Ballet of Deception

By Dave Vaughan

This gripping thriller follows the story of Amber Stone, who narrowly survives a brutal attack outside her workplace. As Amber works alongside a rookie detective to piece together the circumstances of the assault, they soon find themselves entangled in a web of unexpected surprises that will leave the reader guessing until the very end. From shocking revelations about her past to unforeseen twists and turns in her relationships, Amber must navigate a series of dangerous and unpredictable situations to move forward. With a riveting storyline and unforgettable characters, Ballet of Deception is a must-read for anyone who loves a good mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887938950

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Ballet of Deception

Dave Vaughan

Copyright © 2023 Dave Vaughan

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88793-885-1 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88793-895-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

About the Author

Chapter 1

She stood dead center on the stage, her poker-stiff arms and legs outfitted in an orange prison jumpsuit. The soft glow of a spotlight accented her pouty lips, painted and pursed below high cheekbones that framed her glossy eyes.

Eyes that could not see.

The mannequin abruptly collapsed, and the sounds of breaking plastic reverberated throughout the dark theater. Swirling dust danced above limbs twisted and turned into odd angles.

Unexpected incidents were part of the charm at the Deacon of Drama, or Double Ds, as the artistic crowd refer to it. This venue would never possess the panache of Shea's theater, Buffalo's crown jewel, nor endeavor to. It was avant-garde with a reputation for developing talent, not hiring it.

Amber Stone viewed this calamity from behind the curtain, stage right, hoping this mishap wasn't a harbinger of things to come. The other issue she had was not really wanting to be there. It was more than a tinge of anxiety or a case of her confidence evaporating. Yes, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but things changed.

Yellow marker and margins inked with annotations highlighted the script clenched in her sweaty hand. Preparedness for the audition also included her trying to visualize the experience, but calling up an image proved impossible. If there was one thing Amber knew as a fact, planning for success was crucial, with no guarantee of the desired result.

A light flash drew her attention to the opposite side of the stage—a dozen cardboard cutouts representing jurors stood inside an ad hoc jury box.

Ms. Stone, whenever you're so inclined, the theater manager sighed from the darkness.

A twinge of panic squeezed Amber's gut as her neck muscles threatened to constrict. Many described her as beautiful, but she did not embrace labels, knowing vanity accomplished nothing. The muskiness behind the stage curtains was constraining. Amber didn't recall his edge of cynicism when chatting on the phone. It might be her nerves. She removed her cherry-red baseball cap and shook her long dark hair, anything to distract from the apprehension. Amber adjusted her oversize plaid shirt, steeling herself for the challenge.

A bank of overhead lights showered her in a near-blinding fashion as she paced out onto the open stage. Amber stopped beside the fractured dummy, its plastic face split in two. How many wishing they'd be the next Meryl Streep or Jennifer Lawrence had stood here? Amber had no such misconceptions.

Another drawn-out sigh from the manager signaled his impatience.

It was time to get on with it…or get it over with. She reminded herself this wasn't a life-and-death situation. Modulate, remember to breathe, and don't let them see you sweat. In other words, don't look like a total buffoon.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case requires recognizing disparity. The truth of a young woman, Amber said, aiming her script at the damaged figure. We will not discover reality by judging her fancy clothing or the home where she lives. Are we naive enough to favor appearances as a reason to believe we can know what's inside her mind? We must recognize this as an absurdity. So where does that leave us?

She treaded the wooden floor to the jury box and addressed the make-believe jurors. Analyze what you learn, and make your choice based on facts. Take mitigating factors into account. You must not predetermine the outcome and be wary of distractions presented by the prosecutor or anyone else. There are those who promise to take you to the dance, but in the end, you'll discover it was nothing more than a ballet of deception.

She emphasized her delivery by whacking the rim of the jury box with the script.

The cardboard figures tumbled like dominoes.

Amber's mind whirled. What was this shit? If she complained, the reply would be some unfathomable nonsense about how the thespian gods decided she was scandalous after witnessing a charlatan desecrating hallowed ground.

