Prankster, p.14
Prankster, page 14
The window’s metal sides scraped at her shoulders as she squirmed forward. She heard her sweater snag and rip, but she kept going. She pushed through and looked down. A dead bush squatted under the window. She figured it would break her fall, so she slithered farther and let herself drop to the ground.
The bush did break her fall, but it also scraped her hands and arms. It hurt, but Aimee kept her teeth clamped together. Breathing hard, she glanced up at the window to be sure Tucker wasn’t coming after her, and then she tore around to the front of his mobile home.
As she did, she heard a siren in the distance. She ran faster.
Jumping into her car, Aimee had the engine started when she saw, in her rearview mirror, Tucker barreling out of his mobile home. She quickly put the car in gear, and it shot down his bumpy dirt driveway.
* * *
Aimee passed a police cruiser just a few hundred yards after she got back onto the road. She made sure she drove sedately and looked innocent as it went past. Once it did, she sped up.
Her hands and arms stinging from the scratches the bush gave her, her hip and head sore from being tossed into the bathroom, Aimee was literally shaking. She felt beat up and freaked out. Whether she was shaking in pain, anger, or relief she didn’t know. She made herself take long, even breaths as she kept glancing in her rearview mirror to be sure no one was pursuing her.
Aimee ground her teeth. She slapped her hand on the steering wheel, not in celebration this time. She fisted her hand and pounded on the steering wheel in frustration.
How had this gotten so turned around? Tucker was the criminal. Not her!
Tucker was more than likely giving the police Aimee’s description and a description of her car right now. She should probably get out of town.
The thick gray clouds that had been hovering so low all morning finally gave up trying to hang on to their moisture. Fat raindrops smacked at Aimee’s windshield.
But was that it? Would she never find out what had happened to Mary Jo?
Aimee realized she was feeling more than beat-up and freaked out. She was devastated.
“What were you expecting?” she asked.
Had she thought Tucker would admit to taking Mary Jo and tell her he would have taken Mary Jo no matter what Aimee had done? Had she thought she was going to get a big old “It wasn’t your fault” speech from the man?
She realized she wasn’t sure what she’d expected from her conversation with Emmett Tucker. But now … well, now she was left with even more questions than she’d lived with for ten years. If he wouldn’t admit to what he did, how was she going to find out what had happened to Mary Jo?
“Seriously, how do I prove what he did?” Aimee asked the heavier rain, now streaking across the glass in front of her.
Should she just leave? Should she do what Gretta was always saying—go into therapy, learn to forgive herself, and forget about Mary Jo?
Aimee shook her head. She couldn’t do that. Any of it. She didn’t want to go into therapy. She didn’t want to leave without finding out something. And she couldn’t forget Mary Jo. Ever. Mary Jo deserved to be remembered.
So, what other options did she have?
Aimee looked past the rain to the town ahead. The answers to her questions had to be here someplace.
The rain picked up even more. Aimee reached out and turned up the speed of her windshield wipers. The swish-thunk-swish-thunk rhythm of their swipes across the glass was strangely comforting.
“I can do this,” she said, pressing harder on the accelerator and concentrating on her slow breathing. She was going to figure out once and for all what happened to Mary Jo.
And she knew just where to go next. She was going to do what all detectives did: return to the scene of the crime.
* * *
Aimee kept breathing slowly and deeply until she pulled into Freddy’s crowded parking lot and …
Hang on a second.
Aimee frowned at the sprawling two-story building at the edge of the lot. It was in the right place. But that was about it. This wasn’t Freddy’s.
Aimee glared at the massive building that appeared to have eaten Freddy’s, and as she looked at it, she realized it was Freddy’s. It was just an abominable version of Freddy’s. The old pizzeria had been built over and around, bloating it into what looked like a kitschy tourist trap.
With two stories instead of Freddy’s one, this restaurant looked to be entirely new. It was rustic in appearance, but that was a facade. Its faux-old-timey siding looked too pristine and clean to have been around for long.
