Wesley flies into the restaurant, skidding to a stop in front of the hostess desk to say something to Rachel. Probably to thank her for calling him. According to my doctored schedule—the one that, until I arrived at work this afternoon, I forgot all about—he’s not supposed to be here for another hour.
My heart pounds as he speed walks across the restaurant toward me, tucking his billowy shirt into his pants. His black boots are unlaced and the tongues flap against the leather.
I’ve had to cover his section—along with my own—for the past hellish hour. Definitely something I should have considered before I changed his schedule, but no less than I deserve.
“I don’t know how this happened,” Wesley says, following me into the kitchen. “I’m sure I was supposed to start at six.”
“Really? Hm. That’s weird.”
He snaps his eye patch into place and then bends down to tie his shoelaces. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he says.
“Well, these things happen, right?”
Wesley glances up at me, his fingers stilling on the laces. He searches my face, like he’s wondering about something, and my heart skips. He can’t find out I was behind this.
He finishes doing up his boots. When he stands, I hand him a basket of bread.
“For table six,” I say. “And watch out, they’re supercranky.”
This is true of most of the customers tonight, at least in Wesley’s section. Because we’ve been short-staffed, everyone has had to wait longer for their food. And no one is happy about that.
Wesley takes a deep breath. “Sorry for the mix-up, Q. I know it’s probably meant extra work for you.”
He wouldn’t be sorry if he knew I was behind it. In fact, he’d probably never speak to me again.
Before Wesley can deliver the bread, Joe pushes through the kitchen door. “Wesley. A word,” he says. He turns on his heel and heads toward his office.
“What about my tables?” Wesley calls after him.
“Quinn can handle them.”
Um, no. Quinn can’t! Oh my God, I really don’t want to go back out there and deal with table six.
Wesley smiles grimly at me. “Wish me luck,” he says.
He’s not going to need luck. It’s not like they’re going to actually fire him. Not for being late once.
But, half an hour later, I’m starting to worry. Wesley’s still not back. The restaurant is full and table six has complained twice about the wait, even after I explained to them, as nicely as possible, that their orders are almost up.
I’m filling up their water goblets for the third time—seriously, these people are like camels—when Rachel tugs on my sleeve.
“You’re needed in the kitchen,” she whispers.
I shoot a nervous glance at the couple and their two kids, wondering if they’ve complained about me to Joe. “What for?”
“Staff meeting.”
“Now?” I leave the water jug behind on the table and follow Rachel. “What’s the meeting about?”
“No idea. Joe told me to gather everyone into the kitchen.”
All the staff is crowded around the dishwashing station. Well, most of us anyway. Wesley’s missing.
Wait … where is Wesley?
Joe waits until the dishwasher stops its rumbly cycle so we’ll be able to hear him. “We all have customers waiting so I’ll make this quick,” he says. “Mr. James is no longer with us. He’s been let go.”
Wait, what? Wesley was fired because he was late, one time? According to the manual, three write-ups result in termination. Not one.
Oh my God. I did this. I actually got him fired.
Maybe it’s all the steam back here or the smell of fried food, but I’m starting to feel really sweaty and light-headed.
“We’ve noticed that money has been going missing for the past few weeks. A lot of money,” Joe says. “And we’ve traced it back to Mr. James.”
Hold up. He thinks Wesley stole from the restaurant? Not possible. Wesley is a lot of things, but he’s not a thief.
But no one says anything. No one rushes to his defense.
Should I say something?
“I realize this is a shock. It’s a very unfortunate situation. We’ll need to cover his shifts for the next week or so, until we can hire someone else, so if any of you are interested in picking up hours, let me know.” And with that he stalks off.
Bruce shakes his head. “Okay, guys. Let’s get back to work.”
“I don’t get it,” I whisper to him as the rest of the staff files out the kitchen door. “Why does he think Wesley took the money?”
“It’s probably the swipe cards,” he says. Everyone is assigned a card on their first day and we use them whenever we need to place an order or get into the cash register. “It’s actually kind of dumb of Wesley. The cards make it pretty easy to figure out if someone is stealing,” he says.
Unless you’re smart enough to use someone else’s card.
* * *
I grab Amy when she comes back in the kitchen a few minutes later to drop off some dirty dishes.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure, I need a break,” she says, blowing a piece of hair out of her eyes. “God, is it just me or is it really warm back here tonight?”
It’s not just her. Maybe guilt makes you hot. Like you’re burning in hellfire.
Or maybe the air-conditioning just isn’t working back here.
I lead her out the back door, making sure that the brick is in place so we don’t get locked out. The air out here is stuffy, but the Dumpster provides a bit of shade.
“So. What’s up?” Amy says, perching on the picnic table. She fans herself with her hand and I notice her nails are painted dark blue.
