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“See you later!” He barely waves before scooting out the door.
“Did he just dine and dash you?” Emma comes over to the table with a fresh latte in hand. She sets it in front of me and then drops down in the other side of the booth, taking Jude’s seat before it’s had time to cool.
“I always pay the bill, so…no more than usual.”
Emma laughs. Her hair is piled high on her head, orange corkscrews spilling down. Now that it’s October, she’s wearing a spiderweb-printed apron and her nails are painted black. Paper bats hang from the ceiling, and the bud vases on the tabletops each contain a single ink-dark rose.
The foam on my latte is a wobbly moon dusted with a slightly wonky cinnamon cat.
“Not your best work,” I tease.
“Oh, you had to point it out.” Emma scowls. “I think that hunk of junk’s finally on its last legs…”
The espresso machine lets out a gout of steam like a burp. On the board behind the machine, someone’s added a notice for a missing cat.
“Can’t buy another one until next year; summer crowd’s already clearing out.” Emma gazes around at the half-empty tables. “Most of ‘em will be gone by Halloween. But we’ll get a big boost that week.”
“For the fair?”
I’ve seen the banners on Main Street, promising a Witches’ Ball, Zombie Run, Haunted Hayrides, Night of 1000 Jack-o-Lanterns, and something called a Bloodbath…
“Yeah, the Reaper’s Revenge,” Emma says without much enthusiasm. “They do it every year.”
“Sounds fun!”
“It is…but Grimstone gets packed, and all the masks and everything…something fucked up happens every year.”
“What kind of things?”
“Well…” Emma casts a quick look around and lowers her voice, leaning across the table so our heads almost touch. “There’s this mascot for the festival, Mr. Bones. People dress up as him. Last year this girl from out of town got pulled into the park by somebody in a Mr. Bones costume. And I guess he assaulted her, but it wasn’t just one Mr. Bones, there were a bunch, all dressed the same…She didn’t know how many there were, just that they kept—kept taking turns…”
“Jesus.” My stomach churns.
“Yeah. I’m sure it was all people from out of town, but that’s why I don’t like the festival; it brings in a rough crowd.”
Emma’s blaming the tourists, but it’s the sheriff’s table in the back where she casts her eye. Sheriff Shane is taking up half of his favorite booth, his two deputies squeezed into the other side. As I glance backward, one of the deputies notices. He nudges the other and whispers, and they both laugh.
“Assholes,” I mutter.
“Yup,” Emma says bitterly. “I got robbed by an ex-employee last year, had her on camera entering and exiting the store, and Sheriff Schmuck over there wouldn’t do shit ‘cause you couldn’t actually see her sticking the money in her pocket. I don’t think he even bothered to interrogate her. Big fuckin’ surprise, her dad owns the golf course…”
From bits and pieces I’ve picked up from Tom, I get the impression there’s some kind of vendetta between the people who consider themselves “locals” and the interlopers who live in and around the resort. I would guess the sheriff mostly caters to the latter ‘cause they’re the ones with all the cash.
The bell over the door jingles. A couple enters, looking around for a table.
“Need to help them?” I ask Emma.
“Nah.” She motions to the other waitress to assist the couple instead. “Perks of being the boss.”
“You’re such a badass. How many employees do you have?”
“Six,” Emma says proudly. “But most are part-time, especially off-season.”
“That’s so fucking cool. I’d love to have a real business, not just one-off jobs.”
“Flipping houses?”
“Sure, maybe,” I say, though that’s not really what I’d do if I could pick anything.
