by Ali Brandon
“Thanks, Mavis. I appreciate it,” she replied, most sincerely.
By then, however, he already had folded himself into the limo, dragging his wheeled makeup kit in next to him. Everest gave her a polite “Ma’am,” and after closing the rear door, took his seat behind the wheel. She heard the soft purr of the stretch vehicle’s engine, and then the limo made a smooth merge into the late-night traffic. Its twin red taillights gleaming in the darkness reminded her of Hamlet.
“Oh my God, Hamlet!” So saying, Darla rushed over to where the blue sawhorses that earlier extended down the sidewalk had now been gathered into several neat stacks for the barricade guy to retrieve come morning. Jake had just finished chaining the lot together against theft in the interim, padlocking the final length of chain to the wrought-iron railing in front of her basement apartment. She was brushing her palms against her black-denim-clad hips to knock off the worst of the grime as a breathless Darla joined her.
“I forgot about Hamlet,” she hurried to explain. “Valerie said he was out in the courtyard with her the first time she took a smoke break. He was probably still there the second time she went out, too. Damn it, and she left the gate wide open. I need to make sure that he didn’t wander out after her. He’s never left the courtyard before . . . but then, the gate has never been left open for him, either.”
“Go ahead,” Jake told her. “I’ll take a look out here, just in case he snuck around the front. Reese can take your statement later, if need be. It’s not like we don’t know where to find you.”
With a quick word of thanks, Darla took off at a run toward the store. With luck, Hamlet would be lounging in a darkened corner of the courtyard prepared to treat her with lordly disdain once she found him and fawned over him in relief. That, or she’d find him skulking about the alley looking for something furred or feathered he could chomp on. She didn’t want to think about him wandering the streets of Brooklyn, where chances were he’d meet Valerie’s same fate beneath some vehicle’s tires.
“Gotta find the cat,” she told James and Lizzie as she scrambled beneath the counter for a flashlight. “Back in a minute.”
Reese, who was chatting with Mary Ann, half rose out of his chair at the sight of Darla flying past him, flashlight now in hand. Whatever he might have called after her, she did not hear as she slipped into the dark courtyard and snapped on her light.
Its feeble yellow beam did not so much pierce the shadows as bounce right over them. Making an annoyed mental note to see about adding a security light over the door ASAP—that, and buying new batteries—she waved the flashlight in a regular pattern from corner to corner of the enclosure. An oversized glass ashtray sat in the table’s center, filled with several lipstick-stained cigarette butts. Even with the passage of a few hours, the odor of stale cigarette smoke hung heavily in the air, and she suppressed the sneeze that threatened.
“Here, Hamlet! Kitty, kitty, kitty.”
She was certain Hamlet would not deign to come to her on command—particularly not if she called him “kitty”—but with any luck he’d shoot her an evil glare that would reflect back to her should the flashlight’s beam happen to skim over him.
“C’mon, fellow,” she urged in a slightly louder tone, trying not to sound desperate.
She’d always heard that animals were experts at sensing fear. Mr. Beelzebub in Fur Pants was probably a black belt in fear detection and would doubtless laugh his cat self silly if he thought she was worried about his safety. While she’d gotten used to the obnoxious beast, Darla could not in any honesty claim to be fond of him. But he had been Great-Aunt Dee’s beloved pet, and he was a store fixture.
Consider it keeping tabs on inventory, she told herself as she searched the final shadowy corner. Other than a few scuttling roaches and spiders, she found nothing.
Muttering a curse, she turned her beam on the gate. It was still just as she and Koji had found it when they’d gone in search of the missing author: wide open so that any vagrant could slip in. Or any cat slip out.
Damn that woman! The least she could have done was shut the freakin’ gate, Darla silently fumed as she peered into the alley again. Odd, though, that a presumed cat lover such as Valerie would have left Hamlet in such potential peril. She must have been revved up, indeed, to have gone storming out without realizing she’d left her new feline friend at risk.
