Pat made Con close the roadhouse on the dot of six. She was still furious with him over the burnt pie mix. She told me she’d made a goulash with potato dumplings and didn’t want it to spoil, but I didn’t believe that was her reason. I suspected she wanted to hurry Con out on a quest for more road kill.
Her mood had improved since their earlier altercation, slightly. She was counting the day’s takings while I cleaned out the pie warmer. I had to rub away at some spilled gravy on the tray at the bottom that had formed a hard lump. I wasn’t allowed to use abrasives in case they marred the interior gleam.
Every hurried rub, I did with resentment. I’d already cleaned the bomb site that was the kitchen after Con’s baking, eyeing off the tray of incinerated pies tossed in a heap in the open top
