by Kilby Blades
But step three was finishing her screenplay, which was where Delilah’s came in. The ritual of writing there each morning made Shea happy above all other things. She was convinced that the aroma of warm cinnamon and sugar she inhaled the second she walked into the bakery-slash-coffee-shop lowered her blood pressure and gave her a dopamine rush. The exposed brick, lacquered concrete floors, chalkboard menus and industrial lighting accented with tiny bright succulent centerpieces on crafty tables also satisfied her appreciation for polish and style.
Delilah herself telegraphed added comforting familiarity. She looked more like someone who’d stepped out of an industrial district in Brooklyn than someone who ran a bakery in a Hallmark town. The pinks and blues and purples that distributed perfectly at the tips of her hair over a base of ash blonde put Shea’s subtle dark-blue ombre fade to shame.
Not that Shea didn’t love her own hair—it was curly and plentiful and versatile enough to do dozens of amazing things—the tousled pixie cut Delilah sported was one Shea would never be able to pull off. The spiky unicorn mélange complemented Delilah’s light-gray, dark-rimmed eyes. It was the most skillful cut and color Shea had ever seen.
“Hey, girl!” Shea detoured to her favorite table and set down her white leather purse with the stitched circle design. It was large enough to carry her slim laptop, her wallet, and the vacuum sealed water bottle she took everywhere with her. Shea made it a point to miss the breakfast rush. Delilah’s was the best place to eat in Sapling and Shea liked to take her time. At least half the town passed through on a daily basis. Before ten-thirty, she’d be hard-pressed to find a table, let alone get any writing done.
“Did you even get any scenes written yesterday?” Delilah wanted to know. “You were in and out of here so fast…”
She also had a bluntness about her. Benignly nosy and to-the-point, Delilah was never shy. Just like the vermillion lipstick she always wore and her ornate heart-shaped arm tattoo with the words “My Own Damn Self” written in the middle, everything about Delilah was unapologetic and bold.
“I had a phone call.” Shea waved it off, using the same excuse she’d given to Deputy Brody. The morning before, after the officer’s unannounced visit, Shea had been sufficiently spooked and had cut short her writing time. Instead of her normal routine, she’d spent a brief half hour at the bakery before leaving to deal with the money.
Before Shea even made it back up to the counter, Delilah was already busy making her usual drink: a whole milk hot chocolate with half sugar and plenty of whipped cream.
Shea followed her complete lie with a complete truth. “I’d like to catch up today. Let’s hope I can win the staring contest with my cursor.”
The high-pitched squeal of the steaming wand interrupted their conversation. Delilah never made it so hot that it decimated the whipped cream. Attention to detail was one of the many things Shea liked about her.
“Janet Brewster’s been writing a cozy mystery going on ten years,” Delilah lowered her voice to inform Shea. “Some days, I don’t think she writes a word.”
Shea had noticed the gray-haired woman with the severe ear-length cut who barely looked up or spoke. Shea had guessed the woman was writing something but had never caught enough of a friendly vibe to ask.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Shea murmured.
“Yours sounds edgy. I’ll take psychological thriller over cozy mystery any day,” Delilah said as she shook the stainless-steel dispenser and began to squeeze out whipped cream.
“It’s an allegory for our troubled times.” Shea tried to sound flip. What Shea didn’t say was that it was also loosely based on things she had seen firsthand. Some days, she thought her screenplay was her creative outlet for processing her marriage to Keenan.
“What did you say it was called again?”
Shea wrinkled her nose as she thought of her working title: Greed. “I don’t like the current title. But the story is like Wall Street meets The Bonfire of the Vanities. What do you think of the title, Maiden Lane?”
“I’m guessing that’s a landmark?” Delilah asked.
“It’s a street in Manhattan that ends at the East River, underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Shady as hell at night. But during the day, it’s all office buildings filled with the power elite.”
The double-entendre was the “maiden” part. Shea’s main character was a young ingenue who got involved with a powerful, dubious man. Her loss of innocence was a key theme in the story.