Darla started down the alley in the opposite direction from which she’d run a few hours earlier. While no fan of rodents and other crawlies, she hoped there might be a sufficient number of them lurking there to hold Hamlet’s interest should he have ventured that way. Gingerly tiptoeing lest those same rodents and crawlies take an interest in her, she shone the rapidly fading flashlight beam down the narrow passage. No eyes reflected back to her, and no meows answered her calls.
She bit her lower lip and gave herself a quick mental pep talk. For all she knew, Hamlet might never have left the courtyard for the alley at all. He might be lounging somewhere in the store now, or else had long since returned to his comfortable digs upstairs in the apartment. Heck, he might even be watching her out the bathroom window that overlooked the courtyard, his green eyes bright with evil satisfaction at her obvious distress.
The flashlight chose that moment to peter out. Darla gave it a brisk slap against her palm, trying to revive the beam, but to no avail. She was halfway down the alley now, wrapped in shadows and not a stone’s throw distance from where a woman had been tragically killed but a few hours earlier.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the night’s chill sent gooseflesh down her arms. Not that she believed in ghosts, she assured herself; still, under the circumstances she couldn’t help being reminded of the Haunted High book she’d read last night, packed full of specters and hauntings. It would be just like Valerie to emulate her heroine and hang around tormenting the living instead of going into the light, or wherever it was that dead folks were supposed to go.
Then there was that little business about someone—something?—that had been stomping about her store in the night and flicking lights on and off. What if Stompy Foot and Valerie had joined forces in the afterlife? Darla winced. Great, that’s just what she needed, her bookstore being turned into phantom central for all local ghosts.
Something skittered in the darkness behind her. Darla gave a startled yelp and then looked around in embarrassment in case someone—something?—was watching. Heck, in another minute, she was going to be sobbing out the Cowardly Lion’s famous declaration, I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do, I do, I do!
Though she managed not to make a run for it, her pace still was brisk as she made her way back up the alley and through the courtyard. The tingling on the back of her neck didn’t cease until she was inside the shop again.
“Did you find Hamlet?” Lizzie wanted to know as Darla locked the door behind her.
Darla shook her head. “I’m hoping he’s hiding somewhere inside and just being obnoxious about not showing himself.”
She had debated during her foray through the alley whether or not to leave the gate open overnight, just in case Hamlet was still out there. Prudence had trumped concern, and she’d ultimately decided to lock it. Hers wasn’t exactly a bad neighborhood, but neither was it small-town Texas. And while she’d never seen the cat exert himself unduly unless it was strictly necessary, Hamlet was certainly athletic enough to scale the wall or else slip between the bars if he was outside and decided he wanted back in.
She saw that Lizzie and Mary Ann were gathering their respective purses and exchanging black capes for sweaters. Lizzie gave an apologetic shrug.
“Sorry, we’re both beat. I hope you don’t mind if we leave things the way they are. James said he’d come in early on Tuesday morning to straighten up. That is, if—”
“If we’re even open Tuesday,” Darla finished for her. At least since she was always closed on Mondays, that would give her a day to recoup. “Under the circumstances, I’m wondering if we ou
ght to close for an extra day. Or maybe a week.”
Lizzie nodded. “You mean, out of respect.”
“My gracious, don’t be silly, Darla,” Mary Ann interjected while giving Lizzie a severe look. “Losing a week of profit won’t do anything to bring back the dead. Go ahead and stay closed tomorrow, as you normally would, but no more than that—not to be morbid about it, but the shop will probably have more business than you can handle on Tuesday. You know how ghoulish people are. Everyone will want to see the spot where the famous Valerie Baylor met her grisly end, and then buy one of her books as a souvenir.”
Darla sighed. Things could go either way . . . a full-blown boycott or a sales blowout. It occurred to her, too, that she ought to give her insurance agent a call. Technically, the accident didn’t happen on her property, but the last thing she needed was to be hit with a civil suit from Valerie’s family. If the late author’s relatives were anything like Valerie, they likely kept a lawyer on staff for just such contingencies.
