by Ali Brandon
“Oh, Livvy, I’m so sorry,” Darla softly exclaimed. “One of my friends back in Dallas has that, and I know she’s always up and down about how she is feeling.”
“Actually, I’ve gotten some relief so far from my own concoctions, though Georgie tells me it’s all in my head. But I’m still pretty much an amateur at this whole herb thing, so I need a solid reference book.”
“So, do you make herbal teas or tinctures or something?” Darla asked, curious.
Livvy smiled again and whipped out a red vapor pen like the one her husband had used the day before.
“Teas are old-school. I’m turning all those old recipes into e-juice.”
“E-juice?”
“That’s what the liquid—actually, it’s oil—is inside these vape pens. Most people use juice that has nicotine in it, since they’re trying to give up regular cigarettes. I make my own, put my herbs into oil, and let them steep until I’ve got a strong mix. And then I smoke it.”
She started to raise the vapor pen to her lips and then paused. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s not really smoke; it’s just water vapor that smells like herbs.”
“No worries. Penelope uses her vapor pen here in the store all the time.”
“Penelope Winston?”
She grimaced a little, and Darla gave her a quizzical look. Livvy shrugged in return. “She and I go back,” was her cryptic explanation. And from her sour look, apparently “back” wasn’t a pleasant place. Darla’s curiosity was piqued. Livvy wasn’t young enough to have attended Penelope’s studio, so it couldn’t be a student/teacher clash. But if they’d crossed paths here in the neighborhood, it was more than possible that she and the crass-spoken dance instructor had managed somehow to butt heads.
Reminding herself it was none of her business, Darla changed the subject. “I guess those vapor pens are quite the trend here in the neighborhood. And I think that everyone I’ve seen has this exact same model.”
“Yeah, it’s top-of-the-line if you’re on a budget,” Livvy said through a cloud of woodsy-smelling mist, waving the pen in demonstration like a shopping channel hostess. “Easy to clean and fill, nice finish, not too lightweight and not too heavy. What kind do you have?”
“Me?” Darla gave an amused snort. “Sorry, nonsmoker here.”
“Really? I assumed . . . Oh, never mind,” Livvy cut herself short. “But if you decide you want one to use for something besides, um, nicotine, the cheapest place to go is Bill’s Books and Stuff. At the price he sells them, he must have bought a truckload of this style. That’s where all the kids get theirs.”
Now it was Darla’s turn to grimace. “Bill’s Books and Stuff?” she repeated. “You mean, Porn Shop Bill?”
The man who was nicknamed “The Not-So-Great Ape” because of his hunched form and copious carrot-hued body hair owned an adult bookstore in a rougher neighborhood a few blocks from Darla’s store. Prior to coming to work at Pettistone’s, a desperate Robert had worked there. He’d even rented a dismal room from his sleazy employer, only to be fired and left homeless when he defended an underage girl from one of Bill’s favorite customers.
Darla had clashed with the man when Bill came to her store soon after, demanding Robert return overpayment from his final paycheck. She’d shoved cash from her own register at Bill and then thrown him out, fervently vowing as she did so never to lay eyes on the adult-bookstore owner again if she didn’t have to.
Livvy apparently saw the distaste Darla didn’t bother to hide, for she shook her head and smiled a bit more broadly.
“Yes, I know, he’s disgusting, but sometimes you can’t pass up a great deal. But whatever you do, don’t buy any e-juice from him. It’s probably contaminated with who knows what. There’s a really nice vapor shop on Kent Avenue that Georgie goes to—” She broke off and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Georgie! I forgot! I need to get his lunch. He gets so grumpy when he doesn’t eat. You’ll call me if you find the book, right?”
“James will put a verbal hold on it if he finds a good deal, but we won’t buy it until I get hold of you and we get the official okay back from you.”
“Perfect,” Livvy agreed, trotting off toward the door. “I’ll see you Friday at the block party.”
