Diners, Drive-Ins, and Death: A Comfort Food Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page B

he’d have to get to Watertown or Syracuse to catch a bus. Both are about an hour’s drive away. If he took a plane, he’d have to do the same thing.”
    She continued. “Nick would never take a bus. He hated them. The same with a plane. He said they’re both too confining. So is a car, but he always rolled down the windows and the top, rain or shine or blizzard.”
    “And did you notice that he didn’t . . . uh . . . disconnect the sidecar? I think he was still planning on riding with you.”
    “Oh, Trixie! Oh! I think you’re right!”
    I looked into the sidecar, not really expecting to see a note from Nick, but stranger things have happened. The metal floor looked like Nick had even shined it up, and there wasn’t a blade of grass, a leaf, or a grain of sand to disturb the mirror finish.
    “Sorry, Antoinette Chloe. No note.”
    She shook her head. “I just don’t know where he went. I think he would have told me.”
    “We can always search more at another time. Maybe you’ll think of something that he told you that you’ve forgotten about.”
    “Maybe . . . but I’ve racked my brain already.”
    We walked to the door, and I waited until she locked it. “I have to get some sleep before I drop in my tracks.”
    “I have to see how my new chef is doing, and make some phone calls,” she said. “Thanks for coming here with me, Trix. You’re a real pal.”
    “Anytime. You know that.”
    “Thanks. I don’t have too many friends, but you are at the top of my list.”
    She gathered me up into a great bear hug, and I tried not to gasp for breath from either my lungs being squished or the fog of scents.
    After I could breathe again, I hugged her back with equal enthusiasm.
    “See you later, Antoinette Chloe.”
    “Later.”
    “If you remember anything about Nick that will help us locate him, give me a shout.”
    “You got it.”
    *   *   *
    “Do we have any pickled eyeballs?” Barb Hern was subbing tonight as a waitress on the graveyard shift. That was my usual shift.
    “We do. How many would you like?”
    “A dozen. We have some fisherman out front who said that they’ve heard that your pickled eyeballs are the best.”
    I pulled out a gallon jug of my hard-boiled, pickled eggs from the fridge. They were a perfect dark pink color because they had been soaked in beet juice.
    Putting them all in a pretty bowl lined with endive, I rang the bell for pickup. Barb returned with more orders. I checked the wheel. Most of them were for the haddock special, but several were breakfast orders: omelets, pancakes, various toasts, eggs, muffins, and quiches.
    I got to work doing the Silver Bullet Shuffle, a type of dance that reminded me of being in the chorus line of Sister Mary Mary’s fourth-grade play.
    I leaped to the fridge, twirled to the Ferris wheel toaster, and spun to the steam table.
    The fried fish were floating in the oil, which meant they were done. I plated them and added a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, unless they had asked for fries. I had the fries bubbling in another fryer, out of the way of the fish.
    Soon the last order was completed, and I rang the brass ship’s bell that signaled Barb that her orders were done.
    Barb pushed through the double doors and picked up her order that I’d put on big oval tray for her.
    Several hours of twirling and leaping later, I heard the back door squeak open, and my morning chef, Juanita Holgado, entered the kitchen.
    “
Hola
, Trixie. Good morning. Sorry I’m a little late.”
    “I didn’t notice, but
hola
and adios, Juanita. The kitchen is all yours. You’ll see that I made pea soup for the soup of the day and that dinner rolls are on the racks.”
    “I could smell the fresh bread from the parking lot. Delicious.”
    “The daily special is—”
    “Spaghetti and meatballs. Go. I can take over.”
    As I took off my apron, I ticked off a bunch of things I needed to do today. First, I wanted to pick up Blondie from Ty and head