by Ali Brandon
He swiftly moved down the line repeating the same instructions, his voice all but drowned out by the shriek of still more sirens and the occasional blast of a horn from someone who hadn’t yet figured out that traffic wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Luckily, the majority of the fan girls appeared too stunned by what had just occurred to do anything other than obey orders. Sitting cross-legged and tightly wrapped in their cloaks—the evening had taken on a distinct chill now—they huddled in small groups.
Jake, meanwhile, was dragging some of the barricades from the sidewalk to block off the accident site. Tying Reese’s shirt around her waist, Darla rushed to help her.
“I can’t believe this happened,” the older woman exclaimed in a low tone as they maneuvered another sawhorse into place. “I sent that girl back across the street not ten minutes ago. What in the hell was she doing back on this side?”
“It’s not your fault, Jake. You told her to stay away. It was her choice to come back,” Darla protested in a voice that was little better than a gasp.
The small exertion of hauling the barricade combined with her earlier light-headedness, so that she felt as if she’d just run a marathon. She felt perilously close to collapsing onto the asphalt in a puddle of tears. Jake, who likely had seen such reactions around accident scenes before, took note of Darla’s faltering composure and promptly pointed her back toward the shop.
“Kid, you’re not going to do me a damn bit of good if you pass out here on the street,” the woman told her, not unkindly. “Get your butt back inside and let Valerie and her people know what’s happened. They can finish up with the girls already in the store, but we’ll be shutting things down after that. Besides, more help than we’ll ever need will be here in a minute.”
Right on cue, a pair of highway patrol cars with their distinctive high-rise light bars on their roofs nosed past the stopped traffic and joined the first police vehicle parked now alongside the van. A minute later, two motorcycle officers roared up, the rumble of their Harleys echoing off the buildings. Thankfully, they’d all shut off their sirens, but their blue and red lights continued to strobe off the rows of brownstones on either side of the street. Their headlights further illuminated the area, so that the entire accident scene now was visible in harsh relief. The ambulance hadn’t yet arrived, but under the circumstances, there was no big hurry . . . not anymore.
Darla took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. “I’m okay now,” she insisted. “But you’re right. I’ve got to tell them what’s going on.”
She headed at a quick pace back toward the shop, hearing behind her the sounds of the uniformed police taking control of the situation, while still more sirens howled in the distance. Pushing her none-too-gentle way past the girls camped out on the steps, she all but stumbled into Everest, who was still keeping guard at the door.
“Bad news, ma’am?” he asked in a resigned voice that said he already knew that answer.
His height, combined with his position on the stairway, would easily have given him a bird’s-eye view of the accident scene. Darla glanced back in that same direction to see another police car had arrived, while the ambulance was now at the end of the block. The boxy vehicle eased its way through the street with the occasional pulse of its siren to clear the way. She noted that the news truck, which earlier had been parked across the way while the reporter interviewed the waiting fans, had returned. In another fifteen minutes, news of the accident would be all over television, not to mention the Internet. Hell, doubtless most of the girls in line were already Tweeting comments and pictures that were being read and seen by millions.
Darla bit back a few choice curses. Horrible as she felt at the knowledge that a young woman had died almost on her doorstep, she couldn’t suppress an equal surge of dismay at the realization that all this was going to be very, very bad for business. Death had a way of scaring off paying customers. Why in the hell hadn’t the girl pulled her stunt over at Barnes and Noble?
Tamping down that unworthy thought, she turned back to Everest and nodded. “The girl who was protesting the autographing was hit and killed by a van. I need to tell Valerie and the others. Don’t let any more fans go inside the store, okay?”
Everest grunted his assent, his stern dark features settling into grim lines. No doubt he figured this was bad for his business, too, no matter how peripherally he was involved. Leaving him to stand guard, Darla slipped past the door and into the shop.
Mary Ann was right there, and her small soft hand promptly clutched Darla’s arm. “My gracious, what’s going on?” she whispered in alarm. “We heard all the sirens and could see the flashing lights through the windows.”
