Double Booked for Death

by Ali Brandon

  Mary Ann sounded frailer and a bit more breathless over the phone than she did in person, and Darla hesitated. She didn’t want to upset the woman unnecessarily by carrying on about a possible intruder. On the other hand, Mary Ann might have noticed someone hanging about the place, and, at the very least, she should be aware if something untoward was going on in her neighborhood.

  “I don’t want to worry you, but something odd just happened. I went out for a few hours with Jake and Detective Reese, and when I got back, I found half the books in my bookcase lying on my living room floor.”

  “Oh dear, was Hamlet misbehaving?” Not surprisingly, Mary Ann sounded puzzled, but she gamely went on, “He’s usually such a civilized cat, but he’s probably upset with everything that’s happened since yesterday. I’m sure he won’t do it again.”

  “No, it’s more than that. Don’t be alarmed, but I think someone broke into my apartment while I was out.”

  When she heard a gasp from the old woman, she hurried to add, “Like I said, no need to worry. Nothing’s been taken that I can see, and Hamlet’s fine. It’s just some books that got scattered around. But I was wondering if maybe you saw someone who didn’t belong hanging out by my door this afternoon.”

  “Oh my gracious, let me think. No, no one in particular, my dear, though all those young people have been wandering down the sidewalk all day bringing their flowers. Oh, but wait.”

  Darla heard a pause and shuffle of footsteps before Mary Ann went on, “I almost forgot, there was a woman out chatting with some of the young people a bit earlier—a pretty young thing, and in such a respectable suit. She was there for about an hour and then left, but I’m looking out my window and she’s back again.”

  A woman? A bad feeling swept her, and Darla promptly headed for her own window to take a look. Since the Lone Protester had only just been released from custody from what Jake had said, then it had to be . . .

  Marnie !

  Darla set her jaw as she stared down at the woman in a pink jacket and skirt handing out what appeared to be tracts to a pair of teen girls near the Valerie shrine. She was going to have a word with her, no doubt.

  “I see her,” Darla replied, “and I’m pretty sure it’s the same woman who was driving the van that killed Valerie Baylor.”

  “Gracious!” was Mary Ann’s shocked response. “Whatever is she doing back here?”

  “I don’t know, but admittedly she doesn’t look like my idea of a break-and-enter artist. ”

  “Maybe you should call that nice Detective Reese if you’re worried,” Mary Ann suggested, sounding more than a bit concerned herself. “And I can send Brother up to repair your door for you.”

  “Thanks, but the door’s fine. Everything was locked up tight as a drum when I got back.”

  Mary Ann made a small, polite sound of confusion. “I’m sorry, dear, I must be missing something. If everything was locked up, and nothing is missing, why are you certain it wasn’t Hamlet being a little devil?”

  “Because the books were stacked neatly.”

  Almost hearing Mary Ann’s questioning look through the phone, Darla gazed at the volumes on the floor in front of her and went on, “I know it doesn’t sound like much . . . I guess you have to see it to understand. Some of the books were scattered on the floor, but most of them were arranged in perfect columns about a dozen high. Hamlet is clever, but he doesn’t know how to use a carpenter’s square.”

  Mary Ann was silent a moment. “Well, that is very strange,” she finally said. “Maybe you have a poltergeist.”

  A poltergeist!

  Now, it was Darla’s turn to fall silent as she eyed the books with even greater misgivings. She’d read enough ghost stories to recall that strangely stacked items were a hallmark of a poltergeist haunting. She hadn’t forgotten that Great-Aunt Dee had died in this very apartment—in her very own bed, to be specific, though Darla had made certain to replace that particular piece of furniture before moving in—and Valerie had been killed just outside her building. That added up to at least two possible unruly spirits right there.

  That was, if one were inclined to believe in such things.

  Darla frowned. While she considered herself a skeptic when it came to the occult, Valerie’s Haunted High books had occupied her thoughts for the past few days. Moreover, she couldn’t forget Jake’s reports of mysterious footsteps in the store after hours, and the lights turning on and off by themselves. Were Hamlet’s stacked books but the latest incident in a string of other strange occurrences?

