by V. M. Burns
“You’re only twenty years old.” I knew this was important to her, so I forced myself not to laugh at the idea of twenty as old.
“You don’t understand. I’ll be competing against much younger dancers for that scholarship. They only take a small number of girls every year.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” I squeezed her and searched my brain for something even remotely helpful. Life had created so many calluses that I struggled to remember what it felt like to be so young and tender, where I felt like the entire world balanced on whether I passed a test, got invited to the big dance, or kissed the boy. “When I was teaching high school, I took the class “Seven Habits of Highly Effective People” by Stephen R. Covey. It was one of the best classes I’ve ever taken, and it completely changed my life.”
She looked at me. “How?”
“Well, I guess I was in a place where I was ready for a change, but one of the activities you do in the class is to write a personal mission statement.”
“A mission statement like companies have on their website?” Emma asked.
“Yep, but this was a mission statement we wrote for our lives. ‘Why are we here? What do you want to accomplish?’ That was more than fifteen years ago, and I still remember my mission statement.”
Jillian hesitated but finally asked. “Would you share it?”
“It’s short, just six words. ‘Live well. Enjoy life. No regrets. ’ ” I stared from Emma to Jillian. “Life is short, and the older I get the more I realize that there are so many things that are outside of our control. You’ve practiced and practiced. Go to the audition and give it your best. That’s all you can do. After that, it’s up to the judges, but at least you’ll know that you’ve given it your best shot. No regrets.”
She thought for a few minutes. “No regrets. I like that.”
Emma smiled. “Me too.”
“Good. Now, shouldn’t you both be studying or practicing or something?”
They shook their heads.
“I’ve practiced until my feet hurt. My dance teacher made me promise to take the evening off.”
“And I have one paper to write, but I need a change of scenery. When Dawson told us he was working here for a few hours, I begged him to let me come. I need some poodle love to help me through.” She reached in her backpack and pulled out two sticks of string cheese. “Zaq said they loved these.”
I laughed. “They do love them, but not too much. Remember, they each weigh less than ten pounds.”
She crossed her fingers over her heart. “I promise. Besides, I’ll probably end up eating them before I even get upstairs.”
The store was in good hands with Dawson, Jillian, and Emma, so Nana Jo and I headed to MISU for our class.
MISU was located in North Harbor Township and was a beautiful, sprawling campus, especially in the spring and autumn. The beautifully landscaped lawns with mature trees looked like a college brochure.
The class was being held in the Hechtman-Ayers Performing Arts Center. I know a lot of people in the community weren’t fans of the contemporary look of the steel, concrete, and glass building. It was definitely a contrast to the traditional ivy-covered brick and limestone buildings that dotted the campus. It was flooded with light and was open and airy, accommodating everything from sculpture and metalsmithing to painting and dance studios, along with three performance spaces. Apparently, the building also had a few meeting rooms too, because that’s where our class was being held. Thankfully, Nana Jo had asked Jillian for directions before we left the bookstore, so it didn’t take long to find the room listed on the e-mail confirmation.
Despite being located inside of a building dedicated to art, the meeting room was a plain white box.
“They should have gotten some of the art students’ paintings and hung them on the walls,” Nana Jo mumbled as she stared at the smooth white walls. “This color is blinding.”
“Actually, it’s a digital display room.”
I turned to see where the voice had come from and nearly gasped when I recognized the woman John Cloverton had been fondling at the casino. She was young and thin with dishwater-blond hair. Today, she had on a short skirt that made her legs look like they went on for miles. I didn’t realize my mouth was open until Nana Jo closed it.
“You’re gonna catch flies.”
I whispered, “That’s her. That’s the girl I saw at the casino. ”
It took Nana Jo a moment to connect the dots, but I could tell when the light came on. She turned back to get another good look.
