Double Booked for Death

by Ali Brandon

  “Okay, that’s the same thing that Reese said.”

  She left Jake and headed back into the store, where she finished her closing routine more quickly than usual; then, after another look in the courtyard and then setting the alarm code, she slipped through the side door connecting to her private hall and locked the shop door behind her.

  As she mounted the first stair, she half expected Hamlet to go flying between her feet in his typical kamikaze kitty routine. In fact, tonight she would have welcomed his bad behavior. But she made it up both flights unhampered by fleet paws trying to trip her. Neither was he sitting at the top of the main landing trying to open the door by pure force of his cold green stare.

  The little beast is probably lounging by the refrigerator, she reassured herself as she turned the key. But once inside her apartment, a quick sweep through the living room and kitchen did not reveal Hamlet in any of his usual spots.

  “Hey, boy, I’m home,” she called out experimentally, even though she would have fainted on the spot had she received a cheerful meow in return. Hamlet never greeted her when she came home. He waited for her to come to him bearing food, water, or the occasional catnip mouse. Coming when called was something that lower forms of life, like dogs, did.

  “Fine, stay outside all night,” she muttered into the resulting silence and headed toward her bedroom. If he was still gone come morning, she’d enlist Jake’s help and slap up a couple of “lost cat” signs in the neighborhood. Otherwise, she had enough troubles without having to worry where Mr. Prince of Darkness, Jr., was going to lay his feline head this night.

  That decided, Darla flipped on the bedroom light, glanced at her bed, and let out a muffled shriek.

  Hamlet lay sprawled upon his back in the center of her blue and gold comforter. His sleek black legs stuck out in the direction of all four compass points, while his head was turned at an unnatural angle. His eyes were green slits, and his jaw hung open to reveal sharp white teeth and a pink tongue that lolled to one side. She’d never noticed the thumbnail-sized diamond of white fur on his lower belly before.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed, taking a cautious step closer toward the motionless form.

  In the few months that she’d lived in the apartment, Hamlet had never once set paw in what was now her bedroom. Since he seemed to think the rest of the place belonged to him, she’d wondered if this was a nice little cat courtesy on his part, or if his marked boycott of her personal space simply was some sort of veiled feline insult. But now, he lay on her bed, looking like that guy in the opening scene of The Da Vinci Code. All he needed was the circle drawn around him and a few more fuzzy legs to be the quintessential Vitruvian Cat.

  “Hamlet, are you okay?” Darla whispered, realizing the question likely was futile. She’d driven past enough roadkill on Texas highways to know it when she saw it.

  A cold little blade of guilt pierced her. She should have dragged his furry butt out of the courtyard the minute Valerie said she’d seen him there. But she hadn’t, and as a result maybe he’d found something toxic in the alley—a puddle of antifreeze or one of those plastic trap things filled with rat poison. Or maybe he’d been hit and run over by Marnie and her gang, and stubbornly managed to hang on long enough to crawl home and die. Or perhaps all the dark stars had aligned at once, and it simply had been his time to go to the big litter box in the sky.

  Or maybe he witnessed something he should not have seen, a little voice whispered in her head, and curiosity—or rather, its human equivalent—actually killed this cat!

  Shoving aside that last thought as way over the top, Darla sighed and started toward the bed. If she could find an old towel or something to wrap him in, she could bury him in the courtyard tomorrow and then hold a little service for him with Lizzie and James and Jake the day after. Maybe she’d even buy one of those pet memorial stones with his name and date, she told herself, surprised to realize that a tear had drizzled down one cheek. Brushing it away, she reached down to lift the furry limp form.

  A sleek black paw whipped toward her with the speed of a striking cobra. Two fanglike claws snagged the sleeve of her blouse before she could move out of range.

  “Hamlet!”

  Her shriek held equal parts relief and outrage as she stared down at the obviously hale and hearty feline. After that initial attack he had flipped onto his belly and swiftly gathered together his limbs and his dignity. Now, he sat crouched with his tail wrapped tightly around him, green eyes daring her to remind him that she’d caught him in a vulnerable position.

