Chosen for Death by Kate Flora Page A

along with, in the background. "Do you have Sam Adams?"
    "Does a bear..." she began, and stopped herself. "Yeah. Be right back." She turned and walked away. The waitress's uniform was pretty informal. I'd packed a couple of them this morning. She had a white polo shirt with "Leadbetter's" over her large left breast, and a black miniskirt that rustled when she walked. Her legs were thick, but well-shaped, and her moon face had pretty features. She was back in a flash, and slid my Sam Adams, in its tall brown bottle, onto the table. She set a frosty mug down beside it. "The guy who makes this must be getting rich," she said. "Everybody orders it."
    I ordered a reuben and fries and a green salad. She bustled off to put in my order. I poured beer into the mug and watched the frosty glaze disappear. The first icy sip tasted so good. I wondered idly if Suzanne had been pleased with the report. Would it be harder or easier being her partner? Sometimes a small change in title can have a big effect on a relationship. But she would have thought of that before she made the offer. Suzanne is not impulsive about business. Now that I wasn't strung out and unable to focus, it made me feel really good to be valued.
    The walk had made me thirsty. I finished the beer before the food came. The place was gradually filling up around me, the muted hum of conversation drowning out the music.
    My waitress came with the food, set it down in front of me, pulled some silverware and a napkin out of her pocket, and grabbed the empty bottle. "You want another?" She didn't hesitate. She was a good waitress. "Of course you do. Be right back." And she was gone before I could say no. A drink when I'm hungry always makes me ravenous. I attacked the sandwich, oblivious of the sauerkraut seeping between my fingers. It was not disappointing. The meat was lean, the kraut tangy, and there was plenty of dressing to ooze out of the holes in the bread. I licked my fingers delicately.
    She came back with the beer and another frosty mug. "Good, isn't it?" she said.
    "Great," I said. "May I have another napkin?"
    She pulled a stack out of her pocket. "Sure," she said. "I should of thought of that. Don't spill on that couch, now."
    "I won't," I said. "Did you know a waitress named Carrie McKusick, who used to work here?"
    Her expression stopped being friendly, and became defensive. "She's dead. She got murdered," she said. "Why're you askin'?"
    "I was just wondering. She was my sister."
    Her whole body projected disbelief. "Yeah, right," she said, "and Twiggy is my sister."
    I wasn't offended. I was used to it. She might not be polished, but this girl was refreshingly real. "Carrie was adopted," I said, "so we don't look alike. I came up to clean out the apartment."
    Her face turned a deep shade of pink. "I'm sorry," she said, "but you know, people are so curious when someone is murdered. It's real sick. I've waited on a bunch of people who came in here just to ask questions about Carrie. I figured you were one of 'em. Know what I mean?"
    I did know. There are always vultures around who can't wait to get the details. There had even been some people like that when David died—casual friends who asked the most outrageous questions while pretending to comfort me. "I know what you mean," I said. "People can be such jerks. Packing up her things depressed me. I felt like talking to someone who knew her." It wasn't quite the truth. What I felt like was talking to someone who might be able to tell me what she'd been up to these last few months. But a little white lie didn't seem like a bad idea.
    "It ain't... it's not me you want to talk to, anyway," she said. "I only been workin' here a month. I hardly knew her. She was real sweet to me and all, but we wasn't friends. But she and Lorna"—she pointed toward a tall woman on the other side of the room—"they hung around together. I'll see if she'll talk to you, but don't be too surprised if she don't. People've been bothering her