Notwithstanding that, Amber broke the fourth wall and peered into the darkened void beyond the footlights, searching for the manager's face.

A woman's laugh sounding more like a choking horse than a human echoed from the space where the critics of creativity gather.

Chapter 2

A bleak wasteland of boarded-up storefronts greeted Amber as she pushed open a glass door stenciled with a yellow feathery bird. Those with limited means scarfed down greasy food at the Canary restaurant across the street from the Haven, a men's shelter where she volunteered. The Canary is the remaining survivor in what was once a vibrant retail community, and Amber liked its independent vibe. She sympathized with the small business owners, their livelihood decimated by marketing giants in climate-controlled shopping malls beyond the city core. She had witnessed too many instances where the underprivileged or poorly represented got the shaft.

Calen Daley trailed behind in a soft Lululemon scuba hoodie and Givenchy shorts. This acting stuff is retarded, Calen said, fluffing up her frosted hair. She strived to be as perfect as the Barbie dolls she favored growing up. All the rejection? Masochism, if you ask me. No different from plucking a dream job, only to learn your boss is a narcissist.

You're being a tad extreme, Amber said, adjusting her Mismo backpack.

Extreme? That dummy planting its face was extreme. Calen followed this with her patented horse-snorting laugh. What's this play supposed to be about?

Second chances.

Tell that to the mannequin. She helped Amber straighten the backpack's leather shoulder strap. This is the part in your story when I say you're not making any dough and depleting your inheritance. Plus, not telling me where you live means it's a shithole! Join in with us. We'll put some cash together and pay you on the side. It can't hurt. You'll be thirty before you know it, and then what? I know you love riding the tiger, but you know what happens when you climb off? You get eaten. And not in a good way!

Quit being a brat.

Calen tugged Amber's flannel shirt. Wearing some granddad top part of immersing yourself in a role? She affected a one-legged melodramatic pose reminiscent of a stature often seen in a European town square.

You laughing your ass off from the back row also helps, Amber teased, adjusting her cherry-red baseball cap.

Calen abandoned the odd-shaped posture and selected cigarettes and gold Dunhill from her Gucci shoulder bag. "You've never done live theater, not counting Little Red Riding Hood, which you said ended in a disaster, but the wolf was worth the price of admission."

Calen, Amber groaned, that's not what I said.

It's my perception. Most women would have trust issues with men who want to be wolves. Dating one would be a shit show. But then it isn't what you'd call a highbrow story. Does anyone believe this chick would think a wolf looked like her grandma? And since when do wolves talk? Little Red wasn't walking in any forest picking flowers. Not a fucking chance. Magic mushrooms would be my guess. But hey, am I a judge or a critic? No.

Finished? Amber said, declining the cigarette Calen offered.

Just sayin', Calen replied, lighting her smoke.

The Canary's window reflected Amber scouring the dark roadway as they strolled off. A pair of sneakers laced together dangled from a hydro line above the cracked sidewalk, with littered rubbish tumbling along the street in the cool September breeze. You never brought up your father all weekend. How's the campaign going?

She sets me up at a desk by the window, tells me I can monitor how climate change has impacted the lawn, Calen carped. I mean, talk about a bitch. She sends me nothing but toadies to interview. What kind of name is Deidre? Don't answer, rhetorical question. She followed the steady drag of nicotine with a series of perfect smoke rings.

Amber was aware she was talking about Charles Daley's campaign manager. She didn't know the woman but had the displeasure of meeting Calen's father while attending a luncheon at their mansion to celebrate his candidacy for mayor. A superficial chat with the aspiring politician made Amber wish for a shower to scrub the stink off. He gifted her a cap branded with his motto For What Matters, which she discarded at the first opportunity. The slogan didn't apply to the electorate in Amber's estimate. She was relieved when Calen came along and spirited her off, thus avoiding more of his lame rhetoric and smarmy leering.

