Plot Boiler

by Ali Brandon

TWENTY-ONE

  “Emma! What in the heck are you doing, trying to scare me like that? Surely you knew the store was closed,” Darla demanded, lowering the poker and grabbing the girl by the arm to drag her out into the light.

  Emma ducked her head, the neckline of her oversized sweater slipping down to bare one shoulder. “I’m sorry. Honest, I wasn’t trying to scare anyone.”

  “Well, you sure frightened my cat!” Darla shot back, turning a concerned look on Hamlet, who had bristled to double his size and was hissing like a steam engine. “Look how upset he is.”

  Emma stared back at her, eyes wide and mouth opened in a frightened little O.

  “Seriously, Ms. Pettistone, I’m really, really sorry. I know this was totally stupid, but can you let me explain?”

  “Make it fast,” Darla clipped out, wishing she hadn’t left her cell phone under the counter.

  Emma, meanwhile, was nodding eagerly.

  “I know this was stupid,” she repeated, “but I needed to talk to you, and I couldn’t figure out another way. I didn’t want Robert to see me.”

  “Robert? What does he have to do with anything?”

  The girl heaved a breath, and then said in a rush, “I work part-time for Mr. Bates at the doughnut shop, but he’s going to have to lay me off because no one wants to buy doughnuts there anymore. I filled in part-time at a coffee bar once and learned how to do all the drinks, so I’m pretty good. But I was afraid Robert might think I was trying to steal his job, and so—”

  “Hang on.” Darla stared at the girl in disbelief. “Let me get this straight. Are you trying to say that all this hiding and sneaking is your way of trying to apply for a job as a barista?”

  Emma ducked her head again, her almost inaudible answer more of a question. “Yes?”

  Darla sighed and leaned the poker against the wall, then glanced over at Hamlet. The hissing had subsided, but he was still on full feline alert.

  “It’s okay, Hammy,” she reassured him. Then, addressing the young dancer, Darla went on, “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that this kind of stunt would make for a really bad first impression?”

  “I know. You’re right,” the girl replied, dragging an oversized sleeve across her eyes. “It’s just that I really need the extra money. I got accepted into the ballet apprentice program that starts this fall, but I’ll still need to pay for dance shoes and clothes, and all those other expenses. My parents are divorced, so my mom really can’t afford it. Madame Penelope was going to help me out, but she’s gone now, and I don’t know what to do.”

  At that, Emma burst into noisy sobs. Darla shook her head and sighed again. On the one hand, the girl’s drive was admirable; on the other, her common sense quotient left much to be desired. And it wasn’t like they needed another barista at this point. But she couldn’t quite make herself turn down the girl outright.

  “Look, Emma,” she said as the dancer’s tears began to subside. “I’m not hiring at the moment, but I can give you an application to take home with you. Robert’s been talking about going back to school part-time, so maybe at some point I’ll need someone to fill in for him on occasion.”

  Emma swiped her face again and looked up, smiling a little.

  “You mean it?” Then, eyes widening, she went on, “Please, Ms. Pettistone, let me make you a café mocha or something so I can show you how good I am.”

  “I don’t think so, Emma.” Darla frowned a little. “Robert has already cleaned all the equipment for tomorrow, and—”

  “Please, Ms. Pettistone! I can write anything down on that application, but you won’t know if I’m any good unless you try one of my drinks. And café mocha is my favorite.”

  Darla hesitated. The girl’s argument made sense. And, on the off chance she did need a spur-of-the-moment barista if Robert couldn’t come in for some reason, she wouldn’t have time to do a test run.

  Besides, she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the girl, losing her teacher and likely her job.

  “All right,” she agreed, “but it better be the best you’ve ever made.”

  She led a smiling Emma upstairs to the coffee bar. Hamlet trailed behind them. His fur had flattened back to normal, but she could hear his faint, pantherlike rumble deep in his throat. Obviously, he did not approve of this unorthodox job interview.

  Once behind the coffee bar, Emma was all business. She grabbed an apron and put that on, then rolled her sleeves up and out of the way. While Darla took a seat at one of the bistro tables, the girl spent a moment orienting herself, opening cabinets and drawers. Finally, with a bright smile, she said, “You asked for a café mocha, ma’am?”

