A TREACHEROUS TART

by Fiona Grace

  Ali’s heart began to thump. Her father must have talked about her to this banjo player. And not just once. Enough for him to know her name and birth order! That thought in itself was hugely comforting to Ali, to know she had not been forgotten, that she’d not been reduced to a footnote in the life of Richard Sweet. He spoke of her to those around him.

  “Where can I find him?” Ali asked, shaking with anticipation.

  But the banjo player pulled a face like he was about to break bad news. Ali’s heart seized in her chest with panic.

  “I’m afraid he’s not with us anymore,” the banjo player said in a soft, apologetic tone.

  Ali’s stomach sank. Tears welled in her eyes. “You mean he’s… he’s…” she tried to say, before her voice cut out as if unwilling to utter that final, dreadful word… dead.

  “He’s already left for his vacation,” the banjo player finished.

  Ali’s heart started beating again, so hard it hurt. She clutched her chest.

  For a second then she’d truly thought her father had passed away and now she didn’t know whether to weep with relief or smack the banjo player for putting her through such an unnecessary moment of fear.

  “He’s on vacation?” Ali said, needing to hear clarification for her poor, frazzled heart’s benefit.

  “Yes, that’s right. Richard comes and goes. You just missed him.”

  Ali’s heartbeat was finally starting to return to normal, and with it, her ability to think straight. She had come within a hair’s breadth of reuniting with her father today, only for it to be snatched away from her at the last second. She felt like fate had played a bittersweet, painfully cruel joke on her.

  “Do you have a number for him?” Ali asked.

  The banjo man chuckled like she’d just said the silliest thing in the world. “Nope.”

  Ali couldn’t help but grind her teeth. She desperately wished the gate-keeper between her and her father was someone other than this nonchalant, unhelpful banjo player.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” she asked.

  The banjo man shook his head. “No idea, miss. Richard’s a private guy. Keeps his comings and goings to himself, for the most part. Could be a month. Could be two.” He shrugged. “Could be a year. Could be two.”

  Two years! Ali thought, desperately. How was she going to get through years being so close yet so far? It was like having an itch on that one place on your back you just couldn’t reach…

  “Okay, well can I leave my contact info with you?” Ali asked, fumbling in her purse for a pen and slip of paper. “For when he comes back?”

  “Of course,” the banjo man replied. “I’d be happy to help.”

  Ali pulled the cap off her Sharpie with her teeth, grateful that he was at least willing to try.

  “’Cept that that’s dependent on me still being here when he gets back.”

  “What?” Ali asked, anguish taking hold of her.

  “I’m a traveler, too,” he said simply. “Me and Richard are cut from the same cloth.” He laughed again. “Heck, so’s everyone in Desert View! If me and Daisy fancy a road trip, we’ll take one.”

  The whippet slumbering at his feet raised her lazy head at the sound of her name. In the passenger seat, Scruff went haywire, turning round in circles, wagging his tail, and barking shrilly in an attempt to make a new doggy-pal. But Daisy was not interested. She was as nonchalant as her owner. She simply snorted sleepily through her nostrils and went back to sleep, leaving poor Scruff to whine sadly and sit back on his haunches.

  Ali looked at the banjo player. “What can I do to convince you to stick around until he gets back?” she asked around the pen lid in her mouth, as she scribbled down her number and address on the scrap of paper. “Can I pay you?”

  “Pay me?” the banjo player exclaimed with a bark of a laugh. “If money meant anything to me, do you think I’d be living here?”

  “Okay, fine,” Ali said, testily, clicking the lid back on the pen. “What will it take? Please. I’m begging you. I can’t lose him now after everything.”

  The man faltered, then he flashed her a sympathetic look. “How about I take your note, and I make sure everyone else here gets a copy? That makes the chances of one of us being here to pass on the message to Richard when he gets back all the greater. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Ali replied, grasping hold of the lifeline, though small. “Thank you.”