The girl went to a console at the front of the room. After a few moments, the lights in the room dimmed, a projector of some type came down from the ceiling, and then the room was transformed into a tropical paradise. Flowers were everywhere, and what was once the front of the room was now a huge waterfall that flowed down the wall and pooled on the floor.
“What in the Sam Hill just happened?” Nana Jo asked.
A woman standing in the middle of the room squealed and nearly tripped as she stared in amazement at the pool of water.
John Cloverton marched into the room. “I see my assistant is playing with the controls.” He was devilishly handsome and dressed in a dark suit. The only blemish being a black eye. He smiled. “Chastity likes to play with all the buttons.”
“Chastity?” Nana Jo whispered. “Now that’s a misnomer if ever I heard one.”
The assistant giggled but flipped the switch, and suddenly the room was back to its boring white normal.
“What just happened?” Nana Jo asked. “That was . . . amazing, like when you go to the movies and put on those three-D glasses and it looks like King Kong is going to step right on top of you.”
Cloverton turned to the young girl. “Chastity, perhaps you’d like to explain.”
“It’s a new technology developed by teamLab Borderless in Japan. It’s a collective that creates art that isn’t defined by canvas or rooms, buildings, or . . . well, anything. You aren’t just in a room looking at a stagnant painting on a wall. You’re in the art. It’s moving and flowing and changing. This technology is cutting edge. It’ll change the world.”
Cloverton walked to the console. “As you can see, Chastity’s very passionate about art.”
Chastity gave him an adoring look, and their gazes met and held for a few seconds longer than necessary. Chastity reached out and pulled a hair from his shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but there was a certain measure of intimacy that went beyond that of a teacher and an assistant.
“It would seem art isn’t the only thing Chastity is passionate about,” Nana Jo whispered.
Mildred Cloverton walked to the front and forced a computer printout and a pen into the young girl’s hands. “Chastity, perhaps you could assist us by taking attendance.”
The spell was broken. The glow that moments earlier had illuminated the young assistant’s face was extinguished. Chastity tucked her head, mumbled a response, and moved toward the first person in the room with her sheet and pen.
Something flashed across John Cloverton’s face, but it was gone before I could identify what it was. He smiled. “While Chastity takes attendance, I’ll take a moment to introduce myself.” He took more than a moment. He told us about his entire life history from birth to the present, and he didn’t just talk about himself. He had a slide presentation. He shared cute baby pictures, his college years, his experiences as a businessman in North Harbor. When he came to the current decade, he included a wedding picture. He turned to Mildred and gave her his dazzling white smile. “One day, I walked into a pharmacy and met the love of my life. This lovely woman has been my rock. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” His voice cracked, and he rubbed his eye. “I think I’ve got a bit of dust in my eye.”
There were a few awws from the class. Nana Jo whispered, “I think I might gag.”
John Cloverton pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes dry and returned to his presentation. By the time he finished the dec
ade, we knew pretty much everything there was to know about him. He glanced at his watch and announced it was time for our fifteen-minute break.
The class was small, only nine people in total. Seven of them were women, and when you added Chastity and Mildred it was overwhelmingly female. Without saying a word, Nana Jo and I followed the women like lemmings out of the classroom, down the hall, and around the corner to the ladies’ room. There were, of course, only two stalls, so we got in line.
“Just once, I wish there were a queue for the men’s room and that an architect would build a bathroom with four times as many stalls for women as for men,” Nana Jo complained.
We answered the call of nature, washed, and returned to the room. I was able to take a good look around at the other students.
Nana Jo stood next to me. She tilted her head toward a group of four middle-aged women who were together. “They’re all friends who get together every Tuesday night and play cards. They want to know what their kids are doing online, so they signed up for this class.”
“Do you know them?”
“Of course not.”
“Then, how did you find all that out?”
“We met in the bathroom.” She shook her head as though to imply I should have known that. After all, doesn’t everyone make new friends when they go to the bathroom?