  “Large, and with plenty of whipped cream on top,” Darla agreed with a smile, playing along.

  She watched as the girl pulled out a pitcher and added chilled milk, then deftly pumped chocolate sauce into it. She steamed the milk, and Darla could see her keeping an eye on the temperature, just as Robert always did.

  So far, so good, Darla thought as the girl set aside the pitcher of steamed milk to clean the steam wand.

  The next part involved making the espresso, which mostly happened behind the espresso machine. The girl seemed to stumble over the process a little, and Darla noted to herself that Robert was faster at filling and properly tamping the ground beans. Still, in short order Emma had pulled the espresso shot, the familiar aroma wafting through the lounge. The girl expertly poured the steamed, chocolate-laced milk into a large mug, using a big spoon to hold back most of the foam. Then, slowly adding the espresso to the milk, she reached for a couple of small jars from behind the counter.

  “My secret ingredients,” she said, giving the mug a generous sprinkle and a stir. She finished with a big dollop of whipped cream on top, adding a dash of mocha powder and a bit of shaved chocolate.

  Carrying the mug out on a tray, Emma walked to the bistro table where Darla sat and with a proud smile set the drink before her.

  “One café mocha,” she proclaimed.

  Darla eyed the drink and nodded. “Looks very professional. So let me give it a taste.”

  “ME-ROOOW!”

  With an angry scream, Hamlet leaped onto the bistro table. Luckily, Darla’s reflexes were swift enough so that she grabbed the mug and pulled it out of reach before the cat could send latte, whipped cream, and pottery flying.

  “Hamlet!” she scolded him, standing and carrying the mug to the counter for safekeeping. “You almost made a heck of a mess here. Now get off the table right now!”

  To Emma, she said, “Sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I guess he’s just cranky because he wanted to go upstairs for his supper.”

  With a hiss, Hamlet leaped from the table again, tail twitching as he stared at Darla. Shaking her head, she reached for a long metal coffee spoon sitting on the bar top. Scooping a little dollop of whipped cream with her coffee, she took a taste. “Not bad,” she determined, “but it’s a little different.”

  Emma’s smile slipped. “Oh no. That’s my own recipe. I add nutmeg and cinnamon along with the chocolate. You had some here, so I figured I’d use it.”

  Darla shrugged and smiled. “It’s just a little more bitter than I’m used to, but then I’m kind of a coffee wimp. I like mine really sweet.”

  Emma ran back to the bar and grabbed the whipped cream can, then came back to the table. “Just stir in the whipped cream, and that should counteract it,” Emma advised. “Here, I’ll add some more.”

  Darla did as suggested and took another sip.

  “Better,” she agreed. “You do seem to know your way around a coffee bar. Where did you work before?”

  While Darla drank her coffee, Emma gave an enthusiastic account of an independent coffee bar where she’d worked previously.

  “Not a Starbucks or anything,” she conceded, “but they roasted all their own. And we u
sed to have contests to see who could come up with the best new drink. It was fun.”

  “So why did you leave?”

  Emma shrugged. “I think the owner’s wife didn’t like me much.” Then, brightening, she asked, “Do you want me to make you something else? Maybe a plain latte?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Darla replied as she set down her empty mug. She winced a little as a sudden cramp wracked her. “I probably shouldn’t have had that café mocha on an empty stomach. Way too much acid.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you wait there while I clean up, and then I’ll get out of your hair?”

  The girl reached for Darla’s cup, and Darla noticed something she hadn’t seen before. On the inside of Emma’s wrist was a tattoo of two small pink toe shoes: one facing up and one facing down, their pink ribbon laces curling around them.

  “Cute,” Darla said, “but I can’t believe Penelope would let one of her dancers have a tattoo. Did she know about it?”

  Emma rolled her eyes.

  “There’s a lot of things Madame Penelope wouldn’t let us do,” she said, reaching for the whipped cream can and, with a grin, squirting a sizable blob directly into her mouth.

