Plot Boiler

by Ali Brandon

  He had let them know two critical pieces of information. A brief note in Penelope’s handwriting had been found with her body, indicating the probable suicide. He’d also confirmed Darla’s theory by telling Jake that Doug had readily admitted to both an ongoing relationship with Penelope, and—a bit more reluctantly—a one-time, recent fling with none other than Livvy. All this had given her even more reason to want to see Doug face-to-face.

  Now, Darla considered what she knew to this point, feeling vindicated that at least her theory about Doug and Penelope had proven correct. But while she could accept the hot-tempered ex-ballerina possibly murdering a rival in the heat of the moment, she couldn’t picture her doing it in such a clandestine way . . . nor could she picture Penelope then killing herself from guilt. It didn’t make sense.

  Now, Jake broke the momentary silence that had fallen between them as they walked.

  “I understand where your head is, kid. All these bits and pieces Reese is feeding us is raising a lot of questions for me, too. If it were my case, I’d be looking at that whole suicide scenario a bit harder. But Reese said she left a note behind.”

  Darla reluctantly nodded. “I know, but I still can’t believe she’d kill herself over a man. I need to hear what Doug knows, and if this whole thing about the affair is true. I just can’t accept that a nice guy like him would be in the middle of something so, well, unsavory.”

  “Believe me, the nice guys are the ones you have to watch out for. And I’ve got a filing cabinet drawer full of case files to prove it.”

  “I suppose so.”

  They lapsed into silence again as they reached the street corner and prepared to cross to the next block. Already the midsummer heat had begun to build, though it was barely nine a.m. Traffic, however, was light . . . doubtless because a good number of nine-to-fivers had decided to extend their three-day weekend to four days.

  “Well, kid, I stand corrected,” came Jake’s wry voice as they neared Doug’s place. “It looks like Doug really is getting a delivery.”

  A box truck with liftgate was parked on the street outside the doughnut shop, the vehicle blocking traffic as a four-man crew wrestled an open-crated, full-sized, glass-fronted counter off the back of the truck. As Darla and Jake watched from a short distance, the men lowered the fixture to the ground. After some lively debate, when it became obvious the counter couldn’t fit through the door as it was, they crowbarred off the wooden slats and shoved it through the front door with inches to spare.

  By the time Darla and Jake reached the shop, Doug was signing off the trucking company paperwork. The doors were still propped open, so they slipped inside before he could protest. To Darla’s relief, however, he didn’t seem inclined to toss them back out onto the street.

  The baker waited until the deliverymen had trudged back out to their truck to nod toward the new display case sitting where the old counter had been.

  “My insurance agent is a buddy of mine,” he explained. “I got him to agree that the other display counter was, you know . . . I mean, I couldn’t look at it anymore because . . .”

  He trailed off, expression haunted, and then finally finished, “Anyhow, he got it declared damaged and rushed my claim through.”

  Darla nodded, suddenly uncertain just quite what to say. She’d last seen the baker as he’d wandered from his store after being questioned by Reese. Then, after an initial frantic reaction, he had been in seeming shock at seeing Penelope curled up against the glass display.

  Today, the distant look had begun to fade from his eyes, but he wasn’t quite the same Doug. True, he was wearing much the same outfit as he’d been sporting the other day, cutoff jeans and an untucked fishing shirt, but even though only two days had passed, he appeared to have lost weight. But what most struck her was the fact that his gold chains were missing from around his neck.

  A symbol of mourning? A nod to a newly ascetic lifestyle?

  He settled heavily into one of the wooden chairs at the window table and struggled for a smile. “Sorry, ladies,” he said in a voice that cracked, “no doughnuts today. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Abruptly he began to sob . . . harsh, gasping chokes that wracked his whole body. Darla shot a helpless look at Jake, who gave a fleeting shrug and shake of her head.

  What to do?

  A pat on the shoulder seemed far too inadequate, while an attempt at a hug felt intrusive. But even as Darla hesitated, Doug managed to regain his composure. Wiping his eyes and nose on a handful of paper napkins from the metal table dispenser, he gave her and Jake a helpless look.