Suddenly, Hamlet and his infamous claws didn’t seem like such a liability anymore.
Aloud, she merely said, “You’re probably right, Mary Ann. James”—she glanced over to where the older man was chatting quietly with Reese—“we’ll reopen on Tuesday, as usual.”
“A reasonable decision,” he agreed as he gathered his stack of Valerie’s books. “And now, since the good detective has dismissed us, I need to hurry home and set up my auctions. I believe I will start with a reserve price of five hundred dollars and see where things go from there.”
A few moments later, he and the two women had departed the store, leaving Darla alone with Reese.
NINE
“UH, THINK I MIGHT GET MY SHIRT BACK NOW?” THE DETECTIVE asked.
Darla frowned in confusion; then, with a blush, she realized that she still had his denim shirt wrapped around her waist. Feeling uncomfortably like a high school girl who’d been parading about wearing her boyfriend’s clothes to impress the other girls, she hastily handed over the shirt with a mumbled, “Sorry.”
She plopped into the seat at the table beside him, not caring it was the same black-covered chair where Valerie had sat. Neither did she care that her wavy red hair now was fairly bristling out of the French braid that, hours before, had lain so sleekly against her neck.
“I guess you need to do the question routine with me, too.”
“We’ll make it fast,” the detective assured her, his effort at a smile reflecting her own tired state of mind.
He began with the expected queries as to her name, profession, and connection to “the deceased,” as the author had now become known. From there, he made her recount her actions up to the time of the accident. Most of the questions she replied to, but a few she had to answer with an “I don’t know.” One question, in particular, gave Darla momentary pause.
“The books the deceased wrote had to do with ghosts, right?” he asked, getting a nod in return from her. “So, I’m curious. Why are all her fans wearing black capes? That’s a vampire thing, isn’t it?”
“Or goth, or steampunk,” Darla replied, having been educated somewhat on the subject by her younger relatives. “A lot of her readers apparently subscribe to those lifestyles. But you’re right . . . I wondered that, too. I know that Valerie wears—wore—a black cape in her publicity photos, so that’s probably why all her fans do, too. Besides, they’d look pretty silly wearing white sheets.”
Which reminded her of Marnie and the other Lord’s Blessing people in their white choir robes. She fleetingly wondered if she should tell him about the letter she’d received from Marnie, threatening a boycott. Maybe later, she decided. Reese could find out about the Lord’s Blessing people from the highway patrol officer, if he hadn’t already. For now, she was suddenly too weary to want to drag things out any longer than she had to.
Reese, meanwhile, appeared still to be mulling over the black versus white costuming issue, but to his credit he made no further comment on the subject. A few minutes and a few more questions later, he flipped his notebook shut and capped his pen.
“Done,” he declared ungrammatically, but Darla didn’t bother to correct him. She stood, instead, and headed toward the door.
“No offense, but if you have everything you need, I’m going to kick you out,” she said, hand on knob. “It’s been a hell of a night and I’m tired. Besides, I still have to find Hamlet.”
Reese followed her to the front of the store. Now, he nodded in recognition, for the missing obnoxious feline had been part of her official statement to him.
“I can help you look for Hamlet,” he offered. “I’m pretty much a dog man myself, but my sister had a cat when we were growing up. Pain in the butt, he was . . . probably could give your little guy a run for the money. But I got pretty good at cat wrangling.”
“Thanks, but I’d better handle it on my own. The way my luck’s going tonight, he’d probably gnaw a chunk out of your leg for your trouble. I’m already anticipating Valerie’s family coming after me with a wrongful death suit or something. I can’t afford the city taking me to court to cover your pain and suffering, too.”
“Hey, I’m off the clock. And I promise, I won’t sue.”
Reese gave her the same chip-toothed smile that she’d seen from him earlier that night. It occurred to her then that maybe his offer wasn’t totally altruistic. Had he decided to overlook her lamentable interest in the printed word and hit on her?
