You Can't Fool a Mermaid

By Judy Keeslar Santamaria

In You Can't Fool a Mermaid, college student and pianist Violet Bacon must save her highly anticipated concert from sabotage. With time running out, Violet rips into a flaw in the musical score and is blindsided by what she finds trapped behind the notes.

As theater seats fill and the house lights dim, Violet enlists t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luminare Press
• Release date: Mar 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798886794694

Judy Keeslar Santamaria

Judy Keeslar Santamaria has a Bachelor of Arts in music and a Master of Education specializing in Creative Arts in Learning. She's enjoyed being a classroom teacher, music specialist, private piano teacher, and accompanist. She lives near San Francisco with her husband who shares her passion for travel and all things coastal.You Can't Fool a Mermaid is Judy's second novel. Her debut novel, Jetty Cat Palace Café, showcases her penchant for family secrets and legacies, and eccentric heroines who outsmart their villains and thrive.

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Acknowledgements

Editing and Support

I’m deeply grateful to the incredibly gracious, creative, and talented staff of Luminare Press (http://www.luminarepress.com) for shepherding my manuscript into a beautiful work of art;

To Chanticleer Book Reviews (https://www.chantireviews.com) for encouragement, inspiration, support, and wisdom;

To Scott Taylor (https://scotttaylorediting.com), Kaitlin Schmidt (https://www.kaitlin-schmidt.com), and Jamie Passaro (https://dearpersonobits.com) for meticulous and insightful editing;

To Sharon E. Anderson, author, who gave me the nudge I needed to write this novel;

And to Nick, who has read these pages umpteen times and still believes in me.

Inspiration

Westport Winery Garden Resort (https://westportwinery.com) and International Mermaid Museum (https://www.mermaidmuseum.org), Westport, WA;

Manzanar National Historic Site (https://www.nps.gov/manz/index.htm), Independence, CA;

San José State University Music Department staff and students (1966-1970);

The people, marinas, and beaches of Washington’s Cranberry Coast, especially Westport, Grayland, and Tokeland;

Please support Westport’s jetty cats at Harbor Association of Volunteers for Animals (https://hava-heart.org) or at Sea Bird Gifts and Candy, 2563 Westhaven Dr., Westport, WA 98595

Support your local public library, because something unexpected is waiting for you in there.

When you happen upon an accomplished busker, kindly put a dollar in the tip jar. It’ll bring you good luck.

A nod to my music students, far and wide.

Suggested Reading

Cat Stories by James Harriot

Farewell to Manzanar by Jeanne Wakatsuki and James D. Houston

Playlist

Andantino from Pictures from Childhood

Aram Khachaturian

Ave Maria

Igor Stravinsky

Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue in D. minor, BWV 903

J. S. Bach

Concerto for Piano and Wind Instruments

Igor Stravinsky

The Entertainer

Scott Joplin

Ex-Voto

Ernest Bloch

Invention No. 1 in C major

J. S. Bach

Lara’s Theme from Dr. Zhivago

Maurice Jarre

Piano-Rag-Music

Igor Stravinsky

Redemption Song

Bob Marley and the Wailers

Rite of Spring (Intro Lento)

Igor Stravinsky

Somewhere over the Rainbow

Arlen/Rosey Chan

Sous le Ciel de Paris

Edith Piaf (Giraud/Dréjac)

Under Paris Skies

Le Grand Baiser (Giraud/Dréjac)

Vissi d’arte from Tosca

Giacomo Puccini

With Gratitude and In Loving Memory

Annette LeSiege

Ann McClelland

Vernon Read

Igor and Katerina Stravinsky

My parents, Oreon and Julia Keeslar

1.

Friday, November 26, 2004

Twenty-one days until my concert

Violet crouched on the curb under her purple umbrella, immobile as though time had stopped. Inches away, a mermaid the size of an anchovy swam downstream in the flooded gutter. The creature’s fiery tresses glowed as though electrified by the red and amber traffic lights flashing above the intersection.

Please don’t go. Her umbrella collapsed, and she leaped to her feet. Gutter-mini-mermaid spit a stream of water like a gargoyle and offered a saucy flick of her tail before bodysurfing through leaves and cigarette butts and down a storm drain.

