Double Booked for Death

by Ali Brandon

  “Oh, thank God you’re there, Darla!” Lizzie wailed through the receiver.

  “Lizzie?” Darla said. “Why are you calling? I don’t think after all that’s happened that you and I really should be talking again.”

  Her rejection launched a dramatic sob from the other woman, while Darla felt the fluffy omelet she’d eaten earlier settle into an uncomfortable lead platter in her stomach. This was not what she needed tonight. She clung grimly to the receiver and waited for Lizzie’s storm of tears to dwindle to a gentle sprinkle. Finally, when she was certain the woman could hear her, she took charge of the conversation.

  “I’m going to hang up now, Lizzie, unless you have a really good reason for calling.”

  “But I do. I have information about something that happened at the signing.”

  “Then call Reese. I’m sure he gave you his card, didn’t he?”

  “He won’t believe me,” Lizzie complained between sniffles, “but you’re a reasonable person, so I’m calling you. Besides, you know me, and he doesn’t.”

  Knowing someone didn’t necessarily mean knowing all about them, however, as Darla had so recently found out. She made a noncommittal noise, and Lizzie continued.

  “Well, you remember how busy it was during the signing, with all those kids running about, and Valerie with her whole entourage. She was being a big show-off, if you ask me, with all those people hanging around her.”

  “Cut to the chase, Lizzie,” Darla warned, feeling the lead platter morphing into a concrete block now.

  “Oh, all right.” Lizzie’s sniffling took on a distinctly offended note, but she went on, “Maybe I told you this already, but right before Valerie disappeared that last time, I saw her makeup person sneak away upstairs. She came down a minute later wearing a black cape, with the hood pulled up over her head and everything.”

  “Go on,” Darla urged, not bothering to correct the other woman’s choice of pronouns when referring to Mavis. Not that she expected anything to come of this; after all, she and Jake had already determined much the same thing from Callie’s photos the other day.

  Deciding that she’d caught Darla’s attention, the woman lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. “I probably wouldn’t have noticed her doing that, except that I made up my mind to keep an eye on her. There was something kind of off about her, if you want my opinion.”

  So even Lizzie had realized Mavis wasn’t quite what she—or he—seemed to be. Darla frowned. “Go on.”

  “Anyhow, all night long when she thought no one was watching, Mavis had been giving Val the strangest looks. Not exactly mean, but—”

  “But like she wanted to kill her?” Darla blurted, unable to help herself.

  She heard Lizzie click her tongue in mild reproof.

  “Really, Darla, don’t you think that’s a bit overdramatic of you? It wasn’t anything like that at all. It was more a look like she was daring Val to do something.”

  “That’s all?” This revelation was no revelation at all. Why had Lizzie bothered with her dramatic buildup when the payoff was about as compelling as a glass of tap water?

  Lizzie, however, was not finished.

  “See, that’s why I couldn’t tell Detective Reese, because I knew he’d say that exact thing,” she declared. “You had to see that look on her face to understand what I mean. But Val had the exact same expression the whole time she was signing, except Val wasn’t looking at Mavis. She kept staring over at the nice agent lady—what was her name?—Hillary Gables.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “SOUNDS PRETTY DARN WEAK TO ME, KID,” JAKE SAID THE next morning after Darla had told her about last night’s weepy call from Lizzie.

  They were eating breakfast back in the little courtyard—the store wouldn’t officially open for another two hours—and Darla had been peppering their bagels and coffee with a recap of Lizzie’s contention that Mavis had some involvement in matters. She hadn’t yet mentioned her own renewed suspicions regarding the author’s brother.

  “Besides,” Jake added, “you know how Reese feels about funny looks.”

  “Yeah, well the last one panned out, didn’t it?” Darla countered, recalling how Hamlet’s funny look at one of Valerie’s fans had led to their discovering the identity of the Lone Protester. Even as she wondered why she was taking Lizzie’s side, she went on, “I like the guy, but I have to agree that Morris has been on my suspect list ever since the memorial service.”

  “Well, so far as I know, he’s not on Reese’s list, so the smart thing would be to drop it before you get slapped with a harassment suit. The Vicksons have pretty deep pockets, even without Valerie’s book-writing money.”

  At Jake’s words, a thought so outrageous occurred to Darla that she almost dropped her coffee cup.