  Darla’s indignation faded into unwilling sympathy. Poor cat, he was smart enough to know that something bad had happened. Needing comfort, he’d put aside feline self-esteem for the security of her room, doubtless feeling he would be safe there. It was only bad luck on his part that she had caught him in the act.

  “It’s okay, Hamlet,” she softly told him. “We’ve all had a rotten night tonight. If you want to sleep on the bed with me, I don’t mind.”

  She half expected him to hiss and stalk out of the room at this impertinent suggestion. When he didn’t, she left him where he sat, and, after sending Jake a quick text message—Hamlet safely home!—she headed for the bathroom. She returned a few minutes later, wearing one of the oversized T-shirts that served as her usual sleep attire. She saw in amusement that, in the interim, Hamlet had moved to the farthermost corner of the queen-sized bed. He lay curled so tightly that she could barely tell head from tail.

  “You scooch down any farther away from me, and you’re going to fall off,” she warned, feeling an unwilling rush of fondness for the ornery beast. Truth be told, she would welcome a little company, even Hamlet’s. Careful not to disturb him, she slipped under the comforter and snapped off the light.

  “Sleep tight,” she told him, though she doubted she herself would be able to do any such thing. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw Valerie Baylor sprawled on the asphalt.

  Okay, so think of something pleasant.

  Abruptly, Reese’s face flashed through her mind, and she grimaced into the darkness. No, not him! Deliberately, she settled her imagination on a cute little bed-and-breakfast located deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas where she’d once spent a restful three-day weekend. The tranquil mental scene made her smile, until she recalled she’d made that trip with her slimeball ex-husband.

  She gave a frustrated groan and, managing not to dislodge the cat at her feet, settled on her back. She still remembered some of the yoga relaxation techniques she’d learned in the beginner’s class she used to attend. Maybe they’d help her block out the night’s events and get some shut-eye.

  The technique must have worked. The next thing Darla knew, she had struggled awake from a confusing dream where she was wearing earmuffs while mowing the lawn. She glanced over at the LCD alarm clock on the table beside her bed and saw it was almost three thirty a.m. But for some reason she could still hear the lawn mower that she had been pushing in her dream. Moreover, something very warm and furry was definitely pressed against her ear.

  Hamlet.

  Sometime after she’d fallen asleep, he had abandoned his sulky post at the bottom of the bed and crept his way onto her pillow, where he now lay snoring beside her. Apparently, the little hell-raiser had deigned to forge a truce between them . . . at least, while no one else was looking. And she had to admit that his presence in the dark of night was surprisingly comforting. She gave a sleepy smile and shut her eyes again. Doubtless in the morning they’d be back to their mutually adversarial ways, but for now the lion was lying down with the lamb.

  Just to play it safe, however, tomorrow she’d do a little research in the religion section of the store and make sure that Hamlet’s unexpected lapse into feline civility was not one of the lesser known signs of a coming apocalypse.

  TEN

  DESPITE THE RESTLESS START TO HER NIGHT, DARLA DID not wake until almost nine o’clock Monday morning, well past her usual rising time, even for her day off.
Between her pounding headache and queasy stomach, she felt hungover, despite not touching a single drop of alcohol the night before. Bleary-eyed, she stumbled to the kitchen, where Hamlet sat beside his empty food bowl. At her approach, he turned a baleful green gaze upon her, their détente apparently forgotten in the wake of his empty stomach.

  “Hold your horses,” she muttered, knowing she’d be useless until she had at least one cup of coffee in her.

  She made swift work of filling her small coffeemaker and punched the “On” button with the fervor of an acolyte awaiting divine intercession. That begun—the coffee-making process, not the blessing—she dragged out the canister of dry cat food from the cabinet. Hamlet continued his disdainful regard of her until she’d poured the kibble and refilled his crystal bowl with water. Then, with what had to be a deliberate curl of his lip, he turned his back on her and commenced crunching away at his breakfast.