  “She left a note for me. That detective fellow, Reese, showed me so I could identify her handwriting.”

  “Do you remember what the note said?” Darla gently asked him.

  He choked out a laugh. “It was only a few words. I memorized it.” Gazing at the far wall, as if the photographs of doughnuts spelled it out for him, he recited, “Sorry. It should never have happened.”

  Darla frowned. Not much of a note, under the circumstances. What was Penelope trying to say should never have happened? Their relationship? His cheating? Livvy’s death? Her own? It was too vague to pinpoint. And as for the note itself . . .

  Her frown deepened. Doug had sounded sincere in his assertion that the note had been penned by her. But surely the police were giving it a more thorough look than simply taking Doug’s word that the writing was hers.

  The baker, meanwhile, shook his head and heaved a sigh. “I don’t understand any of this. Why would she kill Livvy over my stupidity? And why kill herself . . . and in my shop? How am I ever supposed to get that picture outta my head?”

  Darla and Jake took chairs on either side of Doug, and this time Darla opted for a simple clasp of his hand. “I know it’s hard, but I’ve always found that the more times you repeat a painful story, the less hold it starts to have on you.”

  “And maybe it would help if we told you a couple of things,” Jake spoke up. “At the block party, Penelope asked about hiring me to check up on the man she was seeing. She told me she’d found a receipt from a local hotel for a day the guy had claimed to be out of town. Between that and the gut feeling she had, she was pretty sure he was having an affair. Sound familiar?”

  “It was just one stupid time,” he blustered. “It wasn’t until afterward I figured out Livvy was just using me to get back at Penelope and George, both.”

  “Wait,” Jake protested. “How did Livvy know about you two, when as far as the rest of us were concerned, the fact you and Penelope were dating was such a state secret?”

  “Uh, maybe I told her?”

  Despite her dismay, Darla couldn’t help but roll her eyes at this.

  Doug caught her look.

  “I didn’t mean I was bragging or nothing,” he quickly explained. “But I was talking to her over at Perky’s one time—I buy a sack of coffee there every couple of weeks—and outta nowhere she asks me how serious me and Penny are. I wasn’t thinking. I just told her we were taking it a day at a time.”

  Then he frowned. “You know, Livvy always seemed to know things about the neighborhood. I don’t know how she figured out about me and Penny. Heck, maybe she had some sort of spy thing going on with those kids that would hang around her place.”

  Jake, meanwhile, persisted, “Back to what you said before, about Livvy wanting to get back at Penelope and George. Get back at them for what?”

  He shrugged. “Search me. Anyhow, Livvy kept coming on to me, and I finally decided, what the heck? I mean, it’s not like me and Penelope was engaged or anything.”

  “Maybe, but Livvy was married,” Darla pointed out.

  Doug had the good grace to look embarrassed at the observation. “Yeah, I kinda forgot about that until afterward. So I told Livvy that we’d had a few laughs, but the one time was it. She seemed good with that, and I made sure to toss the receipt in the trash
. I dunno, maybe Livvy dug it out and put it somewhere Penelope would find it.”

  While Darla considered this, Doug gave his new counter a sorrowful look. “I wonder if maybe I should just close up and be done with it. Who’s gonna want to buy doughnuts here again? I’d better tell Emma she needs to start looking for another job.”

  “Emma?” Darla recognized the name as one of the girls from her coffee shop. “Short, dark hair, thin?”

  “Yeah, one of Penny’s students. She works part-time for me. Good kid, hard worker, but I might need to lay her off now . . . you know, if things don’t work out.”

  “Nuthin’s working out!” came a boozy declaration from the open doorway. “You made sure of that!”

  George King had staggered his way inside the shop. His stained Perky’s shirt looked like it had been dragged through the gutters . . . though from the look of the man, Darla wouldn’t have been surprised had George been dragged along with it.