She gave a quick nod to James, who was entering as she was rushing past. While the string of bells on the door jingled after her as she shut the door again, James inquired, “A new customer?”
“That’s Livvy King. She’s the wife of our good friend George from Perky’s.”
Which reminded her that they’d not yet tried the Kona Blue Party blend of coffee she’d bought yesterday. Note to self—have Robert brew it up before we shut down for the night. The youth was working a split shift that day, so he would be back again late in the afternoon when they’d have time to experiment.
James, meanwhile, was nodding. “Ah, yes. I hope she was not here to terrorize you on her husband’s behalf.”
“Not at all. She’s Good Cop to George’s Bad Cop,” Darla said with a wry smile. “And, actually, she was here as a customer. She’s got an out-of-print book she wants us to find for her. I’ll email you the details.”
“Fine.”
James pulled out his travel mug from his leather messenger bag—despite having a full coffee bar and barista at his disposal, he preferred to brew his own coffee at home—and set it on the counter. “Anything else specific for this afternoon?”
Darla shook her head. “Everything is status quo for the rest of the day . . . Oh, except that I have to run out around four to Penelope’s studio for a few minutes. I need to leave her a couple of checks, plus we’re doing a final scheduling of the dance routines. But Robert is working a split today, so he’ll be here to cover while I’m out.”
“I must admit, I will be glad when your block party is over,” James observed as he stashed his bag beneath the counter. “First the construction, then the coffee bar grand opening, and now a July Fourth party. Did anyone ever tell you, Darla, that you are—how shall we put it?—an overachiever?”
“It’s a curse,” she agreed with a chuckle, “but I get what you’re saying. And I promise, no more projects once this block party is over with.”
* * *
“James, I’m headed over to Penelope’s studio now,” Darla said a few minutes before four o’clock, picking up her purse and phone. “Robert will be here in a couple of minutes. Do you want me to bring something from the deli on the way back?”
“Actually, I will be dining with Martha this evening after we close. She has found a new Italian restaurant that specializes in Northern cuisine, so we agreed to give it a try.”
“Sounds like fun,” Darla agreed. “And remind Martha she’d better be at the block party on Friday, too.”
Martha Washington—no relation to the First Lady of the same name, as that woman would laughingly tell new acquaintances—had been dating James for the past year, though it had taken James almost that long to admit their relationship was more than just friends. Part of it had to do with the age difference: Martha was in her late thirties, while James was a few years shy of seventy.
Darla originally had been a bit skeptical of James and Martha’s May-December relationship, but soon enough she had determined that the pair seemed well suited despite the age difference. They had numerous shared interests—books and music and food—but even their differences were complementary. Where the ex-professor was stuffy, Martha was down-to-earth. And when he got on his helium-inflated high horse, she didn’t hesitate to let a bit of air out of it.
“Meow!”
That comment came from Hamlet, who knew that purse and phone in hand meant Darla was on her way somewhere. She gave the cat a fond look but shook her head.
“Sorry, Hammy, but I’m going to the dance studio. You wouldn’t like all that music and thumping around. We’ll see about a walk tonight.”
Leaving James to hold down the fort, she started off in the direction of Penelope’s studio. She arrived to find that the afternoon class was still in progress, the dancers’ silhouettes visible through the sheer white curtains spanning the broad front window. She’d been inside the Brooklyn Modern Dance Institute a couple of times in the past, so she was already familiar with the studio.
Most of the original interior had been torn down to create a single large room with custom mirrored and barred walls on two sides. An expensive sprung dance floor had been laid over the existing hardwood, covering three-quarters of the space and raising that portion of the studio by a good half foot. On the remaining walls, framed dance art—including several black-and-white photos of Penelope in her dance prime—lent inspiration to all levels of would-be ballerinas.