Darla managed not to succumb to a reflexive eye roll at the thought.
Talk about cliché. How better to get on a woman’s good side than return her missing pet to her? And even if they didn’t find the wily beast, she’d be in her apartment alone with a man she just met. Though Jake had pretty much vouched for Reese’s character, Darla still remembered her Single Girl 101 training. Rule number one: the easier it is for a guy to get into a woman’s apartment, the harder it is to convince him he can’t get into something else! Rules number two and three: see Rule number one.
“Truly, I appreciate the offer,” she repeated, pulling open the door, “but between me and Jake I think we have it covered. If Hamlet hasn’t shown up by morning, I’ll call you to put out an APB on him.”
“Suit yourself.”
His attitude all professional now, Reese stuffed the notebook into his back pocket. “Sorry about how things turned out tonight,” he added. “Jake and I have done this kind of thing a hundred times before. I don’t know how—”
“Don’t worry, Jake already gave me the apology,” she cut him short, stifling a yawn. “ All I want is for you to find out for sure that Valerie’s death was accidental.”
“I’ll be on the computer the rest of the night looking for uploads of video and photos,” he assured her. “With the crowd you had, I can almost assure you that we’ll find something to make the case, one way or the other. ’Night, Darla,” he said and headed down the front steps.
He passed Jake, who was sitting on the stoop finishing off another cigarette. So much for her friend’s latest attempt at quitting, Darla thought, though after tonight’s events she wasn’t about to fault her. Reese paused long enough to exchange a few words with the woman, and then headed off. Darla waited until she was certain he was on his way, and then took the few steps down to join her.
“You ready to call it a night?” she asked sympathetically.
Jake sighed and shook her head as she stared out onto the darkened street in the direction of the accident scene.
“I think I’ll spend awhile on the computer looking for pictures and video of the event. We still need to find out who your Lone Protester is. Even if your religious friend doesn’t face any charges, chances are that girl is looking at some jail time if they find proof she shoved Valerie. And since I’m the only one who got a good look at her face, I’ll be giving Reese a hand on this.”
She paused and glanced Darla’s way. “Any luck finding Hamlet?”
“The little beggar’s still on the lam,” she
replied, drawing a faint smile from her friend, “but he’s a big boy, so I’m not going to agonize over it any more tonight. I’ll check out back one more time, and if he’s not back inside by then, that’s his tough luck. I’m going to go to bed and pull the covers over my head until morning.”
“He’ll be fine. Text me if you find him all snuggled up on the sofa, would you?”
“Will do.”
Darla started to rise, only to pause again as Jake put a restraining hand on her arm.
“Listen, Darla, you don’t know how sorry I am about all this,” the older woman said, her usual brassy tones heavy now with contrition. “I did off-duty security lots of times when I was still a cop, with crowds two and three times the size of what we had tonight. Believe me, nothing like this ever happened before.”
“Don’t worry, no one blames you,” Darla hurried to assure her, echoing Mavis’s earlier sentiment and knowing just how her friend felt. “You and Reese had everything down to a science. Not to point fingers at the victim, but if Valerie had just stayed put, she’d have been riding off in that limo with the rest of them right now. It’s her own damn fault for getting into a shoving match. Truly, it’s Marnie who I feel most sorry for, even if she is a wackaloon. She’s got to live with this.”
Jake, however, seemed unconcerned with the churchwoman. She shook her head, shaggy curls bouncing. “I swear, kid, I don’t know how it happened. I all but frog-marched your protester back across the street. I can’t figure out how she got back over on this side again without me noticing.”
“Might have been the fact there were four hundred ninety-nine other girls all dressed in black capes standing around on that same street. Do you think the police will be able to track her down and get any sort of confession out of her?”
“It’s the age of Twitter and cell phone cameras,” Jake said with a shrug. “That many teenagers around, odds are good someone snapped a picture or took a video that caught at least part of the action. Between YouTube and Facebook, something’s bound to show up . . . assuming there is something.”
