Double Booked for Death

by Ali Brandon

  Hillary broke the silence as she watched James’s transaction.

  “Put a couple on eBay tonight,” the agent advised in a glum tone. “You’ll get the first wave of hysterical fandom that’ll be glad to bid away their entire college fund for a piece of Valerie.”

  Then, when everyone else stared with faintly horrified looks at her choice of words, she gave an inelegant snort. “Oh, for Chrissakes, I don’t mean literally,” she clarified, seemingly channeling her dead client for a moment. To James, she went on, “Hang on to the others for later, and you’ll catch the serious collectors. If the books have tonight’s date along with her signature, so much the better.”

  While James reviewed the title page of each and nodded in satisfaction, Darla rose. “I’ll check with Jake and see if they’re ready to take our statements now,” she told the others. “It’s almost eleven, so hopefully they’re about done out there.”

  And, outside, things did finally seem to be winding down. The police appeared finished with photographing the scene and taking measurements, though the light show from the emergency vehicles continued on. The death van, as Darla morbidly found herself thinking of it, already had been loaded onto a flatbed wrecker. The wrecker, in turn, now idled impatiently as the police began removing the barricades still blocking off that lane.

  She wondered what had happened to the driver who’d hit Valerie, until she noticed a handful of people who must have been that van’s passengers huddled near one of the police cruisers. Another figure—presumably the driver—was barely visible behind the officer who appeared to be questioning him. Darla felt sorry for the guy, for chances were he’d never even seen Valerie coming. Now, given her rabid fans, he might end up needing to change his name and leave town—heck, leave the country!—as soon as the law let him.

  She glanced back to the action on the sidewalk. Reese was taking a statement from a final pair of black-caped girls, both of whom were gesturing with exaggerated animation. Jake stood removed from it all, leaning against one of the blue sawhorses still on the sidewalk. The red glow of her cigarette somehow seemed a fitting punctuation point to the night’s events.

  Darla headed in Jake’s direction. “So what’s the word with my staff and Valerie’s people?” she asked as she settled on the wooden support alongside her.

  “Reese or one of the other cops will want to get brief statements from them first, and then they’ll be free to go.” Jake took another deep drag on her cigarette, then exhaled an impatient cloud of secondhand smoke. “The police will be sticking around a bit longer. It’s never quick and dirty when it’s a pedestrian fatality.”

  “I still don’t understand that part,” Darla protested. “Traffic was moving, but it wasn’t going that fast. How can she be dead?”

  Jake flicked an ash and glanced Darla’s way.

  “You don’t have to be hit by Speed Racer to be killed by a moving vehicle. Even if the van was going only thirty miles an hour or so, that’s still a pretty good smack. She probably flew at least fifteen feet. All it takes is landing headfirst on the pavement, and you’re dead on scene. We’ll know the exact cause later.”

  Darla suppressed a shudder. “So has anyone figured out why she ended up in the street in the first place?”

  “Since I’m not a cop anymore, kid, I’m pretty much on the outside here. They took my statement just like they did with your fan girls.”

  She paused for another draw on her cigarette.

  “Unofficially, from what I’ve overheard of our witness statements, it looks like Valerie decided to confront your Lone Protester, and the two of them struggled,” she went on. “Of course, at the time, no one realized it was Valerie herself doing the confronting. She was wearing the same hooded black cape that everyone else and their dog had on. As far as anyone who noticed that little smackdown knew, she was just another fan who didn’t like seeing her pet author being dissed. It seems Valerie managed to grab the sign, but lost her footing in the process and stumbled off the curb just as that poor SOB in the van was driving past. At least, that’s what our witnesses say they saw.”

  Darla frowned. “What, do you think there’s more to it than that?”

  “Like I said, I’m on the outside here. But from all the publicity I’ve read about her, I have to wonder why in the hell Valerie would’ve abandoned her adoring masses just to lay down the law to some kook. If it worried her that much, she could have sent her bodyguard out to do the old intimidation routine. I don’t even see how she knew that protester was out here.”