  Leaving her personal details with a bunch of transient strangers didn’t seem like the wisest decision in the world, and there was no guarantee that her father would even get it, but it was significantly better than nothing, and it felt like a step in the right direction.

  Ali handed her paper out the window to the banjo player. He took it with a reluctant nod and jammed it into the pocket of his khaki shorts in such a careless way, Ali winced. She was about to say more, but the man began plucking away at the banjo strings again as if to indicate their conversation was now over. Ali was left with no choice but to leave Desert View behind, her hopes of finding her father left on the whim of a transient banjo player and his whippet.

  As she drove back to Willow Bay, Ali couldn’t help but felt bitterly disappointed about what had transpired at Desert View RV park. Her dad was so near and yet so far, and she had no idea when—or if—that would change.

  She headed along the main road, which ran parallel behind the row of stores on the pedestrianized boardwalk. It was crawling with traffic today, almost as bad as she’d been accustomed to back when she lived in LA. She frowned at the near standstill gridlock, watching a hot cloud of fumes muggying the air.

  The sound of Scruff’s bark pulled her out of her ruminations, and she glanced over to see what he was alerting to. Stretching high over the rooftops of the boardwalk stores were two enormous columns of multicolored helium balloons.

  “That must be for the contest,” Ali told Scruff.

  He barked again, this time with more excitement.

  The traffic ahead began to roll. Ali inched along until there was a gap in the buildings and she could see the entrance to the pier properly. She gasped to see the stage for the hot dog eating contest was now erected in its entirety, stretching across the entire width of the entrance to the pier. Either side of the stage stood huge black speakers in two tall towering columns. The colored helium balloons were attached to each, almost like floating beacons. A huge red silky sign was strung across the stage with gold embroidered letters: Mad Frank’s Hot Dog Gobble-Down World Champions.

  Beside the main stage, there was a separate one, though it was more like a plinth or a tower—presumably this was where “Mad Frank” would be MCing from. A humongous TV screen was behind it. Different areas of the ground had been marked in white spray paint, showing demarcated sections for press, security, and film crew. Behind the stage, a large sign read: staff only, no entrance.

  The enormity of it shocked Ali. Clearly, this was a really big deal, if they’d given up the entirety of the pier as a backstage area. She’d assumed Bottomless Pit Bob was embellishing his celebrity status a little bit for the benefit of Piper’s adoration, but she realized now that was not the case. The world of competitive eating was surprisingly popular.

  Scruff stood with his paws up at the window, barking again and again at the sight of something new and different.

  “All right, all right,” Ali chuckled. “I get it. You want to take a closer look. Me too. I just need to find somewhere to park.”

  Scruff yip-yapped his agreement. Ali pulled out of the main traffic and into the side street and parked outside the yellow and black painted house of her landlord, Kerrigan O’Neal.

  “Come on then, pooch,” she said to Scruff, and they headed out of the car to the pier.

  It was even more of a hive of activity down here than Ali had anticipated from afar. There were multiple people in bright red CREW polo shirts buzzing about the place, covering up snaking, thick yellow cables from the sound system with specialized tape to make it
safe to walk on, or affixing the metal crowd control gates in place with screwdrivers. It was like watching a well-oiled machine at work, and Ali couldn’t help but marvel at the sight. This wasn’t what she’d expected when she’d learned about the hot dog eating contest at all. It reminded her of her childhood, when the fair would roll into town, descending for two days of mayhem before packing up and disappearing again without a trace. She remembered how much her father had loved the fair, and how he had always taken her to them as a child. That same excitement now fluttered in Ali’s breast.

  Suddenly, Ali heard a growl, and she whirled around to see Scruff in a defensive position, back on his haunches, hair standing on end, teeth bared. Another low growl came from between his teeth. Ali was startled to see such behavior from the usually calm and placid pup.

  “Scruff, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  She was about to crouch down to reassure him when a flash of something in her peripheral vision startled her.

  “What the—!”

  Everything happened in a split second; the sudden angry, fevered barking of Scuff; the flash of brown and red coming at Ali before streaking away again; and then the realization of what had happened. Django the monkey had snatched her purse!

