Chapter 22

  

That evening, Penelope’s first dinner service at Festa was underway. Several of the guests had cancelled their reservations, which was unusual. But these weren’t usual times. Ava said some of them gave vague answers when asked why they wouldn’t be coming in, but she figured Penelope had been right about some people being uncomfortable about Jordan’s murder, even though it hadn’t happened in the restaurant.

Jordan’s crew slowly re-acclimated to the kitchen, working their first shift without their head chef at the helm. Their mood was subdued, but they worked well, with no major issues for Penelope to handle. Two hours in, with things in the back running smoothly, Penelope went around to the service area to observe the wait staff. The whole staff was on the floor, not saying much, at least when they were around Penelope, once in a while throwing her a curious glance.

Conversation among the guests in the dining was hushed, the diners speaking in reverent tones. Penelope had only dined at Festa on the occasional night off, but she remembered the mood inside the restaurant being more jubilant.

One of the waitresses bumped into Penelope as she hurried to pick up one of her table’s dishes from the window.

“Sorry,” Christine mumbled, not looking at Penelope.

“It’s okay,” Penelope said. “How’s it going out there?”

The girl’s expression was stony. Her shoulders rose beneath her starched white uniform shirt. “Okay, I guess.”

“How do you think everyone is holding up?” Penelope asked. “You’re the senior staff member, right?”

Christine eyed the plates of food in the window. “I don’t know. Good, okay? I have to get this to my table.” She swept around Penelope and loaded up a large oval tray, expertly propping it on her shoulder and hurrying through the swinging doors into the dining room.

“This place is like a funeral home,” Penelope whispered to herself as she headed back into the kitchen. She unlocked the office door and slipped inside, telling the sous chef to come get her if they got a sudden rush, which she doubted. He agreed, keeping his eyes on the ticket machine in the window just below a picture of himself and Jordan, laughing and holding up glasses of wine.

Penelope closed the door and called Ava’s cell phone. When she didn’t answer, Penelope left a message. “Ava, hi. Things are going okay at Festa tonight, although the mood is pretty somber. I think the staff is unhappy. It’s not affecting the service, just wanted to let you know. Maybe we’ve asked them back too soon. Things might change after tomorrow, when they can pay their respects and Jordan is laid to rest. That’s it. Call if you need me.”

Penelope sighed and hung up the phone, then logged onto the computer on the desk. She thought about her afternoon trip to the hardware store and creepy Bailey and his equally creepy father. Something about the young man seemed so familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. His personality was off-putting, but he was handsome in a dark hawkish kind of way. She Googled him, but without his last name she didn’t get a good result. She sat back against the office chair and thought, then leafed through some paperwork on the desk. Suddenly it hit her and she sat up straight.

Penelope typed “Forrestville Devil Worship” into the search tab and the article she’d already read appeared again. She scrolled to the photos of the three men and looked into Bailey’s eyes, his picture the one on the far left. She read the article more carefully, a feeling of dread building in the pit of her stomach with each word.

Bailey Fenton was the ringleader, it seemed. He and his friends vandalized several cars in Forrestville and spray-painted pentagrams on dozens of trees in the forest, as well as an abandoned barn. The crimes were misdemeanors, and they were fined and ordered to perform community service as punishment. The one on the left was named Kevin Helmsley, which also rang a bell. Someone had mentioned something about a Helmsley to her recently, and she filed through recent conversations to remember. She then remembered that was the name Megan said caused the most recent scandal in town, the one who died with illegal pictures on his computer. She made a note to look up the Helmsley incident, find out if there was a link.

Penelope found Sheriff Bryson’s card and stared at his cell number. She had no proof it was Bailey who broke in and vandalized Festa’s kitchen, but she had a strong suspicion it was him. She sat the card on the desk, deciding she’d call him in the morning. It wasn’t an emergency. Plus, she wasn’t sure of what she’d even say. A man had made her feel uncomfortable on a public sidewalk. It wasn’t a crime, however edgy the interaction made her feel.

She folded her arms on the desk and tapped her fingers against the wood, then typed in one more name: Kellie Foster. Several images popped onto the screen in a row, of very different-looking women. Penelope added “Forrestville Five” to the search box, which narrowed it down, the photo Penelope had seen from the flyer appearing first. She clicked on the first link listed, an article from the Indianapolis paper. She read quickly about the high-school basketball player and her sudden disappearance, and the background about the other missing young people from the area.

Penelope whistled quietly as she read, clicking on different articles to try and find out more about Kellie. A picture appeared of the high-school basketball team, which Penelope figured had been taken around the time of Kellie’s disappearance, five years earlier. She was standing in the middle row on the end, her long thin arm hooked around a basketball propped on top of her hip.

“Troubled kids?” Penelope whispered. She sat back in the chair and gazed at the photo, her eyes drifting over the other faces until they stopped on one. Penelope sat forward and squinted to read the caption again, confirming the girl in the back row’s name: E. Collins.

A sharp knock on the door startled her. “Come in,” Penelope said after clearing her throat.

“Someone here to see you,” the sous chef mumbled through the crack.

“Thanks,” Penelope said. “Wait, who is it?”

He opened the door wider and shrugged, flipping a kitchen towel over his shoulder. “No idea. Christine said someone at the bar is asking for you.”

The ball of unease in Penelope’s stomach turned into a hard fist. She stood up and squared her shoulders. “It’s a crowded restaurant,” she said to herself as she watched him walk back to the line. She decided she’d peek out through the service doors, and if it was Bailey she’d turn around and call Sheriff Bryson after all.

Penelope pressed the swinging doors open with her fingers and peered through the gap. Her face broke into a smile when she saw the man sitting at the end of the bar.

“Joey!” Penelope said, rushing to his side.

Joey stood up from his stool, arms open wide. Penelope crushed herself to his chest, feeling his strong arms wrap around her tightly. She tilted her head up to him and they kissed.

A smattering of applause made them both laugh and Penelope stepped back from him. Her cheeks burned red and she said, “Thank you,” to the nearby diners, who smiled appreciatively at the couple.

“What are you doing here?” Penelope asked. “I thought you were getting in tomorrow.”

“I couldn’t wait,” Joey said. “I switched to an earlier flight.”

Penelope took his hand. “I’ve never been so happy to see you. Honestly. The last few days have been...”

“I know. Whatever you need, you know I’ll help.”

Penelope kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand. “Hungry?”

“Always,” Joey said.

“I only have to be here another hour or so,” Penelope said. “This is the last reservation block.”

“I’ll wait for you, of course,” Joey said.

Penelope kissed him quickly and nodded at the bartender as he slipped a menu in front of Joey. “He’s a VIP.”