  “Probably one of the fans mentioned it when she was autographing, and it ticked her off,” Darla reasoned. “So she made up the excuse about needing another smoke break, and instead she snuck out to deal with the girl.”

  She was about to ask if the police had tracked down this unknown antifan who’d been the root cause of the tragedy. Before she could, however, the officer who had been interviewing the driver began herding all the van’s occupants away from the accident site and toward where Darla and Jake were leaning.

  Darla, who had given the passengers only a cursory look before, now stared in surprise. While Valerie’s fans had all been dressed in black capes, this group was attired in white robes that billowed behind them as they walked and which gleamed beneath the artificial light. The effect was even more pronounced, given the crisp black precision of the officer’s tapered motorcycle breeches and tall boots.

  “Must have been running late for a KKK meeting,” Jake observed with a snort as she stood and stubbed out her cigarette on one leg of the barricade. Flicking away the tobacco remains, she straightened and stuck the filtered butt into her back pocket.

  “How’s it going, Harry?” she addressed the cop, who had halted before them, the van passengers hanging back in a small uncertain knot behind him.

  The officer pulled off his cap to reveal a balding pate. Wiping a sleeve across his brow, he resettled his hat and shrugged. “You know how it is, Jake. Good as it gets under the circumstances.” Then, with a look at Darla, he added, “You’re Ms. Pettistone, the bookstore owner?”

  “That’s me,” Darla said, wondering which of his five white-clad charges was the ill-fated driver. Best she could make out, there were three women and two men, all dressed in the same odd fashion.

  The cop thrust a beefy thumb over one shoulder. “We’ve got the driver’s and passengers’ statements, so these folks are free to go for the moment. But the driver wanted to talk to you . . . claims she knows you.”

  She?

  That was Darla’s first surprised thought. Somehow, she had expected that the driver would have been male. On the heels of that came confusion. How in the world did the driver know her, unless maybe she was a bookstore customer who’d had the horribly unfortunate bad luck to be driving past at the same moment that Valerie stepped off the curb? But before she had much more than a moment to wonder, one of the white-robed women pushed past the cop to stand toe-to-toe with her.

  She was about Darla’s age, with blond hair that had been teased and sprayed into a magnificent concoction that rose a good three inches at the crown of her head. But despite the woman’s exaggerated hairdo, Darla was surprised to note that she wore almost no makeup, just a touch of mascara on her wide blue eyes. And as soon as the woman opened her mouth and Darla heard a familiar twangy drawl, she knew this was no Snooki wannabe.

  “This is so unfortunate,” she exclaimed in a soft voice that wavered on the edge of tears. “You don’t know how sorry I am”—she gestured at her companions—“how sorry we all are for this terrible accident. I was just trying to find us a parking spot—I swear, there’s not one to be had in this city!—and I never saw that poor woman until she was right in front of me. You can be sure that our entire congregation will be praying that she repented of her sins in those last precious moments of life. Eternal damnation is not a pleasant fate, I do assure you.”

  Eternal damnation? Darla’s confusion deepened . . . and then, abruptly, she realized ju
st who this woman might be.

  “You’re my sister Linda’s neighbor, the one who wrote me that letter,” she choked out in disbelief.

  The wavering lips firmed into a small smile that didn’t quite reach those wide blue eyes.

  “Why, yes. Yes, I am,” she replied and stuck out a small, neatly manicured hand from the oversized sleeve of what Darla realized now was a choir robe. “I’m Marnie Jennings. My fellow brothers and sisters in Christ drove all the way here from the Lord’s Blessing Church in Dallas, Texas, to help you and all those poor children find salvation.”

  EIGHT

  “JAMES, YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS,” DARLA MUTTERED IN her store manager’s ear, casually drawing him aside from the others still inside the bookshop. She waited until they were near the front door, and softly added, “You know the driver of the van that killed Valerie Baylor? It turns out she is that same crazy woman who wrote the letter I showed you.”