“Not bad…” Delilah said, her face drawn as she appeared to think. “But what do you think about Black Collar? You know, since your script’s about white collar people feeding black market crime?”
“Wow…” Shea didn’t know what impressed her more: Delilah’s title or her recall for the details of Shea’s script. Shea had shared the premise just once, some two weeks before.
It was loosely based on business dealings Shea had seen in Keenan’s circles. The antagonist was a publicly lauded businessman whose success was tied to deep, systemic corruption. Shea could never admit that the story was autobiographical—that she and Keenan paralleled the main characters. Details had been fictionalized but she couldn’t say the same for outlandish events depicted in some of the scenes.
Shea’s story was juicy. She’d been writing long enough to know that it had legs. Her hunch that she could sell the screenplay and actually see a movie made from it created yet another reason to cut ties with Keenan. He didn’t need to know that he’d been her inspiration. And she’d need a pen name to write this one under as well. You couldn’t use your real name to expose the seedy underbelly of the everyday commerce that ran New York.
“This is gonna hit the spot.” Shea picked up her finished hot chocolate with the handle of the ceramic mug Delilah had just slid across the counter. The drink was so good, Shea always had her first sip while she was waiting for her change. Said change went right into the tip jar. And she also made it a point to leave a ten-dollar bill every afternoon before she left. It was the only decent thing to do when you loitered in a coffee shop for that long.
“I’ll warm it up for you now and bring it to the table,” Delilah said of her bun. Shea went to get set up. Like Janice Brewster, Shea liked to sit with her back to the counter, facing Oliver Street. The slow flow of people gave her a sense of calm.
She was getting used to Sapling’s rhythms—learning who was who and what was what. Her regular circuit was the grocery store, the movie theater, Delilah’s and the post office. The Postmaster, Bev Alexander, was the only other Black woman Shea knew of in town, which may have explained why Bev always made extra time to talk. Since nobody delivered mail all the way up the mountain, Shea had to swing by periodically to check her box.
“Thanks.” Shea smiled when Delilah delivered her pastry, a dry cinnamon roll that was light on paste inside. Instead of a gooey drizzle, it was rolled in granulated sugar and glazed with something light—butter-infused royal icing, maybe. Not a honey-dip, Shea had guessed.
The brown-in-place-of-white-sugar wasn’t noticeable to the naked eye given the base color of the bun, but it was a stunning enhancement to the confection. If Shea wasn’t mistaken, there were brown butter notes to the filling and evidence of orange zest.
He’s asking to see you again.
Tasha’s text alert came in halfway through Shea’s sublime enjoyment of her pastry. Keenan insisting on seeing her before agreeing to anything divorce-related was nothing new. She was sure that plenty of abandoned spouses “just wanted to talk” before ceding control to their attorneys. The problem with Keenan was, he didn’t just want to talk.
It’s been six weeks. I think we’re getting close to the point.
“The point” Tasha referred to was part of the plan. It referred to the moment in which they’d create the illusion that Keenan was in control. This, by grudgingly offering him something better than he thought he would get. Holding steady on not talking to him was designed to wear him down until he would accept smaller vic
tories. Plus, other negotiations would go better if Shea proved early on that she had it in her not to budge.
Not yet, Shea tapped back. They’d started out by asking for mediation—a negotiation of the terms of a no-fault, no-contest divorce. It was a big signal that Shea wouldn’t go after Keenan for all his money. If they agreed now to the phone conversation Shea had resigned herself to, it would give Keenan hope. Contact with Shea couldn’t be their first or even their second concession. Before they came to the table, he had to accept that he may never see or talk to her again.
It’s a thin line… Tasha returned. Make a man like him too angry and he might double down. People stop being themselves in a divorce.
One more week, Shea replied. You didn’t live with a master negotiator for ten years without learning a thing or two. Rule number one of negotiation was that you didn’t have to come to the table.