  Clutching the doorjamb, the Coffee King pointed a beefy finger at Doug and blustered, “My Livvy’s gone, an’ it’s all your fault. You need t’pay for it!”

  “Hang on, George,” Jake interjected, sliding back her chair before Doug could respond. Stepping into the gap between the two men, she went on, “We all know you’ve suffered a shock, but so has Doug. Coming in here and making threats won’t bring either woman back.”

  “Yeah, but it’ll make me feel better,” George puffed out, swaying as he gathered himself to move closer. “I think it’s time me and Dougie-boy had it out.”

  Doug, meanwhile, had shoved back his own chair and risen, a spark of his usual swagger returning. “I’m not going to fight you, George. Why don’t you go back home and sober up?”

  The Coffee King’s face abruptly crumpled. “I can’t go home. I can’t stay there alone.”

  He slid in slow motion down the length of the doorjamb, until he was seated splay-legged across the transom, head lolling. Alarmed, Darla exchanged looks with Jake and Doug. “What do we do with him?”

  “We need to get him sobered up, first,” was Jake’s practical advice. “If he won’t stay in his own place, maybe we can set him up someplace.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Darla said in alarm, holding up both hands in a “stop” gesture. “I feel sorry for the guy, but no way is he camping out on my sofa.”

  “Don’t worry, kid. I’m not volunteering my place, either. Maybe we can get him settled in a hotel somewhere.”

  “Eh, he can bunk with me,” Doug spoke up.

  Darla stared at him in surprise, but it was Jake who put into words what they both were thinking.

  “Are you serious? George just came in here looking for a fight. Somehow, I don’t think he’s going to be too thrilled when he sobers up and finds out you’re his new roomie.”

  Doug gave a sheepish shrug. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Drunk or sober, my face is the last one he wants to see. But look at him. He’s all bluster and no action. Least I can do is give him a place to lay his head until he’s ready to go back to his own place. If things go south when he sobers up, well, I’ll deal with it then.”

  Jake raised a brow. “You sure?”

  “No, but I feel like it’s the right thing to do.” Bypassing Jake, Doug walked over to George and reached down to give the man’s shoulder a shake. “C’mon, pal, let’s get you up.”

  “Wha . . . ?”

  “Heads up, Georgie. We’re gonna take a hike over to my place and get you a shower and a nap.”

  “And a change of shirt,” Darla suggested sotto voce to Jake, who smiled a little.

  Between the three of them, they managed to hoist a nonprotesting George to his feet. While Darla and Jake kept him balanced out on the sidewalk, Doug went back inside to shut off the lights and lock his shop. By the time the baker was ready to go, George had begun to rally.

  “Darla? Wha-whaddaya doing here?” he asked, squinting at her. “Didja bring me coffee?”

  “No coffee this morning,” she brightly told him. “The bookstore’s closed today. You’ll have to suffer with whatever Doug can brew you up.”

  “Doug? He’s here? Why, that low-down—”

  “Yeah, pal, it’s me,” the baker exclaimed, giving him a slap on the back that sent the other man stumbling. “Remember, we already talked about it. You’re coming to stay with me for a couple of days.”

  George looked confused but nodded. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  After promising Darla he’d update her on George’s condition, Doug gripped the man’s arm and steered him somewhat unsteadily down the street. Darla watched the pair go, and then turned to Jake.

  “For some reason, I keep thinking blind leading the blind,” she said with a shake of her head as she and Jake set off in the opposite direction from the men. “I wonder how things will go when George sobers up a bit more?”

  “I imagine they’ll work it out,” was Jake’s dry response.

  They walked in silence for a few more minutes, but as they crossed to the next block, her attention was on the shops across the street from them. Penelope’s dance studio was among them. The place was, of course, closed, but as she’d seen before following other tragedies, a shrine of sorts had begun to build at the studio door.

  “I want to take a look,” she told Jake and, waiting for a break in traffic, hurried across the street.

