Double Booked for Death

by Ali Brandon

  “Fine, we’ll head down to the store first,” she agreed, grabbing up her keys. “I need to review a whole pile of invoices. But you’d better mind your manners. And no going outside into the courtyard.”

  Hamlet took the lead, his long black tail held aloft as he negotiated the steps in a series of graceful bounds, rather than padding properly one riser at a time. By the time Darla reached the lower landing, he was already at the door leading from hall to shop, standing on his hind legs with both front paws wrapped around the cut-glass knob.

  “Sorry, buddy, you can’t open the door without a key,” she reminded him as she unlocked the door and stepped inside the shop. While she shut off the alarm system, Hamlet flew past her, his momentum leaving a fleeting feline hurricane in his wake.

  Darla followed more slowly, flipping on only a couple of necessary lights lest the store appear open for business. It was cool inside without the heat turned on, but not unpleasantly so. Otherwise, the place was just as she’d left it, the moveable shelves still pushed to either side of the main room to form a broad aisle down the center. The red and black draped table was still piled with neat stacks of brand-new books and looked eerily abandoned behind the empty maze where Valerie’s fans had waited with such anticipation. From the easel near the table, Valerie’s dramatic image continued to hold court, her carefully composed features seeming to stare out from her publicity poster with more than a bit of malice.

  Suppressing a shiver, Darla hurried over to the easel and pulled down the poster. Great-Aunt Dee had kept similar promotional posters of famous authors hanging in the upstairs loft and storeroom as reminders of past events. But the last thing Darla wanted was the late Haunted High author hanging around her store—even in the figurative sense—laying a guilt trip on her every time she happened to glance at the photo. She’d tuck away the poster behind the counter for now and let James haul it off tomorrow. Chances were he could get a tidy bit of cash for it on one of his online auctions.

  Suddenly impatient to return the place to normal, Darla decided not to wait for James to do the heavy lifting in the morning but to tackle the job herself, here and now.

  Restoring order took perhaps an hour, requiring a moderate amount of sweat and the unfortunate breakage of one fingernail. She doffed the oversized sweater a few minutes into it, since hauling around the loaded shelves was sufficient activity to raise a good sweat. Hamlet supervised her work from atop the bestseller shelf, looking like a small panther as he lay draped along one wooden edge. She had just folded the last of the table throws and was ready for a break when she heard frantic tapping on the front glass.

  Startled, she glanced in that direction to see a hooded dark figure looming on the other side of the door. Her reflexive gasp was released as a small groan when she realized on second look that the intruder was one of the ubiquitous black-caped teens. No doubt the girl had come to pay her respects at the impromptu Valerie shrine and had noticed Darla moving about inside the store.

  Pantomiming sorry, go away gestures, she headed toward the door and called through the glass, “I’m afraid we’re closed today. Try us again tomorrow.”

  “But tomorrow will be too late!” the fan wailed back, her breath frosting the glass. “I’m the only one I know who didn’t get a copy of Ghost of a Chance yet. If I can’t read it along with everyone else, I’ll die.”

  Darla’s first impulse was to tell the girl she’d just have to make funeral arrangements, but a second look at the teen’s pleading face did her in. After all, she could have been putting on a hysterical display out there on the stoop, blaming Darla for her idol’s death, instead of wanting to put money into the store’s coffers. With a reluctant nod, she turned the lock and opened the door.

  “Okay, just this once,” she agreed as the girl, with a little skip of joy, slipped in past her. “Grab a book off the display while I power up the register.”

  A few minutes later, she was letting the teen out the door again, the book gleefully clutched to her chest. “Don’t tell anyone else I did this for you,” Darla called after the girl as she hurried down the steps toward the street.

  Whether or not the teen heard that directive, Darla wasn’t sure. What she could see was the teen waving her newly acquired book in triumph as she rushed toward a cluster of Valerie’s fans kneeling by the growing mountain of flowers. Remember what she said: everyone else already has a copy, Darla thought with a shrug. She locked the door again and caught Hamlet’s cool green gaze as she headed back toward the register.

