“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 pi?a 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.
twenty-one.
Rachel shakes her head. “Wow, you really screwed things up,” she says, leaning against the hostess desk. The thin leather strings that normally crisscross the bodice of her delicate yellow gown have been replaced with black-and-pink zebra-striped shoelaces.
“I know,” I say.
“Like really badly.”
“I know! Listen, are you going to help me or not?”
Rachel pinches her bottom lip between her fingers and studies me thoughtfully. “Getting Wesley fired is heinous,” she says. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a backstabber.”