Just don’t let yourself get obsessed with beating him out of spite, Tasha shot back. Approaching a divorce with a fighting spirit never ends well.
Shea tried not to resent the chastisement. Tasha’s words were good advice.
And don’t forget, Tasha rejoined. He still hasn’t signed off on our proposal to halt action on the money. If he hasn’t yet, his attorney is gearing up to use it.
This was what kept Shea up at night—not often, but every once in a while, when her armor cracked and she could no longer keep worst-case scenarios at bay. Keenan’s refusal to acknowledge Shea’s purpose in taking the money meant he could still claim criminal intent.
There’s no winning this game, Shea shot back plaintively.
We will win, Tasha shot back so quickly Shea imagined she could hear Tasha’s most resolute voice. But you still need to lay low. If he presses charges, a federal warrant may be issued. Federal, because you crossed state lines. A traffic stop could land you in jail until we sort things out. Whatever you do, don’t get in trouble with the law.
7
The Helicopter
Dev
“This is completely unsustainable.”
Delilah’s curt words were delivered at the same moment she pushed forth Dev’s steaming cup: a quadruple americano, light on water, heavy on cream. His first long sip gave him time to swallow the kind of hot retort that came out when he operated on too-little sleep.
“Know what I love most about this place?” he managed as he slid a twenty into the tip jar. “The coffee’s pricey but the lectures are free.”
“You look like shit,” his sister continued matter-of-factly. There was plenty of love between them but “tough” was Delilah’s middle name.
“It’s just ‘til Duff recovers,” Dev reasoned at the end of another rejuvenating gulp. At that moment, it tasted better to him than his green juice.
“What time did you say you had to be at The Big Spoon again?” he asked. His voice was innocent but his eyebrow arch was not.
Delilah was stretched every bit as thin as him, between running her bakery and picking up slack at The Big Spoon. Hell, she might have even had it worse. Delilah had bread in the oven by five in the morning. At least he got to sleep later.
“Maybe if my boss wasn’t such a cheapskate, he’d hire me some help…" Her comeback didn’t have much bite.
“If your boss wasn't such a cheapskate, he wouldn’t be so good at what he did.” Dev smirked. “And if you keep calling him a cheapskate, he might just rethink your bonus.”
The reproachful frown Delilah had sported moments before metamorphosed into repent. “You wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know what I’d do,” he challenged, standing to his full height and crossing his arms.
Because stubbornness ran in the family, Delilah had refused to take his money for helping at The Big Spoon, so he’d booked her on a dream vacation: a master class at some fancy school for pastry chefs in Paris followed by a monthlong culinary tour. God bless her, did his sister love cheese.
“No one’s complaining about your spending priorities.” Delilah hedged, bringing her hands up in a universal show of peace. “All I’m saying is, you’re burning the candle at both ends. How’s Duff coming along?”
Dev was grateful for the change in subject. He’d just returned from the house of Kate Duffy, who was technically now Sheriff Duffy but still known as “Duff” by half the town. When she’d been promoted to Sheriff, she’d deputized Dev. That had been six months back, when things in Sapling had been calm. It had been more a precaution than anything else—a need for an extra hand in case of emergencies. The department was three men down and they were still in the process of hiring three more staff deputies after a five-year run with a bad predecessor.
The Sheriff before Duff was the one who had succeeded Pete—Dev’s surrogate dad and Evie’s late husband. The year Pete passed away, Duff had lacked the seniority to be considered for the job. The other guy had received so many complaints, the commissioner finally promoted Duff. He’d driven away ten deputies over the years, which meant Duff was understaffed. She’d tapped Dev because people knew him and trusted him and, having shadowed Pete the way he once did, he understood procedural policing.
Most things that ever happened in Sapling could be dealt with by Jack and Brody. Only, Jack and Brody were young. Both had more training than Dev, having graduated the academy, but both were new to Sapling. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that some odd event might happen that would be outside their depth.
