Irish Stewed by Kylie Logan

Colman’s food pantry now and again?” It wasn’t and Kim knew it—that’s why she rolled her eyes. “There was a file about some car repair place, too, a shop on the other side of town that charges for parts they don’t really install.”
    “Nothing about the Terminal at the Tracks.”
    Another shrug told me all I needed to know.
    “So why Jack? Why here?”
    “Maybe . . .” Kim finished her coffee and set her cup on the stainless steel counter. “Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe the cops are right. He ran into that Quilligan kid and the kid killed Jack to keep him quiet.”
    “If that’s true, it would be the wrong time, but what about the place? It was a place he had no business being.”
    Since this was obvious, Kim didn’t bother to answer. Fine by me. That gave me a chance to ask, “Could he have been meeting someone?”
    Kim’s cheeks paled. “Like the Quilligan kid?”
    “Forget the Quilligan kid!” I controlled my temper. Just barely. It wasn’t Kim’s fault that I knew about the umbrella stand and she didn’t. “Let’s try out some other theories,” I suggested from between gritted teeth. “You know, just in case the cops find out they’re wrong about Owen.”
    I guess Kim had never even considered the possibility, because she wrinkled her nose and cocked her head. “Okay.” She didn’t sound sure of this at all. “So let’s start with Jack’s files. The school cafeteria story . . . You people here at the Terminal, you don’t have anything to do with the food provided to the local school district, do you?”
    As far as I knew, the restaurant didn’t, and I told her so. Right after I reminded her—again—that I was not in any way, shape, or form to be included in the “you people.”
    “Then what about the church food pantry?” Kim’s nose twitched. Since it was such a big nose, it was hard to miss. “If you donate leftover food—”
    “We do. That is, the restaurant does,” I corrected myself. This anonymous source wanted to make sure she stayed clear of any close association with the restaurant. After all, she wasn’t sticking around. “Sophie told me that on Fridays and Saturdays, any food that’s left over goes to the homeless shelter downtown. And she says if there’s ever any canned goods that are about to expire, she sends them to the food bank because she knows that over there, they’ll give them out right away and the food won’t be wasted. I can’t imagineknowing something like that is the kind of thing that gets a man killed.”
    That morning, Kim had her glossy ringlets pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing the same black suit she’d worn the night before when she tried to push her way into the restaurant, and now that I thought about it, it was probably because she’d been working nonstop since she heard Jack was dead; she hadn’t had a chance to change.
    That would explain why there were bags under her eyes, too. And why Kim put a hand to her mouth and yawned.
    “Sorry.” She apologized instantly. “It was a long night.”
    “Then you’re probably anxious to get going.” I led the way out of the kitchen and, as weird as it seems since I was reluctant to let Kim in, now I hated to see her go. She hadn’t told me anything, not anything useful, anyway.
    Maybe she was feeling the same way about me.
    Kim paused outside the kitchen door. “Can you show me . . .” Her eyes positively gleamed when she glanced around. “Can you show me where he . . . I mean, where it . . . Sorry!” As if to gauge whether I was thinking less of her, she gave me a quick look. “I’ve never worked a murder before. Could you show me where the body was found?”
    As far as I could tell, it wouldn’t hurt. And it would give me a few more minutes to question Kim.
    I led her to the part of the restaurant where those few tables were wedged between the front windows and the wall of the waiting area. From there, it was