Plot Boiler

by Ali Brandon

  Her store manager frowned down in concern at her as he set the package in the outgoing mail box beneath the register.

  “Darla, you have been as jumpy as Hamlet ever since you returned from Perky’s. Would you care to share what is troubling you?”

  She hesitated, tempted to confide in him, but reluctant to do so until she’d run her theory past Jake. So for now, all she told him—truthfully—was, “I’m just concerned about George. I’m not sure how well he’s coping with everything.”

  To her relief, James nodded. “I agree. The man has no emotional support system, which any good therapist will confirm is necessary to get through a tragedy. It is probably the neighborly thing to do, checking up on—”

  “Me-OOOW!”

  The unexpected yowl from Hamlet made them both start this time. The cat was on full alert, fur bristling as he stood on all fours staring over Darla’s shoulder. She whipped about to see what was wrong.

  James, meanwhile, smiled at the newcomer. “So sorry. Hamlet is letting us know that we are neglecting our customer,” he apologized to the gamine-featured teen with short, spiked dark hair standing on the other side of the counter.

  Emma! She was by herself today, and moved with a dancer’s quiet grace, not even jostling the string of bells on the door as she’d entered the store. She was dressed in black dance tights topped by a long-sleeved, loose-weave sweater in pale blue that came almost to her knees and was belted low on her waist.

  Before Darla could ask what brought the girl there, James went on, “Good afternoon, miss. May we assist you?”

  “Uh, yeah. I was in here last week and I think I lost something. Did you maybe find a vape pen? It’s red. I might have, you know, dropped it while I was up in the lounge.”

  “Vape pen?” James turned a helpless look on Darla, who was already reaching beneath the counter for the lost-and-found box.

  “I think she means this,” Darla explained and pulled the red metal cylinder from it.

  “Me-OOOW!”

  Darla shot the cat a questioning look. His green gaze was fixed on Emma, who seemed quite oblivious to his scrutiny.

  “It’s okay, Hammy, we’ve got this,” she assured him and held up the pen, even as she wondered why the cat was so concerned. “This the one?”

  Emma all but snatched it from Darla’s hand. “Thanks. These aren’t cheap, you know. Is the coffee bar open?”

  “Sure. A couple of other customers are up there already, and it’s open until six, so you’ve got plenty of time.”

  Emma scampered toward the stairway,

  Darla’s cell phone chimed to indicate an incoming text. Checking the screen, she gave a relieved sigh at the message.

  “Jake is heading over in a few minutes,” she told her manager. “Could you watch the shop while I talk to her for a minute? It’s kind of important.”

  “Of course. If we are fortunate, you will have finished up by the time my shift ends at four o’clock.” Since, Darla knew, the ever-punctual James always liked to depart his shift on time.

  Two more customers walked in just then, diverting James’s attention while Darla psyched herself up for the conversation to come with her friend. The phone conversation with Jake on her way back from Perky’s that morning had left her on edge; this, despite the fact her friend had tried to talk her down, as the PI had put it, following her dramatic declaration regarding George’s likely role in Penelope and Livvy’s murders.

  Unless he’s chasing after you right now with a gun or knife, take a deep breath and put it out of your head until I can stop by this afternoon, Jake had instructed. Otherwise, you’re just going to make yourself crazy.

  Since Darla had no indication that George knew of her suspicions, she’d agreed to take the suggested deep-breath/out-of-mind route . . . even though, as James had observed, she had been as jumpy as Hamlet all afternoon.

  A few minutes later, the bells on the shop door jangled, and Jake strode in. She was dressed in her usual “kick butt and take names” attire that she wore while on investigations: black jeans, man-tailored white shirt, and stacked black Doc Martens boots that added a good three inches to her height. As a bonus, she sported dark-tinted aviator sunglasses that gave her a vaguely menacing Lady Terminator look. All that was missing was her usual tailored black leather jacket . . . an obvious concession to the July heat.

