Double Booked for Death

by Ali Brandon

“It’s all yours.” Then, with a pointed look at her watch, she said, “I appreciate the personal apartment sweep and all, but I’d better throw you out now so I can get a few things done before I go to bed.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve been thrown out of worse places.”

  He was grinning, however, as he trotted out the cliché. Darla grinned back and decided that, even if he’d been a jerk about trying to make her look like a suspect earlier, she really did like the guy.

  Just not in that way.

  And where did that come from? she wondered in embarrassment, hoping he hadn’t noticed the sudden blush that warmed her cheeks. Deliberately, she shoved aside the thought. Unfortunately, said thought sneaked right back in after she’d walked him back down the two flights of stairs to the main door, and he paused there with one broad shoulder propping it open. Faint alarm bells went off in her brain.

  “You know, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you all day,” he announced with an intent look at her, causing the bells to ring more loudly.

  She nodded uncertainly, praying he wasn’t about to ask her for a date or make some other unwanted declaration. Dealing with that situation would be too uncomfortable, especially considering he was a good friend of Jake. Damn it, where was Hamlet when she needed him?

  The detective paused for a moment, as if weighing his options, and Darla felt herself tense. Finally, just as she was prepared to give him the literal heave-ho onto the stoop, good manners be damned, he blurted, “Who in the hell gives a sweet Mercedes a name like Maybelle?”

  SIXTEEN

  “AS OF EIGHT FORTY-FIVE THIS MORNING, THE BIDDING WAS at eight hundred seventy-nine dollars for my first autographed Valerie Baylor book.”

  His tone satisfied, James gave a brisk nod and straightened his vest. “I suspect the bids have reached one thousand dollars by now,” he went on. “I have made this a twenty-four-hour auction to heighten the interest. I shall post another book at the end of the week to take advantage of those who missed out on the first offering and are regretting their timidity in bidding. I predict that second auction will be even more profitable.”

  Darla shot him a wry look. “Well, good for your retirement fund. I have to admit, we did pretty well here yesterday, especially since we were technically closed. Maybe I should have jacked up our prices, too.”

  She gave him a quick rundown of yesterday’s impromptu sales. “I felt like I was running a speakeasy,” she added with a sigh. “Let’s just hope that we don’t see a backlash today, with everyone staying away in droves.”

  So saying, Darla flipped the sign to “Open” and unlocked the front door of the shop. Much to her surprise, she had managed a full night’s sleep last night, with her dreams undisturbed by authors, poltergeists, or cops. She didn’t wake until almost seven, when Hamlet commenced with his usual hurry-up-and-feed-the-poor-starving-kitty routine.

  Feeling masochistic, she had flipped on the television news for a Valerie update while she pulled on the day’s work outfit of a pale green sweater set and a knee-length denim skirt. The author’s untimely death still rated a periodic ten-second crawl along the bottom of the screen, but other more pressing world events had knocked it off the main broadcast rotation. A look out her front window had shown the Valerie shrine still intact, but seeming to have reached maturity. All but a few of the largest candles had long since sputtered into misshapen wax puddles, and the bloom was definitely off the blossoms.

  Now, she took another look. The tribute remained an impressive if faded sight. A few hardcore Valerie fans had already returned to set up mute vigil on the sidewalk in defiance of truancy laws . . . and, hopefully, not as a precursor to Sunny and Robert’s proposed boycott. And, on the bright side, the television news crews had seemingly lost interest in the story, for she’d not seen any more reporters stopping off to shoot a bit of video.

  She glanced down to see that a fresh bundle of the local free paper lay on the stoop, and she carried the stack inside to set by the register. At least this newspaper didn’t have headlines about Valerie Baylor’s death, she thought in relief. But she was pretty sure the story would be different when the distributor brought this week’s allocation of news and gossip magazines. Chances were those publications would have pages dedicated to the story. She only hoped that she and the store could continue to stay out of the limelight. She’d managed so far to avoid the press, but her luck wouldn’t hold forever.

