Double Booked for Death

by Ali Brandon

  Making a mental note to check in with Mary Ann for something suitably vintage in window coverings, Darla hurried to let her friend in.

  Jake, unlit flashlight in hand, gave her a look of annoyed resignation as she stepped inside and then moved to the other door. The panel light at the jamb still flashed red, meaning that no one had turned off the alarm. Jake frowned and then punched in the code, bringing it back to green status.

  “I’m going in,” she whispered. “Wait out here for me, and don’t you dare come in until I give the all clear.”

  Darla waited until Jake was safely inside and then pressed a cautious ear to the door. She stood there listening for several moments, hearing no movement through the paneled wood. Soon enough, her nervousness blossomed into concern. How long had it been since Jake had gone in? Five minutes, perhaps ? Surely time enough to sweep through the store and see if anyone was inside. So where was she?

  By way of answer, the door abruptly opened inward with Darla still pressed against it.

  She gasped and stumbled into the store, catching her balance with Jake’s help. All the store lights were on, and she squinted against the sudden brightness for a moment. When her eyes adjusted, she saw Jake standing before her, expression one of extreme disgust.

  “Not a damn thing,” the woman groused, slapping her flashlight against her palm in obvious irritation. “I thought I saw a shadow on the stairs, and I could have sworn I heard more footsteps, but when I ran up to the second floor, there wasn’t anyone there. I searched every square inch of the place. Twice. And, nada.”

  Then, as Darla stared at her, wide-eyed, Jake’s anger fizzled.

  “Oh God, listen to me. If someone was telling me this same story, I’d be looking at them like they were crazy, too,” she said with a deprecating little laugh. “I swear, I truly did hear someone in here. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I believe you, Jake,” Darla assured her. “Maybe there really is a poltergeist, like Mary Ann said.”

  “Don’t even go there,” Jake countered. “I’ve lived in apartment buildings all of my life, and believe me, I know what someone walking on the floor above you sounds like. This isn’t one of those Valerie Baylor books, and those weren’t little ghost-y footsteps.”

  “Okay, scratch the poltergeist. But maybe it’s time I get a security camera installed.”

  The idea had just come to her, and she couldn’t help but think it was the only solution to the problem. Jake obviously agreed, for she gave a vigorous nod.

  “Good idea, kid. I know a guy named Ted who’s in the security business. I’ll call him for you tomorrow and see what kind of deal he can cut you on some cameras. I think that’s the only way we’re ever going to put this one to bed. Speaking of which, I guess we both might as well head back to ours.”

  “Sure. Thanks for checking things out. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  She let Jake out the front and locked the door after her before setting the alarm and leaving through the side door, as usual. Her mood was thoughtful as she made her way back upstairs. Hamlet was waiting for her inside the front door, having apparently decided that the middle of the night was as good a time as any for a little snack.

  She topped his kibble with some fresh but passed on anything for herself. Instead, she settled at her desk and turned on her computer. She hesitated a moment once she’d brought up the search engine; then, feeling only a bit foolish, she typed in the word “poltergeist.”

  Instantly, the results popped up—well over five million results. Staggered, she sat back in her chair. Talk about information overload! Cautiously at first, and then more rapidly, she began to click on the links, skimming the pages.

  “Well, Hamlet,” she told him after half an hour of reading, “all the so-called experts say that if I have poltergeist activity, it should stop as quickly as it started, and shouldn’t last more than a few months. On the other hand, if it’s a ghost hanging out in the building, I’m pretty well stuck with it unless I get one of those paranormal teams in to run it off. They also say that there can be plenty of non-supernatural explanations, like high electromagnetic frequencies, mold, and animal infestations. So what do you think? Do we bring in a team, or tough it out on our own with a security camera?”

  Hamlet apparently had no opinion on the subject, for he looked up from where he’d settled on the couch, gave her a cold green stare, and then went back to napping.

