Edna’s was famous for buttermilk fried chicken, waffles, and biscuits, all slathered in flavored butter and maple syrup and drizzled with candied pecans. It was death on a plate, but that was basically all there was on the menu—only the choice of butter and waffle flavors, types of drizzles, and the number of pieces of chicken changed.
Her waitress was an attractive young woman whose bottle-blonde hair and pale-white skin stood out among the largely African American staff and clientele. She could have been a college student working her way through school, waitressing between classes to take some of the financial burden for tuition, room, and board from her parents. Or a single mother struggling to support her child by working three jobs. Eve had a vivid imagination.
“What can I get you, ma’am?” the waitress asked. The “ma’am” sounded awkward somehow coming out of her mouth.
“I’ve never had fried chicken and waffles before,” Eve said. “Should I have it with the cinnamon butter, the maple syrup, and candied pecans on top or on the side?”
“Slather it all on. Go for the full experience,” she said. “Trust me, it’s delicious.”
“You talked me into it. How many times a month can you eat here without having a heart attack?”
The waitress motioned to an old couple. “I’m told that they’ve been coming here just about every day for years and they seem to be doing fine.”
“How about you? Was the six pounds of grease, salt, carbs, and sugar a shock to your system the first time?”
The waitress laughed. “On the contrary, it’s Southern Crack. You’ll be back again for dinner and again for breakfast in the morning. You’ll have to wean yourself off of it.”
“How long does it take?”
“At least a week,” she said. “If you have the willpower.”
“So how’s the second week going for you?”
“Not so good. I foolishly got a job here.” She started to turn away, then hesitated, turning back. “I forgot to ask. What can I get you to drink?”
Eve smiled at her. “That’s not what you really want to ask me. You’re wondering, How did she know I’ve only been here a week?” The waitress looked past Eve to the two police officers sitting behind her at the other table. Both of them were looking at her. “And why are those two cops, who come in here all the time, staring at me when they haven’t paid any attention to me before?”
She looked at Eve, really looked at her this time. “You’re from Los Angeles?”
“Calabasas.” Eve took out her badge-wallet and flashed it for her. “Detective Eve Ronin, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.”
Sherry Simms sat down at the table, resigned to her fate. “How did you find me? I tossed my phone and my computer. I’ve stayed off the grid and completely out of touch with everyone I’ve ever known. I’ve paid cash for everything and only stayed in towns I’ve never been to before.”
“Your Mustang ratted you out.”
“I’ve changed the license plates a dozen times.”
“But it’s the same car,” Eve said.
“There are thousands of Mustangs out there just like it.”
“When you bought the car, you registered for the FordPass app, though you’ve never used it. It’s really handy. It can tell you where your car is parked if you forget, or it can tell the police where you are if they’re looking for you.”
Eve held up her phone, opened the FordPass app, and showed her the map display with the pinpoint where Sherry’s car was parked. The idea of using the app occurred to Eve the morning after the pet cemetery shooting.
Sherry sighed. “There’s no such thing as privacy anymore.”
“Certainly not where you’re going to be for the next few years.”
“Am I allowed a last meal?”
Eve passed her the laminated menu. “Would you like to join me for chicken and waffles?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Sherry used the menu to flag down a passing waitress. “Hey, Molly, can we please get two number ones and two ice teas? Thanks.” She looked at Eve again, ignoring the confused expression on Molly’s face. “I can’t believe you came all this way just for me. Selling stolen goods isn’t that big of a crime.”
“You’re the only one involved who is still alive,” Eve said. That news shook Sherry, making her left eyelid twitch. “Grayson Mumford and Michael Green are dead now, too.”