She directed my attention toward an older couple who were standing at the front of the room talking to John Cloverton. “That’s Doris and Edgar Malone. Doris is infatuated with John Cloverton and convinced her husband to come along simply so she could meet him.”
I stared at my grandmother but refrained from asking how she knew that. I’d seen Doris in the line for the bathroom too.
“Who’s that?” I glanced to the side where the youngest member of the class sat. He looked to be in his early twenties, and if his face was any indication, he was furious.
She shrugged. “I walked over to introduce myself, but he merely grunted.”
John Cloverton finally resumed class, and for the last forty-five minutes he talked about the various types of social media. The information was so incredibly rudimentary that even I found it useless. Mildred interjected from time to time to tactfully correct or clarify a point that John had flubbed. She was subtle in her corrections, but they were definitely corrections. It was clear that John was the pretty face while Mildred was the brains behind the operation.
Just as they were about to wrap up, the door to the classroom burst open. Everyone turned to see who had entered.
“Stinky Pitt?” Nana Jo said. “What are you doing here?”
Detective Pitt’s face turned red, but he ignored Nana Jo and walked over to John Cloverton. He looked at Mildred Cloverton, and his face turned from a pink lemonade to a turnip. He nodded. “Mildred.”
John Cloverton flashed a big smile. “Stinky Pitt?” He chuckled.
Detective Pitt reached inside his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He slapped it on the desk. “John Cloverton, I have a warrant for your arrest.”
Cloverton turned to the class. “Can someone videotape this abuse of police power? This is the same officer who assaulted me just yesterday.” He pointed to his eye. “Please let it be known that should anything happen to me, the people to blame will be none other than the mayor, his henchmen from the police, Chief of Police Zachary Davis, and their executioner, Detective Brad ‘Stinky’ Pitt.”
Detective Pitt pulled out a pair of handcuffs and wrenched Cloverton’s arms behind his back.
Mildred reached out a hand. “Is that really necessary? Surely, this can wait until we dismiss our class.”
“This is merely an attempt to embarrass and humiliate me in front of my students,” Cloverton yelled. “It’s just like all of the other underhanded tricks our cowering mayor tries to use to silence the one voice of truth in this community. I’m the only person brave enough to speak out against him, but just like his other attempts to silence me, this too will fail.”
Detective Pitt secured the handcuffs onto Cloverton’s wrists and then dragged him from the room.
Mildred grabbed her purse and hurried after them.
I turned to Nana Jo and noticed that she, like most of the class, had her phone out and was, indeed, videotaping the arrest. “Nana Jo. What are you doing? You can’t honestly believe that Detective Pitt intends to harm him.”
“No, but then you never know.”
Chastity’s face was white as a sheet, and she was visibly shaking. The rude guy who grunted at Nana Jo walked over to her and reached out his arm, but she merely stared at him like a scared rabbit and then ran from the room.
The class stood around talking about what we’d just seen, but since no one could provide any answers, we gathered our belongings and left.
When I pulled into the garage, there was no light in Dawson’s apartment. However, I found him, Emma, and Jillian at the dining room table. Snickers was asleep on Emma’s lap and barely lifted an eyelid when I approached. Oreo gave me a sniff and then quickly returned to his perch on Dawson’s lap.
“Traitors,” I said.
Snickers yawned and then used her paw to guide Emma’s hand to the spot that made her eyes roll back in her head.
“How was your class?” Jillian asked.
Nana Jo filled them in on the good, the bad, the boring, and the exciting climax.
We answered what questions we could, but eventually, we both headed to our rooms leaving the younger crowd to their studies.
During Cloverton’s boring lecture, it had taken everything in me to stay awake. However, now that I was home and finally able to sleep, my mind wouldn’t slow down. So, instead of fighting it, I moved to my desk and took a stroll back in time.
Lady Nancy Astor patted the seat cushion next to her. “Lady Clara, you must come over here and tell me all about your handsome bobby.”
