  She stepped out of the diner feeling ill. She’d left behind her lunch platter, not for willpower but for shame. And even though a single bite of that peach pie made her taste buds explode on contact, that was left behind too. Her stomach was knotted beyond all recognition, leaving no room inside to fit a decadent dessert that was the size of her head. Nowhere to put it because it turns out Catherine Hemmings, NYC, was a complete elitist bitch. She didn’t know where it happened or when, but sitting under the watchful eyes of the Nekoyans in her midst, she realized that was exactly what she was. Even Catherine Marie could vouch for that as she had been raised in a small town—a bit more suburban than this, but small—so she knew what normal people sounded like. Normal people didn’t ask questions about menu items in a diner; they ordered and ate, pure and simple. And normal people didn’t assume that just because Main Street was short and to the point that everyone must know everyone else. The only thing on her plate that she had been able to swallow down in its entirety along with that little lesson was the fat pickle, which was full of vinegar just like her.

  Yup, total bitch.

  Catherine looked up and down the street, wondering where she should go next to make an ass out of herself but hopefully also find some kind of lead. Maybe this guy, Joel Trager, was like a mountain man; not that she knew if there were any mountains nearby. But it was possible that he was one of those people who withdrew from society to live off the land, only coming to town once in a while to get his mail from Publishers Clearing House. She was about tapped out of options if that were the case, short of casing the post office which could quite possibly be some kind of federal offense. Ms. Practical, Catherine Marie, tallied the gain if she cut her current losses and went back to her original plan, Caramellie or no Caramellie, and went to the mall—so I came all this way for what? Lunch and a good humbling? her more kick-ass self reminded her. No, she needed to give it another try, even if it meant going door-to-door along Main Street. Even if she had to beg and grovel. She would never see these people again and they could think whatever they wanted to think about the chick from the Big Shitty, as her grandfather used to call NYC.

  “Excuse me?”

  Catherine whirled around, expecting to see Mel’s fist in her face, shaking her down for a bigger tip because she was a giant pain in the ass—probably thought I was too stuck-up to eat normal food. But it wasn’t the waitress. The woman before her had honey-blonde hair and high cheekbones and blue eyes. She looked like a model who had been misplaced.

  “Did you say you were looking for Joel Trager?” the woman asked. She was holding a Styrofoam takeout box from the diner.

  “Yes!” Catherine exclaimed quickly before checking herself. So as not to scare her off, she took it down a few notches. “I am looking for Joel Trager. I know he has a P.O. Box here.” She motioned toward the post office across the street.

  “Oh, that’s the old post office. Hasn’t been used in years. The new one is on the other side of town, near the Walmart and Wendy’s, and the plaza with the—”

  Catherine’s eyes widened, understanding dawning that this was not the kind of place she had taken it for.

  “Yeah, we aren’t so small around here anymore. It’s a regular metropolis,” the woman snickered in response to Catherine’s expression of surprise. “I’ve lived here for about ten years and it’s grown practically five times since then.

  No wonder they didn’t know who Joel Trager was. It was perfectly possible that he never came to Main Street at all if there was everything else under the sun on the other side of town. He could just be a random face in the moving throngs of suburbia.

  “I do happen to know a Joel Trager.” The woman dangled the words like bait in front of her.

  “You do?” Catherine’s heart almost skipped a beat. She felt her palms begin to sweat with anticipation.

  “Guy goes by the name Fynn.”

  “Like on a fish?”

  “A ‘y’ and two ‘n’s’ actually.”

  She never understood people who had nicknames that didn’t remotely shorten or otherwise match their real name, but at least that might explain why Mel hadn’t known who she was talking about—that or she just wasn’t talking… to anybody.

  “It might be the guy you’re looking for,” the woman offered.

  Catherine felt a flicker of hope. Suddenly things might just be looking up. She spoke slowly and clearly. “You are talking about a Joel Trager,” she verified, waiting for the inevitable clarification that the guy this woman was talking about was Joe Trainor, or something that can be overheard wrong.

