Once Upon Stilettos
Page 59

I chanced a nervous glance at Mom, sure this would be enough to send her straight over the edge (not that she was all that far from the edge to begin with), but she was staring at the impromptu chorus line in delight, her eyes shining. I looked back at the dancers, dreading the high kicks that were sure to come at the end of the number. Most of these people looked like they’d need traction if they tried something like that.
The funny thing was, although I couldn’t hear any music, I felt like I was listening to the same catchy tune all the deli patrons were dancing to. I couldn’t help but tap my feet under the table. I forced myself to stop, stubbornly wrapping my ankles around the chair legs so I could resist the urge to join the chorus line.
I had no doubt that Idris was behind this. It looked a lot like the results of that control spell he’d been selling earlier, the one I saw Owen and Jake testing and that had been used during the wine dinner. I forced my eyes away from the dancers, who were moving into a Busby Berkeley formation that probably looked stunning from the ceiling, and turned toward Idris. He was pale, and sweat ran down his face, but he looked more caught up in the happenings than Mom was. He moved his fingers and the formation changed. All we needed now was a fountain rising from the middle of the deli, or maybe a giant staircase for showgirls to float down.
The waitress came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray loaded with food, then froze in shock. Idris caught my eye and grinned—a non-sneering, nonthreatening grin, for a change. “Watch this!” he said. A moment later, the waitress’s tray turned into a feathered fan, and she began darting in and out of the line of dancers with surprising grace, waving her fan in front of her.
Idris laughed in delight. “Ooh, and how about this?” he said, still grinning. Soon the sounds of cookware being banged in rhythm with the dance came from the kitchen. “Good one, huh?” he asked. He looked like a little kid with a new toy. “Maybe they should dance, too.” One by one, the cooks came out of the kitchen, still banging pots and pans, to join in.
Idris must have improved the spell, for it seemed to work better than the earlier versions had. I waited for him to spring the big surprise on Mom and confront her with the evidence of magic, or maybe to blackmail me into quitting MSI, but all he did was add more and more details to his extravaganza.
Then it hit me: our evil archvillain had a raging case of ADD. He had the attention span of a toddler on a sugar high. He couldn’t maintain a good threat long enough to do any real damage before he got sidetracked by something shiny. The real danger wasn’t that he would take over the world. It was the chaos he could stir up while entertaining himself. He was more Dr. Evil than Dr. No.
Finally, he let out a gasp, then slumped onto the table, drenched in sweat. Around the deli, the patrons stopped dancing, returned to their seats, and collapsed, rubbing their temples. The waitress’s fan became a tray once more, but she didn’t get it settled before the soup hit the floor. She sank into the nearest chair, looking weary. The cooks joined her. I remembered the headache Owen had after a spell much like this one had been tested on him, and he’d only been under the influence for a few seconds. I could only imagine how these people must feel.
I was trying desperately to come up with a way of explaining what had happened when Mom rose from her seat, applauding. “Bravo!” she shouted. “That was wonderful. Thank you so much.” They all looked at her like she was crazy, then returned to rubbing their heads. Mom sat down, still beaming. “It’s just like in the movies,” she gushed.
I blinked at her in disbelief. She didn’t see anything weird about an entire deli breaking into a spontaneous dance number? Then again, her view of New York was largely shaped by television and movies, and she did have a fondness for old musicals, so people doing dance routines in public might not have been all that shocking to her.
“I guess they have to come up with some way to keep all those Broadway dancers employed,” she went on. “Entertainment at restaurants is a wonderful idea.” That was a relief. I’d have hated to think my mom was so clueless she thought people in New York really did do spontaneous dance routines. There certainly were restaurants with singing, dancing waiters, and she didn’t have to know that this wasn’t really one of them.
Before Idris got any other bright ideas, like reenacting the infamous deli scene from When Harry Met Sally (something I did not want to see with my mother around), I picked up my purse and shopping bags, threw enough bills to cover our uneaten lunches and Idris’s coffee onto the table, along with a nice tip for the waitress, who’d been a really good dancer, then grabbed Mom’s arm. “Let’s get out of here,” I suggested. “The floor show’s over, and the food isn’t all that good.”