Thirty-two

“I couldn’t leave Wacker to his fate.” Esther’s voice echoed inside the empty back of the Village Blend van.

“Sure you could,” Tucker replied, eyes on the road.

I was surprised to see Tuck pick us up since his shift didn’t start for several hours, but I was so grateful to get away from the Terrycloth Terror that I didn’t question it. Neither did Esther. Perched on a sack of duck food, one arm resting on the oversized cage covered with a beach towel, she shook her head.

“No way was I abandoning Wacker back there. I’m friends with Mr. Scrib. I found his keys. I found his note. And while he’s in the hospital recovering, I’m going to take care of his duck.”

“We could call animal control,” Tucker countered. “They’ll probably figure out a humane solution. Maybe take him to a sanctuary on Long Island.”

“I’m not risking it. Given the state of the overworked bureaucracy in this burg, it’s more likely Wacker will end up in an East Hampton confit.”

“You have a point,” Tucker replied. “Though I wonder how you’re so certain of that bird’s pronoun.”

Esther shrugged. “I just know.”

Tucker swerved to avoid a stalled taxi. From inside the covered cage, Wacker let out a string of outraged quacks.

Tucker frowned. “I hope that duck doesn’t get carsick.”

“Ducks can fly, so they’re probably immune,” Esther said hopefully.

“Will you two stop arguing about the duck!” I cried, loud enough to make Tucker wince. “Sorry for shouting, but I’m still processing everything I discovered back there, and I’m more than a little freaked out.”

“You’re right beside me,” Tucker reminded me. “So, no need to shout. I can hear every word you say. Now what’s freaking you out?”

“You want a list? It’s a long one,” I said.

“Then you better save it.”

“Why?”

“ ‘Because we’ve got trouble,’ ” Tuck chanted in singsong verse. “ ‘Right here in River City.’ ”

“What?” I turned in my seat, suddenly alarmed. “What kind of trouble?”

“Yes, enlighten us, Music Man,” Esther cracked from the back.

Tucker grinned. “ ‘It’s trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for—’ ”

“Pool!” Esther finished.

“No, not pool,” Tucker said.

“But that’s how the song goes,” Esther insisted. “The Music Man warns everyone in River City about the evils of the pool hall.”

“I know how the song goes,” Tucker said. “I once played the title role in an off-off-Broadway cabaret tribute. We got raves! And if you remember the libretto, then you’ll recall the ‘problem’ of River City, Iowa, wasn’t really a problem. It was invented by the con artist who wanted to bilk the people of the town by convincing them to purchase musical instruments to keep their kids away from the so-called bad influences of the pool hall. But in reality, the con man is scheming to abscond with their money. Anyway, pool is not our problem—”

“Then what is?!” Esther and I demanded in duet.

“We’re packed,” Tucker said. “With a capital P.”

“Packed?” I echoed in confusion.

“Yes!” His head bobbed again. “And that ‘starts with P and that rhymes with T and that stands for—’ ”

“Stop with the lyrics!” I shouted.

Tucker frowned. “I told you already. You’re right beside me. You don’t have to shout.”

“Sorry. Just tell me, okay? No more lyrics. What exactly is going on?”

“I told you. The Village Blend is swamped with customers.”

I checked my watch, incredulous. “But we’re always a ghost shop at this time of day.”

Esther squealed. “It worked! My social outreach worked!” Dancing in her seat, she began to chant. “ ‘Come, and trip it as ye go. On the light fantastic toe!’ John Milton, natch!”

QUACK! QUACK!

“Hey, look at that!” Esther clapped her hands. “Wacker knows Milton! All that poetry reading by Mr. Scrib must have rubbed off.”

“I posted, too,” Tucker said. “Dozens of places that might catch the eye of local playwrights and authors. Oh, and I advertised a contest for black box one-acts, exclusive to members of our Writer’s Block Lounge. I said we’d stage it upstairs, invite indie producers and critics, and the winners will get free coffee and pastries for a month. Great idea, right?”

“Stellar,” Esther said, pushing up her glasses. “Just don’t schedule it on the night of my Writer’s Block poetry slam, or else—”

“Stop!” I cried. “Tucker, tell me more. When exactly did these new customers appear?”

“Nancy said they started trickling in after you two went on your Wack hunt—”

“Wacker!” Esther called from the back. “His name is—”

“Whatever!” Tuck cut in. “The trickle of curious writers turned into a flood, and Dante called me in early to help serve. Now everyone is sucking down espresso drinks, eating up our pastry case, and milling around, wondering what to do.”

“Well, what do we do?” I demanded. “We better figure it out fast.”

“I’m on it,” Esther said. “Give me two hours to get Wacker settled in my place, and I’ll be ready to help.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said, turning to face her. “You got us into this. We need a plan now.”

“All right, all right, cool your cucumbers. I’ll tell you both what to do…”

Esther gave us a quick plan of action. Tuck said he was fine with getting things started. After pulling up to the Village Blend curb, he popped his door, and bailed out of the driver’s seat.

I exited the van, too, but held my door open—

“Thirty minutes and not a second more,” I warned Esther as she slipped behind the wheel. “I want this van and your butt back here ASAP. We’re going to need all hands on deck.”

Esther rolled her eyes as she released the parking brake.

“Aye, aye, Captain Bligh.”