  “Hey!” Ali cried, waving her fist as the naughty monkey went scurrying away into the out-of-bounds area behind the stage. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  There was no way she’d be able to get her purse back now.

  She was about to give up but Scruff suddenly pelted off after the monkey, leaving her no choice but to follow.

  Ali weaved her way through the myriad crew members going about their business, but when she reached the cordoned off area, a big burly, shaven security guard stepped in front of her and raised a hand. She screeched to a halt.

  “This area is out of bounds,” he said shortly, looking down his pudgy nose at her and pointing to a sign. “Can’t you read?”

  “I can read,” Ali said, flustered. “But my dog just ran in there, chasing a monkey who stole my purse. Well, actually he’s not my dog, he’s a stray. And Django isn’t technically a monkey, he’s a rhesus macaque.” She was blabbing, and shook herself to get back on track. “Not important. May I please just go inside for a minute to get my purse back?”

  The guard looked extremely unimpressed by her whole speech. He folded his thick, muscular arms. “Nope.”

  “Please,” Ali continued. “I live locally, and I know where the monkey is. If I could just get past—”

  “The pier is off limits. Mad Frank staff only.”

  Ali sighed and looked over at Lavinia Leigh’s dark green caravan, still in its usual spot just beyond the pier entrance. Django the monkey was standing on the wooden steps waving her purse above his head in a victory dance.

  “I can literally see my purse!” Ali told the guard, pointing toward the caravan.

  He didn’t even look behind. “I don’t care.”

  “This makes no sense! Lavinia isn’t Mad Frank staff, she’s a local fortune teller! How come she’s allowed backstage?”

  “No one gets backstage without a staff pass, little lady. So why don’t you run along?”

  Just then, Ali spotted the door to the caravan opening, and Lavinia popped her head out. Her dark black hair fell in beautiful waves around her exposed shoulders as she looked down at Django and took the purse from him. Then she glanced up, searching for its owner. When her emerald eyes fell on Ali, a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.

  “Are you sure about that?” Ali questioned the guard, pointing to Lavinia.

  With a frown, the guard finally turned to look over his shoulder. His gaze found Lavinia and Django and his eyes widened with surprise. “What the—!” he yelled, clearly stunned by the sudden sight of a woman and a monkey in the backstage area. He reached for the radio clipped to his waistband and brought it up to his lips. “We have an incursion in the staff zone!” he shouted into it. “A woman and a monkey! Who gave them authorization?” And with that, he stormed off.

  Ali took her chance. She ducked under the cordon and quickly beelined for the caravan while the guard was distracted.

  “Ali Sweet,” Lavinia purred as she marched over.

  “My purse, please,” Ali said, holding out her hand. She knew how things went with Lavinia, and always took a polite yet firm stance with her.

  “But Django has chosen you,” the fortune teller continued. “You know what that means.”

  Ali folded her arms. “It means you’re a crook who gets your thieving monkey to dupe people into taking your readings.”

  Lavinia smirked. “And yet when have I ever steered you wrong?”

  Ali faltered. She had her there. For all her talk of skepticism, so far, every single one of Lavinia’s predictions had had at least a smidgen of truth to them.

  “That’s beside the point,” she said, beckoning to the purse. “I don’t want a reading. And now is not the time. There’s a competitive eating contest being set up around you, if you haven’t noticed!”

  She threw her hand out behind her to gesture to the stage set-up, only to have it seized tightly in Lavinia’s clutch.

  “Oh!” the fortune teller exclaimed with a horrified gasp. “Oh Ali! Oh no!”

  Ali tried to pull her hand away but Lavinia tightened her grip. The panicked look in her emerald green eyes made Ali tremble, and she winced at the strength of her clutch.

  “Let me go,” she said, tugging on her hand. “That hurts.”

  But Lavinia would not let go. “There is danger ahead,” she whispered ominously. “A man. A wanderer.”