  “Darla? Darla, are you there?” came Mary Ann’s worried voice breaking through her unsettling reverie. “My dear, I was only joking about a poltergeist,” the woman said, punctuating those words with a nervous-sounding chuckle. “I hope you didn’t take me seriously. I’ve lived in this building all my life, and believe me, there are no ghosts here. Would you like me to come over, just to make you feel better?”

  “Well . . .”

  Darla hesitated, tempted to take her up on the offer. But, just as with Jake, she didn’t want the woman trudging up and down two flights of stairs for no good reason. While spry for her age, Mary Ann had gone through at least one knee-replacement surgery. And besides, now that Darla had allowed herself more time to consider all possibilities, the only reasonable explanation was that Hamlet had been the culprit after all.

  “Mary Ann, you’re a champ. I appreciate your offer, but it’s not necessary,” she assured the other woman. “I think you’re right, and Hamlet was just looking for some attention. Detective Reese should be stopping by to see Jake later, so I’ll ask if he thinks there’s any cause for alarm.”

  “That’s a sensible idea, Darla,” Mary Ann said in an approving tone. “But I’ll keep my eyes open, anyway, and you can call me if anything else strange happens.”

  They exchanged a few final pleasantries, and then Darla hung up to find Hamlet back among the books. This time, with one large paw, he was methodically knocking the carefully arranged books, one at a time, onto the floor. Each landed with a small thud atop the previous into what was becoming a new pile. This stack, however, had a distinctly haphazard appearance to it.

  “Enough with the books, Hamlet,” she sternly told him, setting down her phone to shoo him away. The entire situation was making her brain hurt. Better to hurry and reshelve the volumes, and put an end to the strange incident.

  But first, she had to deal with Marnie.

  Darla marched down the two flights of stairs with no clear plan in mind for confronting the woman. In fact, she couldn’t say exactly why she was so outraged by the woman’s presence there at the Valerie shrine. She’d never seen anything in Emily Post’s column about it being bad manners to hang around an accident site where you were the one responsible for the victim’s death. And there was nothing wrong about exercising one’s First Amendment rights in a public setting, no matter that said person’s opinions fell somewhere between outright mean and bat-pooh crazy. Technically speaking, since she couldn’t claim aggrieved relative status, it wasn’t even Darla’s business what the woman did.

  Maybe it was simply the figurative bad taste that Marnie’s original, caps-filled letter had left in Darla’s mouth that made her want to speak her piece to the woman.

  By the time she reached the sidewalk, the two teens who Marnie had been lecturing had escaped. The woman had buttonholed another victim, however: this one, a boy who looked no more than fourteen. As Darla drew closer, she could see that despite his somewhat threatening appearance—lots of black leather, black denim, and various bits of chain and metal, including what adorned his ears and nose—he appeared on the verge of tears as he listened to her spiel.

  “Now, you do know that the Lord Jesus Christ smites those who read Valerie Baylor’s books instead of his word,” Darla overheard her declare. “Much as I hate speaking ill of the dead, I must tell you that she is already suffering the agonies of hellfire for polluting young minds with her blasphemous writings. If you don�
��t want to join her in Satan’s domain when you die, you must reject her teachings and accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior. Do you understand me, son?”

  Her soft, twangy accent somehow made the callous words seem even harsher. The boy was attempting to back away from her, but he’d maneuvered himself up against a stoop, leaving him no choice but to stand there. For, despite the fact he’d been polluted with blasphemy, he also appeared too polite to simply push past Marnie and make his escape that way.

  Darla’s redhead temper—the one she kept in check ninety-nine percent of the time—flared to volcanic life. If there was one thing she despised, it was a bully . . . male or female.

  “Back off, Marnie,” she said in a stern voice as she approached. To the youth, she went on in a kinder tone, “It’s all right, I’ll take care of her.”

  With a grateful nod, the boy skittered past them and ran down the street, chains jangling. Marnie, meanwhile, whipped about to face Darla.