  “You mean, Mrs. Bobby Jennings of the Lord’s Blessing Church? You actually talked to her?” James stared at her, one eyebrow raised . . . for him, an indication of extreme surprise.

  She nodded. “The highway patrol officer brought her over to me. He was taking her statement about the accident, and she told him that she knew me.”

  Darla went on to relate her mercifully brief encounter with Marnie and the other congregation members a few minutes earlier. With their church van impounded by the police, they were stranded, at least for the night. For a single awful moment, Darla had feared that the woman was going to ask if she and her church posse could stay with her. Relief had swept her when Marnie had told her they had already been in contact with a local church who’d agreed to put them up until their van was returned to them.

  “And thank God for that,” Darla finished, the words as heartfelt as any prayer of Marnie’s. “You should have heard the things she was saying about hellfire and damnation. I was serious when I told you she was a crazy woman.”

  “So do the police think this was a deliberate attack on her part?”

  “Surely not, or they would have arrested her . . . or at least held her longer for questioning.”

  Darla hesitated. But, could it have been?

  “No,” she repeated more firmly, “no way could she have known that Valerie would step out onto the street, and no way could she have timed it so exactly. Heck, no one even realized the dead woman was Valerie at first, with all those girls and their black capes. Awful as it is, I would guess Marnie’s not going to be charged with anything.”

  Though Darla cynically wondered if all the nasty vibes Marnie and her gang had sent Valerie’s way could be considered a contributory factor in the tragedy. Changing the subject, she asked, “So how are things going in here?”

  “Your Detective Reese has already taken my statement, as well as those of Lizzie, Mary Ann, Mavis, Mr. Foster, and Ms. Gables. Ms. Baylor’s bodyguard is the last person waiting to be interviewed . . . that is, besides you.”

  Darla nodded. She saw that Everest now sat with Reese at the signing table, while everyone else was gathered near the register, where someone had arranged a few of the chairs in an impromptu circle. Mavis slumped desolately in one, flanked by Koji and Mary Ann, both of whom were murmuring words of consolation. Lizzie sat slightly apart, her nose in a new paperback romance, while Hillary sat texting away on her phone. The agent looked up as Darla and James approached. “I don’t know why they’re bothering to take our statements,” she said with more than a hint of pique. “We were all here inside when it happened.”

  “Not necessarily,” was James’s smooth rejoinder. “Busy as we all were, I venture to say that no one was taking attendance. Besides which, almost everyone in the store with the exception of myself and those two gentlemen”—he gestured at Everest and then Koji—“was wearing a black cape, making it difficult to know who was where, and when.”

  “And what the hell does that mean?” Hillary snapped back.

  “Yes, what does that mean?” Lizzie echoed, a quaver in her voice as she looked up from her novel. “Are you saying one of us might have followed her outside?”

  “I am merely pointing out that the police are obliged to check out all possibilities when someone is killed. But it does seem apparent that what happened to Ms. Baylor was, in fact, nothing more than a tragic accident.”

  “Are you certain about that, James?”

  This came from Mary Ann, who had left Mavis’s side and now was busy wrapping the uneaten food. As all eyes turned her way, she calmly went on, “I heard there was some girl who was causing trouble out there on the street. In fact, I overheard Officer Reese say that she might have pushed Valerie into traffic on purpose.”

  “It’s Detective Reese, ma’am,” the man in question corrected as he approached the group. “And all I said was that one of the witnesses claimed she saw what she believed to be a deliberate push. We don’t know for certain yet exactly what happened tonight.”

  “But are you saying that maybe it was murder?” Lizzie’s quaver had morphed into a squeak, while her fingers fluttered at the ties that held her black cape around her throat.

  Reese shook his head. “That’s not my call. Unless we come up with some hard evidence that points to criminal intent, it’s up to the medical examiner to decide if Ms. Baylor’s death was an accident or not. So it would help me out”—his sharp blue gaze swept the whole group—“if all of you kept that kind of talk under your hats until after we have a formal ruling.” He paused. “But you’re all free to go now, all except for Ms. Pettistone. I still need her statement. We’ll let you know if we need anything more from any of you. Oh, and sir—er, ma’am,” he added as Mavis began scooping up Valerie’s purse and cigarettes, “if those belonged to Ms. Baylor, leave them here. We’ll see that her property gets couriered over to her family in the morning.”

