back of the building, where there was a sort of alley. Sheltered by a stand of leafy trees, Dumpsters lined the far end of the collection of deep potholes and small patches of grass I’d be stretching to call a road.
One weak floodlight spilled a yellowish glow down onto the entrance of the road where I stood, but beyond that, it was all dark except for a square of light cutting into the gloom. Wait. The square was probably the window in the kitchen door. If the lights were on, the cook was still there. Ice, coming right up.
But first I had to charge down the dark alley, the exact opposite of everything anyone ever teaches you about personal safety. A light breeze stirred the leaves on the trees at the end of the alley, making a rustling sound that skeeved me out a little, but I walked forward, focusing on the light ahead, until I reached the door.
I was going to knock, but when I pulled at the handle, it gave way easily. It’d been propped open.
Quietly, I stepped into the kitchen. The yeasty-sweet aroma of tomorrow’s breakfast bread hung in the air. Mmm. The smell reminded me of my mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls.
“Hello?” I called out. I peeked around the corner of the giant mixer toward the bank of sinks, but I didn’t see the cook. Maybe she was off fixing her hairnet. “Um, I’m just here to get some—”
Slurrrggrrrfff!
A bizarre animal noise made me spin back toward the open kitchen door. I ran over and peered out into the alley. What the heck had made that sound? I took a few steps away from the door but noticed the floor seemed slippery all of a sudden.
I looked down.
Holy crap. Blood. A spattery blood trail I hadn’t noticed when I’d come in, distracted by the cinnamon yumminess. At least I thought it was blood. It sure didn’t look like ketchup.
The blood trail led to the kitchen, where I’d been before. What if it was the cook? Had something happened to that nice old lady? She could be hurt and I knew first aid. At the very least I’d assess the situation and then run and get Mr. Winters. I let out the breath I’d been holding and walked the edges of the blood-drop trail until it stopped at a giant silver door.
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ABC Amber ePub Converter Trial vers ion, http://www.processtext.com/abcepub.html
The walk-in refrigerator.
Uh-oh. I so didn’t even want to know, but I had to check it out. I mean, it was ridiculous the stories my brain was spinning! It was probably nothing but a mess the cook somehow forgot to clean up.
I threw open the door and stepped inside. The cool air hit me like a snowball in the face. Hugging my bare arms around my chest, I looked around. Thankfully, I didn’t see any hanging corpses stuck between slabs of beef.
In fact, there wasn’t any hanging meat at all. Plastic bins, produce boxes, and industrial-size tubs of imitation nacho cheese sauce and “krab” salad filled the metal shelves that lined the walls. On the bottom shelf near some ugly-looking carrots, I found a white tub of meat chunks. Not New York steaks or anything but maybe pot roast, like the housekeeper had made for Dad’s birthday this year.
Those meat chunks were bloody, all right, and there was a little pool of red in front of the tub, like someone had pulled a few pieces out of it. I sighed, relieved that at least I wasn’t going to find the cook hacked up or anything. That’s when I realized that the blood trail didn’t lead in. It led out. Out to where the noise came from. Gross! Had someone killed the cook and dragged her outside?
I darted out of the walk-in refrigerator and sneaked toward the door, careful not to step in the blood again. As I passed the counter, I noticed the trays of cinnamon rolls rising near the ovens. That made me feel better. So the cook would be back soon, from wherever she’d gone. Listening more carefully now to the sounds coming from the main dining room, I could make out the laugh track of a television sitcom. She was probably vegging in her
One weak floodlight spilled a yellowish glow down onto the entrance of the road where I stood, but beyond that, it was all dark except for a square of light cutting into the gloom. Wait. The square was probably the window in the kitchen door. If the lights were on, the cook was still there. Ice, coming right up.
But first I had to charge down the dark alley, the exact opposite of everything anyone ever teaches you about personal safety. A light breeze stirred the leaves on the trees at the end of the alley, making a rustling sound that skeeved me out a little, but I walked forward, focusing on the light ahead, until I reached the door.
I was going to knock, but when I pulled at the handle, it gave way easily. It’d been propped open.
Quietly, I stepped into the kitchen. The yeasty-sweet aroma of tomorrow’s breakfast bread hung in the air. Mmm. The smell reminded me of my mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls.
“Hello?” I called out. I peeked around the corner of the giant mixer toward the bank of sinks, but I didn’t see the cook. Maybe she was off fixing her hairnet. “Um, I’m just here to get some—”
Slurrrggrrrfff!
A bizarre animal noise made me spin back toward the open kitchen door. I ran over and peered out into the alley. What the heck had made that sound? I took a few steps away from the door but noticed the floor seemed slippery all of a sudden.
I looked down.
Holy crap. Blood. A spattery blood trail I hadn’t noticed when I’d come in, distracted by the cinnamon yumminess. At least I thought it was blood. It sure didn’t look like ketchup.
The blood trail led to the kitchen, where I’d been before. What if it was the cook? Had something happened to that nice old lady? She could be hurt and I knew first aid. At the very least I’d assess the situation and then run and get Mr. Winters. I let out the breath I’d been holding and walked the edges of the blood-drop trail until it stopped at a giant silver door.
Page 43
ABC Amber ePub Converter Trial vers ion, http://www.processtext.com/abcepub.html
The walk-in refrigerator.
Uh-oh. I so didn’t even want to know, but I had to check it out. I mean, it was ridiculous the stories my brain was spinning! It was probably nothing but a mess the cook somehow forgot to clean up.
I threw open the door and stepped inside. The cool air hit me like a snowball in the face. Hugging my bare arms around my chest, I looked around. Thankfully, I didn’t see any hanging corpses stuck between slabs of beef.
In fact, there wasn’t any hanging meat at all. Plastic bins, produce boxes, and industrial-size tubs of imitation nacho cheese sauce and “krab” salad filled the metal shelves that lined the walls. On the bottom shelf near some ugly-looking carrots, I found a white tub of meat chunks. Not New York steaks or anything but maybe pot roast, like the housekeeper had made for Dad’s birthday this year.
Those meat chunks were bloody, all right, and there was a little pool of red in front of the tub, like someone had pulled a few pieces out of it. I sighed, relieved that at least I wasn’t going to find the cook hacked up or anything. That’s when I realized that the blood trail didn’t lead in. It led out. Out to where the noise came from. Gross! Had someone killed the cook and dragged her outside?
I darted out of the walk-in refrigerator and sneaked toward the door, careful not to step in the blood again. As I passed the counter, I noticed the trays of cinnamon rolls rising near the ovens. That made me feel better. So the cook would be back soon, from wherever she’d gone. Listening more carefully now to the sounds coming from the main dining room, I could make out the laugh track of a television sitcom. She was probably vegging in her
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