Lost but not Forgotten. Roz Fox Denny

off the kitchen of Flo’s Café. She’d come to speak with the café’s owner, Florence Carter, about a waitress position listed in a current edition of the Desert City News. It was the first newspaper Gillian had bought since departing New Orleans, although she’d followed the TV news and was relieved there’d been no mention of Daryl’s or Officer Malone’s murders. Her objective in buying this paper had been for the employment ads. Desert City was the closest town of any size to the back road where she’d lost her suitcase.

      This morning, when she dressed to go on interviews, Gillian had barely recognized herself in the mirror. Little by little over an extra week spent in her border hideout, she’d pulled together a disguise of sorts. The most dramatic change in her appearance came about after she’d ruthlessly cropped and colored her shoulder-length blond hair, leaving a bob of coppery red curls.

      As well, she’d transacted a satisfactory car exchange, buying another used car. However, because the new car had taken most of her cash reserves, she was now almost broke.

      Flo Carter, a cheery, round woman, studied Gillian with curious hazel eyes. “Why did you answer my ad? There were at least two other waitress jobs posted yesterday for yuppie-style restaurants where you’d earn higher tips.”

      Gillian didn’t want to say those places all had bars where creeps from New Orleans might go to drink and eat. She’d checked them first. It would be self-defeating to admit Flo’s Café was last on her list. Or that the one other place she’d applied had demanded references she couldn’t produce.

      “According to your ad, you provide uniforms and you pay weekly. Did I mention I was divorced? The truth is—” she hesitated marginally while deliberating how much to reveal “—I left home and this is where my money ran out.” Best to stick as close to her real story as possible, Gillian decided.

      “I’m sorry, honey. Enough said.” Flo patted Gillian’s arm. “Frankly, you look like you could use a few good meals, too. The job’s yours. Minimum wage plus tips, a uniform and two meals a day if you work two shifts. Tracy, my brother’s niece, left me high and dry. Kid up and moved to San Diego with her boyfriend. I nearly killed myself over the weekend. I’m flat getting too old to wait tables from opening to closing. When can you start?”

      “Anytime. Today, if you’d like.” A weight lifted from Gillian’s shoulders. “I have a small apartment three blocks east of here.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the furnished place she’d moved into yesterday. It wasn’t much.

      “Saguaro Arms, right? A brick building behind the police station?”

      “That describes it.” Gillian didn’t know if she’d made a wise choice or not. On one hand, she figured the men who were after her wouldn’t want to be noticed by the local police. On the other, she didn’t know how vigorously the police in Flagstaff and New Orleans were trying to find her. Surely she was wanted for questioning, at least.

      “I hope you’re comfortable around cops,” Flo said. “They make up half our clientele. A great bunch, but demanding customers. They want coffee on the table the minute they sit down. They need their orders quick in case they get a call.”

      Flo opened a cupboard and took out a pink uniform still in its plastic laundry bag. “You’re skinnier than Tracy, but this has an adjustable belt. The bathroom’s down the hall. How fast can you change? First crew from the precinct breaks at ten.” She glanced down at Gillian’s feet. “I’m glad to see you’re wearing sensible shoes. Next time we catch our breath is nigh on 2:00 p.m.”

      “I’m stronger than you might think,” Gillian said, reaching for the door knob. She hoped that was true. Normally she’d be in great shape from handling crates of flowers at the shop she’d once owned. That had been a while ago.

      “You’ll get a complete workout before the end of the day. I’ll spell you for breaks and meals. Otherwise, I sling hash onto plates while my husband, Bert, cooks. You okay with working a shift before we fill out employment papers?”

      “Sure. Okay.” Gillian looked over her shoulder. “Is there someplace I can leave my street clothes and purse?”

      Flo scooped things out of a drawer in the bottom of her cluttered desk. “Tracy left all this junk. She was big on running in to apply makeup every ten minutes.”

      Gillian uttered a genuine laugh. “I won’t do that, Mrs. Carter. What you see right here is what you get.”

      “Call me Flo.” She examined Gillian again. “Cops flirt a lot. They’ll like what they see in you. You sure you’ve waited tables before? I’d have pegged you for one of them fashion models.”

      “No way. I prefer anonymity.” This time Gillian’s laughter held a nervous edge. She’d waited tables during high school and college. And she’d never been comfortable with the way a lot of male customers felt they had every right to flirt with women servers. She used to have a knack for discouraging that sort, and hoped she still did.

      When she’d donned her uniform, Flo introduced her to Bert. Unlike most cooks Gillian had ever met, Bert was rail-thin. He was also bald as a cucumber.

      “Bert learned to cook in the Air Force,” Flo said after introductions were complete. “As we moved around, I began waiting tables for the NCO clubs on base. Buying this café once Bert retired seemed a logical way to pool our talents and get our kids through college.”

      “How many children do you have?” Gillian asked.

      “Two of our own. Off and on we’ve raised a slug of foster kids. One of the cops who comes in here convinced us to open our home to teens who need a healthier environment than what they have.”

      “How can you bear to let them go again? Doesn’t it tear your heart out?”

      Flo shrugged. “We provide a clean bed, good meals and a shoulder to cry on. Or in some cases an open ear. Sometimes that’s all they require to get them through a rough patch. You obviously don’t have kids, or you’d have requested to work shifts around school or daycare hours.”

      Swallowing hard, Gillian gave a shake of her head. She couldn’t bring herself to talk about Katie. Twice yesterday she’d driven past the lane where she’d left the suitcase. Once, a vehicle directly in front of her entered it first. Not the blue car she was trying to avoid, but a big pickup. During a second pass-by, she noticed a man herding cattle in a nearby field. Tonight, after work, Gillian intended to go back under the cover of darkness.

      Flo gave Gillian’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Now, don’t go fretting over your divorce. You’re still young enough to make plenty of babies. You have to concentrate on finding a good man to father them.”

      “A man of any kind is the last thing I want. Shouldn’t I concentrate on hitting the floor running? Do I have everything? Pencil.” Gillian pulled two out of her uniform pocket. “Order pad? A smile.” She hauled in a deep breath. “Well, here goes.” Waving, she disappeared through the swinging doors.

      Within two hours, Gillian discovered how out of shape she was. Luckily the technique for keeping orders straight came back to her before the large lunch crowd arrived. Good thing she’d had that experience, even if it was ten years ago, she mused, plopping down ketchup and mustard at a table of boisterous men.

      Three at the table wore police uniforms; a fourth had on street clothing but was undoubtedly a cop. He indicated that they were waiting for someone who’d just entered. Gillian had already noticed that man the minute he walked in. Sauntered was more like it, in spite of a pronounced limp. Gosh, she hoped he wasn’t offended by her lengthy stare. It wasn’t his limp that drew her attention but his attire. He wore dusty cowboy boots, worn blue jeans, a body-hugging denim shirt and a Stetson set rakishly on his head.

      Gillian had never seen a real cowboy in her life, and he was an eyeful. He seemed to be friendly with all the cops in the room. It took him a long time to reach his table because he stopped to talk with occupants at practically every booth along the way. So many people piped up to yell, “Hey there, Mitch, how you