  Mavis stared blankly at him for a moment and looked as if she’d protest, but then nodded. Gathering up the oversized makeup bag, the assistant joined Hillary and Koji as Darla—after assuring Reese that she would be right back—walked the somber group to the door and waited with them on the outer steps. Everest had walked on ahead to retrieve the limo parked farther down the block.

  Darla glanced down the street and was relieved to see that the last police car was pulling away from the scene. The crews from the satellite trucks emblazoned with various local news station logos were packing up their equipment. Very soon, traffic would be back to its usual late-Sunday-night pattern, with no sign that a death had occurred there on the pavement a few hours earlier.

  “There goes the rest of the tour,” Hillary said with a sharp sigh as she tapped her foot on the concrete step with ill-concealed impatience.

  Indeed, to Darla, she now sounded less grief stricken and more aggrieved when it came to her recently deceased client. She’d shed the earlier reticent air that had hung about her as she had catered to Valerie and now seemed snappishly capable in manner. Perhaps the subdued version of Hillary had been but an act she’d put on for the author’s benefit.

  “What about Valerie’s family?” Darla asked, knowing only what she’d told Jake, that the author supposedly lived on the family estate in the Hamptons. “Did she have a husband, or any children?”

  “No kids,” Hillary confirmed, “just an ex-husband who’s been out of her life for the last twenty years or so. But she’s got parents and a brother who still live in the area. Koji drew the short straw, so he gets to ride out there with the cops to let them know what happened.”

  Darla gave a puzzled frown. Somehow, she would have expected Valerie’s agent to have taken on that particular duty. But Darla saw that the same officer that Jake had called Harry was signaling the publicist to join him. Koji nodded and then turned to Darla.

  “Good-bye, Ms. Pettistone,” he told her in a glum tone as he held out a hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you. And I will be sure to inform everyone at Ibizan Books that your arrangements here tonight had no bearing on this tragedy.”


  Not sure if a “thank you” was an appropriate response to that last, Darla merely nodded.

  Hillary waited until he was just out of earshot and then snorted. “He is so fired tomorrow, I guarantee you.”

  “Oh no! Surely the publisher won’t blame him?”

  Hillary gave her a pitying look, and Darla hurriedly changed the subject. “I’m guessing the burial will be private?”

  “God, can you imagine the circus if it isn’t? Ibizan Books is sure to sponsor some sort of public memorial for her fans later on, but I can guarantee the actual service will be just relatives and the important people in the business.”

  She went on to tick off the names of current and past New York Times bestselling authors and their respective publishers, and then dropped a few Hollywood names as well.

  “Since they’re still casting the movie version of Haunted High,” she explained. “We’re hoping to get Miley to play Lani, but we’ve got a couple of backups in case she goes Lindsay on us.” She paused and gave Darla a shrewd look. “I’ll do what I can to get you a seat at the service, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’d like to pay my respects, that’s all,” she replied, trying not to sound offended. “I can’t help but feel somehow responsible for what happened.”

  Everest pulled up in the limo just then, so she followed the remainder of Valerie’s entourage as they trouped down the steps to where he was holding open the car door. Before slipping inside, Hillary paused to give Darla a quick air kiss.

  “If I do get you in, promise me you won’t tell anyone who you are. You think Koji’s butt is in the fire? Just wait until you get introduced to the CEO of Ibizan as the person who killed off their golden goose.”

  While Darla pictured that last unpleasant scenario and Hillary settled herself in the limo, a red-eyed Mavis extended a large pale hand in Darla’s direction. “I appreciate your kindness tonight,” he said in a tone so low that she barely made out the words. “And ignore Hillary. Don’t worry, no one blames you for any of this.”