Chapter 12 #2
As soon as Martina’s grandma had finished feeding them this morning, Martina had dragged him into the basement to fill out Nika’s spreadsheet and brainstorm. So far Rick had really only managed the spreadsheet.
Which gave him an idea. “You know who can’t fill out the form? Bryce.”
She stared at him. “Is that a joke? I can’t tell if you’re joking, which makes me think it’s not a joke. Also, it’s not funny.”
Rick waited, knowing Martina would follow his thoughts if he gave her a few seconds.
“And you’re serious,” she said slowly. “Because you’re trying to point out that we not only need Bryce’s information to give us a better chance at catching patterns, but that his info is more important because the killer already went after him.”
Rick nodded slowly. “Maybe someone wants the rest of us dead, maybe not. But they definitely wanted Bryce. The more we learn about him, the closer we come to understanding the killer’s motive.” He reached briefly out of his cocoon to scratch his nose. “That’s what I’m thinking, anyway.”
Martina turned wide eyes on him before clapping her hands against his face and smooshing his cheeks until he had a fish face. “You, my friend, are brilliant.”
“Don’t get too excited.” His words were a little garbled because Martina was still squishing his face. “We both avoided Bryce. Consequently, we know nothing about him.”
Martina got out her phone. “We may not, but you know who does? Lola.”
It took Rick a second to connect Martina’s thoughts. “Bryce’s ex.”
She nodded but looked suddenly grim. “And you know where Lola works? Spudknucklers.”
“Oh noooooo.” Rick huddled deeper into his blanket cocoon. “Not Spudknucklers.”
Martina had held a job at Spudknucklers, a local drive-thru place that specialized, for reasons unknown to Rick, in potatoes and aggression.
Everything on the menu had an overly hostile name, from the Spud-Bomb, which was a fully loaded baked potato, to the Spud-Attack, which was Tater Tots covered in nacho toppings.
Martina had worked there a whole week before she was fired because the owner heard her making fun of the Bald Eagle Fries, which were basically poutine—french fries, cheese curds, and gravy.
He just wouldn’t call them that because he didn’t think it sounded “American enough.” When Martina had pointed out that it didn’t sound American because poutine was a Canadian dish, her boss had lost it and told her to leave.
“Did you ever figure out what caused the owner’s anti-Canadian agenda?” Rick asked.
“Who knows?” Martina threw an arm over her face. “He’s the kind of guy that thinks if his kids read a book or touch pastels, they become gay, or socialists, or gay socialists.”
“Didn’t he have a bumper sticker that said ‘Fuck the Queen’?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Joke’s on him, because that bumper sticker is now woefully out of date.”
“I don’t think a guy who holds a grudge for over two centuries against a monarchy cares much about his bumper sticker being behind by a few years.”
Martina deepened her voice, making it sound eerie. “Sometimes in my nightmares, I still smell potatoes and grease.”
“Haunted by the ghost of Spudknucklers.” Which Rick admitted to himself was a step up from the ghosts that had been haunting him.
“That guy Zeke—the one that used to hit on you every time you stopped by—he still works there, and he confirmed that Lola is working today, which I hope he only did because he knows me and isn’t just handing this info out to anyone who asks, because that’s how you enable a stalker.”
“I’m sure he only gave you the info because he knows you.”
“I mean, he didn’t just give it to me. I had to send him a picture of you in your boxers, but I figured you wouldn’t care.”
“Martina.”
“What?” she asked. “It was for the good of the collective.”
“Martina.”
The corner of her mouth kicked up. “Calm yourself. I would never do such a thing.”
“I know,” he said quickly, then added, “but I still felt I needed to check.”
“If I had pictures of you in your boxers, I’d sell them on the internet.”
He smacked her with a throw pillow.
She cackled.
Rick waited until she’d finally stopped before asking, “We’re going to have to go there, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Martina said. “Yes, we are.”
Rick sighed in defeat. “At least I can get a milkshake.”