  “Hey, kid,” she greeted Darla, sliding up the sunglasses so they perched on top of her head. “Shall we go up to the lounge for a bit of privacy?”

  “We’d better not. Robert’s up there along with a few customers.”

  She looked around and saw James standing a few shelves away with one of the women who’d just walked in. Another customer had settled into one of the nearby armchairs and was leafing through the latest release in a popular dystopian fantasy series.

  “Looks like we’re stuck with the bistro table,” she decided, leading the way over.

  Jake took the chair opposite her, sliding aside the coffee menu and order pad to make room on the table for the black leather portfolio she carried. With a quick glance about to make sure none of the customers had drifted in their direction, she said in a low tone, “I’ve got some intel about my pro bono case that’s pretty interesting. Do you want to hear about that first, or do you want to start off by telling me about your visit with good old Georgie?”

  “Let me get George off my chest, please,” was Darla’s fervent reply as she launched into a swift but detailed recounting of Hamlet’s latest book snagging of the body art book the afternoon before, and then her visit that morning to Perky’s.

  Jake listened with obvious interest, waiting until Darla had ended with George’s comment about not being outsmarted to give her a considering nod.

  “Good job, kid, but I can tell you Reese is going to shoot this one right down. No, wait.” She held up a hand as Darla opened her mouth to protest. “Let me explain.”

  “First off, practically everybody and their dog”—the PI paused for a quick look at Hamlet, lounging now on a shelf nearby—“and probably their cat, has got a tattoo these days. Remember when we went over to Doug’s shop and he was with the delivery guys bringing in the new display case? I saw he had an eagle or something tattooed on his right calf. So that’s not narrowing down your suspect base by much.”

  Doug was tattooed, too? Darla frowned. But she didn’t have time to mull over the possibility of Doug being a killer, for Jake was still talking.

  “Second,” the PI went on, “when a hothead like our George decides to kill a woman, chances are he strangles her or bludgeons her over the head . . . that is, if he doesn’t shoot her with an illegal gun.”

  “Talk about sexist,” Darla softly exclaimed. “Are you telling me what Sherlock Holmes said about poison being a woman’s weapon is true?”

  Jake shook her head.

  “Actually, old Sherlock was wrong, for once. Statistically, it’s about fifty-fifty as to whether the person who slipped you a nice cup of arsenic was a man or a woman. But when it comes to the choice of weapons, yes, women are more likely to go with poison when it’s a premeditated crime. And there was premeditation written all over this one . . . at least, the Livvy portion of it. So, much as I hate to say it, I think we’re back to the murder-suicide thing.”

  “But the oleander,” Darla persisted. “George had easy access to the oleander. He could have doctored his vapor pen with oleander juice then swapped it out with Livvy, and then done the same with Penelope, just as easily as Penelope could have done it with Livvy.”

  If any of that tangled explanation made sense.

  Jake, however, apparently got her drift, for she nodded. “I’m not debating that, kid. All I’m saying is that the evidence and timeline all point to Penelope. And don’t forget the note.”

  “Maybe George forged it.”

  Jake shook her head. “I
had a message about that from Reese. Apparently, the department’s forensic document expert compared it with other samples of her writing they got from her studio, and she said it was legit. Although,” Jake paused, “come to think of it, Reese did say that the note was written on a scrap of paper, so it’s not much to go on.”

  She sighed. “Look, kid, I understand why you’re trying so hard. It’d hurt less if it turned out Penelope was a victim, too.”

  “That’s part of it, yes, but you should have seen George’s face while we were talking.” Darla suppressed a small shiver at the memory. “I saw something pretty awful in his eyes.”

  “I get you. How about I mention all this to Reese, just so we can say we covered all our bases. And if he thinks George needs a second look, he’ll be on it. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Darla agreed, feeling a bit lighter in spirit. Whatever the outcome, she’d done her best here. Then, curious, she asked, “Now, what’s this about your pro bono case?”

