Plot Boiler

by Ali Brandon

  Hamlet, meanwhile, apparently decided the chin braids weren’t worth going after, and Darla left the two youths chatting as she locked away the checkbook again and went to assist a customer who’d just come in. Pinky departed a few minutes later, with a promise he’d be available for any and all future block party events. At quarter to one, Darla grabbed her purse.

  “I’m headed over to Steve’s place for lunch,” she told Robert, who had returned to stocking the shelves. “I’ve got a couple of things to discuss with him about the block party. James should be here in a minute. You have things under control?”

  “All good here, Ms. P.,” he assured her with a cheeky salute.

  She nodded and, with a final pat for Hamlet, headed out the door. Why she hadn’t admitted that her lunch appointment was with Reese, she wasn’t certain. Robert wasn’t the type to crack jokes or gossip, particularly about his boss, so that wasn’t the issue. But he might innocently mention something to Jake, who’d then jump on that morsel of information like a duck on a June bug, as they said back home in Texas.

  Which wouldn’t have mattered, she realized in wry amusement, since she’d probably end up discussing any dramatic revelations with Jake, anyhow.

  The short walk to Thai Me Up was still long enough in the July heat for Darla to be glad that she’d opted for cropped yellow cotton pants and her favorite tropical print Pettistone’s polo. She gave a sigh of relief when she ducked into the restaurant’s cool interior. She’d left her sunglasses at the apartment, so it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. A few tables were already filled near the front, but a quick scan of the place showed that Reese wasn’t there yet. Probably running late due to some work-related crisis or another. Sure enough, just then her phone vibrated, and another text appeared on the screen: On the way.

  “Hi, Darla,” Steve’s daughter Kayla Mookjai greeted her from behind the hostess counter. Today, the smiling teen was dressed in black capris and a white T-shirt topped by a cropped black vest. Her sleek black hair was twisted in some complicated knot and held in place with a red lacquered chopstick, giving her a casually professional look.

  Steve must have laid down the law about the dress code, Darla thought with a smile. On most of her previous visits, Kayla had made do with cutoff blue jeans and logo T-shirts of various sorts.

  “Is it just you today?” the girl asked, reaching behind the tranquil golden Buddha statue on the counter beside her for a menu and silverware.

  Darla shook her head. “Actually, Detective Reese will be joining me in a bit.” Keeping in mind the likely direction their conversation would take, she added, “Can we get a booth?”

  Kayla obligingly led her to a booth directly beneath an ornately framed photograph of an elderly Asian gentleman in embroidered gold robes. The somber, kindly faced image was that of the Thai king, whom Darla had learned on a previous visit was the world’s longest-reigning monarch. Taking a bit of comfort in his serene presence, she settled in and studied the menu for a few moments.

  “Ah, Darla, it is good to see you. It has been so long.”

  She glanced up to see Steve, dressed in his usual crisp chef’s jacket, standing beside the booth. Despite the late night—the restaurant had still been open when Darla had left after midnight—he looked relatively well rested and good-humored, smiling at his mild joke.

  “It has been, hasn’t it?” she greeted him with a matching smile, putting aside the menu. Then, sobering, she went on, “Thanks for hosting everyone last night. I know you’ve got good reason to dislike George, but that was kind of you to let us all gather here.”

  “Livvy was nice lady, so I thought it right. My children like her very much.” He paused and made a show of glancing around. “So, you here alone today?”

  “Actually, Detective Reese is joining me. He’s just running a bit late.” Then, recalling an earlier thought, she added, “Have you heard from Doug today? Now that I think about it, I don’t remember seeing him here last night with everyone else. And when Robert went to pick up doughnuts for the coffee bar, his place was locked up.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “Yes, but I only got his voice mail.”

  Steve shrugged. “Maybe he tired after yesterday and decide to take a day off. I do that, too, but I have two kids to send to college.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, and I have to say I don’t blame him. It’s just that I was hoping that we could all get together sometime today or tomorrow for a postmortem.”