  “How dare you interrupt me in doing the Lord’s work?” she demanded, outrage tingeing her cheeks and lips scarlet, so that she looked like she’d dipped into Mavis’s makeup kit. Wide blue eyes narrowing, she leaned closer. “I was opening that boy’s mind to the truth. Why, look at this,” she cried with a gesture toward the flowered tribute. “They might as well be worshipping at the feet of a golden calf!”

  She had a point, Darla thought with an inner snort as she surveyed the burgeoning mound of flowers; still, that didn’t excuse the woman’s outrageous behavior. Striving for a bit of calm, she went on, “I know you and your church don’t approve of Valerie Baylor’s books, but that doesn’t give you the right to censor what other people read. And you certainly have no right to bully minor children into submission. Why, I bet you’ve never even read one of her books.”

  “Certainly not! Do you think I would pollute my own mind like that? And as for your vile accusations”—Marnie gave her a chill look, shaking her handful of tracts in Darla’s direction as if they had the power to ward off evil—“I’m not censoring and bullying anyone. I’m merely encouraging people—especially young people—to reject the Devil’s lies and live a righteous life. And I won’t beg your forgiveness for my actions.”

  “It’s not my forgiveness you need,” Darla snapped, losing her grip on her temper again. “It’s Valerie Baylor’s grieving family you’d better be begging forgiveness from.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Darla regretted them, for Marnie’s flawless face crumpled, and her lips began to quaver.

  “Don’t you know that’s all I think about, gaining their forgiveness ?” she softly wailed, tears welling in those blue eyes. “Why, everywhere I look, all I see is that poor woman leaping out in front of the van, and there’s nothing I can do to keep from hitting her. And I have to live with that for the rest of my life, Darla.”

  She was weeping outright now as she went on, “Our Lord said to hate the sin and love the sinner, and so I did love Valerie Baylor. And that’s why even though the police said it wasn’t my fault, it pains me beyond belief to know that I’m the one who sent her to hell before she had a chance to find salvation in him.”

  Darla, who had begun to feel lower than worm poop for making Marnie cry, raised her brows at this last declaration. There was no winning with this woman . . . not now, not ever.

  “Look, Marnie,” she said with a sigh, “this has been an awful few days, and your being here on the street isn’t doing anyone any good. The signing was a flop, and Valerie Baylor is dead, so mission accomplished. Why don’t you and the rest of the congregation go back home to Dallas and find another cause?”

  Marnie sniffled delicately into a handkerchief that she’d pulled from the sleeve of her jacket. “I would be happy as a clam to leave this Sodom,” she declared in a wavering if defi – ant tone, “but unfortunately, we can’t right now. The van needs repairs before we can drive it again. My fellow congregants and I will have to wait until the church can raise the cash and wire it to us.”

  “Just how much money do you need?”

  “The repair shop said a thousand dollars should cover it,” Marnie replied, still snuffling, “but it might as well be a million dollars. I fear we are doomed to remain here a long while.”

  Darla sighed more deeply this time, mentally weighing guilt and peace of mind against Christian charity and principle. Before she could stop herself, she heard herself saying, “I can lend you the money, Marnie, and you can repay me whenever your church raises the funds. I just need your promise that you’ll stay away from the store and these kids, and go back to Dallas as soon as your van is roadworthy.”

  “Do you really mean that? You’d lend us the money?” Marnie looked up from her handkerchief, eyes wide. “Why, you don’t really even know me from Adam, and yet you’d do that for me, Darla . . . especially, after all that’s happened?”

  At her reluctant nod, the woman smiled brightly and flung her arms about Darla in an enthusiastic hug. “You literally are the answer to my prayers,” she cried. “I spent most of last night on my knees asking the Lord to intercede. And here you are.”

  “Yes, here I am,” Darla agreed as she awkwardly disentangled herself from the woman’s grasp and took a step back. Managing a smile in return, she added, “Just call me the First Bank and Trust of Darla.”