“A milkshake, Rick? Really? You sound like a socialist.” She tossed the throw pillow back at him. “I think what you mean, as a red-blooded American, is Dairy-Explosion.”
“Right,” Rick said. “What was I thinking?”
Martina smiled at him, not even raising her voice when she asked, “Who’s in the mood for a Dairy-Explosion?”
Both Dani and Caleb, who had seemed to be ignoring them this entire time, raised their hands.
—
Spudknucklers was in a long, narrow building at the edge of Main Street, barely clinging to the town center.
You couldn’t sit inside, but there were some picnic tables out front under a violently red-and-yellow awning hanging above the walk-up window.
On one side of the building, there was a drive-up order window and a driveway that led you around to the window where you picked up your food.
The awning was festooned with a faded plastic American flag garland, which had been there since the Fourth of July two years before.
Rick parked the Beast and hopped out to follow Martina onto the Astroturf, where the dining area for Spudknucklers squatted like a greasy fungus.
The rain was still misting down, the air cold, so no one was at the walk-up window, though the drive-up had a few cars.
Rick had borrowed his uncle’s flannel jacket, hoping the thick lining would keep him warmer than his hoodie, but the wet cold had a way of getting right into your bones.
“Maybe a Dairy-Explosion isn’t the best idea,” Rick muttered as he came up behind Martina, who was already at the window, staring at the menu tacked up on the wall.
They could still bring milkshakes back for the kids—who had been smart enough to stay home in the warm basement.
Rick regretted leaving his blanket cocoon. “Do they have anything hot?”
“Their chili’s not bad, if you’re hungry,” Martina said.
“Dani will want the Chocolate Combustion.” Rick eyed the image of a chocolate shake topped with hot fudge and chocolate whipped cream. “I forgot they don’t have a small. I’m not sure Dani should have quite that much sugar.”
“What are you, Canadian? Small is un-American, Rick.”
“It’s almost as if America is compensating for something.” He dug out his wallet. “Whatever, she’s getting the Chocolate Combustion.” Life was short, and Rick couldn’t do much to spoil his little sister, but he could do this.
“That’s the spirit,” Martina said.
A girl came up to the other side of the counter, pushing open a sliding window to greet them. Her blond hair was up in a bun, her military-grade eyelashes framing bright blue eyes under a red cloth visor that said Spudknucklers in mustard-yellow script. The name tag on her red work shirt said Lola.
“Hey, Martina.” She smiled, her teeth very white against her sun-kissed tan, which had somehow hung on despite the fall weather. “What can I get you?”
Martina ordered and handed over her card. Lola took it, swiping it as she looked them over. “So you guys found Bryce, huh?” Now that she wasn’t smiling, Rick could see signs of strain—eyes a little bloodshot, her voice flat.
“Yeah,” Martina said.
“We weren’t close anymore, but it’s still so sad.” Lola looked away, and Rick thought she was trying not to cry. “I still can’t quite believe it.”
“Me neither.” Martina’s voice was a little shaky, and Rick was pretty sure she was picturing Bryce the way they last saw him. Which made Rick think of him, too, and he wondered if either of them would be able to eat their food.
Lola checked behind her to make sure no one was watching before she leaned a hip into the counter, settling in. “I just talked to him, like, a week ago. Now he’s gone. Just like that.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, her mouth pinched. “It’s kinda made me think. About the future. Getting out of here, you know?” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and flicked her visor. “Don’t want to be wearing this forever.”
Martina grimaced. “I get that. I only lasted here a week.”
Lola gave her a small smile. “Lucky.” Her eyes flicked to Rick. “Oh, you probably want to order, yeah? Otherwise her food is going to get here before you’ve even told me what you want.”
“Are the Slammin’ Yams any good?” Despite the glowing description and the careful photo, Rick couldn’t see how it could be, so he was asking more out of scientific curiosity than actual desire to order one. “And is it any better or worse than the Ham Slammin’ Yam Jam?”
Lola screwed up her mouth. “I haven’t tried them yet. Hold on.” She leaned her head back. “Hey, Zeke?”
