Darned if You Do by Monica Ferris

hanging sign was artsy, a painted barrel with a bouquet of wheat—no, it must be barley—stuffed in it, but there was a simple neon sign in the window: EAT . That reminded Valentina of signs on cheap cafés from her youth, where the food was unhealthy but plentiful and comforting.
    She found a parking space and went in.
    All right, it wasn’t as shaggy as she had thought it might be at first glance. The floor looked like real stone cut into uneven slabs, which she knew was more expensive to install than even-sized blocks, and the bar was beautiful carved wood. And, most curious of all, the wall behind the bar was made all of glass, through which she could see huge steel cylinders that reminded her of a factory. But the smell that permeated the space, besides beer, was of low-cost fried food.
    The restaurant’s three booths were constructed of old-fashioned dark wood, each with a tall pole fitted with brass coat hooks. Nice—or as the kids say, sweet!
    There were perhaps ten people in the place, six of them seated at the bar, the others crowded into a booth. They were varied in dress and age. Nobody was drunk or loud; the juke box was playing a big band tune.
    Valentina chose the booth nearest the back and had hardly gotten around to the short, laminated menu before she was approached by a slim woman with long dark hair, lightly streaked with gray, and very intense dark eyes. The woman was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater under a tan cloth apron printed with the word
Barleywine
.
    â€œWould you like to begin with a beverage?” she asked.
    Jesting, Valentina said, “I think I’ll have a taste of whatever you’re brewing in those tanks back there.”
    â€œYou’d have to wait a few days. The beer we’re making right now isn’t ready yet.”
    Valentina stared up at the woman, whose expression had turned humorous. “Oh, this place is one of those whaddya call ’em, microbreweries.”
    â€œThat’s right. On the other side of the menu is a list of what we’re currently offering.”
    Valentina turned the menu over and found a list of beverages, including six beers, none of them a brand she recognized. “All homemade, right?” she said, and the woman nodded. “Well, what do you recommend?”
    â€œWhat kind of beer do you normally drink?”
    Valentina drew up her shoulders a little and confessed, “Actually, I don’t much like beer. I’m more a lemonade and fruit juice sort of person.”
    â€œWe have lemonade and fruit juices, too.”
    Valentina looked down at the rest of the beverage offerings on the menu’s back side and, mindful of her wallet, said, “I’ll just have water, thanks. And a BLT with chips.”
    â€œComing right up.” As the woman turned away, Valentina admired her dark hair, which was pulled into a very long braid down her back. She’d always wanted long hair like that but could never get it more than a little past her shoulders.
    While she waited for her order, she began to eavesdrop on the quartet in the booth up the way. She couldn’t hear everything, because they were speaking quietly and the music interfered a little bit.
    â€œ. . . couldn’t believe she repeated that to him!” one was saying.
    â€œShe’s always been the type . . .” replied another.
    â€œ. . . shouldn’t have told her, you know what a . . . is.”
    â€œ
I
heard he went to Phoebe and . . .”
    â€œWell, can you blame him?”
    Valentina smiled to herself. It sounded as if Excelsior was a whole lot like Muncie. She was tempted to go over and introduce herself to see if any of them might be a friend of Tommy’s, but she couldn’t think of an excuse to barge in. And, to be honest, she wasn’t sure she’d like what they might have to say about her cousin. She was not in a mood to hear him bad-mouthed.
    But