  Already, she was beginning to regret this impulse. For the moment, however, bankrolling a get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge fund for Marnie seemed the lesser of any evils that might befall the greater Brooklyn area should the church group keep hanging around town. Thanks to various of Great-Aunt Dee’s smaller bank accounts that Darla had inherited, she could spare the money. And if the church didn’t repay her, well, she’d make Marnie send her a receipt and call it a charitable deduction.

  Aloud, however, she simply said, “Wait right here, and I’ll be back in a minute with a check.”

  FIFTEEN

  WITH THE MARNIE SITUATION SETTLED—OR SO DARLA hoped!—she spent the next hour or so returning the displaced books to their proper places. Of course, being the avid reader that she was, she couldn’t resist flipping through a few of her favorite novels, stopping outright more than once to sit cross-legged on the floor to read a chapter or two. Only when she found herself weeping for probably the hundredth time over Beth’s death scene in the battered copy of Little Women that her grandmother had given her as a child did she take herself firmly in hand. She was due back downstairs at Jake’s for pizza at six o’clock, which was fast approaching.

  She finished with the books and spent the rest of the time doing weekend household chores. Once, she gave way to morbid curiosity and flipped on the cable news station to see if there were any updates on Valerie Baylor’s death. A brief segment regurgitated that morning’s broadcast and included the news that no charges were being filed against the Lord’s Blessing Church or its driver, Marnie Jennings.

  The newscaster also mentioned that private services would be held this coming Thursday. Remembering Hillary Gables’s promise to try to finagle an invite for her to the exclusive service, Darla made a mental note to check with the agent the next morning.

  When six o’clock rolled around, she left Hamlet with his kibble and headed downstairs. Jake greeted her at the door, wiping a smear of tomato sauce from her chin as she ushered Darla inside.

  “Sorry, snacking on some breadsticks and marina. And watch out, Reese went a bit overboard on the food,” Jake explained, gesturing her to take a seat.

  Overboard was an understatement, Darla thought with a grin. In addition to the aforementioned breadsticks, the table held an immense sausage and black olive pizza (a couple of slices already missing), a heaping plate of wings, a six-pack of imported beer (also missing a couple), and a salad—that last presumably to counteract the calorie-fest that was the rest of the meal.

  Reese sat in one of the matching chrome chairs doing the Henry the Eighth routine, a wing in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. She’d caught him in midchew, so he limi
ted himself to a nod as Darla plopped into one of the other chairs.

  “Better hurry if you want anything, kid,” Jake warned, serving herself salad and then passing the bowl to Darla. “A couple more minutes, and Reese will finish everything that’s not nailed down.”

  “Yeah, you know, but at least I’ll work it off in the gym tonight,” he defended himself in a muffled voice as he swallowed. Giving her an evil grin, he added, “Which is more than I can say for some people. I think you’ve packed on a couple of extra pounds since I last saw—”

  His comment was cut short as the remainder of Jake’s breadstick flew across the table to bounce off his forehead. But her tone was amiable as she said, “That’s right, pick on the crippled lady. But you know what they say: old age and treachery beats youth and skill every time. You and me ever tangle, you better put your money on me.”

  “I know I will,” Darla agreed in solidarity as she dug into her lettuce. While they ate, Reese gave a more detailed account of his interview of Janie. It seemed that, after waiving her rights, she had been eager to tell her story. According to Reese, she’d grown defensive only when he’d pointed out that such a stunt, if actually sanctioned by the publisher, would not have entailed anonymous Internet advertising and cloak-and-dagger payment. When Reese had pressed her on the issue, she had finally admitted that she’d had her own suspicions, but that she needed the money for school.

  “Ahem,” Darla interrupted him, putting aside her fork. “Speaking of cloak-and-dagger, I understand you put me on the suspect list for Janie’s mysterious Scarf Lady. Something about a southern accent?”

  She gave those last words her best Texas drawl by way of emphasis, drawing a grin from Jake. Reese merely shrugged, but his expression was sheepish as he said, “So sue me, it’s my job. I gotta look at everyone, and you fit the bill. Accent, connection to Valerie Baylor. You would have been a shoe-in, except for that red hair. No way the girl could have missed that in her description of the suspect.”

  This time, it was Darla who hurled the breadstick.