On the avenue, a big black Lincoln was parked outside the shop. A man dressed in black, wearing dark sunglasses, folded his arms and leaned against its fenders. Earphones were plugged into his ears, and he bobbed his chin to music. Central Avenue lanes are narrow and parking was scarce. Any moment a speeding taxi might rear-end the behemoth vehicle.
“Ah-hmm.” I turned back to the waiting woman.
“Oh, sorry. Can I find you something special?”
“I’m in the suite at the Arlington.” She emphasized suite like she assumed I knew what she meant. The closest I got to a suite at the Arlington was a third-floor room in the back of hotel with a twin-size bed and a leaky window air-conditioner. After prom one night, a few dateless girlfriends and I rented a hotel room, thinking we were grownups. Believe me, it wasn’t a night to remember.
“I’m in need of a bath.”
Everyone who visited Hot Springs needed a bath of one kind or other. In the off-season, when the racehorses weren’t running, a spa weekend attracted lots of tourists to Bathhouse Row.
“We hand make our bath bombs. All-natural ingredients and oils. Let me make you a custom box. You won’t be sorry.”
“That’d be lovely. Not too big. I’m only here for a short time. Flying to Newark. Then on to Paris.”
I lifted a brow. Most of our customers chatter like magpies, telling us their life stories, but I found that tidbit hard to believe. Why visit Hot Springs, if you’re only staying for a short time? Besides, traveling to Newark meant two plane changes… Paris wasn’t worth that hassle.
“Be right back.” I ducked into the stockroom for a gift box. “Yeah, right. Paris?”
I no more believed the Paris story than I believed in ghosts. I popped up a box and grabbed a handful of gold filler, swishing it into the corners of the box.
“She’s lying. I can tell when someone is lying.” Fanny flittered into the stockroom, moving the tissue paper.
“Stop pacing. Make yourself useful. Watch her.” Crazy! I asked my imaginary friend/ghost to watch the showroom, but the tissue paper stopped flittering.
When I returned, the woman stood in the display window, staring. I noticed the black car wasn’t parked outside. Hearing my return to the showroom, she cast an icy gaze at me and my butterfly flinched again.
I smiled, shaking off her chilly stare. “You’ll need a few bath bombs. They are so fun. Magnolia Nights. Our best one.” I waved the bath bomb, showing her. It had hints of honeysuckle and magnolia blossom. Then, I added a bath bomb I named Woodland into the box. Scented with green Matcha tea powder, clary sage and frankincense, I thought they smelled of a freshly tilled garden in spring.
Unfortunately, it was Sandy’s least favorite bath bomb concoction and she pooh-poohed them. “Nobody wants to smell like moldy grass clippings.”
Giving them away was a great way to get rid of them. Once this woman gets to Paris, she’ll forget all about smelling like wet dirt.
I added a polishing lotion from the shelf behind the counter. “Use this after you bathe, it’ll make your skin smooth.”
“Uh-huh.” She certainly wasn’t interested in our products. In the display window next to her, Fanny flickered. I glared at my apparition. “You better not poke her with a needle.”
The woman turned, but acted like she hadn’t heard me.
I closed the box lid… I didn’t shrink wrap small boxes… and sealed it with a Row sticker. “Here you go.”
She turned out of the window. “Oh. Thanks. I suppose I should go.” She came over the counter and sat her chic Chanel bag on the counter. I examined it closely... pink... pert and probably a knockoff.
“Do you take cash?”
“Sure do, honey pie.” Honey pie? Why did I say that?
She tried to open the bag’s clasp, but her hands shook and she fumbled until the clasp popped open. A bath bomb size wad of cash tumbled out onto the counter.
“Pfft! She’s rolling in the dough,” Fanny said.
She shouldn’t be walking around with loose cash, even in homey little Hot Springs.
“You might need a rubber band for that wad… dough… cash… money.”
Sandy never threw anything away, so I rummaged underneath the counter and found a rubber band. “Here. Use this.” I laid it next to her bag.
She chuckled… well, it wasn’t a chuckle… just a humored titter. She moved her chin another micron and murmured, “Help yourself.” She didn’t appear to care about the money either.
