Lucky and the Banged-up Ballerina

by Emmy Grace

  “I can see that. Are you sure you want to go out looking like that?”

  The corners of his mouth are pinched in again. He’s stifling a laugh.

  Why is it that this man can only show an ounce of humor when it’s at my expense?

  “You’re the devil. You realize that, right?”

  His face falls into feigned innocence. “What did I do?”

  “You’re such a grump until something awful happens to me, and then nice Liam comes out to play.”

  “Who’s nice Liam? I’m always nice to you.”

  “Maybe your version of nice, but most people call that grumpy. You only laugh or smile if I’m in some kind of distress.”

  “I would never laugh if you were in distress.”

  “Lies!” I hiss, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re trying not to laugh right now.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are, too. I can see it. You get these little dents on either side of your mouth when you’re trying not to laugh.”

  “Okay, fine. So, I’m trying not to laugh, but not because you’re in distress. You’re not in real distress.”

  “I have one eyebrow! How is that not real distress?”

  “You’re not going to die from shaving off an eyebrow. You just might look a little weird for a few days.”

  “And that’s not distressing?”

  “Not to me.” His lips actually twitch when he looks over at me.

  “Laugh it up, tough guy. All I can say is that you’d better not fall asleep around me. You might wake up with no eyebrows and no body hair, wearing a glow-in-the-dark bra.”

  His eyes are still light with good humor when he slides them in my direction. “Believe me, if we spent the night together, there would be no sleeping.”

  My mouth drops open and I fall silent. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because I’m dumbstruck by the tension that’s suddenly snapping and crackling between us.

  Holy moly.

  I’ve never seen cocky, sexy, flirty Liam before, and I’m not quite sure how to respond to him. I’m tingly, though, which tells me I should tread very carefully. We have a good thing going here. One wrong step and I could ruin it all without meaning to.

  “Let me pull over,” Liam says, slowing. “I need to write this down.”

  “Wh-what?”

  He doesn’t actually pull over, just moves his hands to the top of the steering wheel and pretends to write into a notebook. “The day Lucky Boucher was speechless.” He puts about ten imaginary exclamation points after the end of his equally imaginary sentence. Meanwhile, I’m in the passenger seat trying very hard not to be attracted to him.

  Maybe I need to thank my lucky stars for grumpy Liam. This guy… I think he could be a threat to ovaries everywhere.

  I lift my nose in my best imitation of a snub and turn to face straight ahead. “Shut up and drive.”

  I hear a noise from the driver’s seat. It’s Liam’s version of a laugh. I’ll never complain about it again. God help us all if he ever gives me a real one.

  We’re quiet for the rest of the ride out to Sparkling Glass Worx, a small, flat-roof shop that hunkers on the side of the road at the county line. I feel a little bad for the store. It looks like it’s cowering in terror from the hulking building that looms over its shoulder toward the back of the lot.

  “What’s that back there?” I don’t have to point. He has to know what I’m referring to.

  “That’s where she blows the glass.”

  “She actually blows glass here?”

  “I don’t know what she does with it. I just know she works with glass. I didn’t take a class so I’d know every detail of the process.”

  “I didn’t think you were serious.”

  “When have you known me not to be serious?” His expression is dubious.

  “Good point.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “This should be interesting. Maybe I’ll find a new hobby.”

  “For the love of God, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “As clumsy as you are, you’d burn down the town if you tried to blow glass.”

  “Dream killer.” I stick my tongue out at him.

  “Life saver,” he corrects, sliding out of the truck.

  A sensor lets off a ding dong sound when we walk through the front door of the shop. It seems like it takes an age for someone to appear, so I look around in the meantime. The glass pieces range from extravagant and extraordinary, to simple and trinket-like.

  When a late-forties woman finally appears, I understand why it took her so long to come out. She was working. She’s wearing a heavy-duty apron of some sort, pulling off thick gloves and wiping sweat with the back of her hand. Behind the apron is an old shirt, torn at the collar, and her gray pants have a hole in the knee. Her smile is pleasant, though, and the frizzy red hair curling damply around her face makes her look like she’s up to mischief of the best kind. She’s like the adult female equivalent of Huck Finn.

  I like her instantly.

  “Vilma Chance,” she announces. “Welcome to Sparkling Glass Worx. How can I help you?”

  My smile is wide and genuine when I step forward and offer my hand. “Hi. My name is Lucky Boucher. This is Liam, who you probably already know. We’re here to ask about some of your work.”

  “Liam,” she acknowledges with a nod. Not chilly, but not overly friendly either. “How’s your father?”

  “Same as always,” Liam replies evenly.

  The humorless whisper of laughter she gives tells me that her cool greeting has less to do with Liam than it does with Mayor Dunning. No wonder he didn’t take it well when Petey, the Ginger Creep, called him Little Willie that time. To some people, that’s a high insult.

  “You said you were interested in my glass?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I see that you make figurines of different kinds.” I gesture to the shelves that are overflowing with just such items. “I wondered if we could show you a particular piece to see if you recognize it.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, it’s more like a piece of a piece.” I pull out my phone and open the picture of the largest shard, the one with the label.