  “And good morning to you, too,” she answered the snub, taking one of Great-Aunt Dee’s antique chintz-patterned teacups from the cabinet.

  The smell of brewing coffee revived her somewhat. It also brought back into sharp focus memories of the previous night’s tragedy, and concern about what this day would bring. She’d seen at least three news trucks filming the scene in the hours after the accident, but maybe dead authors didn’t rate national coverage. With any luck, the story had made last night’s eleven o’clock news and was already played out.

  She waited until she had a steaming cup of coffee liberally laced with cream in hand, however, before she dared turn on one of the cable news channels to test that theory. Would Valerie’s death still be an item of interest?

  It was.

  Remote in hand, Darla winced as she clicked back and forth among the major news channels. Every minute or so, the ubiquitous headline tickers scrolled an abbreviated account of the fatality across the bottom of the screen, the story sandwiched between the most recent political scandal and a foreign sports triumph. She breathed a bit easier when she saw that the crawl did not mention her store by name. She groaned, however, and paused in her channel surfing when she recognized on one of the stations the same blonde who’d interviewed her the afternoon before. And she almost dropped her chintz cup into her lap when the camera swung away from the reporter, and the familiar gilded words, Pettistone’s Fine Books, abruptly filled the television screen, along with the banner proclaiming, “Live Report.”

  “Holy crap, Hamlet, they’re right outside,” she shrieked as she rushed to the window and twitched aside the curtain.

  Sure enough, the same news van from yesterday was parked on the street right below her apartment, with the same reporter and female camera operator posed on the step outside Darla’s store. Apparently, the local affiliate station had been tapped to give its take on the dramatic death. Standing at the window, Darla divided her disbelieving gaze between the live drama below and the broadcast going on there in her living room.

  On-screen, the reporter was recounting Valerie’s final minutes, her blond bob quivering with sincerity as she shook her head over the tragedy. While she continued to speak in voice-over, scenes from the previous night played: a discreet view of a covered figure lying in the street; a close-up of the church van’s front end; a long shot of the crowd of weeping, black-cape-clad teens . . . and all illuminated by the strobing lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles. The scene looked like something out of an end-time movie.

  The voice-over continued, “The driver of the vehicle responsible for this fatal accident has been identified as thirty-two-year-old Marnie Jennings of Dallas, Texas.”

  A grainy shot of Marnie, her mouth wide in midshout, flashed on-screen.

  “Ms. Jennings and her fellow members of the Lord’s Blessing Church out of Dallas were on their way to protest the Valerie Baylor autographing when the tragedy occurred,” the reporter continued. Abruptly, the television screen was filled with footage of a chanting group of picketers all dressed in white choir robes. “This same church has previously been responsible for protests against what they consider, quote, Satan-based events, unquote, in the Dallas area, but it now appears they are attempting to extend their influence nationwide. For the moment, however, no charges have been filed against Ms. Jennings, and unconfirmed eyewitness accounts suggest that an unrelated sidewalk scuffle might have precipitated the accident.”

  The newscast switched back to the live feed, and the camera panned right, sliding past the iron railing of Jake’s basement apartment and in the direction of Mary Ann’s brother’s antique shop. Just beyond that point, at the approximate spot where Valerie and the van had had their fatal encounter, Darla could see that a shrine of sorts had been erected.

  She gasped. Heedless of the news crew below, she shoved up her window and craned her neck for a better look. From above, the shrine was even more impressive than it appeared on the small screen. A veritable florist shop’s worth of flowers—a few carnations and daisies, but mostly red roses—interspersed with candles and stuffed animals, lay against the building and covered a large section of sidewalk. The display rivaled the spontaneous tributes to Lennon and Jackson and other pop culture icons that Darla recalled seeing on TV.

  Quickly, lest the reporter catch sight of her and turn the camera in her direction, she slammed her window shut again. She returned her attention to the television in time to see two more teens walk into the shot and lay another fistful of red roses atop the mound of blossoms.