  Darla blinked at her inappropriate action but decided it wasn’t worth calling the girl on it. Still, she made a mental X against the girl’s employment worthiness when it came to good sense.

  Then Emma laughed. “You should have seen how mad Madame was when I won that pie-eating contest at the block party.”

  “Right, that was you.” Darla frowned, recalling seeing a distracted-looking Penelope not long after that contest. No doubt the woman had just finished giving her student a dressing-down. Feeling a bit guilty that she’d been responsible for that little conflict, since the block party had sponsored the pie-eating contest, she asked, “So when did you get the tattoo?”

  “The day after she died,” Emma said, her eyes filling with tears. “It was in memory of Madame Penelope.”

  Darla studied the girl as Emma carried Darla’s empty mug back to the bar. The girl was definitely moody, going from laughter to tears in seconds. Part of it, Darla was sure, could be attributed to the shock of Penelope’s death . . . that, and stereotypical teenage girl flightiness. But though Darla sympathized with her, it didn’t seem like she’d be a good fit at Pettistone’s. Maybe she’d suggest the girl talk to George once things settled down a bit.

  And then Darla shut her eyes, feeling suddenly faint. Maybe it wasn’t the coffee, she decided, gritting her teeth against another cramp. The stress of the block party and then its tragic aftermath was probably getting to her. With my luck, I’m getting some sort of summer flu.

  The sudden bump of something fuzzy against her arm made her open her eyes again. Hamlet was sitting on the table, green eyes wide as he stared at her.

  “Don’t worry, Hammy,” she told him, giving him a weak scritch under the chin. “As soon as Emma is finished, we’ll go upstairs and get your supper.”

  But the girl seemed to be taking an extraordinarily long time to wash up . . . or maybe it was just the fact she was feeling queasy that made her impatient.

  “Emma,” she called, “I’m feeling a little under the weather. Go ahead and leave it. I’ll clean up in the morning.”

  “Just another minute,” the girl called in a singsongy voice.

  Darla shook her head, and immediately regretted it, for a wave of dizziness swept her. She tried to get up, but the dizziness grew worse, and she felt her stomach roil as she came dangerously close to throwing up.

  “Emma,” she faintly called, shutting her eyes, “I need to toss you out of here so I can go home. I really feel sick.”

  Crawling on the floor kind of sick.

  Darla put a hand to her forehead. Wasn’t that how Jake had described Allison’s illness? She pried open her eyelids again to see Hamlet almost nose-to-nose with her, his green eyes narrowed to slits.

  Oleander.

  The symptoms of oleander poisoning that she’d read about on the Internet the night before drifted through her head again. Nausea, check. Dizziness, check. Blurred vision, check. Among that laundry list of symptoms had been the big one: death. And under prognosis: The faster you get medical help, the better the chance for recovery.

  She had to get out of there, call for help . . .

  “What’s the matter, Darla?” Emma asked in the same singsongy voice as she left the sink and plopped into the chair across from her. She’d rolled down her sleeves again, so that her tattoo was covered. Hamlet growled low in his throat, sounding like something off the veldt.

  “What did you put in my coffee?” Darla choked out, squinting when the girl’s image seemed to blur before her.

  Emma shrugged. “You’re the smart one . . . You figure it out. I was sitting by the dumbwaiter this afternoon, and I could hear you and your friend—the tall lady—talking about Madame Penelope.” She shrugged, her sweater slipping again. Idly, she played with one sleeve, poking a finger through the loose weave. “Then you started talking about Allison, and how she got sick before her audition. I figured it wouldn’t be too long before you figured out it was me.”

  Darla swallowed hard against the bile that was rising in her throat. “I-I don’t understand. Why would you poison us all?”

  “It was all Livvy’s fault,” the girl said with a pout, jumping up from her chair while Darla tried to stay upright in hers. “She stole George from Madame Penelope all those years ago, and then she was trying to take Doug away, too. Madame pretended she didn’t care, but I saw her crying. I knew if I fixed things, made Livvy go away, Madame would be grateful to me. She’d make sure I got the dance scholarship instead of Allison.”