Violet reopened her umbrella and wandered on because she didn’t feel like going home after yet another stupid catfight with Phoebe. Violet suggested they adopt a senior female cat from the animal shelter, and Phoebe countered with, Don’t be immature. You’re my wife and I’m your wife and we have equal votes, and I vote no. She then stomped out to go for a run with Ben.

But I’m not and never will be your effing wife. Violet’s short red curls frizzled, and her jeans and black high-tops were soaked. She stepped into the overflowing gutter and looked at the clouds conferencing overhead. May I please adopt a cat? Coke-bottle green hail bounced off her umbrella and matching purple slicker and jingled as it struck the sidewalk. I’ll take that as a yes. Thank you.

She’d never wandered this far from the house she shared with Phoebe. Hoping to find shelter in a cute shop, she’d happened on this narrow street called Loopy Lane, which was rapidly flooding like a Venetian canal. With rainwater sheeting off her umbrella, she’d followed the sidewalk all the way around the loop, shuttered boutiques and galleries to her right and, on her left, an idle theater with a box garden and small parking lot marooned on a private island. It was barely afternoon, but every business was closed. Merchants likely were home gorging on Thanksgiving leftovers, leaving her alone, hungry, and disoriented. In ten minutes, she was back where she’d started but in a different place. Something is wrong with the rain.

A creek rumbled through an evergreen grove behind the shops. Clouds billowed and the wind picked up, causing droplets to fly up under her umbrella. She licked her lips. The water tasted salty. I’d love to go to the ocean. She trudged to the drain where calf-deep waves roared down through the grate. Gutter-mini-mermaid was gone.

Across the flooded street, a half-dozen hoodlum cats loitered under the theater’s dark marquee and glared at her, their eyes reflecting the traffic lights and winking red and amber. They held their ground as a man wearing a pompom beret and holding a shiny pipe over his head waded ashore and staggered their way. Was he aware his umbrella had no fabric?

It’s a flute, not an umbrella. She exhaled as though blowing a bubble. He’s the old man who performs on Fey Creek Bridge.

Flute-man bent to pet the cats, and hundreds of white bulbs ignited with a crackling buzz to reveal the theater’s name in bold black letters: Hector’s Piano Rescue. A rumpled banner inside the ticket window read Black Friday Sale. With a nod in her direction, the man opened one of the entry doors and shooed the cats inside.

Violet’s spirits brightened, and her mouth watered at the smell of buttered popcorn. She gripped the umbrella shaft with both hands and barreled toward the lights.

She caught her breath under the theater’s canopy. Two round windows in the entry doors resembled lenses in wire-rimmed spectacles and reflected her every move. Geometric black and gold lines gave the doors a retro look. She pulled on one of the handles, and wind whistled ahead of her in a confusion of sound as though an ensemble was tuning. A shopkeepers bell jingled. She ventured into the lobby, her umbrella still poised over her head, and wrestled with the door closing behind her. Water dripped off her umbrella and pooled around her in a circle on the threadbare carpet. The not-so hoodlum cats mewed and rubbed against her damp jeans. Hi guys. She bent to pet each one. Aren’t you a handsome tribe?

A man waited behind the concession stand. Welcome to the Rescue. I’m Hector Kouris, but you may call me Hector, and a group of cats is called a clowder. May I help you? He rubbed his palms together. Sorry. The power just came on after more than an hour. Still a little chilly in here.

Honestly, I’m looking for shelter. She shivered. Something is wrong with the rain.

This storm is a strange one even for Seattle. You may put your umbrella down and let it dry open.

Isn’t that bad luck?

There’s nothing but good luck allowed in here. Besides, your umbrella is a work of art, and art is allowed in here as well. He tinkered with his popcorn machine.

When I was little, my only auntie helped me decorate it with star sequins, rhinestone raindrops, and glittery music notes. Some say it’s gaudy, but I love it. She stood her umbrella next to the wall and scrutinized him. Dark hair. Probably her father’s age, say fiftyish. Wearing a dark patterned sweater and khakis. Harmless looking but you never know—

Would you like some baklava popcorn?

Yes, please, it smells amazing. By the way, I’m Violet.

He handed her a red and white box of hot popcorn. Greek-ish but not Greek. Basic popcorn tossed with honey, butter, and walnuts.

Thank you. She popped a piece into her mouth. Delicious.

He whistled the musical phrase decorating the hem of her umbrella. I do believe that’s ‘The Entertainer’ by Scott Joplin. A true classic. As though on cue, a distant piano played the introduction.