  “So sue me, I did something nice,” she told him as she grabbed up a sheaf of invoices that needed reconciling to orders. “Besides, it was just that one time.”

  Barely had the words left her lips, however, when she heard more tapping at the front glass. This time, it was two fan girls, both plump with spiked black hair and silver rings in their respective noses. Seeing that Darla had noticed them, they began frantically waving.

  “Lindsay said you were open for Valerie’s fans,” one of them called through the glass as Darla approached, intent on putting a stop to this nonsense once and for all. “That is so, like, chill. No one else understands.”

  Darla sighed. Since she was there in the store anyhow, she might as well make some money. And she needed Valerie’s readers on her side, in case things turned nasty with the glut of news stories that was sure to fill the airwaves the next few days.

  Besides, how could she resist being thought of as “chill” by the high school set?

  Over the next two hours, she sold almost fifty copies of Ghost of a Chance, along with a few copies of Valerie’s first two Haunted High books. She felt like she was operating a speakeasy, with her teen customers being admitted one or two at a time into the darkened store. Moreover, entry was granted only after she scrutinized them through the front-door glass to make sure Juanita Hillburn or one of the other reporters wasn’t trying to sneak in under cover of cape. Some of the fans sobbed with happiness as they scrambled in; others maintained a proper goth-girl stoicism as they paid for their books, though their reddened eyes betrayed their inner emotions. And before letting them out again, Darla gave each a stern warning not to let anyone but true Valerie fans know about this special event.

  “We don’t want the press barging in,” she cautioned. “They don’t respect Valerie like her readers do. I’m keeping the store open a couple of hours today just for you, and not the public.”

  To a girl, each swore only to tell her BFFs who truly loved Valerie and her books. Fans of the Boy Wizard novels were pointedly scorned as not worthy of sharing in the secret.

  Between customers and invoices, Darla glanced out occasionally to see what was happening down the street. The parade of mourners continued slow but unabated, as did the caravans of press vehicles. Fortunately, the latter seemed more concerned with the shrine to Valerie and interviewing the fans who came to pay their respects, rather than checking out the bookstore that had been the catalyst for the tragedy. As for Hamlet, he proved surprisingly well behaved. Having abandoned his earlier ceiling-high perch for the checkout counter, he lounged there casually grooming his sleek black coat and accepting the respectful compliments of the similarly attired customers.

  Around eleven thirty, when almost twenty minutes had passed since the last teen had sought entry, Darla decided that it was time to shut down the clandestine operation. But barely had she powered off the register again when another tap at the glass drew her attention. Determined now to hold firm, she went to the door ready to send away the newcomer, when she recognized Jake’s frizzy mane through the glass.

  “Oh no, did I wake you?” she asked in concern as she ushered in her friend.

  Jake, she saw, was wearing an identical barely-out-of-bed outfit of sweatpants and T-shirt, topped with oversized sweater. Somehow on her the über-casual clothes didn’t look quite so frumpy. Probably because she’s tall, Darla assured herself. Aloud, she went on, “I kept getting Valerie’s fans coming by looking for her late
st, and I couldn’t turn them down.”

  “You’re a real Mother Teresa,” Jake replied with a weary grin, following Darla toward the register. “But, no, it wasn’t you. Every time I closed my eyes, another one of those crazy kids was tromping past my place to go pay homage to the glorious Valerie. It’s Monday. Shouldn’t they all be in school or something?”

  “They probably cut class to come out here,” Darla guessed, wondering if “Valerie flu” was running rampant throughout all the local schools.

  Jake snorted. “I wouldn’t mind it so much except, I swear, they must all have feet the size of dinner plates.”

  “I know what you mean. The little ninety-eight-pounders are the worst.” Darla smiled at this last, and then added, “But, seriously, I really did feel like I was performing a public service, seeing how they were all so thrilled to get their books.”

  “Worth getting slapped with an unexcused absence from school, right?”

  “Don’t look at me, I’m not the truant officer,” Darla said with a shrug and an even broader smile. Then, sobering, she added, “Any news trucks still outside?”