There’s no easy way to ask someone if they’re a criminal, so I jump right in. “Did you have anything to do with Wesley getting fired?”
Amy’s eyes narrow. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Bruce pointed out that all our transactions are tracked through our swipe cards.”
“And?”
“And a few weeks ago you found Wesley’s card. Remember?”
She stares at me. Ugh. She’s going to make me spell it out.
“And … well. I’m wondering if you gave him the wrong one back,” I say. “Maybe you gave him your card instead.”
Amy hops off the picnic table and grabs my arm, pulling me farther behind the Dumpster so we’re hidden from view. “Have you said anything about this to anyone?” Her fingers tighten.
“Ouch. God.” I peel her fingers off and rub my arm. “No.”
Not yet anyway.
Her shoulders relax. “All right, look. I wouldn’t have had to do it if they paid us decently,” she says. “It’s, like, impossible to live on minimum wage. You have no idea. Besides, the restaurant can afford it. It’s not a big deal.”
Not a big deal? What is she talking about?
“Wesley was fired because of what you did,” I say.
Amy wrinkles her nose. “I know. I do feel kind of bad about that,” she says. “But he doesn’t need this job as badly as I do, so.”
“That’s not the point, Amy.”
She gives me a hard look. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your mouth shut, Quinn. I really need to keep this job, as crappy as it is. I can barely afford rent. And there’s no way I’m moving back in with my parents.”
“You want me to cover for you?”
“You don’t need to do anything. They already think Wesley took the money. Let them continue to believe that.”
I feel bad about her situation. I do. But there’s no way I can let Wesley take the fall for this.
“I need to get back inside.” I try to step past Amy but she puts her hand on my chest to stop me.
She sighs. “I didn’t want it to come to this, Quinn, but you should know: It’s your word against mine,” she says. “I don’t want to throw you under the bus—I consider you a friend—but if I have to, I’ll tell Joe that you stole my card and traded it with Wesley’s.”
I shake my head. “Why would he believe that?”
“Because,” she says, smiling, “it’s not exactly a secret that you and Wesley don’t get along. Also? I saw you put a hair in that poor girl’s food.” She tsks. “Seems like Joe wouldn’t be happy to hear about that.”
Oh my God, Amy’s the devil.
“You’re blackmailing me?”
She shrugs. “Call it what you like. Just don’t cross me.” She gives me a little push and I stumble back. It gives her just enough time to get back inside, the door banging shut behind her.
* * *
“Here you go,” Bruce says, sliding a Big Henry—basically a virgin piña colada—in front of me. “Maybe this will help.”
I’m hunched over at one of the tables in front of the stage. The last customer left an hour ago, along with most of the staff, but I’m not ready to go home yet.
“Thanks.”
Bruce climbs up on the stage to finish sweeping. The lights have been turned up and every corner of the restaurant is illuminated. The banners are threadbare, the wood on Henry’s throne is badly in need of a polish, and I can see every dent in the suits of armor. Tudor Tymes might lose some of its magic when the lights are on, when every flaw is revealed, but somehow that just makes me love it more.
I’m hoping Wesley feels the same way about flaws. Because I’ve got plenty of them.
I’m not sure what to do about him. I have to get him his job back, but beyond telling Joe the truth and praying he believes me—and risk getting fired myself—I don’t know what to do.
I’m halfway through my drink when Alan ambles over, carrying an overloaded turkey platter. He’s still in full costume—blue velvet cape thrown over a burgundy-and-gold tunic. He’s never not in costume, and he’s usually the last to leave. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he actually lived here.
I don’t know much about Alan’s personal life—actually, I don’t know anything about his personal life, beyond that he used to do the weather on the local TV station.
“Pray tell, what’s bothering you, fair maiden?” Alan settles himself heavily on the chair and tucks a paper napkin underneath his chin.
I sigh. “It’s Wesley.”
Alan nods. “Ah yes, young Wesley. I dare say, I did not think him capable of such an odious crime.” His teeth rip into the turkey leg.
“Yeah, well. He didn’t do it. He was framed,” I say, trying not to show my revulsion at the flecks of meat collecting in Alan’s beard. “Only I can’t prove it.”
Alan chews thoughtfully. “To stand falsely accused of something is a terrible thing,” he says.
“So what should I do?” I sip at the dregs of my drink, feeling suddenly hopeful. Maybe Alan can help me.
He gnaws at his turkey leg again, pondering my question. “My child, the answer lies within you. Look into your heart.” He gives me a beatific smile.
That’s it? That’s his advice? Look into my heart? That is no help to me whatsoever.
And as I watch him wipe his greasy mouth on his napkin, I wonder how exactly I’m going to get myself out of this mess.