  “It seems like there was some nasty little drama going on at the Brooklyn Modern Dance Institute.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The goal for all of Penelope’s top students is to land a spot in the New York City Ballet, of course. But you just don’t go knocking on the NYCB’s door and ask to audition. Apparently, they harvest their dancers from an apprentice program. That means all the girls—and boys—who might have a shot all take part in a summer dance intensive that’s a step toward getting into the apprentice program.”

  Just like Pinky, Darla thought with a nod.

  “I’ve seen Dance Moms,” Darla told her. “It’s all pretty much dog-eat-dog for the ones who hope to go pro . . . and I’m talking the ten-year-olds. I can’t even imagine how bad it can get for the older kids.”

  “Exactly. Anyhow, a few weeks ago my client’s daughter had a big audition connected with one of those programs. Apparently, Allison is a heck of a dancer and had a pretty good shot at winning a slot to become an apprentice.”

  “Allison?” Darla echoed, recalling how Penelope had scolded two of her students for drinking whipped cream–covered lattes the day of their last committee meeting. One had been the rebellious Emma, and the other had been named Allison. She described the latter girl to Jake, who nodded.

  “That matches the picture her mom showed me. Unfortunately, Allison got deathly ill—I’m talking “crawling on the floor” kind of sick—the night before the audition. She had to drop out, which means she has to wait another whole year to try again. Her mom is pretty steamed, because she’s convinced that one of Allison’s dance friends had something to do with it. But if Allison knows who slipped her a mickey, she isn’t admitting it, so that’s what her mother wanted me to look into.”

  “So did you find out who did it?”

  “I’ve got a couple of ideas. But in the meantime I found an interesting connection. You know Steve’s son, Jason? Apparently, you were onto something when you tried to get him talking about vaping. Allison’s mom said he’s the one who started the vaping fad with the local kids . . . plus, he’s the one who went to Livvy and got that whole Kona Blue Party thing going.”

  “Yeah, I just found that out, too,” Darla told her, recalling George’s mention of the shakedown involving Steve’s offspring. “But there’s more to it than that.”

  She went on to relate the story she’d heard from the coffee maven, along with Steve’s version according to his children.

  When Darla had finished, Jake shook her head. “George might not be on my favorites list, but I’m glad he gave the kids what for. And I’m glad George isn’t the racist pig everyone thought he was. We probably need to pay Steve a visit and let him know what’s going on with his kids . . . Jason, in particular.”

  Darla nodded her agreement.

  “In the meantime”—Jake slid back her chair and picked up the portfolio—“I still need to check a few theories of my own. But, don’t worry. I’ll chat with Reese tonight about the George situation.”

  “I appreciate that. And I’ll let you know if Hamlet pulls down any other book titles.”

  “You do that. If nothing else pops up that can’t wait, I’ll drop by tomorrow with an update.”

  The PI rose and strode to the door, departing in a jangle of bells. James had finished up with the two customers from before, and was now gathering his things in preparation to leave as Darla—Hamlet on her heels—made her way back to the register.

  “Ah, perfect timing,” her manager said with a glance at his watch. “I shall leave you and Robert to it.”

  With a final farewell, he followed Jake out. It wasn’t until the door closed after him that Darla recalled wanting to ask Jake about one other thing: the two handwritten “Closed” signs. Had the forensic document examiner determined whether or not Penelope had written both those notices? It seemed likely that she had, given that they were scrawled on dance shoe box lids, and that Penelope would have had good reason to keep people away from both establishments.

  Curious as she was about this detail, Darla figured it probably didn’t fall under the “popped up/couldn’t wait” category. She’d make a mental note and simply mention it to Jake in the morning.

  That decided, she took a quick look to make sure no other customers had come in while she was occupied with Jake. Then she headed upstairs to the café, Hamlet still doing escort duty.

