“How was the wine?” Hallie asked, feeling winded. Another one bites the dust. “Robust, with a betrayal aftertaste, I’m guessing.”
Mrs. Cross winced—and had the nerve to lick some chocolate from the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, hon.” She slunk past Hallie and into the crosswalk, clutching her bottle of duplicity. “Have to run. I’m working the evening shift . . .”
Hallie swallowed and turned back to the disco ball, the glaring light forcing her to squint.
After a too-short second of debate, she retrieved a piece of bark that had been used to pot the nearest ficus—and reached up, jamming it into the top motor of the disco ball, halting the eyesore’s next revolution. Then she bolted.
Okay, maybe “bolted” was an exaggeration. She jogged.
And she quickly realized she was not dressed for fleeing the scene of her first act of vandalism.
Rubber shoes were for plodding around in soil and grass, not for potentially being chased by the 5-0. Her colorful woven cross-body purse slapped against her hip with every step, her array of mismatched necklaces bouncing up and down in solidarity with her boobs. She had a teal scrunchie in her pocket, which she’d planned to use later to fashion a blond knot on top of her head while working. Should she stop and put her hair up now to make running easier? Curls were flying into her face, fast and furious, her gardening shoes making an embarrassing squawk with every step. Crime clearly didn’t pay.
When a familiar face stepped into her path on the sidewalk, Hallie almost collapsed with relief. “Without asking me any follow-up questions, can I hide in your kitchen?”
“Fuck sake, what have you done now?” asked her friend Lavinia, donut artist and British transplant. She was just about to light a cigarette, a sight that wasn’t all that common on Grapevine Way in St. Helena, but lowered the lighter to her thigh when she saw Hallie rushing toward her in a flurry of necklaces, curls, and frayed jean shorts. “Behind the standing mixer. Be quick about it.”
“Thank you,” Hallie squeaked, catapulting herself into the air-conditioned donut shop, Fudge Judy, speed walking past a group of gaping customers, and pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen. As advised, Hallie took a spot behind the standing mixer and embraced the opportunity to finally pull her curls up into a bun. “Hello, Jerome,” she called to Lavinia’s husband. “Those bear claws look beautiful.”
Jerome tipped his head down to observe Hallie over the rim of his glasses and offered a slightly judgmental hum under his breath before going back to glazing donuts. “Whatever this is, don’t drag my wife into it this time,” he drawled.
Well used to Jerome’s gruff, no-nonsense demeanor, Hallie saluted the former detective from Los Angeles. “No dragging. Message received.”
Lavinia blasted into the kitchen, the smell of Parliaments trailing after her. “Care to explain yourself, missus?”
“Oh, nothing, I just sabotaged a certain disco ball outside of a certain wineshop.” Hallie slumped sideways against the wall. “We had another defector. Mrs. Cross.”
Lavinia looked disgusted, and Hallie loved her for it. “The one who owns the coffee shop? These hoes ain’t loyal.” She mimicked Hallie’s posture, only she leaned against her husband’s back, instead. “Well, I know where I won’t be buying my afternoon coffee.”
“The one you pour half into the garbage and replace with whiskey?” Jerome inserted, earning himself an elbow in the ribs.
“I knew you would understand,” Hallie said, reaching a hand toward Lavinia.
“Oy. ’Course I do.” The other woman grimaced. “But even I can’t do any more daily wine tastings at Corked. Yesterday I gave away three dozen free donuts and told the postman I love him thanks to a Beaujolais buzz.”
“Yes.” Hallie replayed the whine of the disco ball grinding to a halt and her subsequent getaway jog. “I’m starting to think the daytime alcohol consumption might be affecting my behavior in a negative way.”
Jerome coughed—his version of a laugh. “What’s the excuse for your behavior before you started attending daily wine tastings?” he wanted to know. He’d turned from the glazing station and leaned back against the metal table, his deep-brown arms crossed over his barrel chest. “When I was on the force, we would have called this an escalation.”
“No,” Hallie whispered in horror, gripping the strap of her bag.
“Leave her be, Jerome,” Lavinia scolded, swatting her husband on the arm. “You know what our Hallie has been through lately. And it is distressing to watch everyone migrate over to UNCORKED like a big lot of lemmings. Too much change, all at once, innit, babe?”
Lavinia’s sympathy caused a pang in Hallie’s chest. God, she loved her friends. Even Jerome and his brutal honesty. But their kindness also made Hallie feel like the sole upside-down crayon in a box of Crayolas. She was a twenty-nine-year-old woman hiding behind a standing mixer after committing disco ball sabotage and interrupting the workday of two normally functioning people. Her phone buzzed incessantly in her purse, her three thirty appointment, no doubt, wanting an explanation for her tardiness.