Musical hocus-pocus?

No. The busker. He browses. Never buys. He tossed a handful of kibble at the cats who jumped with joy. Homemade cat treats, but they think it’s people popcorn. These shop cats have an uncanny knack of pairing a patron with the perfect piano. To me, they’re a Greek chorus. What other kind would they be?

I always wanted a cat, but never had one. She brushed fur off her pants. Is busker the flute-man’s name?

Not exactly. A busker is a street musician. This busker plays his flute at the covered footbridge near campus. Be sure to put a dollar in his tip jar. He’s a fine chap, and it’ll bring you more good luck. The piano music continued with a flute joining in.

I cross that bridge every day on my way to class. I noticed someone performing but haven’t stopped long enough to listen. She frowned. That’s going to change. She wrapped her slicker tighter around her body, but her feet were cold and wet.

You look chilled. Let me get you some hot apple cider. He brought her a paper cup.

Thank you. She unzipped her slicker and pulled out a crazy quilt tote bag. The bag clanged when she put it on the floor.

You don’t travel light, do you?

Just my phone, relics, and girl stuff. She dropped her empty popcorn box into a waste basket. What’s a piano rescue?

I adopt pianos no one wants, restore them, and find homes for them. Like rescuing cats and dogs. Mostly cats.

Is this your business? Ownership would make him respectable and justify her hanging out alone with him.

I own every door and piano key. Come on, I’ll give you the tour. He led her to an alcove near the entrance. First, I’ll show you my trio of player pianos.

I’ve never seen one up close before.

Do you play piano? Player or otherwise?

Yes, I do. She licked a popcorn crumb off her lips. The otherwise kind.

He crossed his arms in front of an upright piano with violet glass doors above the keyboard. This is my favorite. The glass glowed as if lit from within.

It’s beautiful.

And pure genius. Behind these sliding panels, a mechanism reads music notated on a rotating perforated roll. He flipped a lever, and the piano played Beer Barrel Polka.

Someone in another room began clogging to the music. The busker-man? She bobbed her head to the beat, but her eyes searched the showroom. What a curious place.

Hector tapped his toe and sang, "For the gang’s all— The player piano stopped mid-phrase. Must have run out of gas. Or beer. Over here, I have eight uprights eager for adoption."

Violet wrinkled her nose at bird droppings on the canvas piano covers.

Right, well, that’s why I keep my inventory covered. The cats keep the rats down but don’t do anything about the pigeons on the catwalk.

If only the walls could talk.

They do. Sometimes they can’t shut up.

And I think I’m wildly imaginative. Her tote bag clunked against one of the pianos.

Do you carry a bowling ball in there?

No. Just my parents. She hoisted it to her shoulder.

This little Hamilton’s a beaut. He yanked off the tarp and plopped onto the bench. Listen to the tone.

Mozart’s Sonata in C. She clapped her hands. I played that when I was a kid.

He stopped at the end of a phrase. I love classical music as well as popular music from my native Greece. He stood. Think Theodorakis, ‘Zorba the Greek.’ Vangelis, ‘Chariots of Fire.’ You’ve heard of Yanni? Pure talent meets sensational theater.

Sensational theater? She flinched. That’s Daddy’s catchphrase. Do you rent these out? I’m stuck practicing at the U, and it’s beyond inconvenient.

No, I’m sorry. Adoptions only. He tilted his head. But would you like some more popcorn?

No, thank you. Do you have any baby grands?

I have seven permanent residents. When a grand arrives here, it’s usually the end of the road. Very sad. Put out to pasture, so to speak. This way please.

She discarded her cup and followed him toward two arty-looking doors. The brass plaque over the entrance read To Thine Own Self Be True. Easier said than done.

"This place was built in the 1930’s, and the doors are art deco. The quote up there was spoken by Polonius in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Richard Burton’s performance is my favorite. Hinges squeaked as he unlocked and propped open one of the doors. A single bulb glowed at the end of the room. That ghost light is my only employee other than the shop cats. It never breaks character nor asks for a raise. He shot her a look. As is tradition, at the end of the day, the ghost light remains lit on stage. Helps the first person to arrive the next day, which would be me, find the light switches, and for those who believe, gives the spirits who dwell in the theater enough light to perform in the dead of night."

When he opened a panel on the wall and flipped a switch, house lights illuminated a rectangular hall with a stage at the far end. A spotlight illuminated gold tragedy and comedy masks above the stage for at least two seconds before clicking off.