What did you say to Deidre? Amber said.

What could I say? She runs the war room. I told my old man.

And?

Said suck it up. If he looked into every grievance, it would cut into his canvassing. It's fucked, 100 percent.

How's it going with your new housemate? Any progress there?

The mutant moved into my mother's old bedroom. I swear the fuckwad has gone too far. Remember Eller, our black manservant? I'd even be willing to bet he's disgusted by the whole enchilada.

Amber steered the distracted Calen back from the curb to avert a rumbling garbage truck passing by.

The Village People's YMCA ringtone played on Calen's cell phone. The queen bee is summoning her drone, Calen grumbled. Give me a sec. She rummaged through the Gucci bag for her phone while easing over to the side of a dilapidated building. No wonder I drink, she mumbled.

Amber set down her backpack and watched her friend whispering to her father. Calen resented him but adored the generous allowance. Calen's major preoccupation was leading boys on, which she called fucking with their heads. They'd have a date to meet, and she'd whisper something risqué while flashing a little skin, whatever it took to create the fantasy of a happy ending on the horizon for the unsuspecting admirer. Calen thought it harmless fun, provided you didn't belittle them when leaving them in the lurch. Amber had witnessed her haughtily wearing T-shirts gifted by disgruntled guys with slogans reading Cock Teaser and Carpet Muncher.

Amber preferred not to interfere, although she believed it would be a positive change if she could steer her interests toward something substantial. She judged Calen to be an astute young woman who appeared to have the things she wanted, but what she needed was another matter. Her heart often conflicted with her mouth, and she would eventually learn if you kept tempting trouble, it would ultimately find you.

The pair celebrated Calen's birthday by spending the weekend camping. Amber heard of an old Corvette for sale in the area and convinced Calen they should check it out. Sometimes you can find a deal and flip them for a tidy profit. There's a lot to be said for picking up a few bucks without asking Daddy for some cash. Amber didn't state it so boldly, but Calen picked up the essence of her suggestion. The car ended up sold, and Calen's interest turned to partying with some local teenagers. They found her provocative and stimulating, making them putty in her hands. Amber recognized there was a paltry reward for preaching to a drunk, so she spent some of her time studying for the audition. Calen returned earlier than expected and swayed into the tent, still energized from a night of teasing the testosterone-filled boys.

Calen lurched forward, spewing vomit onto the sidewalk. Amber cringed, imagining how those country boys would regard their fantasy now. She rushed to Calen's side and pulled the sick girl's hair away from her face. Deep breaths…might help, Amber suggested. The booze and crappy food were taking their toll, and the father-daughter discussion was nasty. No sense in prying, given Calen was a speaking machine without a switch. The truth would always come out.

He's a bastard, Calen gasped, her jittery hand clearing vomit stringing from her lips. I need to go on a field trip. Tonight! Can you believe this shit?

Elections are for what matters. Isn't that the mantra? Amber said, adjusting Calen's hoodie.

It's hyperbole. Don't take things literally, Calen sighed, rubbing her tearing eyes.

Amber recognized the gaunt vagrant staggering into the Haven. Her dad always preached to remember God, love her country, and sympathize with the less fortunate. The last item slipped a bit while living her life. She realized destiny brought clarity two months ago after signing up to volunteer. It encouraged her to lobby for the disenfranchised. Learning Calen shared the same belief was a surprise. Any chance of your father paying a visit to the shelter and showing his support while campaigning? Amber said. She suspected it was a futile appeal, but remaining silent was akin to being complicit.

Good luck with that, Calen said. They're his Mr. Bojangles friends who can't dance is what he tells everyone. I told him a person experiencing homelessness isn't defined by their situation, and if he walked a mile in their shoes, he'd experience the real deal.

Right, I forgot. He accused you of being on some poor-me sympathy kick or something, wasn't it? Amber said as they crossed the street.

Man is a dick, Calen huffed.