  The woman takes the phone from my hand and squints down at it. “Oh, yeah. I recognize that particular type of glass. I added some metallic compounds to it. Makes it look iridescent. Ballerina, if I’m not mistaken.”

  She hands my phone back and I nod. “Yes. Those are the ones. Did you make very many of them?”

  “Not at first, but I sold quite a few, so I ended up making more.”

  “Do you happen to remember who bought them? I’m sure you can’t remember every single person who—”

  “Actually, I know exactly who bought most of these. Can’t say for sure he bought all I ever made, but one person in particular bought at least twenty of them.”

  My heart patters behind my ribs. “You wouldn’t happen to have his name, would you?”

  Vilma’s already rosy cheeks stain bright red. “No. He… We had sort of an arrangement.”

  “What kind of arrangement?”

  “Well,” she begins, clearing her throat. “The orders were placed online. He only called in once to ask me about…something else.”

  “What was that?”

  “He, uh, he was sending them to a woman he was in love with. As a secret admirer. He asked if I’d help him, and me being such a romantic, I said yes.”

  “What did he have you do?”

  “He ordered a bunch of ballerinas in different poses, and he would mail me an envelope when one was ready. He just wanted me to take the smaller envelope from the one he sent me and package it up with a figurine, then send it to the address he gave me. No return address or anything.”

  “And what was the address you sent it to?”

  “A place in New York.”

  I look at Liam, who is hovering at my right shoulder as always. He just stands back there, taking it all in.

  His eyes dart down to mine a
nd, in them, I see the same thing I’m feeling.

  Excitement over a break in the case.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any of the envelopes he sent, would you?”

  Her brow furrows. “Hmmm, I might just have one in the back. Let me check on my desk. Maybe I didn’t throw it away yet.”

  When she leaves, I turn to Liam. “Our killer ordered figurines from here and had Vilma Chance send them with the threatening letters. I’d bet you ten bucks that’s what was in the smaller envelope.”

  “You’d win that bet.”

  Vilma returns with a plain manila envelope.

  I pull my sleeve down over my fingertips and take the envelope from her. There are probably a zillion fingerprints on it after having passed through the postal service, but there’s no point in adding one more to the pile.

  On the front of the envelope, written in neat print, is the name and address of the shop. The S in Sparkling is a little more elaborate than the other capitals in the address, and something about it looks vaguely familiar. I just can’t think of why, or where I’ve seen it.

  I flip the envelope over. The back is blank. “No return address.”

  Of course not. This guy knows how to cover his tracks.

  “No, they never had any other address on them.”

  “Did you ever open the smaller envelope inside?”

  “No. Never. That was private, romantic stuff. Not for the eyes of others.”

  “It might’ve been more than that, actually.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These may have been sent to Serena Flowers by a stalker.”

  Vilma gasps, clutching her throat with her hand. “You mean I was helping a stalker?”

  “Not on purpose,” I reassure her. “No one admits when they’re doing something illegal or unethical. Or dangerous. It’s not your fault.”

  She looks mildly relieved.

  “I would never help someone with harmful intentions.”

  “No one is saying you did. This guy would’ve covered his tracks. Probably been very convincing, too.”

  “I never would’ve thought…” She shakes her head, looking dazed.

  “Is there anything else you could tell us about him? Anything at all that might help us identify him?”

  “Not really. We didn’t have contact past that first time.”

  “Would you recognize his voice?”

  “Maybe. It was pretty distinct, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, I guess I chalked it up to my imagination, but it sounded to me like he was making himself sound different. I s’pose this would be why. If he was up to no good, he wouldn’t want anyone to recognize his voice.”

  Another dead end.

  “What about the orders themselves? Do you have records of them since the transactions took place online?”

  “I do!” She smiles proudly. “I got my site up and running on the interwebs last year. My sales have tripled.”

  “That’s great, Vilma. Does your system keep records of each purchase?”

  “It sure does. Wanna take a look?”

  I nod, and she leads us back to a small office nestled in what looks to be a janitor’s closet with a desk shoved to one side. We have to maneuver just to get all three of us inside the tiny space.

  Vilma wakes her computer and clicks around with her mouse. She has to stop and think a few times, clearly not yet very familiar with her system. Or maybe with the Internet at all. Anyone who calls it the “interwebs” is probably not too terribly advanced.

  “Now I think I’ve found it.” She moves her chair back so I can lean in. On the notepad that I carry, I jot down all the information that I can glean from the transaction report, which I know probably won’t be enough to get me anywhere since it looks to have come from a PayPal account. The thing is, if you have the resources to dig, you can find the banking information linked to the PayPal account, and that might tell me what I need to know.

  Even as I straighten and tuck away my little paper, I know what I’ll have to do. Or, rather, who I’ll have to contact. The question is: what price will I have to pay for her services?

  10

  Liam is pulling to a stop in my driveway before I remember to ask him about Paul, the innkeeper.