Darla knew that, in her office, Penelope displayed the slightly less conventional photos. A teenage Penelope riding on a camel against a backdrop of pyramids. A slightly older version of her in arabesque upon an ocean sand dune. And, Darla’s favorite: Penelope wearing denim shorts and a bright green cropped blouse grinning as she climbed to the top of the mast of what appeared to be a banana boat.
Pleased at the chance to see the students in action, Darla hurried inside and took her silent seat along the far wall reserved for spectators.
Perhaps twenty students of high school age—almost all of them girls in pink tights and black leotards, though three boys in black tights and white T-shirts completed the class—moved in groups of three across the dance floor. Their graceful images were reflected in the mirrored walls to either side of them—some tall, some short, but all far more polished than any ballet class Darla had ever seen. Two of the students she recognized as the girls, Emma and Allison, whom Penelope had shooed from the coffee bar.
While Darla watched, the girls performed one short combination of steps, the boys following with a complementary routine. They danced to what Darla recognized as a piece by Tchaikovsky, which a frumpy middle-aged woman in powder blue slacks was coaxing from an old upright in the studio’s far corner. Stationed not far from the piano was Penelope dressed in a dark blue leotard and matching overskirt.
Like a pint-sized drill sergeant, Penelope kept time to the piano music, shouting out a cadence and thumping the sleek black cane she clutched against the sprung wooden floor.
“And one and two and—chin up, Megan!” Penelope rasped out. “And seven and eight—Lindy, you’re supposed to be a swan, not a pelican! And three and four—Josh, you’re not hailing a cab. Keep those arms steady and graceful!”
Darla stifled a smile. She’d taken ballet for a semester back when she was in grade school, and Mrs. Miller had been a similar harridan in tights, regularly reducing some of the more sensitive children to tears. But as Darla recalled, quite a number of the old battle-ax’s students had made the cut at regional and national dance companies. From what she’d heard, Penelope’s longtime students were at a similar level.
“Stop!”
At that command, the piano abruptly fell silent, while the dancers stumbled to a swift halt in a ballet version of red light, green light. Shoving her cane into the hands of the short blond girl closest to her, Penelope strode to the center of the room and waved the students back toward the walls. Her tone imperious, she said, “Apparently, a few of you girls think you’re at a school dance. Let me demonstrate once again for those of you who didn’t bother watching the first time. Madame Pianist . . .”
She gestured toward the woman at the piano, then struck a willowy pose, one arm curved overhead and the other extended. The pianist ran her fingers across the keys, and a delicate stream of notes spilled across the studio. While her students watched, Penelope launched into a graceful series of pirouettes and small leaps, all but levitating above the sprung floor.
Darla watched, too, transfixed for a few magical seconds. Gone was the crude-mouthed pixie she knew, replaced by a delicate swan gliding across unseen water. Compared with Penelope, the student dancers were pelicans, indeed, Darla told herself.
With a final flutter of a kick, Penelope ended the combination in an arabesque, one leg extended behind her at a right angle and swanlike arms frozen in midflight.
“All right, you think you can manage it this time?” she demanded of the class, dropping the pose and snatching the cane back from her student as she strode in a quite un-swanlike manner back to her spot near the piano. “Now, line up, and let’s try it again.”
The class proceeded in much the same fashion for another quarter of an hour, before Penelope called a final halt.
“Dismissed,” she said with one last thump of the cane. “Go cool down. And those of you who are part of the block party flash mob, be sure you’re here Friday morning at ten on the dot for makeup and costume!”
While the class hurried over to the barre along one mirrored wall and began the cooldown stretches, Penelope went over to the piano for a few words with her accompanist. Then, leaving the other woman to gather her sheet music before departing, the dance instructor plucked her red vape pen from a vase atop the upright and strode in Darla’s direction.
“Those kids will be the death of me,” she muttered, taking a long drag on the pen and exhaling a cloud of vapor that almost obscured her face. “When I was a student, we had discipline.”