  Steve’s eyes opened wide. “Postmortem? Like on CSI? I do not understand why we would do this.”

  Darla winced. “Sorry, bad choice of words, under the circumstances. I was throwing out a little business jargon from my old job. We always had a postmortem meeting after a project—you know, like our block party—finished, so we could figure out what worked and what didn’t, and how to fix all the ‘didn’ts’ for next time.”

  “Ah, yes, a post-project evaluation,” he said with a nod, earning a look of surprise from Darla. He smiled a little. “Remember, I go to business school, myself. Yes, a very good idea. If you call Penelope, I call Doug later.”

  “Perfect. And I’ll call Hank, too. We can all meet at the bookstore as early tomorrow morning as you want. Send me a text after you get hold of Doug.”

  With a promise to send out some complimentary mango sorbet after her meal, Steve headed back to the kitchen. Darla, meanwhile, glanced at her watch. Quarter after one. Late for a civilian, but still in the ballpark of being on time for a cop. She wondered a bit uncharitably if Connie was with the program yet when it came to her future spouse’s punctuality.

  And then the restaurant door opened again, and Reese strode in.

  He was dressed for work, wearing gray slacks and a summer-weight sport coat of pale blue and gray herringbone over a crisp white dress shirt. He’d definitely improved from a sartorial perspective since she’d first met him, Darla thought in approval, even though she knew it wasn’t by choice. He had confided a while back that his superiors had strongly suggested the wardrobe upgrade if he wanted to be considered for promotion.

  She watched as he stopped at the hostess stand. His gaze beneath his usual wraparound sunglasses swept the room and landed on her with a nod of acknowledgment. Despite herself, Darla couldn’t help feeling the tiniest thrill of anticipation.

  Just two friends having lunch, she reminded herself, trying to ignore the color she could feel rising in her cheeks. Besides, he’s an engaged man now, and off the market.

  Kayla, meanwhile, had been chatting with her brother, Jason, who was working this day as a busboy. Spying Reese waiting, however, the girl turned her back on the teen and practically ran to the front.

  She added a distinctly saucy bounce to her walk as she gestured Reese to follow and led him over to the booth.

  Without asking, Darla swiftly switched sides so that Reese could have his preferred seat, the one facing the door. One of those “cop” things, as he’d long ago explained to her. Jake did it, too, always sitting in a spot with a clear view of any entrances or exits so that she could keep an eye out for any potential trouble. By the time she was settled again, Reese had pulled off his sport coat and was sliding into her just-vacated spot.

  “I’ll be right back for your order,” Kayla promised him as she provided another menu and set of silverware, seeming to forget that Darla was at the table as well.

  Reese waited until the girl was out of earshot to say, “I appreciate you meeting on short notice, Darla. I really need to talk to you, without anyone else around.”

  She nodded, not certain which was more unsettling . . . the whole “needing to talk” thing, or the fact that he’d called her Darla, and not “Red.” Irritating as she’d always found the nickname, it occurred to her now that she rather missed hearing it from him. Had he decided such kidding around was a bit too friendly under the
current circumstances?

  He’d slipped off his sunglasses as he spoke, and she could see fine lines and dark smudges beneath his blue eyes. No doubt he, too, had spent a very late Fourth.

  “Was Connie disappointed to miss the fireworks?” she asked in an innocent tone.

  Reese rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. She got to see them. We were headed back to her place when I got the call about Mrs. King, so I called in a favor with an off-duty street cop I know. I slipped him a few bucks to escort her out to the launch, and then put her in a cab back home afterward.”

  “Well, I’m sure she understood. It’ll be like that a lot for her once you two tie the knot.”

  Reese shrugged. “Don’t worry. Connie knows the drill. She’s got an uncle and a couple of cousins who are cops.”