A navy-blue Dodge Charger zoomed past, too close for comfort. It braked, wheeling into a laneway bordered by the shelter and hydro towers rising toward the heavens from within a field of waist-deep grass.

If I had to guess, I'd say some nine iron is driving, Calen opined.

Calen, those terms are objectionable! Quit using them!

Just sayin'. Put a windshield in front of the pricks, and they go blind, Calen said, digging car keys from her bag. A new donation is on its way tonight or tomorrow.

Fantastic, I'll let everyone know, Amber said, not having time to engage in further discussion regarding her pal's denigrating comments.

Calen depressed the key fob. A muddy silver Range Rover beeped and flashed its lights. She plucked a parking ticket fluttering under the windshield wiper and ripped the citation to pieces. Parking Nazis must dream in Technicolor.

Amber gave Calen a quick hug and bussed her on the cheek. Can't be late. Appreciate you coming to the audition, means more than you can imagine.

No worries. Too bad that Corvette didn't pan out. You'd think they might have canceled their ad after someone bought it, fucking hillbilly douchebags. What are you going to do? Calen said as she opened the vehicle's door. Sorry for getting blitzed. Life at home is…you can't imagine. Besides, if we had, well, I could have—

Interesting weekend. I loved it, Amber said, knowing there wasn't time for further chitchat.

Makes me happy hearing you say that.

Later, stinky brat, Amber replied with a wink.

Calen climbed behind the wheel, lowered the window, and stuck her head out. Slipped a pink envelope into your backpack. It won't change the world, but every bit helps. Remember, you did not get it from me!

Amber waved, hustling off toward the shelter's front door, curious about what kind of nonsensical item she had planted. Calen's offbeat sense of humor was another thing Amber admired. She hated to admit never knowing what Calen would come up with next was refreshing.

Calen roared off.

An indiscernible man spied on the women from the shadowy entranceway to the lane next to the Haven as pieces of the torn citation fluttered on the pavement in the vehicle's wake.

Chapter 3

The Haven was a former grocery store converted into a men's shelter. The first rule of order was that everyone must respect the personnel and each other. Participants requesting a bed must produce identification recorded in a journal stored inside the manager's office beside the front door. Transients who dropped in for only a meal were exempt.

A dozen men wolfed down food at a long table beneath a string of fluorescent lights dangling from ceiling chains. Some indigents had drawn features, with greasy hair and a vacant look in their eyes. All had various bags and sacks at their feet on the cracked tile floor, their worldly possessions distilled into the basics for survival. A curtain on the far wall restricted the Haven's female volunteer staff from a washroom and sleeping zone. The kitchen was next to the exit leading to a loading dock where donations were received.

A clock with huge black numbers hung high on a bulkhead in the enormous kitchen. Amber wore her red-billed cap backward, scrubbing grimy dishes, her yellow rubber gloves submerged in a white enamel sink full of suds. Henré, the sinewy middle-aged cook, transformed donated food into a tasty experience at a stove on the opposite side of the room. A mushroom-topped chef's hat balanced on his head above the ascot around his neck that he called a cravat.

A sturdy ex-boxer in his forties with a crew cut and flattened nose lumbered in. Tazio slammed down a gray plastic bin loaded with filthy dishes and utensils on the counter next to the sink.

Henré yelled to Tazio, presenting the Italian pugilist with deviled eggs organized on a wide baking tray. Say hello to my little friends! The Haven's staff were well aware of Henré's outbursts, offering the odd famous movie line with a theatrical flair.

Tazio responded with two jabs and a left hook while shadowboxing across the room. Amber noted he was wearing his usual blue smock over jeans, plus a new gold Rolex was glittering on his wrist. She knew he was a reliable worker who never grumbled, but it made her edgy how he never looked her in the eye. She watched him accept Henré's tray before treading back into the primary area.