“Ah, yeah.” I took a few bills, enough to pay for the box without making change. Coins would only add to her baggage.
When she first arrived, I thought she was utterly beautiful, but now, on closer inspection, she only looked exhausted and unhappy.
Punching the payment system on Sandy’s tablet, I produced a receipt, printed, folded and slipped it under the box lid. She ignored the rubber band I laid next to the box and opened her chic little purse, swooped the cash into it, and it barely snapped closed over the money. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and typed a message.
I picked up the box, headed for the door and opened it. “Thanks for shopping at the Row.”
She slipped on her sunglasses. “Lovely shop.”
Holding out the box, I grimaced but said bye urging her to leave. Over the weekend, plenty of foot traffic came and went, but she was the first customer who I wanted to see leave. Since Myra wasn’t a customer, she did not count.
In the open door, the woman took the box, pausing on the threshold when she spotted the Lincoln easing up beside the sidewalk. She took a few more steps.
For some reason, I didn’t shut the door and leaned against the doorjamb to watch her walk away. She was so different, not odd like Fanny, but withdrawn and anxious.
“She’s a sad bit of fluff.” Fanny said from the display window.
The Lincoln stopped and its back door opened, a man much older than the head-bobbing chauffeur got out of the car. He looked more out of place than the well-dressed girl sporting slicked-back, jet-black hair, dressed in pinstripe pants and suspenders, with spats covering his shoes.
Fanny gasped over my shoulder. “Who’s that gangster? Look at those ugly spats.”
“Spats that’s a good name for him. Maybe he’s a character in a movie.” I hunkered in the doorway watching as the girl stopped in front of him. He snatched the box from her hold, and she jerked, taking a small step back. “Get in the damn car,” he ordered, pointing at the car.
She stayed glued to the sidewalk, but I stepped out more, letting him see me. I crossed over to the easel, pretending to rearrange it and made a todo aligning it with the sidewalk cracks without taking my eyes off the fracas.
“You took too long.” Spats shot me a look, but I didn’t drop my gaze.
A group of tourists traveled the sidewalk and I stepped aside to let them pass.
“Howdy do,” one said nodding, but they traveled on avoiding the melee on the sidewalk.
The tourist’s presence didn’t deter Spats either. He grumbled, “Get in,” tossing the gift box into the backseat and grabbed her by the shoulders with both hands. She wrestled, but was no match for him. She dropped her chic bag and it popped open. A slight breeze caught the bills, and they fluttered along the sidewalk.
The chauffeur got out of the driver’s side, stalking long strides around the front of the car.
“Asshole! Let her go.” The driver stopped short of Spats, but the kid got into his face, and they exchanged muffled grunts.
“You’re so stupid.” Angry Spats jabbed the younger man’s shoulder. “Get off.”
The kid backed up letting Spats have his way. Spats whirled, shoving the girl backward, until she stood in the open car door.
“Get in the damn car.” Spats kneed her in the belly, pushing her down into the car. I couldn’t believe he was so bold and that she didn’t resist.
How could she?
The angry man dove for the open door, but the bigger, younger chauf
feur grabbed him by the collar and jerked him back.
A taxi whizzing past muffled their hostile exchange. The chauffeur wedged Spats against the car’s back panel. Nose-to-nose, they stood, Spats full of audacity punched two fingered jabs into the kid’s chest.
The chauffeur raised a fist. The girl leaned from the backseat and shouted. “David, don’t!”
He glanced at her and relinquished without slugging the older man. She peered out the open car door, without looking at her bag or money—looking for an escape route.
“Help me,” the girl said and the chauffeur let Spats go.
A flash of blue jeans caught my eye. Another man stomped the bills, grabbing them and shoving handfuls into his pockets.
I recognized him. “Mike! You get away!”
Mesmerized by what I saw, I had held tight to the easel but let go so I could stomp my foot at Hot Springs’ resident paparazzi sleazebag photographer. This wasn’t my first run-in with Mike Claiborne. His camera shutter spun as he snapped photos in the woman’s face.