“Yeah?” Zeke popped in from the side before Rick could edge away.
Rick had never spoken to him before Martina had worked at Spudknucklers—Zeke lived in Port Haines and went to a different school—but he’d seen him around.
He was hard to miss since he was built big, with olive skin and curly black hair that Rick had heard more than one girl sigh over.
Zeke gave Rick a slow once-over as he smiled. “Hey, Rick. Looking good.”
“Thank you,” Rick said. “I haven’t been working out.”
He leaned his arms on the counter. “You still single?”
“Yes,” Rick said, “also no.”
Zeke’s grin turned lazy. “I didn’t ask you the second question.”
“And yet I know what it is. You flatter me, Zeke, but my heart belongs to another.”
Zeke sighed wistfully. “My princess is always in another castle.” He straightened up, his attention moving to Lola. “What do you need?”
“He wants to know if the Slammin’ Yams are any good.”
Zeke opened his mouth.
Martina cut him off. “He doesn’t want to slam your yam or whatever terrible joke you were going to make.”
Zeke grinned at her. “I miss working with you. We need to hang out again.”
Martina snorted. “Please, you’re just using me to get closer to Rick.”
Zeke placed a hand on his chest. “I find it hurtful, Martina, that you think I’d use you like that.
I can get close to Rick on my own, thank you very much.
” He winked at Rick. “You know where I am if you change your mind, but if you eat the Slammin’ Yams, you won’t live long enough to do that, trust me.
If you’re hungry, go for the Spud-Attack. ”
“Thank you,” Rick said. “I’ll do that, then.”
“No need to thank me,” Zeke said. “I take care of my men.”
Lola looked up at him, her arms crossed. “Is this how you woo?”
“Woo?” Zeke asked.
“Flirt,” Lola explained.
“Not even close. This is just me doing everyone a favor and keeping those shoulders and cheekbones in the world.” Zeke flicked his chin at her. “When I woo, you’ll know.” He looked at Rick and laughed. “You’re blushing.”
“I am,” Rick admitted. “I’ve never felt so pretty.”
Zeke tipped his visor at him. “Anytime.”
Lola rang up Rick’s order and took his card before nudging Zeke out of the way of the credit card machine.
“He’s actually a pretty good person to text if you need a pick-me-up.
I felt really shitty after me and Bryce broke up.
He dumped me for Allison—can you believe that?
” She made a face. “She’s so uptight. Vengeance was mine, though, and she dumped him pretty quick.
Anyway, daily Zeke texts really helped keep me going. ”
He patted the top of her head. “I got you.”
She handed Rick back his card. “Anyway, Zeke’s right. We should hang out. Yearbook got really boring without you.”
“Sure,” Martina said. “Drop me a text.” She tipped her head to the side like she’d just had a thought. “You know, Zara’s putting together an article on Bryce for the paper. Sort of an in-memory-of kind of thing.”
“That’s a good idea,” Lola said.
“Yeah, I thought so.” Martina dug her hands into her pockets. “I told her I’d help out a bit. Like, on who to talk to and information about him. If you think of anything—like hobbies, or clubs, or whatever Bryce was into, or people we should talk to, let me know, okay?”
Lola nodded. “Of course. I might not have liked him much anymore, but no one deserves to die like that.”
“Thanks,” Martina said. Their orders came up, so she and Rick said goodbye, then took their bags to the car.
“I’ve said it before, but you’ve got a good brain on you, Teeny,” Rick said. “That was amazing.”
Martina poked her straw into her drink. “Everything I do is amazing.”
Rick looked at her. “Is Zara really writing an article?”
Martina shrugged, sipping her drink. “If she isn’t, she should. I’ll drop her a note in the chat about it.” She frowned at Spudknucklers through the window. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find the killer through Bryce.”
“It’s an idea. So, you know, progress.” But Rick could tell by her face that she didn’t feel like it was a whole lot of progress, either. Not enough for them to forget that someone out there had a list, too, and they were crossing people off, one by one.
He really didn’t want either of them to be next.