No one had anticipated the spate of vandalisms that had happened on River Road. Real vandalism—not kids with too much time on their hands and a can or two of paint. Though there was always a facade of theft, an underlying element of destruction was continuously present, seemingly designed to leave the mills themselves in ruin.
Duff had gone to investigate a call three months back and arrived just in time to catch a side full of shrapnel. She’d shattered her elbow after being thrown by the blast of a suspicious explosion. Had she been closer to the source, she would have been killed.
“Her body’s healing fine, but that’s about it.” Dev lowered his voice, even though the store wasn’t open yet and they were alone. Delilah resumed the task of filling her display case with breakfast treats. It took effort for Dev not to get sidetracked by her blueberry scones.
“But she’s coming back to work, isn’t she?” Delilah’s concerned face was back in place.
“Not the way she is now…” Dev said gravely. “Not with whoever’s doing this still on the loose.”
“Shit…” Delilah stopped, the muffin she held suspended midair as she took a moment to study Dev’s face. “What are you gonna do?”
“Same thing I always said I’d do,” Dev replied. “Take over as long as she needs. Longer, if that’s how long it takes to catch this guy.”
Delilah shut the back panel of her glass case. “What makes you think it’s a guy?” she challenged with an eyebrow arch.
“Physical evidence at the crime scenes have been indicative of intruders who were men. And you need to stop sleuthing,” he scolded. “This isn’t Murder, She Wrote, Jessica Fletcher.”
“The fact that you even remember her name proves you loved that show just as much as me. And even if the ones who did the dirty work were men doesn’t mean they were the only ones involved. Face it—we’re smarter than you.”
“On that note…” Dev picked up his cup. “Have a good morning, sis. I gotta open the store.”
“At least take a scone,” she smirked. “You were eye-fucking them so hard, it made me blush.”
Alright. Maybe he had been. But, still… “You know I can’t eat those.”
“Uh-uh…” she tutted. “Can’t isn’t the same as won’t.”
“You won’t accept that I genuinely love my green juice.”
“And you won’t accept that you can eat a scone every once in a while without turning out like mom.”
This last word of uninvited commentary was delivered more gently than the others. It was an observation Dev had never bothered t
o deny. He did like to eat healthy. He didn’t want to have a heart attack before forty, like their mother. She’d been too heavy, had carried too much stress, had become diabetic at a frighteningly young age. He shared her genes and she had died too young.
Instead of answering, he looked at his watch. Five fifty-eight in the morning.
“I’ll turn the sign around,” he said, giving the counter a single knock before picking up his mug and heading out.
“You coming to The Big Spoon later?” she called after him.
“It’s delivery day. I’ll be there.” he called back over his shoulder.
He flipped the chalk board sign that hung on the glass pane next to the entrance to the side that said, Come in. We’re open!
The old-fashioned motion bell made a sound as he walked out the door.
Dev had always loved this time of day on Oliver Street in Sapling. The morning rising over the mountains in the summer was halting and picturesque. The road was so straight, it looked like a runway that blazed a trail toward a ramp up to the sky, bisecting Elk Mountain and launching the sun.
It had inspired many an early-rising tourist to try to get a good shot, and you could do it if you stood right in the middle of the road. The streetlights, still on at this hour, added to the runway effect. The whole scene left Dev feeling grateful and awestruck and small.
He stopped then, as he had many mornings before, in no rush to get to work and rightly convinced this may be today’s greatest peace. Even his sleepless night and the long day ahead of him couldn’t dampen this. He breathed in the crisp air and sipped his coffee even more slowly than he made his block-and-a-half stroll to The Freshery, his feet walking the double-white divider lines like a balance beam.
He sensed, more than heard, that something in the air had changed, and he was disbelieving when he heard the otherworldly chop of the blades cutting the air and interrupting the silence of the morning. The part of it that wasn’t disbelief at the sound Dev didn’t think anyone had heard in Sapling in many years was déjà vu.