The chauffeur turned his attention to Mike and shouted. “Stop that!” He shoved Mike backward, and the sleazebag dropped to one knee. He hardly faltered before he regained his balance, clicking his camera and shoving the girl’s money into his pockets.
Mike spotted me and hopscotched over. “Hey, Pattianna.” Grinning like a madman, he snapped my photo.
“Get out of my face. Don’t take my picture.” I hid behind my hand and hurried into the Row’s open door, snapped it closed and flipped the deadbolt. He continued, snapping photos of the front of the shop and the Lincoln, until the chauffeur scuffled toward him.
“Catch me if you can.” Mike chuckled, snapping photos, scuttling north putting plenty of space between him and the angry chauffeur.
“Come look.” Fanny flickered in the display window watching and I joined her. Spats stood glaring into the display window. He could see me… us.
I wasn’t certain if other people could or could not see Fanny, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Guarding Fanny like a child, I put my arm out. “Get back.” I ducked into the shadows. “Don’t let him see you.”
“He’s a gangster. His eyes tell,” she said. He looked like a gangster in his get-up but he acted like a royal jerk.
Back out on the sidewalk, the chauffeur said something, and the woman stood up in the open car door and pointed. I followed her direction. One sleek, leather flat lay on the sidewalk. The chauffeur spoke to Spats who still stared into the display window; he turned and looked back, then went over and picked up the shoe.
Spats handed the shoe to the chauffeur and brushed past him, walking over to the car; he opened the front passenger side door and got in.
The driver handed the girl her shoe. She glanced at the display window, watching us watch her, before she sat back and disappeared into the car.
The chauffeur slammed both car doors, found his earplugs dangling on his chest, plugged them into his ears, and walked around the front of the car.
“She’s so sad. I oughta—”
“Yes, she is. Don’t try anything.” If Fanny wanted to intervene with her sewing needle, I wouldn’t stop her.
The Lincoln eased along the street and when it was out of sight, I unlocked the door. Glancing left and right, I made sure Mike Claiborne wasn’t lurking with his nasty camera. Taking two giant strides, I grabbed the easel with both hands and hurried inside.
8
Etta
In nice darkness, I sat on the loveseat icing my nose and gathering my wits. Witnessing that gruff Spats knee the poor girl in the stomach had flustered me. I should’ve done something, yelled or called the police. Everything happened so fast, I hadn’t acted fast enough.
Mike Claiborne was something else. He had gall, photographing the incident, acting like a jerk, and enjoying the fact too much. His favorite subjects were Oaklawn Racetrack’s problems—dejected jockeys who’d lost a race, a racehorse suffering from a broken fetlock, or a downtrodden racehorse owner on a losing streak. He was often found lurking on the courthouse steps, waiting for a trial to end, hoping to photograph someone of notoriety.
We have history, other than his spree on the Row’s sidewalk. The sleazy photographer often got into trouble. Bubba loved to arrest Mike for trespassing, and I loved to process his arrest paperwork.
After a few minutes of hiding in the stockroom, musing over the trouble, I got up. If I sat there hiding out and sulking, Mike would get the better of me.
The only thing I could do was wish the girl well.
The Arlington was a nice place and I’ve heard about the suites old-fashioned, claw-footed bathtubs. My heart ached for her. She was so unhappy and I hoped she enjoyed her bath bombs in peace.
Believe me, I looked both ways before I set the easel out to reopen the shop.
When reputation was everything and every sale counted, a crooked easel might send the wrong message. So, I arranged the easel in perfect alignment with the sidewalk cracks. Sandy would be pleased.
Inside I tackled the task of dusting with the feather duster… a perpetual job… and straightening underneath the counter. When I rattled the ibuprofen bottle it made Fanny come alive... not alive, she woke up from a snooze.
Startled by the chinking pills, she cried out, “Don’t eat those!"
I was just as surprised by her sudden appearance and I squared off. “Go away. These are painkillers. You’re a pain.” Alone, I didn’t need to pretend to shoo a bee.
“No! When you take those tablets, you can’t hear me.” Her invisible toe tapped loudly, and I clapped my hands over my ears. If painkillers blocked my ability to hear her, I needed a truckload.