They crossed the threshold, and her jaw dropped. A three-foot mirrored disco ball hung from a catwalk that crossed the high ceiling from front to back. A center aisle divided two sections of theater seats protected by yards of various fabrics. Brass sconces with seashell shades glowed on the papered walls along both side aisles. She sensed the warm presence of a long-ago audience. Murmurs drifted out of the walls and from backstage. A C-major chord thundered beyond the shadows. The open red velvet stage curtain swayed a little. What a cozy venue.

Small enough to feel intimate but large enough to fulfill its promise. Uncanny acoustics. The curtains, hand painted backdrop, and one hundred sixty upholstered seats are original. The control booth is backstage on the right. It’s newer but could stand an upgrade. This theater has a colorful history. He lowered his voice. One owner shut it down in 1981 after a terrible tragedy and eventually went bankrupt. He perked up again. Some say cats have nine lives. So does this place. In 2000, I proudly became the ninth owner. He rubbed his palms together. Sometimes you must take a chance and live the life you’ve always dreamed about no matter how impractical. Someday, my stage will see drama again, and these seats will fill with warm bodies. Until then, I’m happy to help old pianos find new life.

The bold black and gold abstract design on the backdrop reminded her of her jaw-dropping A plus in geometry. I feel as though I’ve entered another world.

That’s what theaters are for. My late wife was an actress. He moved on.

She followed him down a side aisle past mostly empty picture frames hung between wall sconces.

Those used to hold movie and celebrity posters. Sadly, they didn’t age well. He chuckled. Some of us don’t.

The empty ones sure fire up the imagination.

Again, that’s what theaters are for.

One frame held a picture of a chubby orange cat with enormous hazel eyes who appeared to be watching her. When she paused for a better look, the cat vanished. She sniffed. Is someone baking bread? A distant roar rolled above the ceiling. The creek? Rain? The acoustics are amazing in here.

Better yet, they’re extraordinary. Sometimes I hear things that don’t belong in here. Or in the now. Although… He coughed.

What is he not telling me? The pattern on the frames matches your front door.

As well as the theater doors and backdrop. Except for the masks on the wall above the stage curtain, it’s all art deco.

Bird wings flapped high overhead as a posse of cats raced down the aisle in pursuit.

At least they try, poor fools, he muttered.

A white cat with enormous eyes peered down from the catwalk.

Oh, poor thing is going to fall—

No, she’s No-Name Kitty. She’s mostly white with a silver underbelly. Loves heights.

Good for her. Woozy, Violet rested a hand on a chair back. I fear heights.

Good thing you’re not a cat. Okay, here are my grands. Three hulking shapes, covered with tarps, stood in the aisle to the right of the theater seats and four on the opposite side.

Whoa. On the wall closest to the stage, a green frame held an eight-by-ten-inch print of a mermaid embracing a large round sea sponge. Gutter-mini-mermaid? She took a closer look. She and the mermaid had red hair, but the mermaid’s makeup included cat eyes, violet shadow, and rouge.

Ain’t she sweet? Hector sang. See her swimming down the street.

Does he know his mermaid swims laps on Loopy Lane?

He nodded and approached the picture.

Did he just read my mind?

Spugne means sponge. This little poster is an Italian advertisement for sponges specifically from Venice. Vintage 1920 or so. I’m quite fond of her. I call her Tressa because of her fabulous long red tresses. It’s possible she’s been here since the theater opened. He chuckled. The cats think she’s a fish and often climb the wall to take a swipe at her.

But if you keep the theater doors locked, how do the cats get in?

By mysterious ways. He twirled his mustache. Actually, the cats know every nook, cranny, and passageway better than I do.

She took a deep breath and rubbed her breastbone. Gutter-mini-mermaid is real. A melody plunked on a piano backstage interrupted her thoughts.

Just one of the cats, although I swear, I closed the piano fallboard. Now, about my grands. Imagine how they must have filled studios, salons, and stages with beautiful music.

One of the shrouded lumps had reddish-brown piano legs. Oh my God, could that be Bossy?

I beg your pardon?

My old piano. I named her Bossy because I couldn’t pronounce Bösendorfer. See? The bottom of this leg has a nasty scar. And makes me hear the screaming all over again. Her parents had fought like cats even in front of their best friend and, in Violet’s haste to escape, she’d run into an open drawer, gashing her shin. And nobody cared. She swallowed a sob.