  Ali immediately thought of her father, and a chill ran down her entire spine. Her resolve instantly cracked.

  “What about him?” she asked in a trembling voice.

  But before Lavinia had a chance to say more, suddenly a whole army of security guards came marching toward them, moving speedily in spite of their considerable size. Within seconds, they were surrounded.

  “You ladies need to leave!” the bald guard from before yelled, taking Lavinia by the shoulders and tugging her away from Ali.

  Ali’s hand began to slip out of her grasp.

  “Lavinia!” she exclaimed. “Tell me about the man!”

  “You can’t trust him!” Lavinia cried.

  And with that, Ali’s fingers slipped entirely from her grasp. Lavinia disappeared into one swarm of guards, and Ali found herself being marched unceremoniously back the way she’d come.

  “Wait. My purse,” she stammered.

  She was shoved out of the backstage area, and staggered before righting herself.

  “Jerk,” she muttered under her breath.

  Then Scruff came racing out after her, her purse in his mouth.

  “Thank you,” Ali said, crouching down to take it from him, only to discover it had been unzipped and her wallet emptied of money. “That monkey!” she cried furiously.

  She composed herself and marched back to the car, Scruff scampering alongside her to keep up. But try as she might, the whole thing with Lavinia had really shaken Ali up.

  As she sat in her car and gunned it back to life, her eyes fell to her hands on the steering wheel. Immediately she recalled the feel of Lavinia’s fingers as she’d clutched her, and that terrible look of horror in her emerald eyes.

  The man. The wanderer. Could it be her father? And if so… could she really not trust him?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ali drove away as fast as the traffic allowed, desperate for the peace and sanctity of her bakery. In the passenger seat, Scruff kept casting her furtive glances. Even the dog could tell Lavinia’s words had rattled her. Who was Ali kidding by trying to pretend they had not?

  “Home,” Ali announced as she parked and exited her car, comforted somewhat by the familiar sound of breaking waves and seagulls, and the familiar smell of salty ocean air.

  She hurried out of the lot and onto the boardwalk, her head bowed as she marched for the safety of the bakery
. She was so desperate to get inside, she didn’t even wait to see if Scruff was coming along with her, or if he’d run off to do important doggy things. All she could focus on was getting inside her bakery and blocking out the world and…

  “Ah!” Ali cried, as she slammed, hard, into something solid.

  She hadn’t been looking where she was going, and backed up, only to discover an entire stone-built, wood-fired pizza oven wedged halfway through her store door.

  “What’s going on?” she cried.

  “Oh, Ali!” called an Italian voice from behind.

  Ali whirled around. Emilio Rossi, the owner of one of two pizzerias that flanked her bakery, was rushing toward her. Emilio was moving back to Italy soon with his bride-to-be, leaving his identical twin Marco’s pizzeria as the only one in town that wasn’t a front for the local mob. None of which explained why a large stone pizza oven was currently halfway through her bakery door…

  “Sorry,” Emilio panted as she reached her. “I was delivering the wood-fired pizza oven and it got stuck.”

  Ali frowned. “I can see that it’s stuck. What I don’t understand is why it’s there in the first place.”

  Emilio’s handsome features contorted into a look of confusion, his dark brows drawing together, and his chocolate brown eyes narrowing.

  “You wanted it,” he said simply. “Remember? You said when I moved away you would take all my equipment. The oven and the coffee machine.”

  Ali’s eyebrows flew up to her hairline with surprise. She had no memory of ever making such a claim. She cast her mind back, searching for the cause of the misunderstanding, and vaguely recalled a boozy evening on the beach for Delaney’s birthday, where many a bottle of prosecco had been consumed and she’d stated how much she admired the quality equipment Emilio owned, such as the traditional wood-fired pizza oven and the expensive Italian-made coffee machine. That was not only long before Emilio announced his move, but it was a throw-away comment, a way of expressing her envy of his well-established, lucrative business when her own little bakery was in its infancy. It had not been a promise, and she’d certainly not shaken on it!