Kelley Armstrong - Omens

As I crossed the diner, the would-be novelist looked up from his laptop. He was in his early twenties, with a lean face, dark eyes, and darker hair tumbling over those eyes. I’d have thought he was seriously cute if I were five years younger. And if I went for the tortured artistic types. As it was, I smiled and continued to the counter.

“Margie?” called a rich tenor voice behind me. “I need a refill.”

I glanced back to see the novelist holding out his mug. The server—a wide-hipped woman in her early thirties—picked up the coffeepot … and headed for a patron on the other side of the restaurant. I walked to the counter, where a beefy man with prison tats frowned as he watched the server.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is the manager in?”

“That’d be me.” He extended a thick hand. “Larry Knight. Owner, proprietor, and chief cook.”

“ Only cook,” said a reedy male voice behind me.

“Which is just the way we like it,” a woman chimed in. “Best in the state.”

As Larry blushed, I turned to see the elderly couple that’d greeted me this morning when I’d gotten out of the taxi. We exchanged smiles.

I asked Larry if he was hiring.

“Mmm, no,” he said with what sounded like genuine regret. “This is a small operation, miss. Me at the grill, Margie and two other ladies sharing serving duty. Have you tried the—?”

One of the construction workers started coughing, his face screwed up as he spat on the floor. He lifted his coffee mug, peered in, and let out a roar.

“Margie! The cream’s turned. That’s the second time this week.”

“Count yourself lucky,” one of the shop owners said. “Three times for me, plus once with salt in the sugar container.”

Larry scrambled from behind the counter, cream carton in one hand, fresh coffee mug in the other, sputtering apologies.

“Not your fault, Larry,” the construction worker said. “We all know who’s responsible for condiments around here.” A glare at Margie, who squawked that she checked the creamers every day and those ones weren’t due for another week.

“Then you’d better check the fridge,” Larry said. “Make sure it’s working right.”

“Any chance on that refill?” called the writer. “I don’t even take cream.”

Larry apologized some more, took the pot from Margie, and hurried over. The old folks nearest me watched Margie disappear into the back, then one murmured, “Larry really has to let that gal go.”

“He’s too softhearted,” the other replied.

They both nodded, half approvingly, half not, then checked their tea before sipping it.

“Sorry ’bout that,” Larry said to me as he returned to his place behind the counter. “And sorry about the hiring situation. Can I get you something to eat? On the house? My way of saying welcome to Cainsville.”

I took him up on the freebie, but ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—a grilled cheese sandwich. “And I need to buy a cranberry orange scone for Grace over on Rowan, please.”

“We’re all out of—”

“Don’t even try it, Larry,” one of the old ladies cackled. “Not with Grace. You should know better by now.”

Larry sighed. “I’ll bake up a batch from the freezer.”

When he went into the kitchen, the elderly couple waved me over to squeeze into the booth with them. They introduced themselves as Ida and Walter. As I waited for my lunch, they gave me—unprompted—Larry’s life story, at least as it pertained to Cainsville. To them, that was the only part that mattered, despite the fact that he’d only been here a few years. Before that, all they’d say was that he’d spent some time traveling the wrong road, which I could have guessed by the prison tats.

“Got mixed up with a bad crowd,” Walter said.

“He’s too trusting. People take advantage. Like her.” A poisonous glower in Margie’s direction as she took an order.

My sandwich arrived, and as I ate Ida and Walter filled me in on the town’s inhabitants, an endless litany of names I’d never remember. When I finished, I got Grace’s scone from Larry. As I was heading out, the would-be writer was trying to get another refill from Margie and, again, being ignored. He glanced at me as I passed the coffee station, then lifted his mug and eyebrows simultaneously.

I looked at Margie. She was on her cell phone. Well, as long as I was trying to make a good impression…

I took the coffeepot over and refilled his mug. He thanked me and said, “Now I bet you expect a tip.”

“Um, no. I was just—”

“Being nice?” The smile that tweaked his lips was mischievous, but with a twist that was more devilish than boyish. “Didn’t your momma ever tell you never to give something unless you can get something in return?”

“That wasn’t how I was raised.”

“Then you were raised wrong. As for that tip…” He lowered his voice. “If you want to work here, I’d suggest you come back for breakfast tomorrow. Then maybe for coffee in the afternoon. Repeat as needed. I have a feeling that opportunity will knock.” A pointed look at Margie. “Sooner rather than later.”

“Thanks.”

“No need to thank me.” He lifted his full mug. “It was a fair exchange of services.”

He gave me that same unsettling smile, and I had to check my pace so I didn’t hurry away.

When I stepped out of the diner, I noticed a black cat grooming itself on the diner windowsill. As I watched it, a voice whispered in my ear. Black cat, black cat, bring me some luck.

I spun. There was no one there. I rubbed my ear and made a face. Another forgotten ditty, resurfacing from my subconscious. I guess it was a testament to my mental state. I could act like I was motoring forward, doing fine, but something inside me had fractured, and this was what came bubbling up.

“Superstitious nonsense,” I muttered.

The cat gave me a baleful look, then rubbed its paw over its head, flattening both ears with one swipe.

“Storm’s coming,” I whispered.

“Is it?” said a voice behind me.

I turned to see Ida and Walter exiting the diner. Ida peered up at the sky.

“Figures,” she muttered. “Just when I decide it’s safe to put the laundry out.”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“Move those old legs,” she said to her husband. “Or you’ll have wet drawers waiting at home.” She smiled over at me. “Thank you, dear.”

I tried again to protest that I’d only been mumbling to myself. The sky was bright and clear. Rain wasn’t coming anytime soon. But neither seemed to hear me, and only hurried off to get their laundry in before the skies opened.

All these years of hiding my superstitious side, and suddenly I was blurting weather omens to strangers. A cat washing its ears meant rain? I’d never heard of that before, no more than I remembered hearing that killing spiders was bad luck or that a black cat was good luck. Even people without a superstitious bone in their body knew that black cats were supposed to be bad luck.

Was this the first sign of a breakdown? Where other people would begin triple-checking locks and refusing to leave the house, I started babbling omens?

My apartment was only about a quarter mile from the diner. I’d seen a tiny park behind the bank that seemed like it could be a shorter route. It was on a half acre of land, cut by cobbled paths that ran between the surrounding houses and buildings, providing direct access to each street—including Rowan.

The park was beyond adorable, bounded by a gated wrought-iron fence. Every third post was a thick stone pillar topped with a chimera—fantastical hounds and birds and mythical mixtures. Many of them were shiny with wear, as if local children had each adopted their own, rubbing it for luck when they came to play.