by Ali Brandon
“No one here,” Jake confirmed as she rejoined Darla a moment later. “I’ll try upstairs. Stay by the phone, just in case. If I yell 9-1-1, start dialing.”
“Gotcha.”
Darla gave a firm nod and hurried over to the register, where the phone was. On the off chance that someone was in the store, it had to be one of the fan girls who would doubtless find the formidable Jake more terrifying than any Haunted High phantom and give herself up without a fight. She couldn’t image a run-of-the-mill burglar breaking in; a bookstore was hardly the place anyone would expect to find significant cash. Even the rare books weren’t something one could run down to the pawnshop with and expect to get more than a few dollars for in return. Still, she couldn’t help a tremor of nervousness as she watched Jake make her awkward yet resolute way up the steps.
This staircase ran along the wall shared with Darla’s hallway and paralleled the one there, save that it went only one floor up. Once, there had been access from the second-floor rooms onto the adjoining landing on Darla’s personal stairway. That doorway had been plastered over to separate the four stories into two separate apartments long before Great-Aunt Dee had converted the lower half into her bookstore. This meant that anyone hiding on the second floor would be trapped there, unless she—or he—had squeezed out one of the windows overlooking the street and climbed down the fire escape.
Darla heard the muffled sound of Jake’s uneven gait above her, mentally followed the progress of her Docs as they made a zigzag sweep of both rooms above. A few moments later, Jake appeared at the head of the stairs.
“All clear up here,” she declared, tucking the flashlight into the back waistband of her jeans and making her careful way down the stairs again. As she reached the bottom step, Darla noticed that Jake clutched a length of dark fabric in one hand.
“The only explanation I can think of is that maybe Hamlet found his way into the shop from your apartment and somehow managed to bump a light switch while playing around on the displays,” Jake said. “The alarm was still set when I unlocked the door, and nothing appeared out of place. Well, except this.”
She held up the fabric, which turned out to be a hooded black cape similar to the one that the girl on the street had been wearing, and which echoed the one Valerie Baylor wore in her author photo. Except that this cape sported a large “Made in China” tag along one inner seam, and was made of lightweight velour.
“I found this at the top of the stairs,” she went on, tossing the cloak to Darla. “Any chance it belongs to you?”
Darla nodded. “Yes, actually. Valerie Baylor’s publisher sent us all manner of Haunted High promotional items so we employees could join in the dress-up fun during Valerie’s appearance.”
Darla had managed to lay hands on three of these capes, which had arrived via courier only that morning. Though somehow, she just could not picture the natty James wearing a cheap knockoff cloak over his usual cable-knit vest, handmade Oxford shirt, and sharp-creased wool trousers. She added, “There should be two more of them hanging up in the storeroom, which is where this one should have been. I don’t know how it ended up on the stairs.”
“I’m putting in another vote for Hamlet,” Jake promptly replied. “He probably saw it hanging off the peg and managed to drag it down. In fact”—she paused and grinned a little—“I bet that’s what I saw moving around the store. He must have gotten wrapped in the cloth and then went racing up and down the stairs trying to untangle himself. The top step is where the cape must finally have fallen off.”
“That makes sense . . . at least, more sense than my great-aunt haunting the place,” Darla said, shaking out the cape and studying it for signs of damage. The cloth appeared to have escaped unharmed. Folding it over her arm, she went on, “But how did he get into the store? He was upstairs with me the whole time.”
Or had he been? Come to think of it, had she seen him since she’d gone into the kitchen for her soda an hour earlier?
Jake shrugged. “A place this old and remodeled a time or two always has a few cat-sized ins and outs. He probably has his own private tunnels all through the building. You think he’s snug on his cushion, and he’s really out on the town . . . or, rather, out on the town house,” she finished with another grin.
Darla grinned back, feeling uncommonly relieved that it was neither ghost nor fan girl who’d been prowling about the place. Still, if Hamlet managed to start setting off the alarm during one of his forays, it could become a problem.
Setting down the cape on the register counter, she said, “Sorry to waste your time, but thanks for coming to the rescue.”
“Hey, kid, coming to the rescue is why I pay half the going rate for rent around here,” the older woman replied. “But I’ve got a glass of a nice red waiting on me downstairs, so why don’t we lock up the place so I can get out of here?”
“Sounds good. I’ll lock up after you and reset the alarm from my hall. Then I’m going to head back upstairs and finish reading my book.” Darla paused and gave a sheepish grin. “I can’t believe it, but I think I’ve turned into a Valerie Baylor fan myself.”
THREE
“JAMES, TAKE A LOOK AT THIS.”
Darla rose from her spot behind the cash register and handed her store manager a single-spaced, typewritten page, its demure, oyster-colored stock matching its accompanying envelope. The letter had been part of the stack she’d collected the night before but was only now getting to this morning. While the return address had been an unfamiliar one, the Dallas postmark had prompted her to open that correspondence first.
Someone writing from home, had been her first pleased thought.
And so it had been, though the letter’s contents had been anything but homey.
James took the proffered page and adjusted his gold-rimmed reading glasses, and then began to read aloud.