  “Last one left about thirty minutes ago. I think we’re safe for the moment.”

  “Great.” Darla paused and glanced at her watch. “It’s almost noon. How about I finish up here real quick, and we head down to the deli for lunch, my treat?”

  “Have you ever seen me pass up a free meal, kid? Don’t worry, I can entertain myself for a few minutes.” With a look around the store, she added, “Fast work getting the place back in shape. And Hamlet decided to lend a hand, I see.”

  Hearing his name, the cat looked up from his countertop perch where he was luxuriating in obvious comfort. He sneezed twice and then deliberately hopped down onto the floor.

  “I think he caught the sarcasm,” Darla explained as she filed the rest of her paperwork into designated folders. “Actually, he’s been pretty well behaved since he gave me my latest heart attack.”

  She went on to describe finding Hamlet on her bed looking like he’d just been visited by the feline Grim Reaper. Jake laughed and shook her head. “He’s what, ten years old now? Ornery creature that he is, I bet he hasn’t used up more than one of his lives so far. I think he’ll be with you for the long haul.

  “Oh, but look,” she added with another chuckle, pointing toward the rear of the main room, “I think my guilt trip worked. The little beggar is actually playing janitor.”

  In fact, Hamlet had discovered a crumpled piece of paper sticking out from beneath one of the shelves that Darla had just rolled back into place. As she and Jake watched in amusement, he snagged it with a claw and dragged it out into the open; then, with the skill of a professional soccer player, he batted the wad from paw to paw so that it skittered across the smooth wooden floor. With a final swipe of one large paw, he sent the paper ball flying so that it landed squarely between Jake’s booted feet.

  “And he scores!” Jake said, giving Hamlet a round of applause while Darla grinned in appreciation. “I wonder how he is at softball. Reese said they need a couple of fielders for the precinct team.” She bent and retrieved the paper, and smoothed the sheet and held it up in the dim light.

  “It looks like one of those Haunted High trivia sheets Lizzie was passing out to the fans yesterday,” she confirmed. Tsking a little, she added, “It’s not like you don’t have trash cans in here. If someone didn’t want their copy, they could have—”

  Jake broke off as she apparently realized that Darla was now frowning in her direction. “What . . . do I have something stuck in my teeth?”

  “Not that I noticed,” Darla answered, unable to keep the sudden urgency from her tone, “but you might want to take a look at the back of that page you’re holding.”

  ELEVEN

  JAKE FLIPPED THE PAPER OVER. ON WHAT SHOULD HAVE been the blank reverse side, she saw what Darla already had noticed in some alarm . . . someone had scrawled a few words in what appeared to be dark red lipstick.

  “We need to talk. Now,” the older woman read aloud. Frowning, she glanced from the paper to Darla. “So someone wrote a note last night. What’s the big deal?”

  “Maybe nothing. On the other hand, think about it. Wasn’t it a bit odd how Valerie spontaneously decided to abandon her book signing to go after the Lone Protester, and accidentally got herself run over in the process? Maybe this note was meant for her, to deliberately get her out onto the street.”

  “You mean someone lured her out there?” Jake gave the page a doubtful look and shook her head. “Kid, I think you’ve been spending too much time in the mystery section. I know you feel guilty about Valerie—hell, we all do—but this is grasping at straws. There were hundreds of these trivia sheets floating around last night, and just about everyone in the vicinity had a red lipstick with them. Any one of the girls waiting in line could have written that note to one of her friends. Beside, who would want to knock off Valerie Baylor?”

  “Well, the Lone Protester, for a start. And don’t forget, Valerie was mean to Mavis and condescending to Koji and Everest. And she pretended not to know Lizzie, when the two of them had taken a college writing class together. Oh, and you might as well toss Marnie and her friends into the pot. I think the only one she didn’t tick off was Hamlet.”

  “Which is why he’s digging up clues to prove the author’s accidental death was actually a ghastly murder?” Jake finished for her, not bothering to hide a friendly smirk. She reached down to scratch the ersatz detective behind his ears, but he was having none of it. With a hiss and a flick of one paw—that last for show only, since he didn’t bother to unsheathe his claws—Hamlet stalked off in the direction of the classics.