Amber closed her eyes, a small rotating fan affixed to the wall providing a brief respite from the pungent odor of urine hanging in the air. She remembered her first day as a volunteer when Calen pulled up in a delivery van outside the Haven, asking if she was lost. Amber told her she wasn't sure if she was in the right place, explaining she had applied online to help and hoped anyone observing didn't think she was a total flake. Calen drove her to the loading dock, where they met Gertie, the Haven's manager. They shared a few laughs, and Gertie said they appeared tighter than bark on a tree and thought they had known each other forever. Gertie later opined Amber could be anyone's friend. It wasn't clear if she believed it or said it to encourage new volunteers.

Never seen someone sleep and do dishes, needled Gertie, giving Amber a cheerful smile. She limped with an oak walking stick, a silver cross dangling on a sleeveless denim shirt. Gertie was a former biker chick in her sixties who found Jesus and sobriety. I'll finish up, she added, studying Henré sharpening a knife beside the stove. Henré, everything in order?

Henré answered without glancing up, Yippee-ki-yay, Mother—

Good, Gertie retorted, cutting him off. She rolled her eyes at Amber.

Henré had once been a five-star chef at one of Buffalo's finer French restaurants. Rumor had it that a patron of considerable girth and wealth was dining with his trophy girlfriend and demanded to speak with the chef about his overcooked steak. The maître d' retreated to the kitchen and reported the complaint about Henré's competency, or lack thereof. Henré confronted the couple with a carving knife and recited a dialogue from a Cronenberg film about how he'd do the fat man's teeth and cut off his fingers. Management wouldn't tolerate this and fired him. To Amber's knowledge, no one asked if there was any truth to the story.

Gertie selected a frayed apron from a long shelf with mismatched glasses and coffee cups. She tied it behind her back, noting the clock above Amber's head. Jimbo called, bringing a delicacy. She checked her wristwatch. Him volunteering is blessing enough, don't you think? She gave Amber a wider grin, further emphasizing her wrinkled face.

Amber didn't appreciate Gertie referring to him as Jimbo. The only Jimbo she ever met was a redneck, and James sure didn't look like one, at least in her estimation. I…we're not close, Amber stammered, a flushed feeling creeping up her neck. Pleasant enough, I suppose. The last thing Amber needed was to give anyone a reason to gossip. She already received curious glances for talking him into playing the wolf character in the shelter's previous fundraiser for Little Red Riding Hood.

Gertie and James had their routine. He parked in the back laneway, which was odd, given the cops she had met left their vehicles wherever they pleased. Gertie always compared her wristwatch with the wall clock before his scheduled arrival. Did she have a thing for him, or was it simply the novelty of having a cop on board because of her previous outlaw lifestyle? Amber slipped off her gloves and apron, not wanting to dwell on that.

Table 5 is inquiring about a dessert menu, Kim announced, leaning into the room. The bald Asian always wore turtleneck sweaters and reminded Amber of a turtle. She wondered if the retired loan manager had experienced an epiphany in life. Was volunteering an atonement for decisions resulting in people losing their homes?

Gertie plucked a jumbo-sized bag of doughnuts from a cupboard and tossed them.

Thank you, Gertie, Kim said, catching the treats.

Should our guests ask, each one has three hundred calories, she advised.

If it comes up, I'll pass along the data, Kim said, smiling, and headed back into the dining room.

Amber marveled at the staff being positive with such meager resources. They were unsung heroes dedicated to serving the community. She had witnessed a few fresh faces arriving with their recently discovered ideology yet never to return. Not these folks; they had compassion in their hearts, at least most of them.

Tazio rushed in. Guy lost his cookies, he grunted while grabbing a mop and bucket from a closet.

Amber gave him the once-over as he hustled from the room. She turned to Gertie. Tazio's wearing a fancy watch. Is it new?

Don't miss much, do ya? Gertie said.

I'm making an observation.

Yeah, I know, I know. Actresses study people for their craft. No need to explain it again. I'd hate it if this interfered with your tasks.

Of course, sorry, I understand.

Gertie limped closer. Tazz said he won the trifecta. Playing the horses has paid off for him.

The closest thing to a horse