  Darla snorted and started to shut down the computer again, when another unsettling thought occurred to her. Jake had seemed more than a little upset at the idea that she could have imagined the sounds, or that Darla might have thought she had. Maybe the ex-cop had encountered some similar situation during her career that made her sensitive to the likes of ghosts and mysterious footsteps in the night.

  Fingers on the keyboard, she hesitated. Then, feeling equal parts determined and unaccountably guilty, she typed her friend’s name into the search engine.

  By inputting all variations she could think of, Darla found herself with several pages of entries about Jake. Some were but a sentence or two mention. Jake had been on the building committee at Mary Queen of Peace Catholic Church five years earlier and had taken part in a fund-raiser for the Big Sisters. Others were police accounts where she’d been the arresting officer. Nothing, however, about ghosts.

  Finally, Darla found a news story recounting the circumstances of the shooting that had led to Jake’s retirement from the force. She clicked on the link and read with interest. The report was straightforward and echoed the story she had pieced together herself via offhand mentions from Jake.

  Authorities are charging the man who shot at a New York City police officer this morning with attempted capital murder. Martin Edward Rose, 52, remains at City Medical Center in good condition after he and the officer exchanged gunfire Tuesday morning in the 300 block of West Olive Street.

  Police officials say Rose allegedly fired first, wounding Detective Jacqueline Martelli, a 20-year police veteran. Despite a bullet to the upper thigh, she was able to fire back, hitting him in the torso. Other patrol officers arriving on the scene pulled Martelli to safety and subdued her shooter. Both were taken to the hospital.

  Martelli was attempting to arrest Rose on a previous charge of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Her condition was upgraded this morning from critical to serious, and she is expected to recover.

  A follow-on story from the day after reported that the suspect had been released from the hospital and subsequently denied bail on all charges, while mentioning that Jake’s condition was now “good” and that she would be released in a few days. No alarm bells in any of that, Darla thought in relief. She had been afraid she might find something untoward, like, Crazed police officer claims to have shot undead suspect.

  “See, Hamlet,” she exclaimed, glancing over her shoulder at the cat. “You were worried for no good reason.”

  But barely had the words left her lips when she noticed at the bottom of the screen a link to a story dated a few weeks after the shooting. Jake’s name was highlighted as a keyword, and the stark headline said it all.

  POLICE OFFICER ON DISABILITY LEAVE CHARGED WITH ATTEMPTED MURDER

  SEVENTEEN

  “HOW ABOUT THIS ONE, DEAR?”

  Mary Ann held up a length of gold fabric with a faint stripe pattern that gave it a vintage tone-on-tone look. When Darla admired it and ventured aloud that it resembled organza, the old woman smiled and shook her head.

  “Very similar, yes, but this is called grenadine,” she explained. “It was considered a dress fabric as far back as the eighteenth century, but it fell out of favor right about World War I. Of course, everything old is eventually new again, and it was reborn sometime in the 1920s as a curtain fabric. If you look at old dry goods catalogues from the 1930s through the 1950s, you’ll see listings for just that—curtain grenadine. I think this example would look lovely in your foyer.”

  “I’ll take it,” Darla agreed, stifli
ng a yawn as she handed over her credit card.

  Since Wednesdays were James’s day off, she had left the bookstore in Lizzie’s care this morning while she did a little shopping at Bygone Days Antiques. After last night, her primary motivation had been to find something to cover the glass door leading up to her apartment. But it had also been a handy excuse for her to take another look at The Hat.

  For it had occurred to her that a vintage picture hat would be the ideal thing to wear to a celebrity funeral. She already had a decent black dress, so it didn’t make sense to buy a new one just to impress people she’d never again see after tomorrow. Splurging on some one-of-a-kind headgear, however, seemed a perfectly justifiable expense.

  “Do you have a curtain rod to hang the fabric?” Mary Ann asked, breaking in on her thoughts. “If not, we have some reproduction hardware that would be quite appropriate for the era. And, I’m sure Brother wouldn’t mind popping over to install it for you, free of charge.”