In fact, the emergency lights still flashed like blue and red lightning beyond the glass, while the muffled sounds of a distant siren and the brief bark from a bullhorn could be heard even inside the store. “I’m afraid there was an accident,” she replied, gently prying the old woman’s fingers from her wrist. “Come with me, and you can hear the details when I tell Valerie and her people.”
Sidestepping the maze, she took the direct route toward the back of the room, swiftly assessing the small crowd as she passed them. The fans murmured restively as they waited in line, aware that something was amiss but not knowing what. Darla spotted Callie, looking very young in her severe black cape as she clutched her copy of Valerie’s latest novel. The official entourage had returned from their respective breaks, and everyone was in his or her proper place around the table. The only one still missing was the author.
“Where’s Valerie?” Darla asked Hillary, who was busy checking her iPhone.
“Still outside polluting the air,” she replied with a shrug. “What’s going on out front?”
Darla eyed the nearby fans and pulled Hillary and Koji aside. “There’s been a bad accident. Let me run and get Valerie, and I’ll make the announcement to everyone in the store at one time.”
She hurried toward the back door, Koji on her heels. Like Everest, he doubtless considered any incident part of his job.
The pungent odor of cigarette smoke assailed her as they slipped outside. “Valerie? Ms. Baylor?” Darla softly called as she peered about the small courtyard, “Can you come in for—”
She broke off at the twin realizations that the darkened enclosure was empty and that the gate leading into the alley was wide open. Very slowly, she turned to Koji and said in a small voice, “Are you sure she didn’t come back into the store?”
The publicist gave her a stricken look. “She said she wanted a cigarette. Sh-she does that a lot.”
He stood there uncertainly, but Darla didn’t hesitate. Pushing past him, she rushed to the gate and went running into the small alley. The faint odors of old garbage and recent urine assailed her, but she ignored them as she ran the short distance to the street and then hooked a turn back toward Crawford Avenue and the kaleidoscope of emergency lights. The ambulance was there at the accident scene now, its two EMTs preparing to make what likely was a perfunctory check of the victim still sprawled prostrate on the road.
The same earlier voice of doom was shrieking in Darla’s head again. No way, she tried to reassure herself, even as she knew with sudden dread and certainty where her missing author had disappeared to. She reached Jake’s side just as one of the paramedics rolled the still form to one side, and the array of headlights illuminated the victim’s face, along with a pair of red Manolo Blahnik pumps that lay nearby.
Darla’s reflexive scream was muffled by her hands as she clamped numb fingers over her mouth, but half a dozen of the closest fan girls were not so inhibited. A collective shriek of anguish rose from the direction of the sidewalk. Louder still was a single heartrending cry from one of the girls who’d also caught a glimpse of the dead woman’s slack features.
“Oh my God, it’s Valerie Baylor!”
SEVEN
THREE EMPTY TISSUE BOXES SAT IN THE CENTER OF THE table, while the tiny wastebasket Darla had commandeered from the restroom ov
erflowed now with soggy Kleenex. The refuse served as mute testament to the torrent of emotion that had washed through the store a couple of hours earlier, right after Darla announced in somber tones that Valerie Baylor had just been killed after stepping into the path of a van while outside taking a break.
Darla sighed, remembering the reaction to her pronouncement: total pandemonium. A communal shriek rose from the three dozen or so fan girls there in the store. A good third of them collapsed onto the floor upon hearing the news, causing Lizzie and Mary Ann to rush to their collective aid with motherly words of comfort. Most of the remainder simply gave way to noisy sobs, though a few of the girls hurried for the door, apparently intent on mourning at their idol’s dead feet.