  Jake followed after her. Together they silently surveyed the broad scattering of flowers—mostly pale pink roses—that lay against the step. From bouquets to single blooms, the roses offered a mute tribute to Penelope’s influence. Tucked in with the floral offerings were several crayoned drawings of roses as well: some mere scribblings of pink and green, and others almost botanical in their petaled accuracy. No doubt these had been left by the youngest of her students who also wanted to share their grief in some tangible way.

  “I’ll bet that’s how it looked onstage after Penelope performed in her heyday,” the PI observed after a few silent moments. “Admirers tossing flowers onto the stage as she took her bows. Pink roses must have been her favorite.”

  “I saw her dance just a few days ago, here in the studio,” Darla said, fighting back a quaver in her voice. “I was here to talk to her about the block party, but her lesson ran late, so I stayed to watch. When the girls couldn’t get this new combination right, she stepped out onto the floor and demonstrated it herself.”

  Darla smiled a little in remembrance. “It was just a little thing, a couple of turns and a jump, but I swear it took my breath away. Suddenly she was transformed from good old potty-mouthed Penelope into this incredible, graceful being. The students felt it, too. She really was a star.”

  Which was why Darla still couldn’t understand how Penelope could do what she’d done . . . and why Reese’s claim of murder-suicide was so hard to accept, at least until she saw some better proof.

  “We’d better get back,” she told Jake, suddenly unable to stand there among the roses any longer. “Hamlet’s probably cranky because we haven’t taken our walk yet, and—”

  She broke off abruptly, puzzled, as the faintest of vaguely familiar notes, oboe mixed with violin, drifted to her. “Jake, am I going crazy? I swear I hear music playing. It sounds like something out of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.”

  Jake frowned and tilted her curly head, listening. Then she shrugged. “I don’t hear anything, kid. Maybe someone drove past with their radio on the classical station.”

  “No, I still hear it. And I think it’s coming from inside the studio.”

  SEVENTEEN

  A small, superstitious chill went through Darla as she made her cautious way to the studio’s curtained windows. The sheer lace drapes were pulled closed, but a gap between them allowed a tantalizing glimpse into the darkness. She squinted, trying to see what could be the source of the piece she heard playing.

  Enough morning light s
eeped in that she could see most of the room reflected in the mirrored walls. She glimpsed a human-sized shape near the barre and gasped, until a second look proved that the shape was actually a coatrack draped with someone’s forgotten wispy fringed shawl.

  Jake joined her, leaning closer to the glass.

  “All right, I hear the music now. Probably one of Reese’s guys accidentally left something on.” She stepped back and gave Darla an amused look. “Don’t worry, kid. I promise it’s not Penelope’s ghost in there playing the top ten classical ballet hits.”

  “I hope not,” Darla muttered, only to gasp a second time. A shadow, reflected in the mirrors, had flitted by as she’d spoken . . . and this was no coatrack.

  “Someone’s in there, Jake,” she softly exclaimed. “Watch the mirrors. You can see a shadow moving about, like someone dancing.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Jake was all business now as she leaned in for her own look. Sure enough, a moment later, the shadow flitted past again.

  “Yeah, I saw it, too,” she said, reaching for her cell phone. “No ghost. Definitely human.”

  “You mean, someone’s broken into Penelope’s studio?”

  “It happens, kid. People read about a death in the papers and figure the house—or, in this case, the studio—that’s left behind is ripe for the picking. I’ll call the precinct and have them check the place.”

  “Wait!” Darla cut her short as she again glimpsed the person moving within. “I don’t think it’s a burglar. Whoever it is, they’re dancing. It must be one of Penelope’s students.”

  “Yeah?” Jake pressed her face to the glass again for a better look. “Student or not, that doesn’t mean they can just waltz in like that . . . no pun intended. It’s not a crime scene or anything, but legally, the studio is part of an estate now, and Penelope’s heirs are the only ones with any right to be there. I’m going to run whoever it is off.”

  “Do you have to?” Darla asked as Jake raised a fist to knock on the window glass.

  The PI nodded. “Better we do it than someone else calls the cops.”