  She noted immediately that the two original coffee bar customers were still there, each leafing through books despite the prominently displayed sign that said, “Sorry, only purchased reading material allowed in coffee lounge.” Channeling Mary Ann and tsk-ing a little, she looked around for Emma. The young dancer was nowhere to be seen.

  Darla was disappointed; she’d wanted to question the girl a bit about George to see what she knew. And given the fact Emma was one of the first people Darla had heard mention Kona Blue Party, she had obviously been a customer of Livvy’s at some point. And, if nothing else, Emma might have an idea for Jake about who had tried to sabotage her friend Allison’s dance chances.

  Robert was at the bistro table near the dumbwaiter wiping down the glass top, an empty latte mug in hand. Darla went over to join him. “Did the girl who was sitting here leave already?”

  “Yeah, but she just left.”

  Hamlet, meanwhile, was playing crazy kitty, zipping around the lounge to the amusement of the customers.

  “Hammy, simmer down,” she scolded him. “You might run into someone and hurt them.”

  The cat shot her a look but obediently halted, though the look in his green eyes said, I’m only listening to you because we have customers in the house. And, to Darla’s relief, each of the customers in question went on to purchase their respective books once they’d finished their coffees.

  The remainder of the afternoon was busier than usual for a weekday, which buoyed her spirits. Luckily, the “serial killer” Sunday afternoon appeared to have been an aberration. She was beginning to feel that all their hard work on the block party was paying off. Maybe they’d make the July Fourth block party an annual event!

  A few minutes before six, Robert came rushing down the stairs to the main shop floor. “All cleaned up and ready for tomorrow,” he told her. “I was pretty busy today. I even, you know, sold two of our coffee mugs.”

  The logoed coffee mugs with Hamlet’s silhouette on them had been a particular favorite touch of Darla’s, and she smiled. “You and Roma have a good evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She followed him to the door and locked it behind him, and then did her usual quick run-through of the store. More than once she’d surprised someone lounging in one of the armchairs, so caught up in their reading that they hadn’t realized it was closing time. Her final stop was the restroom, where she flipped on the lights, looked beneath the wicker privacy divider for feet, and closed the door again.

  “All set, Hammy,
” she called to the cat, who was crouched on the counter, long black tail whipping just a bit. “Why don’t we run upstairs to the apartment for a moment and freshen up, and then we can go for a walk before supper?”

  By way of answer, Hamlet all but flung himself from the counter and went bounding toward her . . . and then passed her by, halting in front of the restroom door.

  “Me-OOOW! Me-OOOW!”

  “Hamlet! What in the heck—?”

  Shooting the cat an uncertain look, Darla started toward the restroom, where Hamlet was now pawing insistently at the door. She frowned. She’d already looked inside but hadn’t seen anyone.

  Hadn’t seen any feet, she corrected herself. But what if there was a mouse in there that had set the cat off like this?

  Her first impulse was to call Robert and ask him to come check for critters, but she didn’t want to be the stereotypical female afraid of creepy-crawlies. Jake, she knew, would dispatch any unwanted fauna without blinking.

  Determinedly, Darla went over to the far wall, where a fireplace once graced the place back when the room had still been a parlor. The firebox itself had long since been bricked in, but her great-aunt had left the elaborately carved walnut mantelpiece and surround in place, as well as a set of decorative brass fireplace tools. Inside what remained of the original hearth, Darla had placed a large arrangement of red silk flowers in a basket, representing a cheery fire.

  Darla reached for the poker and went back over to the restroom door. Hamlet had stepped aside, apparently content to let her take the lead now.

  “All right, Hammy,” she muttered, reaching for the knob, poker held high. “On three. One, two—”

  Before she could finish the count, the knob turned beneath her hand, and the door opened inward.

  Darla leaped back with a reflexive shriek when a girl’s familiar voice cried, “Wait! It’s me. Emma.”