Dear Darla: You do not know me, but I am a neighbor of your sister, Linda. She has told me much about you, and the fact that you left your husband and now own a bookstore in New York City, of all places. While I do not APPROVE of such a lifestyle, I myself am also a SINNER and so do not stoop to casting stones. But I cannot remain silent now that I have heard your young nephews telling my children that you have actually invited the author VALERIE BAYLOR to your store to sign her books.
James paused in his narrative to shoot Darla a wry look and then continued reading.
As a Christian, it is my DUTY to warn you that you are about to bring EVIL into your life by allowing THAT WOMAN into your store. Her books are of SATAN! She corrupts YOUNG MINDS with her stories of supernatural beings. If you allow this, then you are as GUILTY as she is in spreading THE DEVIL’S WORD! I have been praying daily that you will see GOD’S LIGHT and cancel this sinful affair. And I must warn you that, if you don’t, members of The Lord’s Blessing Church will be there to protest MOST VOCIFEROUSLY against you and that woman. Take care for your own soul! Yours in the LORD, Mrs. Bobby Jennings (Marnie).
Darla stood in shocked silence a moment after he’d finished reading. Hearing the words spoken aloud had an even greater impact than seeing them on paper. Finally, she took a calming breath and asked, “So, what do you think?”
“I think the woman has a fixation with the uppercase,” James remarked in his usual understated manner as he handed back the letter to her. “But I am confused. I thought you had told me your sister ran off to Seattle, married a grunge musician, and became a corporate lawyer while her spouse stayed home to care for their three children. What is she doing befriending this odd churchwoman?”
“Actually, my sister Brenda is the lawyer . . . and it’s Portland, not Seattle. Linda is still back home in Texas. She’s the stay-at-home mom with two boys, and her husband is a financial analyst.”
Darla grimaced at that last. Said brother-in-law, though a decent enough guy, also happened to be Darla’s ex-husband’s cousin. That inconvenient relationship had led to a few tense moments those times that her sister had hosted any extended-fam
ily get-togethers in the two years following Darla’s divorce.
Darla sighed. She had left Texas and taken on the responsibility of her late great-aunt’s store knowing full well that times were tough for independent booksellers. It had been a gamble . . . but, as far as she could see, a reasonable one. With nothing but debt (courtesy of her deadbeat ex) and a dwindling job market left to her in Dallas, she had jumped at the opportunity of owning both a home and a business, free and clear.
She hadn’t realized just how tough things actually were, however, until she’d started keeping the shop’s books. Each month, the gap between black ink and red continued to narrow. While she was still turning a modest profit—James’s rare-books expertise and her push into Internet sales had been proving the difference—one bad month and the red ink would begin spurting. The rent she collected from Jake was a nice little bonus, but since the lease terms as negotiated with Great-Aunt Dee were far below the going rate, those payments didn’t do much to offset any real drop in store revenues.
The last thing she needed now was a boycott to run off the customers she had!
“Anyhow, I’m sure Linda isn’t involved with these Lord’s Blessing people,” Darla went on, shoving aside her unpleasant memories to concentrate on the new bad stuff. “She and her family attend your basic garden-variety Methodist church. But I did read something about this church in the Dallas paper last year. The congregation decided that a movie theater in a town about thirty miles north of the city was busy doing the devil’s work. Apparently, the place showed horror-movie marathons on Friday and Saturday nights. It was a real draw for the local teens.”
“Ah, let me guess,” James interjected. “Mrs. Jennings and her fellow churchgoers saw evil incarnate and decided that a little soul saving was in order.”
“Exactly. They picketed the theater every weekend for two months until most of the kids gave up and quit going to the movies. The owner finally had to shut the place down,” Darla finished with a disgusted shake of her red mane.
James gave a genteel snort. “It sounds as if Mrs. Jennings and her fellow fanatics have forgotten that both Old and New Testaments are rife with supernatural happenings far more outlandish than anything you will find in movie theaters or Ms. Baylor’s books. But do not worry. In my estimation, your immortal soul is safe even if you refuse to cancel the signing.”
“It isn’t exactly my soul that I’m worried about,” Darla replied as she took back the offending letter and shoved it into its envelope. “It’s my livelihood that concerns me. It’s bad enough that we had a girl outside the store yesterday waving a sign accusing Valerie Baylor of plagiarism. What if those church people really do show up here this weekend and raise a stink about the signing? The same thing might happen to us that happened to the theater owner.”
“My dear Darla, I can assure you that in this part of the world, such a protest would only increase business. But if you are uncomfortable with that sort of publicity, I will be happy to deal with them for you should they make an appearance.”
That last brought a weak smile to Darla’s lips. If anyone could handle a group of chanting fanatics, it would be James. Countless semesters of dealing with college students had endowed him with a no-nonsense attitude, while his own self-confessed stint as a sixties activist had taught him all the tricks of the protester trade. And his years in retail had prepared him for anything.
Darla’s smile broadened as she recalled James’s history with the store. He had assumed the management reins from Great-Aunt Dee after she suffered her first stroke half a dozen years earlier, taking on the responsibility for the day-to-day running of the store right up until her death. Per a provision in the old woman’s will, he had continued in that role during the weeks it took to sort out her estate and, eventually, turn the store over to her great-niece.