Aimee ducked her head to look out and up through her windshield at a big wood sign supported by a couple of tall, thick logs. Burned into the blond wood, black letters spelled out the name of the restaurant now occupying Freddy’s old building: FLO’S FABULOUS EATERY. Under the sign, a smaller dark green sign with white lettering read, HOME OF THE LEANING TOWER OF PANCAKES. COME ON IN, AND SIT A SPELL.
A car engine revved nearby, and Aimee was jolted back to the present. She sank low in her seat. Had the cops found her?
Behind her, a big black truck backed into a nearby parking slot. She blew out her pent-up air, slid forward in her seat, and checked her appearance in the mirror on her visor.
Amazingly, she didn’t look like she’d just been in a confrontation. Her hair was mussed, but it went back into place when she finger-combed it. Her face looked fine. The backs of her hands were scratched, and there was a little blood on the sleeve of her torn sweater, but it wasn’t all that noticeable. She’d pass inspection if no one looked at her closely.
Aimee flipped up her visor. She’d better get inside and look around before she was spotted.
* * *
Checking over her shoulder for the third time since she left her car, Aimee stepped into the lobby of Flo’s Fabulous Eatery. It was just after noon, which explained why the clatter of utensils and buzz of conversation coming from the restaurant’s dining room was loud.
Aimee nearly jumped out of her shoes when she was greeted by an effervescent woman about her own age. “Welcome to Flo’s Fabulous Eatery!” the woman said. “Did you bring your hunger with you?”
Aimee tensed, and then, forgetting her predicament for a second, she blinked and stared at the woman who’d spoken to her.
The woman laughed. “This must be your first time here. I know. I look ridiculous. Flo isn’t a person. She’s a cow.” She pointed. Aimee turned and widened her eyes at a life-size sculpture of a Holstein cow. It was right inside the restaurant doorway, but Aimee had missed it because she’d been focused on what she was here for.
Aimee turned back to the hostess and gestured at the black-and-white cow costume the woman wore. She focused on keeping her tone light and innocent. She was just a diner here for a meal. She was not a fugitive investigating a disappearance. “Well”—she read the woman’s name tag—“Kim, you make Holstein look good.”
Kim—olive-skinned with big brown eyes and wavy brown hair—did actually look kind of cute in the costume. It helped that she had a dimpled smile. She wasn’t taking herself too seriously. “Thanks!” she said. “You’re very nice.” She picked up a menu and turned toward the dining room.
Aimee hesitated, looking around to check if anyone was observing her. No one was. She glanced at the decor.
Aimee had hoped that once she was inside the restaurant, she would see something familiar. But nothing was as she remembered it.
Freddy’s lobby had been large but mostly empty, just lined with red benches to sit on when you had to wait for a table. An archway had separated the lobby from the huge dining room. From that archway, you could see the stage and the animatronics.
Flo’s lobby was even bigger than Freddy’s had been, and it was filled with furniture, set up to look like a sitting room in a nineteenth-century home. It held at least a dozen overstuffed settees, ottomans, and chairs. Instead of an archway leading into the dining room beyond, what looked like the gates to a pasture separated the waiting area from the eating area.
Even from here, through the slats of the “gates,” Aimee could see that the dining room was totally different than it had been when the building had been a Freddy’s. For one thing, the stage where the animatronics used to perform—which should have been on the far side of the dining room—was gone. For another thing, the black-and-white tile floor had been replaced with a bright-green linoleum floor. She thought that was weird—the black-and-white floor would have fit right in with the Holstein cow theme. But maybe the green floor was supposed to be grass or something. It probably was, given that Freddy’s red-painted walls had been covered over by murals depicting farmland and meadows filled with wildflowers.