  While James worked the most recent rare-book orders, Darla reconciled a few invoices while glancing occasionally toward the door. The bell remained disconcertingly silent, however. When it finally jingled around noon, both she and James gazed up with anticipation, only to let loose with a collective sigh of disappointment.

  “Uh, hey, Jake,” Darla managed.

  James gave a formal nod and echoed, “Ms. Martelli.”

  “Wow, back down on that enthusiastic greeting,” the woman replied with a tired grin. Glancing around the otherwise empty shop, she added in commiseration, “Slow day, huh.”

  “Yeah, they’re beating down the doors not to get in,” Darla replied. “We got the hard-core Valerie fans yesterday, so I figured today it would be the regulars and probably a few ghouls who’d want to see the store where she did her last signing. But, nada . . . zip.”

  “Maybe they thought you’d be closed for the day,” Jake suggested, plopping down on her favorite beanbag chair in the children’s section. “Don’t worry, kid, I’m sure business will pick up tomorrow. So, anyone feel like having lunch delivered ?”

  James called out for soup and salads, and they made a small party of it in the tiny courtyard outside, leaving the door open so Darla could listen for the front bell. While they ate, the retired professor regaled Jake and Darla with stories of deceased authors from the past two centuries whose books appreciated significantly after their unexpected demise.

  The fact they were holding this conversation in one of the spots where Valerie Baylor had spent some of her final moments was not lost on any of them.

  “And then, as far as twentieth-century writers go, you have Hunter S. Thompson,” James said once he’d exhausted writers of the 1800s. “And, more recently, you might recall an interest in Michael Crichton, though the value was sentimental rather than literary. Of course, there is always Salinger. He never signed many books to begin with, and so the pool for collectors has always been limited. The occasional tome turning up with his reputed signature always brings a frenzy of interest among serious bidders.”

  While Jake nodded in interest—genuine or feigned, Darla was not sure—he continued, “With Ms. Baylor, she had just begun her tour for this book, and so had signed only a few copies to this point. Once again, we are talking scarcity. For the books I am auctioning, I am providing a framed print of the photographs that I took, as well as our store certificate signed by me, to guarantee authenticity. Of course, since Ms. Baylor is not a literary figure in the classic sense, the value for her signed works will drop appreciably once the grief factor dissipates. But until then, I will take my profit where I can.”

  With a look over at Darla, he added, “I think it would appear, shall we say, inappropriate for Pettistone’s Fine Books to have a presence on a public auction site; however, I intend to send private messages to some of our more avid collectors of popular fiction to gauge interest in our signed store copies.”

  “Wouldn’t want to be inappropriate, now,” Jake agreed with a grin, which broadened as she turned to Darla. “Speaking of which, Reese wasn’t upstairs very long last night. Here I all but gift wrap this good-looking hunk of a man for you and send him up to your place, and you don’t take advantage of the situation?”

  “Hey, just being polite,” Darla replied, trying not to blush. “I figured he might be off-limits, since you and he are so tight.”

  “Not a chance. You’ll never catch me on the cougar prowl,” she replied, doing a little mock claw swipe. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind looking at cute young thin
gs, but when it comes down to it, I like my men a bit more seasoned. But the two of you would make a cute couple, and he could use a change from his usual type.”

  “Really, Jake, I trust you are not pimping out your friends to my employer, or vice versa,” James interjected in a disapproving tone.

  The woman was not to be squelched.

  “Don’t be such a killjoy, James,” she shot back, turning the grin on him. “Darla’s a big girl. She can tell me to back off if she wants.”

  “Okay, back off,” Darla agreed, but she said it with a smile, even as she wondered what Reese’s usual type was. Probably barely legal, with that whole Jersey Shore look going on. “Reese is a nice guy, but I can’t see him as anything but a friend. Especially while we still have this whole Valerie mess hanging over our heads.”

  Her smile faded at that last, and she abruptly stood to peer into the store in case a customer had managed to slip in without triggering the bells. It was still empty, except for Hamlet. He padded past the open doorway, tail waving in a carefree manner. Apparently, he enjoyed having the place to himself.