  I have one hand on the door handle and one finger on the release button for my seatbelt. “Oh, I meant to ask you about Paul.”

  “Paul?”

  “The guy at the Spring Water.”

  “Oh. What about him?”

  “Is he single?”

  That enormous dent appears between Liam’s brows. I want to tell him that if he doesn’t stop grousing, I’ll eventually be able to hide my purse in that crater, but I don’t. Call me crazy, but I don’t think he’d take that very well.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know.”

  “Why?”

  I don’t want to get into the whole Regina-has-awful-taste-in-men-and-the-last-one-was-a-perv thing. His eyes would glaze over and he might try to strangle me with my own arms.

  “Just answer the question.”

  “As far as I know, although I don’t make it a daily priority to check the marital status of everyone in Salty Springs.”

  “Why on earth not?” I do my Bambi blink at him just for fun.

  He rolls his eyes and mumbles as he shifts into reverse, “Get out of my truck before I’m forced to harm myself.”

  “So dramatic,” I croon as I leap down from the ridiculous height of the passenger seat.

  Before I slam the door, I hear Liam add in a low, somber voice, “He’s not right for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Paul.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s too…tame.”

  “Tame?”

  “Tame.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You need a man who can keep up with you. And who’s more than a little bit crazy. Paul is neither. If anything, I’d say he’s sort of boring.”

  “Boring can be good.”

  Liam stares at me, long and hard. “Is that really what you think?”

  I stare right back for as long as I can keep a straight face. “Heck no! I’d rather chain myself to a Zamboni and be forced to witness ice polishing every day for the rest of my life.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  I laugh. “He’s not for me anyway. I’m asking for Regina. I think they’d make a good couple.”

  Some of the grump eases from Liam’s face. In fact, I might almost say he looks relieved.

  “Oh. In that case, they’d be perfect for each other.”

  “So he’s a nice guy? Not gonna treat her like crap or try to get frisky on their second date?”

  “He’s an okay guy. I have no idea about his level of sexual aggression, nor do I ever, ever, ever want to. Is that clear?”

  I give Liam a cheeky grin and a salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

  As I’m closing the door and backing away, Mrs. Stephanopoulos comes hobbling out her back door. It’s probably the fastest I’ve seen her move. And she’s waving one arm at me.

  “Stop right there,” she’s saying. So I do.

  Liam does as well. I hear the whir of the passenger side window rolling down. He’s such a nosey nelly.

  “How are you today, Mrs. S.?”

  “Fixin’ to be just fine once I get you down to the range. We’ll be going this evening. Five o’clock sharp. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  To see such a stubborn expression on an old lady is kinda comical, but I’m not stupid enough to laugh. Mrs. Snuffleupagus might pull out one of her guns and shoot me on the spot. I think her mood tends toward intolerance and impatience, and I don’t think it would be wise to test her.

  “I’ll clear my schedule,” I agree with a smile.

  From behind me, I hear a noise. It’s a Liam noise. Probably a Liam snigger. Just before the window rolls back up, I hear him mumble, “Oh, this oughta be
interesting.”

  My sentiment exactly.

  Mrs. S. makes her way slowly toward me, her scowl even deeper than Liam’s. I need to remind him that if he doesn’t want his face to look like a road map of Texas when he’s eighty-something, like my landlady, he needs to stop frowning.

  Maybe I’ll broach that subject again later.

  Much later.

  When she stops a few inches from me, she tilts her face up and leans in until the tip of her droopy nose is almost touching mine. “What happened to your face?”

  It’s my turn to frown. Maybe it’s like a water-borne disease in this town—frown-ecoli or frown-ilococcus aureus. Or maybe I’m just a goober for even considering these things.

  “What do you mean?”

  Slowly, like she’s touching something that might bite, my landlady raises one gnarled finger and touches my left eyebrow. The one that’s still hairy under the liner. “What is that?”

  “Oh. I had a little mishap with an eyebrow trimmer. Shaved one off, so I had to use some makeup.”

  “It looks like you were attacked by a mob of angry children armed with permanent markers.” Her eyes widen just a little. “It’s not permanent, is it?”

  “No, Mrs. S. It will wash off.”

  “Maybe you should wash it off before we shoot tonight. Wouldn’t want people to think you’re wearing a bad disguise. Tryin’ to rob the place.”

  “Who would be crazy enough to rob a gun store and shooting range?”

  She backs away, her finger still raised from tentatively touching my eyebrow. “Someone with a critter like that on her face, that’s who.”

  Part of me wants to dig a mirror out of my purse and hold it up for Mrs. Stephanopoulos to see what her own wooly-worm brows look like, but I don’t. I doubt she’d even see the issue.

  “How about I redo them before tonight?”

  “Do…less.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Try hard,” she says, backing away. “Come out at ten till. I’ll drive.” She doesn’t give me time to argue, just turns on her heel and heads back inside.

  I don’t know why she didn’t just call me. Maybe she feels her intimidation works best in person.

  I will be the first to say that it absolutely does.