Aimee flashed back to entering Freddy’s when she was a kid. Besides the floor and the stage and the animatronics, the other thing she’d always noticed first was the carnival-like music and bells and jingles of the arcade games—that and kids screaming and laughing and running all over the place. Flo’s had nothing like that. All Aimee could hear now was classic country music playing from speakers overhead and the normal clinks and clatters and chatter of families dining. She did hear a few kids giggling, but she didn’t see them.
“I know the place is a little cliché,” Kim said, “but the food’s really good.”
Aimee stiffened and looked at Kim. “What?”
Behind her, the restaurant’s door opened. She glanced toward it, holding her breath. But it was just an older couple wearing matching pastel jackets. Not the police.
Kim smiled. “I was telling you the food’s good, in spite of how the place looks.” She gestured at the lobby. “The owners were farmers before they bought this place, and they’re really into cows—their history and such.”
Aimee nodded, her lips pressed together. She wished she could just slip away and poke around, but Kim said, “Follow me.”
Aimee had little choice but to comply. Still on edge, she trailed Kim through the fake gate and on into the packed dining room. Aimee was still looking for evidence of the old Freddy’s. Maybe the booths? She looked around. Nope. Flo’s did have booths, but they weren’t red like the ones in Freddy’s. They were brown vinyl, made to look like branded leather. The dividers between the booths were different, too—they were made of reclaimed barn wood that stretched nearly to the ceiling.
Kim led Aimee to a booth at the far-left side of the dining room, in the area that used to be Freddy’s arcade. Aimee took a seat and tried to remember what had been in this spot ten years before. Maybe the air hockey table? Or had it been a pinball machine?
Aimee accepted a menu, encased in heavy faux leather, from Kim.
“Your server will be Mary. She’ll be with you in a minute. Enjoy your meal.”
Aimee barely managed a nod and a smile because when Kim had said, “Mary,” a chill had rushed through Aimee’s body. It was so intense that she had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering.
Mary. What were the odds of being served by someone with a name similar to Mary Jo’s?
“Probably not that huge,” Aimee whispered to herself. It’s just a coincidence, she thought.
“Hi, I’m Mary,” a middle-aged woman with died spiky red hair and too much makeup said. “How are you doing today?”
“Oh, you’re not a cow,” Aimee said. As soon as she said the words, she realized how they’d sounded, and she flushed. “I mean …”
Mary barked out a deep, rough laugh. “That depends on who you talk to.” She laughed harder.
“I’m sorry,” Aimee said, putting a cool hand to one of her hot cheeks. She really needed to calm herself and focus. “I was referring to—”
“The costume. I know.” Mary looked down at her Holstein-patterned apron, which she wore over black pants and a black blouse. “Servers get away with just this.” She gestured at it. “When the place first opened, they apparently tried to put the servers in the cow costumes, but being a hostess in that getup is totally different than trying to wait tables in it. They figured that out quick.”
Aimee nodded.
“So, what can I get you to drink, sweetie?”
“A cola? Whatever you have.”
“One cola coming up. I’ll give you some time to look at the menu.”
“I also need to use the restroom,” Aimee said. She didn’t, but she wanted a chance to poke around. “I, um, may need several minutes.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.”
“The restrooms are through that door,” Mary said. She pointed toward what used to be the back of the arcade area at Freddy’s.
“Thanks.”
As soon as Mary walked away, Aimee slipped out of the booth. She still had her bloody, torn sweater on, and she still had her purse slung across her body. She wasn’t sure if she actually was going to stay to drink the soda she’d just ordered. It depended on what she found when she went looking.
Standing and checking to see if anyone was watching her (no one was), Aimee walked quickly past a back exit from the restaurant, on toward the hallway leading to the restrooms. She idly noticed that a cobweb blew out from a vent at the base of the wall on the left side. Passing its dancing filaments, she entered the hall. Once there, she bypassed the doors marked LADIES and GENTS. She didn’t think there would be anything to find in new bathrooms. But there was a door marked MAINTENANCE at the back of the hall that was promising; it was in the area where the entrance to the Hiding Maze used to be. If there was anything left to indicate what had happened to Mary Jo, it would be there.