  “Yup. He pretty much keeps to himself. I can give you his address if you like.” The woman dug in her tote bag for a pen and started writing on one of the napkins stacked on top of her food box. She handed over the napkin, juggling the food and pen with the other hand. Nodding toward the box, she said, “A little peach pie to get through the rest of Monday,” she smirked, “not that my hips need it, but boy do I need it.”

  “That pie is downright sinful,” Catherine agreed, thinking of her own forlorn piece that she would happily scarf down now that she had a new lease on life, but it was probably on the way to the garbage—a crying shame.

  “You know, on second thought, are you familiar with the area at all?”

  “No,” she admitted. Does it show?

  The woman snatched back the napkin. “He lives off of one of the less traveled roads… it might be a little hard to find. I’ll draw you a map.”

  Who the hell have I come to find? What if he is some kind of perverted crazed sick-o? What if I find him and he locks me in the basement?

  Her face must have shown the apprehension she felt because in answer the woman said, “Fynn’s a good guy. Just quiet and reclusive. Nothing weird or anything like that.” She paused for a beat. “We don’t really believe he’s the Pineway Strangler.”

  All the blood drained to Catherine’s feet and made her woozy.

  “I’m just kidding. Seriously, he’s a nice normal guy. Just likes to be alone more than around others. Nothing kinky or twisted.” She walked over to the newspaper box in front of the diner and handed her pie to Catherine so she could get down to business drawing and writing directions on a sturdier surface.

  *****

  When she got in the car, Catherine ignored Glenda. If this guy’s place was off the beaten trail, Glenda was going to be more hindrance than help. Instead she tried to follow the chicken scratch that served as her map to nowhere, and after many turns and several miles she pulled over to the side of the road. She had no idea where she was going or what she was going to find on the other end, and the stranger outside the diner had a little too lively of a sense of humor for her to be totally at ease with what might await her.

  She sat there, idling, and pulled down the visor, looking into her own dark eyes. What the hell are you doing? Just what are you going to say to this guy? It was one thing to go into a store where someone was selling something you wanted and ask to purchase it, or barter for it, or otherwise make a deal… but going to someone’s house? Suddenly her little pep talk in the car on the way here about the straightforward approach seemed ridiculous even to her. Catherine could imagine hundreds of different ways this could go wrong, but only one way it could go right. The odds were totally stacked against her. Plus maybe the guy was crazy, along with everyone else in town, and she was leading herself to her own death or captivity—

  “You’re the one being crazy,” she said to her reflection, trying to ground herself. She grabbed her phone and flipped it open, hitting the magic button that would call up her better half. Someday she hoped her better half would have male body parts, but for now she had to lean on Georgia to be her person in this world.

  “Cat!” The greeting sounded more like her friend had just coughed up a hairball than said her name.

  �
�Georgia, I’m—”

  “I’m glad you called! Let’s go out! Thomas has to work late in the city. We can have dinner and then I’ll meet him later.”

  “Ooh, I can’t. Besides, I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” she said quickly, trying to lessen the blow.

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I’m in Nekoyah.”

  “The restaurant?” Georgia’s voice went from puzzled to excitable. “Are you on a date you didn’t tell me about?”

  “Nooooo….” She drew the word out slowly, confused. “Is there a Nekoyah restaurant?”

  “Oh, wait… it’s that new spa, isn’t it?” Georgia guessed. “I’m all about a spa treatment!”

  “No, it’s in Minnesota,” Catherine said evenly.

  “Minnesota, Minnesota?”

  “Yes.”

  “What the hell are you doing in Minnesota?”

  “Well—”

  “Tell me it’s a business trip.” Georgia’s tone was commanding.

  “Kind of—in a way—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re tracking down that stupid toy.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Catherine said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice.

  “Don’t give me that innocent crap, Cat. I know you.”

  Catherine was silent on her end, just like she clammed up when her mother lectured her. She could hear disappointment laced through her friend’s words, holding them together.