Ever the professional, Everest had blocked the exit with his substantial bulk, and Koji had joined him, though the tears running down the publicist’s round cheeks had made him look anything but formidable beside the larger man. Fearing that the girls still might struggle past and tumble into the street just as Valerie had, Darla had rushed to assist the pair. With a bit of strong-arm help from the bodyguard, she had managed to convince the weeping girls to sit in a circle on the floor and take deep breaths until they had sufficiently recovered themselves to be trusted not to make some melodramatic gesture.
Her next concern had been for Callie. The girl’s sister, Susanna, and Susanna’s two BFFs had promptly joined in the general wailing. Callie, however, had stood silently by, looking like one of those hooded medieval cemetery statues as she clutched her unsigned novel. Tears ran down her thin cheeks and washed away the last traces of her red lipstick. Unsure how best to comfort the girl, Darla had gone with the tried and true, and given her a hug.
Callie had allowed this familiarity for a few moments. Then, firmly if politely pulling away, she said in a small voice, “I want my mommy.”
Since Darla had been thinking along much the same lines herself, she gave the girl a sympathetic nod. “Hold on a few minutes longer, honey, and I’ll ask Mr. Reese if it’s OK for you and Susanna to go home.”
It took longer than a few minutes, however, for Darla to keep that promise. Between the police and EMTs and reporters, not to mention almost five hundred teenage girls in various states of hysteria, Reese and Jake had plenty on their hands outside for the moment. Darla decided to let things settle down before seeing about sending everyone in the store home.
She next turned her attention to Valerie’s entourage. Both Hillary and Koji had whipped out their respective cell phones, and from snippets of overheard conversation Darla assumed they were notifying various people of the situation. She’d expected shock, or even dismay—after all, at least two of the four had just lost their respective jobs with no Valerie to guard or gussy up—but to her surprise, they all seemed struck by genuine grief.
Mavis had broken down into delicate sobs, his broad shoulders shaking as he buried his face in his large hands, while Hillary sniffled into the tissues that Lizzie had prudently fetched from the storeroom. Though he remained dry-eyed as befitted his job, Everest wore the guilty expression of a man who realized that he had, in the end, failed to keep his charge safe. Darla noticed him give a discreet honk into his crisp linen handkerchief. As for Koji, the lost expression he wore better befitted a boy than a middle-aged man.
Had she been mistaken in her judgment regarding the author? Had Valerie actually been a paragon rather than a pain?
Darla swiped at an unexpected tear of her own, while a glance at Lizzie and Mary Ann showed both women dabbing at their eyes, too. Mass hysteria, perhaps? It was hard not to be swept away by the emotion permeating the room, she rationalized, given the sheer volume of tears being shed by the author’s fans.
For now, however, her mission was to keep the teen fans under control. At her urging, James had begun reading aloud from Valerie’s latest novel. While no fan of the Haunted High series, the retired professor could never resist an audience; the soothing tones of his melodious baritone soon reduced the chorus of sobs to muffled sniffles.
After perhaps an hour, a grim-faced Jake had come into the shop to advise Darla that the fans could all be on their way. “But the police will have some questions for the rest of you,” she added, her gaze encompassing Darla’s people as well as Valerie’s. “So make yourselves comfortable here awhile longer.”
Most of the fans outside had dispersed, save for a handful of those who’d been closest to the spot where Valerie had met her dramatic end. Reese was still taking notes, and Darla wondered how many pages he’d gone through so far. The reports doubtless would make for some substantial reading for someone who professed never to crack open a book, Darla thought with a momentary lapse into snark. Then, chiding herself for being petty at such a time, she concentrated on escorting out the fans, particularly Callie and the other three girls.
Traffic outside had slowed to near glacial upon reaching the flashing police lights. Those seeking a quick thrill would be disappointed, for the police vehicles and a hastily erected barrier assembled from sawhorses covered with tarps blocked their view. To Darla’s relief, Valerie’s body had been removed. Unfortunately, the area where she’d landed was now marked with Day-Glo spots of spray paint, and the accident investigators were still measuring and photographing the scene.
