“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 Falls, 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 called from the bar.
“Yes, sir!” Violet squeaked. “He don’t have to eat my head off,” she murmured under her breath. She pulled 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. Well, 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. Still, 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?”
“Because I’m not hungry anymore. And it sounds like you’re having a hard day,” I said gently. “My name’s Stefan. And you are . . . ?”
“V-V-Violet,” she said finally. She picked up a fork and took one bite, then another, of the fish. Catching me staring, she picked up a napkin and shyly dabbed her mouth. “You’re a good man, Stefan.”
“I try to be.” I shrugged as I gave her a small smile. She was quieter than Callie had been, but had far more spunk than Rosalyn did. I’d inwardly cheered when she told Alfred off under her breath. She had pluck, and I just knew that, more than anything else, would save her. “So about Cora—”
“Shhh!” Violet interrupted me.
I turned over my shoulder and saw Alfred storm out from around the bar toward our table. Before I could react, he’d grabbed Violet’s long hair and yanked it, causing her to yelp.
“What are you doing, girl?” he growled, his face showing none of the earlier jocularity he’d had behind the bar. “Begging for food like a mongrel?”