She gave her cane a threatening shake, glaring in the direction of her class still gathered at the barre. “When I screwed up, Monsieur Lavoisier wasn’t afraid to whack me in the leg with his cane. I learned to listen.”
“Well, I think these days they call that child abuse, and there’s a law against it,” Darla reminded her with a mild smile. “Besides, I think they were pretty darned good. And you, you’re brilliant. I could watch you dance all afternoon!”
Penelope dismissed the compliment with a snort of vapor, but a smile twitched momentarily on her lips, so that Darla guessed she was pleased by the praise. Then, in a calmer tone, she went on, “The girls are all set for Friday. We’ve got three different choreographies that we’ll repeat once each, so that’s six performances. That’ll take us from noon until six.”
“Perfect. We’ll stick with the original plan, on the hour each hour,” Darla agreed as she reached into her bag. “And here are those checks the committee owes you. I’m almost afraid to ask, did those pinwheels ever show up?”
“Back in the storeroom. It’s amazing what you can do with a few well-placed threats,” she answered with a grin. “Speaking of which, did old George ever come through with his share of the vendor fee?”
“Actually, Livvy—his wife—was the one who paid up for them. It’s like Beauty and the Beast with those two,” Darla observed with a wry smile. “He’s king of the jerks, and she’s just as nice as she can be.”
“You think?”
Penelope’s expression twisted into the same sour look that Livvy had worn earlier that day when speaking of the dance instructor. Darla belatedly recalled how Livvy had said she and Penelope “went back.”
Her voice growing more strident, Penelope went on, “Well, Miss Livvy might play like she’s all sweetness and light, but she’s the one who calls the shots with George. Don’t let that delicate and helpless look fool you. Believe me, Livvy King is a first-class b—”
She broke off before finishing the epithet, since a few of her younger students were in earshot. Taking a calming breath, the dance instructor finished with a G-rated version.
“—Backstabber, a first-class backstabber. Watch yourself around her.”
Apparently, the “going back” thing went both ways. But when it came to the two women, Darla intended to play Switzerland. Channeling said neutrality, she hurriedly changed the subject.
“Okay, we’ve got the pinwheels and checks taken care of, and we’re in agreement on the flash mob schedule. Anything else we should go over?”
“Nah, I think we’re covered. But I tell yo
u, Darla, after this I think I’m going to take a couple of days off. Trying to get all these kids ready for tryouts on top of teaching all the classes by myself is starting to be too much. I think I need my guy to take me on a little road trip to wind down.”
“Your guy?”
Darla raised her brows, curious. Had she been right about that little incident with Doug in the bookstore, after all? Or maybe the guy in question was someone else, altogether. Either way, she was glad to know that Penelope had someone.
But instead of the coy smile that Darla expected from her, the woman’s expression once again turned sour. “Yeah, my guy, and the SOB owes me. I just found out he’s been seeing someone on the side.”
Definitely not Doug, Darla swiftly decided. He might look like a player with the gold chains and all, but she knew he was as softhearted as they came.
Aloud, she said with a sympathetic nod, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” recalling a similar incident toward the end of her marriage. “But maybe a nice romantic couple of days somewhere will fix things.”
“We’ll see.” Then the woman brightened. “Anyhow, Darla, I think our block party is going to knock off everyone’s socks. And when everyone is talking about it after Friday, we’ll make sure you get all the credit for everything that happened.”
SIX
“Robert, you ready to play corporate spy and try to figure out what’s so special about this coffee?”
Smiling, Darla shook the bag of roasted beans that she’d bought from Perky’s a couple of days earlier for an outrageous price. It was about thirty minutes until opening time on Thursday morning, meaning it was just Darla, Robert, and Hamlet upstairs at the coffee bar—and, once again, Hamlet seemed overly interested in the special blend. He had leaped onto the bar top and was moving cautiously toward the bag she held. Ignoring Darla, he put out a large fluffy paw so that he was almost—but not quite—touching the sack.