  Darla smiled. The old woman definitely had mastered the art of the up-sell. Maybe she should ask her if she wanted a few paid hours at the bookstore . . . that was, assuming things ever got back to normal.

  Her smile faded. So far that morning, the only person besides her and Lizzie to set foot inside the store had been a reporter from a tabloid magazine looking for a new angle on Valerie Baylor’s tragic death. Feeling certain that if she didn’t provide a few pithy quotes, the reporter would make up his own, she’d agreed to a brief interview.

  Much to Darla’s dismay, Lizzie had been eager to get in on the act and spin her own dramatic take on events. As she’d launched into her version for the reporter’s benefit, however, Hamlet had leaped on the counter and knocked over a display of bookmarks. In the confusion to recover the scattered inventory, Darla had managed to escort the reporter out the door before Lizzie realized in disappointment that he’d gone.

  And, after waiting a few minutes to make sure the reporter wouldn’t return, Darla had retrieved a bit of chicken breast from the salad she’d brought for lunch, and given it to Hamlet as a reward.

  Now, she nodded her approval of a curtain rod.

  “Why don’t you pick out something for me and add it to the bill? And you can tell Mr. Plinski to stop by anytime it’s convenient for him to do the install.”

  “Wonderful! I have one in mind that is eye-catching without being terribly ostentatious, and it’s reasonably priced, to boot,” she replied, carefully refolding the vintage curtain. “ And I’ll make sure Brother takes care of this today. Now, is there anything else for you, my dear?”

  “Well . . .”

  Darla walked over to the mannequin that still sported the black picture hat with its drape of black veiling. Examining it more closely, she saw that the satin ribbon around its crown was a soft shade of dove gray, and that a matching gray satin rose was pinned to it.

  “I know I really shouldn’t,” she began, only to have Mary Ann cut her short.

  “Of course you should, dear,” she exclaimed, lifting the hat from the painted head and placing it at a rakish angle atop Darla’s red waves.

  “It’s good to treat oneself on occasion,” she went on as she adjusted the veil down over her chin. “After all, you never know if a particular day will be your last. Oh dear.”

  Mary Ann stepped back, looking abashed at her unfortunate observation, and Darla smiled. “Actually, I was thinking of wearing it to Valerie Baylor’s funeral tomorrow. It seems appropriate.”

  The woman nodded and held up a silver-framed hand mirror so Darla could admire her reflection. “It looks lovely on you, and I think quite somber enough for the occasion without looking too funereal. And suppose I give you a little discount, just so you don’t feel guilty about indulging yourself?”

  They concluded the transaction, and Darla walked out feeling quite stylish in her new purchase. When she entered the bookstore, however, Lizzie surveyed her with something less than approval. Jake had stopped by in Darla’s absence, and she also stared in dismay at Darla’s approach.

  Darla didn’t blame them. After all, she was dressed for work in brown slacks and a bulky café au lait sweater that blunted the frothy feminine effect of the hat, not to mention that it worked off a whole other color palette.

  “Uh, nice chapeau, kid, but lose the outfit,” was Jake’s blunt assessment.

  Lizzie shook her head and looked pained. “Oh, Darla, please tell us you haven’t been wandering around town dressed like that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Darla replied as she carefully folded back the black veil and removed the hat. “I bought this over at Mary Ann’s while I was shopping for a curtain. I thought I’d wear it to Valerie Baylor’s service tomorrow.”

  “Oh, then that’s okay,” was Lizzie’s response. “And then next year, you can wear it to the Kentucky Derby.” She pantomimed sipping from a glass while fanning herself with her free hand. Then, lapsing in what Darla assumed was an imitation of her Texas accent, the woman exclaimed, “Whah, yes, Ah would like another mint julep. They’re so refreshin’.”