“That’s so? Stop that horrid tapping.”
She tapped her toe a few more times before she stopped. “Those pills aren’t good. I missed our talks.” She did not like being chastised, and her bright colors dimmed a few degrees.
“I’m scared someone else will… hear me.”
“You think you’re afraid? Ha! Everyone thinks I’m a nut job when I talk to you.”
How long can I get away with shooing an invisible bee and holding down the fluttering tissue papers?
“It’s just that… it’s all so new. I think my strength depends on you.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” She might be right. She did draw on my energy, but then she was a figment of my imagination. I used my energy to create her and felt drained after she appeared.
“Heaven forbid, don’t depend on me.”
The bell tinkled, interrupting our talk, and a timid voice asked, “Hello? Is anyone there?” The door opened a crack and a girl poked in her nose.
I hopped off the stool. “Oh, come in. Sorry, I forgot to turn on the lights. Be right back.”
When I returned to the showroom, the chandeliers twinkled cheerfully and she stood in the open door waiting for me.
“Hi there. How can I help you?”
“Oh, hey. I saw the sign.” She shrugged toward the easel. “Help wanted?”
“My goodness gracious. Yes. C’mon, come in.” I waved her inside. “Better shut the door.”
She took a timid step forward and closed the door obediently. “Smells wonderful.”
We shook hands. “I’m Etta. A maid at The Arlington. I need another job.”
“Yes, we’re looking for help. It’s me and my friend Sandy.” I hesitated but added. “And there’s Teddy. He’s part of our team.” It felt right, including him as part of our team.
“I’ve walked by every day. Watched the remodel.” She examined the near empty cake plates. “But… this isn’t a vape shop, is it?”
“Etta? Lovely name! What’s a vape shop?”
“Short for Henrietta. You know, a shop where you can buy… hmm… flavored cigarettes.” She stumbled over the explanation. “Like a head shop… only they don’t sell—”
“Heads?” I chuckled. “No, we don’t sell those kinds of things. Niceties for ladies. Lotion, potions and wicked bath
bombs. I mean… never mind.” I couldn’t believe Sandy’s infamous slogan slipped so easily off my tongue.
“Awwh! Not again. I had me a thief working here named Henrietta. A thread thief. Made shirts on the side. Swatted her down the alley with my broom, I did.”
I scowled at Fanny, pushing a sticky note pad along the counter and plopped a pen on top of it. “Write your phone number? I don’t have an employment application.” I was ill prepared to hire an employee.
Etta was a pretty thing. Dark brown ponytail cascaded down her back. Her brown eyes sparkled as she scribbled on the note. “I only need part-time. Can’t afford to give up The Arlington. I’m going to the university next spring… maybe.”
“You need all the money you can get. It’d be minimum wage.”
“Right. I can start right now.” She straightened the soap freebie basket. “I’m a hard worker.”
Fanny’s toe tapped. “Not another one! That’s what she said.”
I glared in her general direction. “Hush-up, would you?”
Etta blushed. “Ah, sure.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean you. A bee has been buzzing the soap. I think she’s taken up residence. I’ve been talking to her. Him… I’m sure it was a drone.”
Etta backed toward the door. “Sure thing.” She must have thought I was a complete weirdo, snapping and pretending to shoo a bee. Not understanding how to hire an employee hadn’t helped me score with her.
“Don’t go. I could use the help. The shop needs to be in shipshape. Sandy, my partner, is laid up at home. Her feet have gone bad.” Saying Sandy’s feet were bad sounded like a pot of soured beans.
“I’ve never interviewed an employee… a prospective employee before.”
“Oh, I wasn’t leaving. I understand the feet thing.” Etta rolled her ankles and looked at her feet. “I stand on my feet all day long.”
“You’re hired. Put your purse underneath here.” I smiled and pointed at the counter. “I’ll show you the ropes.”
Etta chattered while she worked. She told me about her sister Willa, who worked as waitress at the Ohio Club and her biker chic mother, Muriel, who rode an Indian motorcycle in an all-women’s motorcycle club.
Bath Bombs & Beyond Page 6