Or at least, that was Aimee’s theory.
Not that she was too excited about her theory.
Ever since she’d entered Flo’s Fabulous Eatery, her enthusiasm for her return to the crime scene plan had waned … a lot. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Obviously if the restaurant looked totally different on the outside, it would be totally different on the inside, too. Had Aimee really thought she was going to find a clue in a place that had been completely and totally remodeled?
“Just get on with it,” Aimee told herself. She was here; she might as well poke around.
Checking over her shoulder to be sure she was still alone, Aimee hurried to the end of the hall and put her hand on the knob of the door marked MAINTENANCE. Would it be locked?
She turned the knob. Not locked. The door opened right up. Looking behind her one more time, Aimee slipped into the dark room and pulled the door closed before she started feeling the wall for a light switch.
The room smelled of musty cardboard, bleach, and lemon-scented cleaners, and it felt chilly and damp. The closed door muted the sounds coming from the dining area, so it was nearly silent in the room. The only thing Aimee could hear clearly was the sound of her own rapid breathing.
After several seconds, Aimee still hadn’t found the light switch. In those seconds, her imagination had conjured up all sorts of things that could have been skulking in the dark, waiting to leap out at her before she got the light on.
After Aimee and her parents had moved to their new home, all of Aimee’s new friends had loved horror movies and ghost stories. In the summer, her parents sent her to camp, and one of the favorite activities there was hanging around a bonfire in the dark listening to scary stories. Aimee had hated those stories. To fit in, she’d sat there with her friends, but she’d done her best not to listen. Instead, she’d hummed in her head. When Gretta and her other friends dragged her to horror movies, she’d sat with her eyes closed … and hummed in her head.
She was humming in her head now as she began scrabbling frantically for the light. She’d been in the unlit space long enough. She felt prickles between her shoulder blades, as if her body could sense the spot where a hidden person wanted to plunge a knife.
“Where is the light switch?” Aimee hissed as she kept pawing at the wall on either side of the door.
She was about to give up and go back out into the hallway when she heard footsteps entering the hallway outside the door. She froze. Was she about to get caught?
Backing away from the door, Aimee tried to think of what she’d say if someone found her in here. Nothing besides “I was looking for the restroom” came to mind, and that excuse would only work if she could convince whoever found her that she was blind. Only a person who couldn’t see could miss the oversize, cow-themed signs to the restrooms.
The footsteps in the hallway quieted, then stopped. The person must have gone into one of the restrooms.
Aimee exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She stepped back to the door, which she could locate because of the light coming in underneath it.
She realized her eyes were adjusting to the dark. Whereas the room had seemed to be nothing but solid inky blackness moments before, now she could discern hulking shapes on either side of the door. She could also see what appeared to be a cord dangling down next to the door’s trim. She reached out and pulled on it, hoping she wasn’t yanking on something that would set off an alarm.
As soon as Aimee pulled the cord, the room was flooded with bright white light from a bank of fluorescent bulbs overhead. She immediately whirled in a circle to be sure that she’d imagined sharing the space with someone else. She had. She was alone.
The small room looked to be a combination of janitor’s closet and storage closet. It had the same green flooring as the rest of the restaurant, and the walls were painted sky blue. A bucket and a mop sat in one corner, along with several brooms and dusters. Next to these, a shelf of cleaning supplies extended from the floor to the low ceiling. Next to that, another shelf full of paper products—paper towels, napkins, toilet paper—extended to the back wall.
Aimee looked at that far wall. It was partially obscured by a stack of boxes, but over the top of the boxes, Aimee could see what looked like the upper edge of a dusty vent cover. And above the vent cover, she thought she saw some faded orange and red paint. Was that part of the rainbow?
