Hunted Hellcat

Chapter 1

The rain was coming down harder and harder as I raced downhill into the town of Perin, Pennsylvania, like a moving curtain that occluded almost all my view of the road and the town.

A square park held pride of place in the center of the town, surrounded by a library, town hall, post office, a diner, and various stores.

The diner was Mort’s Place, but it could have doubled for my grandmother’s restaurant, a classic railcar diner.

After circling around the park square, I parked my e-bike against a lamppost next to the diner and locked it with the cable. By habit, my hands checked the straps of the pack on my back and patted the crossbody sling bag on my front. Never leave important gear behind if possible.

Stepping into the diner revealed standard train car design.

You entered on the extreme left side of the building and looked down the length of it to see a classic counter with built-in stools on your left and ten booths against the long front wall with two more on the far end.

And every table was jammed full of people waiting to be served by the lone, harried, middle-aged waitress and the graying cook who might have been Mort.

I stood and dripped on the floor and took it all in.

“I don’t think we’re gonna make the town meeting,” a man in the closest booth told his companions.

I almost turned and left, but my grandmother’s voice spoke in my ear. Strive to be a useful person, Cassie.

Cassie, short for Cassandra. Cassandra Anna Blake.

Plus, it was pouring harder and harder outside. And the meatloaf smelled pretty good.

I walked over to the waitress, whose name tag read Monica. “You look seriously short of help tonight. What would you say to a temp waitress with seven years of experience in her grandmother’s diner? I’ll work for dinner and a third of the tips.”

“Sweetness, we won’t get many tips tonight. People are getting uppity.”

“I can help fix that. What do you say?”

She studied me for a moment, from my black ball cap, my raincoat, the sodden jeans wrapping my legs down to my hiking shoe-clad feet.

“Screw it. The aprons are right…” but I was already picking one off the rack I had seen.

Then I stowed my pack and crossbody bag behind the counter, took off my raincoat, put on the apron and glanced at a menu, took the order pad she handed me, and went to work.

“I can take the booths if you want the counter?” I asked. She looked at me funny but nodded.

I started at one end of the restaurant and began to take orders. Most people had long since decided what they wanted so I took drink orders and food at the same time.

It went fast like it was Friday night during high school football season at Gram’s. I was in my element and being useful, smiling and nodding in the face of massive disbelief. Watch and learn, ye old doubters.

The third table in held a family of four, all dressed casually, two young elementary-aged boys, a flannel-wearing dad, and a statuesque blonde woman who held herself with authority.

“Sheriff Steele, what can get your clan?” I asked the woman.

“How do you know who I am?” she asked with a frown.

“Oh, you know…the dumpster in the alley on the side of Town Hall has a bunch of political signs stacked up in front of it. Your face and name are plastered on them.”

“You really think you can handle this crowd?” she asked, head tilted to one side.

“It’s what I do,” I said. “Now, let’s hear how hungry everyone is.”

They were and I did, and so did the next nine booths.

Then I went to the cash register-slash-point of sale device and entered all forty-one orders by booth.

Instantly the printer in the kitchen started to pump out food orders and the old cook looked at me like I was insane.

But I was already filling a large tray with the first twenty drink orders, which I delivered.

By the time I went back for the last twenty-one, the customers were all talking about me.

I kind of like that part—a little. Not normally a seeker of attention, I have always enjoyed exceeding expectations, particularly when waiting table.

By the time all the drinks were dropped off, the first orders of food were beginning to collect in small groups.

I ladled soup and grabbed premade salads, filling my tray and beginning to deliver those appetizers, then went back for the first complete sets of orders.

The novelty of watching me get every single drink, soup, salad, and entrée right and in front of the right person changed the crowd from angry and hungry to almost thoroughly entertained.

People at Gram’s would have expected it, but this was new for these folks.

Which took the wind out of my showing off sails. Never draw attention. Don’t be memorable. Fade into the background.

I was seriously failing all of those principles that my father and grandfather had harped on.

Too damn late to stop now. Sometimes you have to pull out all the stops.

That one, like the striving to be useful, was in my gram’s voice.

Not sure this met the criteria, at least for my purpose, but it sure did for Mort and Monica. I kept at it.