Oh, no, you’re unhappy. Busker, please bring Violet a hot cider while I untie this canvas. She needs to see her Bossy.

I’m sorry, Violet said. I never expected to see her again. Let me check one thing to be sure. You see, eons ago, I crayoned a violet near the sounding board. She crawled under the piano with the dust bunnies. Wow, it’s still there. As are my worst memories. She rubbed the piano’s scarred leg. I was only six. Her shrieking father threw their Fabergé egg at her mother but missed and gouged Bossy’s leg. Violet raced into the bathroom to get a Band-Aid for Bossy’s leg and one for her bleeding shin. Then five more. Used the whole box. But it didn’t matter. Her mother left without saying goodbye. After a week or so, Violet referred to her mother as Margot-Mom because it hurt less.

Are you okay down there?

Oh sure, just having a moment. She stared at Hector’s khaki pantlegs while the shop cats meowed their sympathy in four-part harmony.

Sorry, Greek chorus is the cats’ calling, so they can’t help highlighting the action be it tragedy or comedy. That was lovely, thank you, run along now. The caterwauling trailed off one voice at a time.

A second pair of trousered legs appeared above well-worn old-fashioned shoes with frayed laces. The busker squatted and handed her a steaming cup. Their eyes met. His were very dark.

Thank you, she whispered. He nodded and stood.

There, there. Hector’s tone calmed her. You may come out now.

I’m sorry. She stood beside the piano and warmed her hands on the paper cup. There was something wrong with the rain, and I got some in my mouth. Maybe I’m sick.

On the contrary. Remember? There’s nothing but good luck allowed in here. Let’s give Bossy some air, shall we?

The busker put his flute on a theater seat and helped remove the tarp. He was shorter than Violet, maybe five-foot-three or so with an elderly posture. Imagine being a street musician. Solemn eyes. Full lips turned down at the corners. Magnificent nose. His black beret with a yarn pompom and mismatched three-piece suit suggested old world histories shelved in dusty libraries.

There we go. Hector pulled Violet back to the moment.

She smiled at the piano and dusted it with her free hand. The case is mahogany, and she was manufactured in 1922 in Austria. Imagine, traveling all this way. Isn’t she gorgeous?

The busker gave her a cool nod, picked up his flute, and strolled up the aisle.

He is a fine chap—

Are you Andras Bacon’s daughter? Hector tilted his head.

Her shoulders dropped. Yes, I am.

Well, isn’t this my lucky day. I attend every concert at the U, and a year ago October, I watched you win the baccalaureate competition with Bach’s Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue.

You have a great memory. She brightened. The fruit of that win is that I get to perform Stravinsky’s Concerto for Piano and Wind Instruments in three weeks. My advisor moved up my concert because I’m eligible to graduate a semester early. She downed the cider while Hector pulled out the bench for her and opened the fallboard. She sat, her tote bag beside her. How did Bossy end up here?

I adopted her in the summer of 2001. Mr. Bacon abandoned her when he moved away, and the new owner of the house didn’t want her.

Beyond depressing. She touched a key without making a sound. I know it sounds silly, but I think of Bossy as my sister.

Quiet snippets of a dissonant ragtime wafted in from the lobby or beyond. Cats on the keyboards?

Ahem. Hector turned his head to listen. That’s a jolly good tune, and speaking of Stravinsky. Didn’t Morgen Marín showcase the concerto a few years ago?

Violet brushed her fingers across the keys. Fourteen years ago, to be exact. Interesting mathematical coincidence because Morgen, her lifelong confidante, first piano teacher, and now an associate professor at the U, was almost fourteen years older than she. I literally cut my teeth on this piano. She pointed to some tiny scrapes on the keyslip. May I?

Please. Be my guest.

I know you like this one. She began The Entertainer but stopped mid-phrase and laced her fingers. How much?

Bossy’s a rare find and in excellent condition. She appraised at twenty-four thousand dollars.

The shopkeepers bell jangled.

Excuse me. It seems I have a customer. He hurried up the aisle.

