“Will it hurt?” Leda asked, poking the glass with her index finger and taking away a fingerprint’s worth of condensation.
“No?”
“Well, that’s good enough for me.” Leda picked up the glass and didn’t bother to sniff it. She tipped it up, took a healthy swallow, and set it back down again with a hard stare, as if she meant to interrogate it. “Tiffany, I’m asking you seriously, and I want you to tell me the truth: What’s in this?”
“What does it taste like?”
“Like death by bananas, with a hint of eau de sunscreen.”
“That’s the coconut liqueur,” she said. “I’m trying to make something that tastes tropical but isn’t just the same old mai tai or piña colada you can get any-damn-where. I skipped the orange juice and rum, because that’s too obvious. How would you feel about an orange-blossom infusion? That might give it a good bouquet.”
“You just said you were skipping orange juice.”
“No, I mean like a vodka infusion with orange blossoms. They don’t smell like oranges, they smell like… like flowers. I don’t know. I’m still working on the formula. But did you like it, that’s my question?”
Leda took another sip. “Tone down the banana liqueur, and you might have a winner. Or cut it with something stronger than the coconut? I don’t know, but I’m down to be your guinea pig while you work it out.”
“Excellent! But yeah, banana is a hard flavor to work with. It overpowers whatever you put it in. Hmm…” Tiffany wandered back to stare at her assortment of booze, stacked up from waist height to the ceiling. “I’ll keep experimenting. But until then, I might put it on the menu anyway. And I’m stealing your ‘death by bananas’ bit.”
“Have at.”
Tiffany picked up a piece of chalk and started to write it down as the daily special. “At least this way, people will know what they’re in for—and the banana haters can try something else.”
“Right. Good call. Hey, I’m going to take my monkey juice and head back to Matt’s office, okay? Tell Ben, if he comes looking for me.”
“Spending a little time with the murder board?”
“Since it’s dead in here and all. No pun intended.” The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. She looked away to hide a wince and took a deep sniff of the banana-y beverage.
“I’ll holler if the crowd picks up, but on a Monday… you know. It’s not really going to be hopping.”
“Thanks. Hey, let me ask you…” Leda said quietly. “Does Ben know about the murder board?”
“He might not? Matt flipped the board over, so the bar’s work schedule faces out.”
“Okay, thanks. I just don’t want to upset him with my creepy-ass hobby.” Leda swept her glass into her hands and collected the napkin right along with it. After the third sip, the bananas weren’t quite so overwhelming. They even became quite pleasant. Unless that was the liqueur talking.
It might’ve been the liqueur. Without it, she might actually have to consider that this wasn’t a hobby but a wholly unpleasant obsession. But what could she do?
Drink. That’s what. Drink, and stare bleary-eyed at her murder board.
She carried her drink around the tables and back past the audio/video booth beside the stage, then down the corridor behind the curtain. Ben was sitting at his desk in his office. She waved when she walked past.
“Hey, are you headed to Matt’s office?” he asked innocently. “The one that used to be the hall closet?”
Too innocently.
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Why?”
“No reason. Have fun in there, with your oddball extracurricular activity.”
She sighed. “You know about the murder board.”
“I was looking for Matt’s extra keys. I lost mine the other day. It’s quite a… project you’ve got there. Very casualty chic.”
“Do you hate it?” she asked, her voice high and tight. “I can put it somewhere else or take it home if it bothers you.”
He shook his head. “Nobody goes back there except for me and Matt every now and again. Is it weird? Totally. Do I care? Not at all. I do have a question, though.”
“Shoot.”
“Why don’t you keep it at your house? Or at your own office?”
Another blast of bananas on the tongue, and she was cleared for takeoff. “Because… okay, because my travel agency office is about the size of a powder room, and there’s nowhere to keep it out of sight without blocking the window or the door. If I had it at home…” She hesitated. “Look, to tell you the God’s honest truth? If I worked on it at home, I would think about it one hundred percent of the time, and I would get crazy and weird and overly focused on it, and that would be bad for everybody.”
“More crazy and weird than you already are, you mean?”
“Yes. That’s what I mean. I’m sorry, Ben. I didn’t mean to involve your marvelous bar in my ridiculous quest for justice.” It was a slight struggle to keep her tone light. Would it ever feel okay to speak so thoughtlessly of what had happened to Tod? Maybe, with time. It hadn’t been so long, in the scheme of things.
Ben nodded in a sympathetic, even fatherly fashion. “No, darling. It’s not ridiculous, and don’t you ever apologize. You’re adding to the mystique of your brand, that’s how I’m choosing to see it—and otherwise I’m working hard to mind my own business, fascinating though all this is. Go on, do whatever you need. Maybe in another hour or two, you could…?” he hinted hard.
“In another hour or two, I’ll come out and do my sit-and-sing routine, yes.”
He clapped happily, perhaps delighted for the change in subject. “Excellent! Do you want to see the flyer I’m working up?”
“I’m morbidly curious, sure.” She walked around behind his desk to stand beside him. The flyer on his screen was neon pink with a stock-art crystal ball and black letters with black blood dripping down them. The letters read PSYCHIC PSONGSTRESS.
All she could say was “Wow.” A missing p had sounded absurd. Tiffany was right, though, and the extra p was even worse.
“I know, right?” He smiled from ear to ear. “Can I put you down for six o’clock?”
She glanced at the clock on his wall. “Let’s say six thirty. I want to take a minute, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed, then added the information to the flyer. “I don’t know how many people will see it, but we need to grow your brand, right? Let’s grow your brand. I’ll help.”
“I’m supposed to be doing that with the travel agency,” Leda complained. “Not my weirdo singing career.”
“You can do that, too. Make yourself some business cards, and we’ll put them in a bowl by the door. But tonight, I’m sticking these up on every post on the block. Across the street, too. You know, people come in here all the time asking if you’ll be up onstage.”
“Business cards? Actually, that’s a great idea—I’ll get on that.” Suddenly, she was mortified that she hadn’t thought of business cards sooner. “I’ll just be…”