  “Last night, five hundred adoring fans—mostly teenage girls—were lined up on this sidewalk waiting for the chance to see Ms. Baylor in person,” came the reporter’s words while the camera zoomed in on a single red rose tied with a black ribbon. “Now, those same fans have been visiting the site of her untimely death over the last few hours to leave flowers, candles, and notes of condolence.”

  The camera pulled back, and the reporter maneuvered herself into the shot once again. “It’s obvious that this tragedy has struck a large segment of the reading public to the heart,” she went on. “Valerie Baylor’s previous Haunted High books have sold more than ten million copies to date. For now, her fans are contenting themselves with buying up Valerie’s final novel while the authorities continue to investigate.”

  The reporter allowed herself a final dramatic pause and stared straight into the camera. “Reporting live from the scene of Valerie Baylor’s untimely death, this is Juanita Hillburn, Channel Twelve News. Back to you, David.”

  Barely had Darla let the curtain drop than her phone began to ring. Her first frantic thought was that the media had tracked her down and that someone wanted a statement from her. A glance at the caller ID, however, showed it was Jake on the other end.

  “Any chance you were watching television just now, or looking out the window?” the other woman asked before Darla could manage a hello.

  “Both.”

  Darla muted the television and sank onto the couch, clutching the phone in one hand and holding her head with the other. “My God, they even showed the front door of the store. And that mountain of flowers is unbelievable.”

  “Yeah, I heard people tromping past my place all night long.” Jake’s raspy voice held more than a note of weariness. “I’m waiting for the swarm of honeybees next.”

  “It’s not the flowers that worry me, it’s the media,” Darla replied. Summoning a hopeful tone, she added, “Do you think this was it as far as news reports?”

  “Not a chance, kid. You just missed the folks from the Spanish-language station. The other major networks have already come and gone, and the smaller cable channels are circling the block now like vultures. Famous author plus grisly death equals news. If I were you, I’d stay inside until tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Darla answered forlornly.

  “Listen, I’m going back to bed, kid. Didn’t get much sleep last night, you know? But I’ll yell if Reese calls with any updates.”

  Darla hung up and shut off the television, and then peered out the window again. B
y now, two more news trucks had stopped in the curbside lane and were blocking traffic as they scrambled for some quick shots of the scene. The passing drivers either responded with a blare of a horn and rude gestures, or else slowed to gawk at the floral tribute, further snarling traffic. A few more fans had gathered now, joining hands in what appeared to be a gothic ring-around-the-rosy.

  Jake has the right idea, she thought with a groan, abandoning the window as she contemplated heading right back to bed, too. Since the store was closed today anyhow, she had nowhere to be for the rest of the day. Camping out under the covers seemed the best plan.

  Darla contemplated that bit of self-indulgence for a few more minutes and then shook her head. The apartment needed a good vacuuming, laundry needed washing, and a stack of store paperwork awaited her. Mundane tasks to be sure, but unless the good fairies paid her an unexpected visit, none of it would get done unless she did it.

  Giving the bed a final longing look, she dragged herself to the shower. Thirty minutes later, her auburn hair was freshly braided and she was wearing her official lounge-around-the-house uniform of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Since the apartment held a bit of a chill, she also pulled on an oversized black sweater to complete her less-than-stunning ensemble and then headed back to the kitchen for more coffee and a yogurt.

  Hamlet had long since finished his own breakfast and lay stretched out full length on the back of the horsehair couch, watching her from the living room. He contented himself with a protracted baleful green stare in her direction, until she finished off the last bite of lemon-cream yogurt. Then he rose in an elegant move and gave a single sharp meow.

  “What?” Darla demanded in a grumpy voice.

  Hamlet did not waste his delicate lungs on a repeat but merely hopped off the couch and strolled to the front door. There, he planted his furry butt and stared in fierce concentration at that section of heavy wood paneling that led to the great outdoors. He was still seated there a few moments later after Darla had washed her spoon and coffee cup. She shot him a baleful look of her own and then sighed.