  Jake chuckled appreciatively, while Darla rolled her eyes. It had been an ongoing mission ever since she moved to New York to educate the natives that not all southerners talked alike, and that not all native-born Texans shared a common accent. Unfortunately, said mission was usually greeted by blank looks, particularly from those who were certain they could imitate Darla’s twang. And since she’d tried and failed with Lizzie several times already on this subject, she decided to let it slide.

  Instead, reaching beneath the counter for tissue paper and an oversized plastic bag in which to temporarily store her hat, she said, “Don’t forget, Lizzie, I’ll be gone most of the day tomorrow. Can you and James get along without me?”

  She meant, as in play nicely together, but Lizzie chose to take the other meaning.

  “If tomorrow’s anything like today, there’s probably no point for me to come in at all,” she said with a sigh. “So far, the only one to come in besides Jake was that reporter.”

  Jake, of course, wanted to hear that story, which Lizzie told with great relish, even as she bemoaned the fact that the reporter had left before she could share her version of the night’s events.

  “You know, I think Hamlet knocked over those bookmarks on purpose, just to spoil my interview,” she said with a pout in the feline’s direction. Hamlet, who was sprawled now at his favorite sunny spot near the door, merely flicked a whisker but didn’t deign to otherwise acknowledge the accusation.

  Darla had finished packing up her hat by now. She sidestepped the subject of the interview lest it occurred to Lizzie that it had been she who’d shooed out the reporter, rather than he who had escaped while Lizzie was distracted. Instead, she agreed. “If you don’t mind taking the day without pay, go ahead and stay home. If we’re lucky, the worst of it will have blown over by next week, and things will be back to normal again.”

  “Do you want I should tag along to the memorial service with you tomorrow?” Jake chimed in.

  “No! That is, they won’t let you in. Hillary said the list will be checked, and your name has to be on it.”

  Her reply was more abrupt than she’d intended, and Jake gave her a questioning look. Darla shifted a little under the scrutiny, aware that her view of Jake had taken a slightly different tilt since she’d gone poking about the Internet last night.

  Unfortunately, the story about the second shooting that Jake had been involved in had been frustratingly vague despite its incriminating tone. Short as it had been, Darla had memorized it in a couple of readings.

  An NYPD detective recently wounded in a high-profile shooting incident has been involved in yet another shooting controversy. Detective Jacqueline Martelli, a 20-year veteran, was charged yesterday with shooting and seriously injuring an alleged mugger in a local parking garage. The officer remains on paid leave pending an internal investigation. No charges have been filed as yet against the shooting victim.

  Once she�
�d gotten over the original shock of finding that bit of intelligence, Darla had spent another good hour trolling the Internet for additional information. Despite her best efforts, however, she could find no more references to the incident. Finally, bleary-eyed, she’d crawled back to bed wondering how she would approach her friend with this new knowledge. Two shootings by one police detective in just a few weeks seemed extreme, even in Brooklyn.

  “I can always wait down the street somewhere until it’s over with,” she heard Jake reply, the words dragging Darla back into the moment. “Besides, I’d kind of like to get a look at the guest list, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean, investigate?” Darla shot her a look, momentarily forgetting her other concerns. “Do you think whoever hired Janie might be at the funeral?”

  “You never know, kid. Anyhow, I told Reese I’d see if I couldn’t tag along.”

  “I suppose I could tell anyone who asked that you’re my driver,” Darla agreed, hurrying to add, at the covetous look in the woman’s eyes, “not that you get to drive Maybelle . . . at least, not until we’re almost there.”

  And the long car ride might make for an ideal opportunity for her to question Jake about the whole shooting thing. Of course, that tactic could also backfire on her. If there was more to the story than what the news articles had indicated, Darla might find herself stuck in a car for a very long time with a very p.o.’d ex-cop.

  “Wait,” Lizzie broke in, her tone excited, “maybe I can go, too, since you gave me the day off—”

  “No!” Darla and Jake chorused, rounding on the woman at the same time. Darla tempered their response with the reminder, “This isn’t a social event, it’s business. I’m representing Pettistone’s Fine Books. And like I told Jake, there’s a list.”