  “It’s after one o’clock,” she proclaimed, looking at her watch, “and we haven’t had a single customer. James, why don’t you go on home? I’ll pay you for the whole shift, of course.”

  “If you insist. I am rather anxious to check the status of my auction.”

  “I insist. I’ll hang out here a bit longer and then shut down for the day. Maybe business tomorrow will be better.”

  “I am certain it shall be. And I will make sure to send out those emails of inquiry from home. Good afternoon, ladies,” he finished with a formal nod, and headed back into the store. A few moments later, jingling bells announced his exit.

  Darla sat back with a sigh and raked her hands through her wavy auburn hair, which she’d let hang loose this day. “I’ll call Lizzie and tell her not to bother coming in after class this afternoon. Maybe she can do some social networking on our behalf. And I’d better have her post a message of condolence on our website, too.”

  “Good idea, kid. Don’t worry, the customers will be back.”

  She stood and helped Darla gather the remains of their lunch; then, once the cleanup was completed, Jake too headed for the door. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything new from Reese,” she promised. “Now go home and have a relaxing afternoon.”

  As if, Darla wryly thought while the sound of jingling bells followed her friend out. She’d probably spend all afternoon with her nose pressed to the window watching for a return of Marnie, or else sit glued to the cable news channels waiting for segments on the whole Valerie fiasco. With the funeral on Thursday, the media vultures would be hovering again. Which reminded her . . .

  Grabbing up the store Rolodex, she flipped through until she found Hillary Gables’s phone number. Surprisingly, she reached the agent at her office on the first try.

  “You can imagine what it’s been like here,” the woman told her after they exchanged pleasantries. Her sharp New York City demeanor, punctuated by a few sniffles, seemed to slice through the phone lines as she went on, “The tour had just begun, and we had radio and television spots booked. And, even worse, we don’t have another manuscript from her. Her contract allows two years between books, so her next one wasn’t due for a couple of months. I’m afraid this is the end of the line, unless we can ghost out the book to someone else to finish.”

  She paused, and Darla heard a small chuckle on the other end. “Ghost out . . . kind of appropriate, when you think about it,” she added, sounding far more chipper about the entire situation than expected.

  Darla simply said in return, “You told me the service for Valerie would be Thursday. Will you still be able to get me in to pay my respects?”

  “Sure, why not? But, remember what I said. Don’t tell people who you are if you can avoid it. Some of the relatives might hold a grudge. Know what I mean?”

  Darla agreed that she did. Satisfied, Hillary gave her the location of the church in Southampton, adding, “Be there by two. Your name will be on the list, but I’ll keep an eye out for you in case security doesn’t want to let you in. Oh, and dress up. It’s not Brooklyn out there. The Hamptons might go casual for everyday, but make it a social affair like a funeral, and they’ll dress for it like it’s the red carpet.”

  Darla managed not to make a snide retort to that last. Instead, she thanked the agent and rang off, wondering now if attending the funeral would be a mistake. Hillary might be right, in that Valerie’s family could well be blaming her for what happened.

  She wondered, too, if Marnie and her fellow congregants would somehow find their way to the church with their protest signs on Thursday. Chances were the van wouldn’t yet be repaired, meaning they’d have plenty of spare time on their hands for their demonstration. But at least if they were picketing there, that meant they wouldn’t be marching in front of her store. Despite Marnie’s promise, Darla wouldn’t put it past the woman to make at least a token protest at Pettistone’s before she left town, if only to satisfy the tax man that she and her associates had indeed been traveling on church business.

  Darla sighed and then slowly spun around, surveying her small kingdom of books. She hadn’t realized until now just how much this store had come to mean to her. Before, it had been strictly business, working as a matter of duty and pride to keep her fiscal head well above water in these challenging economic times. After all, she’d been handpicked to carry on this piece of the Pettistone legacy. Great-Aunt Dee could have willed her literary child to any one of twenty other relatives. No way was Darla not going to come up to Pettistone snuff.