At least they didn’t draw one of those cliché body silhouettes , Darla thought in relief as she deliberately kept Callie to her far side in order to spare her the sight of the death scene. Unfortunately, Susanna and her friends had shrieked with sufficient vigor upon glimpsing the lonely pair of red pumps still lying in the street that Callie had looked, too. She’d said nothing, however, but merely clutched Darla’s hand more tightly.
Somewhat to Darla’s surprise, Susanna politely protested Darla’s plan to call a taxi for them. “It’s, like, not necessary,” the teen said with a shrug, managing a blasé tone despite the twin trails of tear-spilled black eyeliner that now bisected either pale cheek. “We can totally walk home.”
Before they walked off, Callie lingered behind her sister for a moment. “I never even got my book signed,” she said, her soft tone filled with resigned sorrow.
Darla gave her an encouraging smile. “Tell you what. Give it a few days for things to settle down, and then have your mom bring you by the store. I’ll see if I can make it up to you.”
Satisfied the girls were safely on their way, Darla had returned inside to wait with the others. By then, the worst of the grief storm had passed, replaced by a general air of defeat. Someone had brought the food down from upstairs and arranged it neatly on the counter near the register, but it didn’t appear anyone was hungry. Not feeling much of an appetite herself, Darla spent the next half hour straightening stock, until, tiring of the busywork, she’d settled herself at the far side of the signing table. No one, it seemed, wanted to sit in the black-draped chair that had been Valerie’s.
What would Great-Aunt Dee have done had this happened on her watch? Darla frowned, considering. Knowing Dee, she probably would’ve sponsored some big memorial event at the store for her customers: a splashy-yet-tasteful party that would make all the papers. It was a good idea, Darla thought. Maybe she should consider something similar.
She sighed. For the moment, her only plan was to snag a signed copy of Valerie’s book for Callie, assuming that the girl ever returned to the store. The memory of the girl’s pinched features and silent tears haunted Darla almost as much as the image of Valerie’s slack, waxen face thrown into harsh relief under the headlights’ glare. Perhaps an autographed copy would ease a bit of her young pain.
The ching of the cash register roused her from her state of mental exhaustion.
“James, what in the heck are you doing?”
Darla stared in dismay at the sight of her employee, casually ringing up an armful of books. Valerie Baylor’s books, to be exact. And they’d not come from the remaining stacks that now waited forlornly for autographs that would never be penned. Instead, they were from the under-counter
stash of books that Valerie had signed at the beginning of the night, which had been tagged as store copies.
“Employee discount purchase,” he replied, his crisp tone unapologetic as he ran his American Express card through the reader, then, per policy, handed the receipt to her, along with a pen. “I do have my retirement to consider, if you would be so kind as to oblige?”
Darla stared at the slip of paper for a moment before sighing. “Sure,” she replied, aware she probably should put her foot down about such a ghoulishly opportunistic buy, but not caring. She had more to worry about than James making a few bucks selling books that more properly ought to remain store stock. Her bigger concern was how this was going to affect the shop’s business from here on out. She still had several hundred copies of Valerie’s new book in boxes and on display. Would people want to buy their books from the place that, for all intents and purposes, had been the site of the country’s most popular author’s death?
Then again, James was probably right. Darla could remember quite clearly how, the day after the Princess of Wales’s tragic death in Paris, she’d impulsively headed to her local bookseller to pick up one of those Diana coffee-table books as a memento. Everyone else in town apparently had had the same idea. By the time she got there, every Diana tell-all bio and picture book had been wiped from the shelves, along with every gossip magazine that might have contained a scandalous photo or two of the princess. Darla had counted herself fortunate to score a week-old copy of a news magazine with an article on Diana that she’d found stashed behind the napkins in the coffee bar area of the store. In fact, she’d been so stoked that she had not even bothered to ask for a discount to account for the coffee rings on the front cover.
Given that, chances were that Valerie’s books, even the unsigned ones, would fly off the shelves come Tuesday, when she opened again.
That was, if she decided to reopen the store at all, after what had happened.