Like the busker, I can browse for free but can’t afford to buy. Well, you’re mine for now, she whispered. She unzipped her tote and pulled out a Fabergé egg. The purple lacquered egg filled her cupped hand perfectly. She counted each miniature jeweled violet blossom with the tip of her finger before placing the egg on the piano. Look, Mom, it’s Bossy. She reached into the bag again and took out a pair of metal handcuffs. You too, Daddy, even though you’ve really screwed things up. She dropped the cuffs on the floor by the damaged leg. As she played Bach’s Chromatic Fugue, cats surrounded the piano and nodded to the beat.

Five minutes later, she finished. You still have the most beautiful tone—

Applause erupted behind her. She turned to see Hector with a man, woman, and two wiggling children cheering her from the doorway. She stuffed her relics into her tote.

It’s raining cats, the little girl screamed, dancing around, her red rubber boots dripping on the carpet. I want a cat. Pretty please?

Sorry for the outburst. Please hush, Doodad. The woman grabbed the child’s hand. Doodad is our nickname for Deidre. She’s barely four-and-a-half and first heard the expression ‘raining cats and dogs’ this morning but only got it half right. She bent over and cupped her daughter’s chin in her palm. We’re here to look at pianos.

But I want a raining cat. Doodad stomped her boot.

Violet spied the busker off to the side, flute in hand, taking it all in.

We enjoyed listening to you. The man watched his wife corral the children.

I want that ginormous piano.

I want a ginormous cat.

Let me introduce you to Violet. Hector led them down the aisle.

Do you work here? the man asked her.

I want a scary mask, Doodad screamed at the tragedy and comedy masks above the stage curtain.

No. I’m a senior music major at Northwest Coast University and this year’s winner of the baccalaureate prize. In fact, I’ll be the soloist with the symphonic band and will perform Stravinsky’s Concerto for Piano and Wind Instruments on December seventeenth. Dr. Rylan Byrd will conduct, and he puts on quite a show. Free to the public. Perhaps you’d like to attend.

We’d love to, thank you. We’re both NCU graduates, and we’re shopping for a piano for our son. He rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. The cats coaxed us to an upright, and we fell in love with it. Would you please play it so we can hear how it sounds?

Hector gave her a nod.

I’d be happy to. She collected her things and followed the group into the lobby.

This could be the one for us. The man pointed at the Hamilton. The cats gathered around looking pleased with themselves.

Violet sat on the bench. What’s your favorite kind of music?

I’ve always loved show tunes. The woman continued to arm wrestle her daughter.

This is a favorite. She played Memory from Cats.

Moves me every time. The woman’s eyes brightened. Thank you.

Doodad, gripping her mother’s hand with both of hers, stared at the entrance to the theater. Mommy, may I go play with her?

Her? Who? Shh, it’s Daddy’s turn.

I enjoy jazz. He grinned as though his was the correct answer.

I only have one that might qualify. Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’ arranged for piano solo. She played with much enthusiasm. And the children might enjoy a little Vince Guaraldi. She offered a short rendition of Linus and Lucy while Doodad danced in circles.

The boy plopped beside her on the bench. Now it’s my turn.

Whoa. Do you play?

Not yet. He pressed a key, and a tone rang out. He paled.

Cornflower blue eyes must run in the family. What’s your name?

Richard, but my friends call me Ricker. He stared at the keyboard. I’m in third grade.

Great, Ricker. Let’s get started. First press this key. Then this one. Good job. Next, this one and back to that one. He did, and she listened. Super. Keep repeating those notes in that order while I play over here. By the way, this piece is called ‘Chopsticks,’ although I don’t know why.

When the duet ended, the parents beamed while Doodad stalked No-Name Kitty.

I guess I’m pretty good at piano. Ricker grinned.

Doodad, put the kitty down.

But I like twirly tails.

We’re on the right track, but first we need to find a good teacher. The father patted Ricker on the shoulder. Thank you, Hector, we’ll be in touch.

Let me get you some baklava popcorn for the road, Greek-ish but not Greek. Basic popcorn tossed with honey, butter, and walnuts—

The shopkeepers bell jingled again.

Hector nodded at Ricker’s father. Please excuse me.

Wait, Hector, remember? Violet leaped to her feet. You’re doing a promotion for Black Friday. If they buy a piano today, they get three free lessons from me here in the Rescue.

Hector’s eyes bulged.

With the ginormous piano? Ricker and Doodad asked in unison.

And with my ginormous past. Violet pressed her lips together.

In that case, you have a deal. The man pulled out his wallet. Can you deliver it?

Of course. Let me check my calendar. Hector