  He paused as Kayla came back to take their order. Darla went with her usual shrimp fried rice—“and don’t forget the bottle of chili sauce,” she reminded the girl—while Reese went for basic pad Thai. Both of them opted for the traditional coconut milk soup flavored with lemongrass and chunks of chicken.

  They chatted about inconsequential things until Kayla brought the soup; then, after a quick taste, Reese set down his patterned ceramic spoon. His voice lowered to a confidential tone now, he said, “Like I told you in my text, we need to talk. There’s something I didn’t have a chance to ask you about yesterday.”

  Darla set down her own spoon and nodded, her earlier nervousness returning. Was he going to demand to know if she had feelings for him, after all? Or, perhaps worse, did he want relationship advice?

  “Ask away,” she told him with more equanimity than she felt, and casually returned to her soup.

  He glanced around as if to be sure they wouldn’t be overheard, even though the only other diners were at tables along the front windows. Apparently satisfied, he leaned toward Darla and asked, “What do you know about vaping?”

  “Vaping?”

  She stared at him in confusion, trying to absorb what seemed to be a complete non sequitur. Weren’t they there to discuss Reese’s unexpected engagement? What did e-cigarettes have to do with that? Obviously, this wasn’t the topic he’d wanted to discuss with her the other day in the bookstore, so she had been wrong about his motive for wanting to see her.

  Unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved, she took another spoonful of soup to give herself a chance to regain her composure, and then replied, “I know what it is, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Go on.”

  Feeling like she was answering some sort of trivia quiz, Darla set down her spoon again.

  “I’m not an expert, but from what Livvy told me about it, I know you put flavored nicotine oil into a reservoir in a battery-powered vapor pen that heats up. The oil—they call it “juice”—produces this warm steam that you inhale like you would cigarette smoke. Most people use vape pens to help quit the smoking habit, but a lot of people—particularly teenagers—vape for the sake of vaping.”

  “Go to the head of the class,” he said with an approving nod. “So, anyone you know doing it?”

  The detective’s tone was casual, but all at once Darla was certain that he had a very specific reason for asking that question. Curious now herself—if she gave him some answers, maybe he’d share the true question?—she said, “Penelope Winston, the dance instructor, vapes, as they call it. And George King, too.”

  “Uh-huh,” he muttered, reaching for his sport coat to pull out a small notebook, which he flipped open and scribbled in. “You said Mrs. King told you about vaping. So you’re saying that she used a vapor pen, too?”

  Darla considered that last question for a moment, a bit surprised he didn’t already know this from George. “Yes, actually, she did . . . but not for nicotine. She had rheumatoid arthritis and said she used the vape pen with some concoctions she made to treat herself. Why do you ask?”

  Reese’s shrug seemed a bit too casual as he picked up his spoon again and dipped into his soup.

  “Idle curiosity,” he replied after a couple of swallows. “When we moved Mrs. King’s body yesterday, we found one of those vape pens lying underneath her. I wondered if she’d dropped it when she collapsed.”

  Darla frowned, forgetting her earlier dismay. Maybe Livvy’s death was connected to her vaping, just as she and Jake had theorized that morning. Could Livvy have accidentally overdosed on some potent herbal cure?

  She was tempted to run her theory by Reese, but she knew from past experience that he’d likely dismiss her idea as the product of an overactive imagination. Besides, if there were any traces of herbs in Livvy’s system, the ME would find them. It wasn’t Darla’s job.

  She was saved from having to make any response when Kayla reappeared bearing a large plate of pad Thai in one hand and a condiment caddy in the other. She set Reese’s plate before him and put the condiment caddy to one side.

  “Here you go. Fish sauce, sugar, white vinegar with sliced chile, ground dried chile,” she told him, pointing in quick succession to each lidded glass jar with its individual long metal spoon. “I had Pop toss on a few extra shrimp, on the house. Anything else I can get for you?”

  “How about my shrimp fried rice?” Darla asked with a bland smile.

  The girl had the good grace to look embarrassed.