With a herculean effort, Lady Clara avoided rolling her eyes. Good breeding meant she couldn’t tell the viscountess and member of Parliament for Plymouth Sutton what she wanted. Instead, she sat on the seat Lady Astor indicated and said, “Actually, he isn’t a bobby. He’s a detective inspector, but being an American, I’m sure it’s not easy to understand the difference.”
Lady Astor’s right eye twitched, and Clara knew the American-born politician recognized the dig, no matter how sweetly delivered. How could she not? The papers were quite fond of reminding her that despite her marriage to a member of the British peerage and her election to the House of Parliament, she was still an outsider.
Lady Clara blushed. She had once liked the spunky American who could stand toe to toe with the likes of Winston Churchill, known for his quick wit and keen mind; however, rumors of her outdated ethnic and religious views were troubling. She smiled. “You know, Winston Churchill is my cousin. Did you really tell him if you were his wife, you’d put poison in his coffee?”
Lady Astor laughed. “I did.”
Marguerite Evans sat in a chair across from Lady Astor. “What did he say?”
Lady Astor sat up tall, pushed her chest out, and responded in a blustery manner. “He said, ‘Nancy, if I were your husband, I would drink it.’ ” She paused for a moment and then let out a deep laugh.
Lady Astor sipped tea and regaled the ladies with humorous stories from her life in Great Britain. She looked across at Kick, who was standing by the fireplace. “You know, dear, we Americans need to stick together. When I first came to England, all the women hated me. They thought I wanted to take their husbands.”
Kick smiled. “Well, did you?”
Lady Astor laughed. “Ha. If they knew the trouble I had getting rid of my first husband, they wouldn’t have asked.”
The doors to the drawing room opened, and Ambassador Joseph Kennedy entered with his arm around the German foreign minister, Joachim von Ribbentrop. They were followed by Geoffrey Fordham-Baker, Philip Henry Kerr, the 11th Marquess of Lothian, and Billy Cavendish, who was talking to John Cairncross and Donald Maclean. Peter Co
vington and Oliver Martin brought up the rear.
Billy made a straight line to Kick Kennedy’s side.
Joseph Kennedy moved to the fireplace and pulled a cord. A servant entered with a tea cart. He pushed the cart toward Kick, who stared at it as though it were a snake.
“Would you like me to pour out?” Lady Astor asked.
Kick released a sigh and nodded.
Lady Astor poured tea and passed cups around. “You surprise me, Ambassador. I never would have taken you for a teetotaler.”
“Why? Because I’m Irish? That’s a horrible stereotype that all Irishmen are alcoholics.” Joseph Kennedy sipped his tea.
“Actually, it’s because you’ve made your fortune importing liquor and, some say, bootlegging.” Lady Astor continued to pour.
“That just shows why women should stay out of business. They have no head for it. My import businesses are just that, business. I import alcohol to make money, and I’ve made lots of it. It’s pure economics—supply and demand. When Prohibition ended, I knew there would be a big demand for the stuff. So, I invested heavily in Scottish distilleries. History proved me right, and I made a fortune. That doesn’t mean I have to drink the stuff.”
Lady Clara glanced at Peter and noted a vein pulsing on the side of his head. He appeared wound like a tight spring, ready to pop at any moment. She reached over and slipped her hand in his and squeezed it. “This will be over soon.”
“Not soon enough,” he whispered.
The German foreign minister glanced around the room and nodded. “True. When I lived in Canada, I too established a business, importing German wine and champagne. The Führer was just saying to me the other day how much he enjoyed my champagne.”
“Really?” Lady Astor said. “I was under the impression that Hitler didn’t drink?”
Ribbentrop colored slightly and gave the MP a knowing look. “Ah, that is true, but one cannot drink tea when one is celebrating.” He stood. “And we are celebrating, no?”
“What exactly are we celebrating?” Lady Clara asked.
“We should have champagne to celebrate our alliance between Germany and Britain.” He gave Joseph Kennedy a gleeful look.