  She smirked. “I found the hotel receipt in Doug’s trash at the doughnut shop, so I took it. I left a copy in Madame’s office and one at Perky’s, so everyone would know what was going on. I thought it worked. I heard Doug on the phone telling Madame he was sorry, that he wouldn’t do it again.”

  Then the smirk morphed into a scowl. “But Livvy wouldn’t quit, so I had to try something else.”

  Emma paused and abruptly seemed to blink back tears.

  “I tried it out on Allison first to see how it worked . . . The oleander leaves, I mean. I went to summer camp once, and the counselors told us they were poison, so I figured they would work. And it was so easy. All I had to do was swap out my vape pen with the oleander juice in it for hers. The vape pens all look alike—she never noticed the one she was smoking wasn’t hers.”

  “But . . . your friend . . . she almost died,” Darla managed.

  Emma shrugged. “It just made her sick enough to miss her audition, so that was good. And I got a top spot for tryouts next month. But I couldn’t be sure I’d be accepted . . . not without Madame Penelope’s recommendation. So I waited for the block party, when it was crowded and everyone was busy so I could take care of Livvy. I thought Madame would be so happy when I told her what I did, she’d give me the best recommendation ever.”

  Then, abruptly, the girl sagged back onto her chair. “But she wasn’t happy. She was mad. She was going to tell . . . and then I’d never be a professional dancer. So I had to take care of her, too.”

  With an effort, Darla shoved away another bout of dizziness. She didn’t need to hear how Emma must have lured her teacher to Doug’s shop, and she didn’t ask how Penelope’s body came to be hidden beneath the drop cloths. Oddly, the only thing she could focus on was—

  “The suicide note,” she gasped out. “You wrote it?”

  “Madame Penelope wrote it,” Emma said, anger abruptly lacing her tone as she sat up straight. “It was my dance critique. She wrote some really mean things about me.”

  Assuming a raspy, nasal tone in credible imitation of the dance instructor, she parroted, “Your skill does not excuse your behavior toward your fellow dancers. I’ve seen those little �
��accidents’ on the floor and at the barre, especially when you deliberately let Allison fall last week. It doesn’t matter that you said you’re sorry. It should never have happened. If another incident like this occurs, I won’t be giving you my recommendation to the apprentice program.”

  She paused and scrambled to her feet again as she gave Darla a preening smile. “I’m going to be a soloist with the New York City Ballet, and nothing’s going to stop me. I’m better than any of them. You’ll see. Well, maybe you won’t, but the rest of the world will.”

  Darla wondered how Emma would explain things when it occurred to Jake or Reese that she’d killed Darla as well, but another spasm wracked her. When she opened her eyes again, the girl was gone.

  Vaguely, she was aware that Hamlet was gone, too. Gone for help? But, clever as he was, the cat couldn’t dial the emergency number. She thought she heard the bells at the front door jangling, but that could have been in her head.

  The faster you get medical help, the better the chance for recovery.

  She took a deep breath and tried to stand. Her cell phone—where was it? Beneath the front counter, where the main phone was. She’d meant to add an extension upstairs, but she’d never gotten around to it, because one or the other of them always had a cell phone on them. She had to get downstairs, call for help.

  “Hammy,” she croaked out, but no familiar flash of black fur appeared. She let go of the table edge and took a faltering step, only to drop to her knees. Crawl, then, she told herself. Get down the stairs and get to the phone, and everything will be fine.

  But it was like one of those nightmares where the road ahead kept stretching and stretching out of reach. Luckily, she hadn’t turned off any of the overhead lights, since she needed every lumen to see where she was going. And then, finally, she found the stairway.

  How to get down it? Crawl down backward without being able to see where she was going, or try it headfirst, and risk tumbling head over heels to the bottom.

  Backward.

  After a bit it became almost mechanical, sliding one knee down and then the other. How many stairs were there? She’d counted them once, after Robert had read a Sherlock Holmes story where Holmes had asked that very question of Watson to illustrate his powers of observation, and he’d challenged her and James to guess. The answer had been twenty . . . yet it seemed she’d descended that many already, and still she hadn’t reached bottom.