  “So sorry. I’ll be right back,” she exclaimed and scampered back to the kitchen. She reappeared a moment later with Darla’s meal, along with a tiny foil packet shaped into a star.

  “So sorry,” she repeated, sounding legitimately contrite. Indicating the foil star, she added, “And I brought you some more shrimp to take back to Hamlet.”

  Well played, Darla thought in admiration. Aloud, she assured the girl, “Hamlet will be very pleased. Thanks for thinking of him.”

  Once Kayla retreated again, Darla and Reese settled in to eat, and for a few minutes the only sounds were those of clinking silverware and chewing. Then Reese set down his spoon and leaned back, swiping his mouth with his napkin.

  “There’s something else I need to talk to you about,” he abruptly declared.

  Darla set down her own utensils, sensing that the conversation she thought they’d avoided was going to happen, after all. Her first impulse was to cut him short and skip the drama, but Reese’s expression was that of a man who had come to a decision and was prepared to see it through.

  Might as well get all the awkwardness out of the way before it drags on too long, she thought with an inner sigh and nodded for him to proceed.

  “Remember the other day in the bookstore when I stopped by?” he began. “I didn’t just happen to be in the neighborhood. I came there specifically to explain about—”

  The rhythmic beep from the vicinity of his sport coat cut him short. With an apologetic, “Sorry,” he swiftly rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Reese,” he answered, tucking the phone between ear and shoulder as he reached for his notebook and pen. “Yeah. You sure? How long ago?” he went on, scribbling a few notes. Flipping the notebook closed again, he told the caller, “Got it. I’m on my way.”

  He hung up the call and slid out of the booth, gathering his jacket and cramming his gear into its pocket again.

  “Sorry,” he repeated. “Duty calls, gotta go.” Waving Kayla over, he reached for his wallet, adding, “We’ll catch up another time.”

  “Sure,” Darla agreed aloud. Bullet dodged, she silently congratulated herself.

  A few moments later, leaving the last bit of his pad Thai uneaten, Reese was out the door. Connie had better know the drill, all right, Darla thought with a snort.

  She finished off her shrimp fried rice, and Kayla brought over the promised mango ice cream for dessert. Before digging in, however, Darla remembered her conversation with Steve about the post-project meeting, so she pulled out her phone and quickly dialed Hank.
He answered on the first ring and, after she explained the plan, agreed he’d be available tomorrow morning. She also mentioned her concern over not having been able to reach Doug.

  “Sorry, Darla, haven’t heard from him,” Hank said. “Call me back with a time as soon as you get hold of everyone else. If I hear from Doug, I’ll tell him to call you pronto.”

  That task out of the way, she polished off the mango ice cream in a few bites; then, Hamlet’s shrimp in hand, she headed out the door. But instead of heading directly to the store, she went a few stops the opposite way, to Penelope’s dance studio. Might as well check in with the woman in person about the meeting tomorrow. Besides, maybe Penelope had heard from Doug.

  As she reached the door, however, Darla found the dance studio was locked. A festive length of bunting still hung over the entry, though, and what appeared to be a hastily written sign in black marker on the blank side of a shoe box lid was taped to the front door.

  “Closed for the holiday weekend,” Darla read aloud.

  Of course it made sense. Penelope had planned to be away, and with their block party obligation fulfilled, her students would all be with their families or traveling for the July Fourth weekend. Nodding to herself, she turned around and headed back to the bookstore.

  Even so, something about the shuttered studio nagged at her. But it wasn’t until she reached her own stoop that Darla realized what it was.

  The sign.

  TWELVE

  Darla gave a considering frown as she climbed the steps leading to the bookstore’s front door. Penelope was nothing if not artistic. Darla had seen her handiwork in the signage and fliers for the block party. If she was going to be shutting her studio for the long weekend, surely she would have already had a notice made spelling that out, or, at minimum, she could have readily printed up something on her computer.

  A hand-scrawled notice taped to the door just didn’t seem Penelope’s style.