  Good intentions, however, were not enough. Between the online bookselling behemoths undercutting the little guys, and e-books swooping in to take their surprising share of the market, it was getting harder and harder for brick-and-mortar places to compete. Every day, it seemed, she read in the trades about another well-established bookstore that had slipped into bankruptcy. Keeping a positive attitude after each such doleful announcement, she continually told herself it wouldn’t happen to her.

  But if today was a harbinger of things to come, she might be the next in line to be washed away by that red-ink tide.

  And then what in the heck would she do?

  “No sense borrowing trouble,” she muttered, reflexively channeling her mother, who was prone to spout such well-worn chestnuts. She had a flexible business plan, and so long as she stuck to it, she should be able to weather the unfavorable economic storm. And if not, maybe she’d simply have to ditch the books and reopen as a coffee shop or a New Age boutique.

  Her true dilemma for the moment would be deciding what a good old Texas gal should wear to a filthy rich New York author’s funeral.

  “DAMN IT, I WAS AFRAID YOU’D ANSWER.”

  Awakened as she’d been from a sound sleep, it took Darla a few moments to realize that the soft voice on the other end of the phone was Jake’s. Alarmed, she grabbed up her bedside clock to check the time.

  Five after two in the a.m. Like her dad always told her, nothing good ever happened after midnight. Reflexively, she dropped her own voice to a whisper and demanded, “What’s wrong?”

  “Footsteps,” was Jake’s succinct answer. “It’s that same sound of someone walking around in the store again. I’m headed up to take a look.”

  Not again!

  Tracking down possible intruders in the dead of night was the last thing Darla wanted to do after all that had happened. Unfortunately, her sense of responsibility kicked in right on schedule, and she heard herself saying, “I’ll go in through the side door. I’ll be down as soon as I throw on a robe.”

  “The hell you will. We’ve had this discussion before. You can wait downstairs in the hall if you want, but don’t you dare set foot inside the store until I open the door for you.”

  This time, it was Jake’s phone that went dead before Darla could protest. She set down the receiver and flipped on the light, and then grabbed her r
obe. To be honest, she was relieved that Jake had insisted she stay out. Sooner or later, they were going to catch whoever—or whatever—was stomping around the store after hours.

  Just to be sure, she took a quick look around the apartment for Hamlet, finding him in his lounging spot in front of the refrigerator. He yawned and blinked in irritation as she flipped on the kitchen light, a pretty good indication that he wasn’t the one responsible for the commotion Jake had heard.

  This left two possible explanations. Either there was an intruder in the shop, or else Great-Aunt Dee had returned from the Beyond to do an inventory check.

  Oh, and there was a third option, she reminded herself. Maybe the ghost of Valerie Baylor had decided to come back and finish her interrupted autographing event.

  “Ridiculous!” she protested aloud, the vehemence in her tone drawing an offended meow from the cat.

  She tugged on her robe with more force than necessary, angry at herself that such thoughts had even crossed her mind. Surely it was only because she was stressed and had been torn out of a sound sleep that her overtaxed brain had conjured up such far-fetched explanations. Though, in a way, the haunting thing was preferable to having someone continually breaking into the bookstore for some unknown purpose!

  She snatched up her keys and hurried out the door. The light from the replica Tiffany lamp on the small table near her front door put out just enough of a golden glow to light her way down. She took the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could in her bare feet, reaching the foyer in record time.

  The sight of a shadowy figure looming beyond the frosted glass of the hallway’s outer door made her gasp. In the next instant, she heard the soft scrape of a key in the lock and realized from the silhouette’s shape that the intruder was Jake. Doubtless the ex-cop had decided to try a different tactic and sneak in the side door, rather than come in with figurative guns blazing through the front.

  Maybe it was time to hang a nice opaque curtain behind the glass, Darla fleetingly thought, realizing that the lamp that had brightened the stairwell also illuminated the foyer suffi – ciently so that someone outside the hazy glass door could see her shadow, too.