  Inspecting her hand for damage and finding none, Jake went on, “Look, if being a bitch was a killing offense, half the world’s women would be dead, and the other half behind bars. Same thing with the men. So if you and Hamlet want to play Nancy Drew and Ned, you need to dredge up some better clues than this.”

  “Fine. As of this moment, Hamlet and I are officially retired from the detective biz.” Darla smiled, however, as she said it. She picked up the quiz and made a show of depositing it in the wastebasket under the counter. Then, displaying empty hands, she added, “But don’t come crying to me when you need DNA evidence off the lipstick, and it’s not here.”

  “Fine, hang onto it, and I’ll mention it to Reese. Speaking of which, I ought to ring him up while we’re walking to lunch.”

  “Right, lunch.” She’d almost forgotten her offer. She dug the paper out of the trash again; then she continued, “I’ve got to head upstairs and get my wallet before we go. Let me check on Hamlet, and then you can wait in the foyer after I lock up here.”

  While Jake amused herself with the Jane Austen action figures next to the register, Darla walked over to the classics section. Hamlet was seated at the foot of the “A through H” section, in seeming contemplation of Hemingway’s collective oeuvre.

  “Hey, Hammy, Ms. Ex-Cop doesn’t think much of our detecting skills,” she told him. “But I’m still going to buy her lunch, anyhow. You want to stick around down here while we’re out, or go upstairs?”

  She paused, expecting either a hiss—he understood the words “go upstairs”—or else his trademark leg-over-the-shoulder kiss-off in response. Instead, he gave a little chirp of a meow and stretched at full length against the bookshelf. With seeming deliberation, he used one large paw to snag the spine of a volume on the C – D shelf and pull it out of its slot. The book landed on the polished wood floor with a gunshot-loud splat that made her jump.

  “Darn cat,” Darla muttered, reaching down to retrieve the volume. She stopped short, however, as she flipped it over in her hands and saw the book’s title and stark, iconic cover art. Surely it had to be a coincidence. But, still . . .

  “Jake,” she called.

  Raising the book, she read the title aloud. “In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. Here I tell Hamlet that you think his clue is bogus
, and he drops this book at my feet. Maybe he really did see something last night, and he’s trying in his own way to let us know there’s something fishy about Valerie’s accident.”

  Barely were the words out of her mouth than she realized just how lame they sounded. A cat communicating by way of book titles? Still, it was too late to call back what she’d said. And so it was left for her to cringe a little when Jake gave her the expected bright smile . . . the kind people used to humor small children and mental patients.

  “Uh-huh. Kid, I don’t know how to break it to you, but the only thing fishy around here is Hamlet’s food. So far as the officers on the scene were able to tell, Valerie’s death was an accident. Your Lone Protester might have gotten into a shoving match with her, but worst that makes it is manslaughter. Assuming they find the girl, and assuming they uncover some sort of video or eyewitness testimony to convince a grand jury to take it to trial.”

  “I know, I know,” Darla muttered, torn between a grin and a groan at Jake’s unassailable logic. She settled for a blush as she stuck the book back in place, adding, “I think I’m a bit punchy from all that’s happened. Pretend you never heard what I said, okay?” To Hamlet, she added, “Come on, let’s get out of here before I make a bigger idiot of myself.”

  To her surprise, the feline followed her upstairs without protest. A few minutes later, having settled Hamlet comfortably in the apartment, Darla rejoined Jake. From the foyer, they made a quick visual reconnoiter of the sidewalk beyond and then, seeing no media sorts, started toward the deli. Unfortunately, they had to pass the Valerie shrine in the process.

  “Holy crap, wouldja look at that,” Jake said in an undertone as they approached the still-growing mound of tribute candles and flowers. “The whole street smells like a florist shop. I bet the local flower sellers are making money hand over fist today. What do you want to bet that the kid who played the Boy Wizard in all those movies wouldn’t get half this attention if he dropped dead tomorrow?”