"Wel , a lot of people have ordered the fish . . ." she said, trailing off. Even from where I was sitting, I could hear her heart beating, as fast and lightly as a swal ow's.
"That sounds fine," I said. I tried not to think of the dwindling coins in my pocket.
"Yes, sir," the girl said, turning quickly on her heel.
"Wait!" I cal ed.
"Yes?" she asked, concern in her eyes. She looked so much like Oliver when he was worried that Mrs. Duckworth would scold him. There was something about the deliberate way she spoke, her ultra-cautious movements, and those wide, seeking eyes that made me feel she'd seen or heard something in connection to the murder. It was more than just an air of teenage self-consciousness.
She seemed haunted.
"Yes?" she asked again, her eyes furrowing. "You don't have to order the fish if you don't like. We also have steak-and-kidney pie . . ."
"No, fish is fine," I said. "But may I ask you a question?"
She glanced at the bar. Once she saw Alfred was deep in conversation with a patron, she tiptoed a few steps closer.
"Sure."
"Do you know Count DeSangue?" I asked steadily.
"Count DeSangue?" she repeated. "We don't get counts here, no."
"Oh," I said, disappointed. Of course they didn't. She kept glancing between me and Alfred.
"Did you know . . . the girl who was murdered?" I asked. I felt like I was at a church social in Mystic Fal s, wondering which cousin of Clementine's knew which cousin of Amelia's.
"Mary Ann? No." The girl set her mouth in a tight line and took a step away from me. "I'm not like that."
"Violet?" Alfred cal ed from the bar.
"Yes, sir!" Violet squeaked. "He don't have to eat my head off," she murmured under her breath. She pul ed a pad of paper from her pocket and hastily scribbled on it, as if she were taking down an order. Then, she put the paper on the table and hurried away.
Are you the police? My sister is gone. Cora Burns. Please help. I think she may have been killed.
I shuddered as I read the words.
Moments later, the girl reemerged from the kitchen, a steaming plate in her hand.
"Here's your food, sir," she said, curtseying as she placed the plate on the table. A grayish slab of fish was covered in heavy gelatinous cream.
"I'm not the police," I said, staring into her eyes.
"Oh. Wel , I thought you might have been. You were just asking so many questions, you see," the girl said, color appearing high on her cheekbones. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have troubled you." She took a few suspicious steps away from me, and I realized she probably thought I was just like the other louts who frequented the bar, who only offered initial kindness and interest in order to have their way with her later.
"Wait!" I said. "I might be able to help you. But can we talk?"
"I don't know," she said. Her eyes darted nervously around the tavern.
"Have a seat," I said.
Nervously, she perched on the stool. I nudged the plate over toward her. "Would you like it?" I asked, locking eyes with her. I could hear her heart beating faster against her rib cage. She must have been starving. "Here," I added encouragingly, pushing the plate closer to her.
"I don't need charity," she said insistently, a hint of pride in her voice. Stil , I noticed her eyes continue to dart from my dinner to me.
"Please take it. You look hungry, and I'd like you to have it."
She eyed the plate suspiciously. "Why?"