Quite understandably, he had been somewhat reluctant to relinquish those responsibilities to Darla, no matter that he had reached official retirement age and could easily have supported himself on what he’d once hinted was a generous university pension. But Darla considered herself fortunate that James preferred to keep working. He’d not hesitated to inform her that his expertise buying and selling rare volumes brought in a nice revenue stream, doing much to keep the store going in an era when numerous independent bookstores were shutting their doors. Moreover, he had quite a customer following, despite his acerbic manner and barely veiled disdain for anything he personally did not view as worthy literature.
Recognizing his value to the business, Darla had made the first move by paying him a substantial bonus in recognition of his past contributions. Mollified, he had allowed her to take on the administrative role after a week’s intensive training, though she’d insisted he retain the title of manager.
“Perhaps it is better this way, after all,” he had conceded once he’d turned over the passwords to the various accounting and inventory spreadsheets. “Now, I can concentrate on fine literature and no longer have to pretend to enjoy selling genre fiction and tell-all books.”
With his rich, cultured tones reminiscent of a Richard Burton or a James Earl Jones, James could have easily had a career in voice-overs had he not opted to teach. A couple of decades earlier, he might even have landed a leading man’s role had he been interested in a stage career. Now, however, his short-cropped hair and beard were completely gray in stark contrast to his mahogany features, though many of the older female customers—and even some of the younger ones—still considered him quite debonair. And although he was proud to say he’d been active in the Civil Rights movement in his twenties, he did not coddle the current crop of youth who hung out on the various street corners nearby looking menacing and occasionally poking a head inside the store.
“If you wish to shop in this store, you will pull up your pants and shut off your iPods so as not to disturb the other customers,” was his standard speech to any young person bold enough to step over the threshold. “And if you would like a recommendation on some uplifting literature, I will be glad to provide it. Otherwise, you may take your business elsewhere.”
Darla had watched this scenario perhaps twenty times in her first weeks there, at first with trepidation, and later with appreciation. Usually, the youth in question would spew a few choice epithets before turning on a heel and leaving without incident. A few times, however, the kid in question would actually pull up, shut off, and then come inside. About half of those young folk left with a purchase in hand—perhaps one of Ralph Ellison’s works, or something from Twain or Austen or a similar author.
One or two of them had even become regular, discount-card-carrying customers.
Yes, if anyone could handle the Lord’s Blessing people, it was Professor James James, Darla reassured herself. Besides, it was already Saturday, and no busload of church people had yet spilled out into the street in front of her store. She glanced at the letter’s envelope and saw the postmark was from two days ago. Not much time to organize a cross-country boycott. Perhaps it had all been an empty threat. But as for the Lone Protester . . .
“Lizzie,” Darla called as her other employee made a timely if breathless entry through the front door that sent the bells jangling. “Is that girl out there this morning, the one dressed like Valerie Baylor and carrying a sign?”
“Oh, Darla, I am so sorry I’m late,” the woman exclaimed, ignoring the question and almost knocking over a display of celebrity cookbooks in her rush to reach the counter.
Lizzie’s plump face beneath a chin-length brown bob was flushed, and her pink lipstick was half gone already from her nervous habit of gnawing her lips. She stuffed the oversized canvas tote that held the manuscript she was perpetually rewriting beneath the register; then, with an exaggerated shudder, the middle-aged woman turned back to Darla.
“The bus took forever to get to my stop, and this man there kept watching me the whole time we were waiting,” she declared. “Then, when the bus finally showed up, the same creepy guy sat down right behind m
e, even though there were plenty of other seats. The last straw was when he started breathing on my neck. He made me so nervous that I got off two stops early and walked the rest of the way. Seriously, I’m still looking over my shoulder to make sure he’s not there.”
“How very unsettling for you,” James commented. “Perhaps once you recover from the shock of it, you might take a look at the genre shelves. They could use a bit of restocking.” To Darla, he added, “I’ll be up in the storeroom finishing inventory if you need me.”
So saying, he picked up his coffee cup and started toward the stairs. Lizzie waited until his back was turned and then stuck out her tongue in his direction.
Darla sighed and suppressed the urge to chastise the pair with a stern, “Play nicely, children.” Both were older than she—Lizzie by a decade, and James by a good thirty years!—and yet it seemed that she was the one playing the parental role.
Darla had noticed that over the past few weeks, Lizzie had grown increasingly snippy toward James while he, in turn, had become even more patronizing than usual in his dealings with Lizzie. When previously questioned, each had denied any friction existed between them. Still, looking back, Darla was pretty sure the trouble had begun when Lizzie resumed her college classes and started working only part-time at the store, leaving more of the burden to James.
She suspected the turning point had come when Lizzie had declared one morning that she would soon be a professor just like James had been. What Darla had overheard of James’s response had owed more to good old Anglo-Saxon than Latin or Greek, camouflaged though it had been among numerous polysyllabic words. By way of response, Lizzie had turned on the waterworks, and Darla had found herself playing peacekeeper.