  “Jake,” she slowly began, “before we drop it, here’s another theory. You know how Lizzie claimed that Valerie Baylor stole her manuscript back in college and got it published before Lizzie could?”

  “That’s what Lizzie claims,” Jake replied with a shrug. “All we have is her word against Valerie’s, except that Valerie isn’t here to defend herself. Besides, didn’t you once tell me that you can’t copyright an idea?”

  “That’s right, but Lizzie is talking plagiarism, which is a whole different thing.”

  “Fine, but what does that have to do with Mavis, er, Morris?”

  “Remember when I introduced Callie to Morris, how he began asking what she thought about the previous Haunted High book?”

  “Yeah, so what? After all, his sister wrote it.”

  “But it wasn’t just nice little chitchat. His questions were specific, the kind of questions that the book’s author might ask.”

  Jake was staring at her now, a quizzical look on her face. Darla hesitated, certain she finally was on the right track but not sure how crazy her theory would sound out loud.

  She took a deep breath and forged on. “Okay, here’s the motive. What if Valerie really did steal Lizzie’s story . . . and then, later on down the road, what if she did the same thing to her brother?”

  “Are you trying to say that Morris wrote the Haunted High books but Valerie took the credit?” Jake’s curious look briefly morphed into one of incredulity before she frowned and nodded. “You know, kid, you could be on to something. If Valerie had been taking credit for his work the entire time, maybe he finally got tired of getting the short end.”

  “Wait.” Darla held up a hand, for already she’d seen a few holes in her brilliant theory. “Why would he allow her to keep stealing his work?” she mused. “One book, I could see, but three?”

  “Maybe he’d already written all three before she stole the first one? You hear about that all the time, unpublished authors with three or four manuscripts stuck in a drawer somewhere. Maybe she ran off with his entire body of work.”

  Before Darla could answer, they both heard through the open shop door the now-familiar thud of a large volume hitting the floor.

  Hamlet! While they’d been talking, he had apparently wandered off to do a bit of mischief. Darla gave an exasperated sigh and headed into the shop, and in the direction of what seemed to be the source of the sound—the reference books.

  “You need to figure out some way to break him of that habit,” Jake called after her.

  Darla spied the wayward book, which Hamlet had dragged from the shelf devoted to books on writing and editing. She bent and picked up the book in question; then, frowning a little, she returned with it to the courtyard.

  “Maybe not,” she replied and turned the book so that Jake could see its cover. “I think Hamlet is saying he has his own theory.”

  Jake raised a dark brow as she read the title aloud, “How to Work as a Ghostwriter.”

  The ex-cop folded her arms and pursed her lips in thought while Darla flipped through the book’s table of contents. “When do you need a ghostwriter?” “How to collaborate successfully.” “Who gets the royalties?” Reading the chapter headings, Dar
la decided that perhaps her new theory wasn’t a veritable sieve after all. Maybe it simply needed a bit of tweaking.

  “Do you think it’s possible—”

  “I wonder if maybe—”

  They’d started speaking at once and now broke off to stare at each other. When Jake nodded for her to go ahead, Darla tried again.

  “Suppose we go with the idea that Morris has something to do with the Haunted High books. But maybe Valerie didn’t steal the manuscripts—what if they had worked out a deal? Maybe Morris helped write the books, she submitted them to the publisher under her name—”

  “And they each took a cut of the cash,” Jake finished, her expression of satisfaction matching Darla’s. “That’s a nice little bit of synchronicity, a ghostwriter writing ghost stories. But I think that would be pretty hard, doing all that work and not getting any of the credit.”

  “It happens in publishing all the time,” Darla told her. “But what about Valerie’s death? That’s the real issue.”

  Jake shrugged. “Maybe it really was an accident. If it was a joint project, then he’d have no reason to want her out of the picture.” She paused and frowned. “You know, I think we need to take another look at the video we watched the other night.”

  “I agree. Give me a second.”

  So saying, Darla went back into the shop, with Jake trailing behind, and walked over to the computer. She pulled up a browser window and after a bit of searching, she located the clip in question. While Jake watched intently beside her, she fast-forwarded it to the spot where the two black-caped figures made their appearances. They ran that portion of the video several times, pausing and winding back during each play as they tried to pinpoint any feature that would clearly identify the pair and clarify their interaction. By about the fifth or six playing, however, Jake gave a disgusted snort.

  “Nothing you could take to a judge. But if Mavis really is the second person in the video, I say we pay him a visit and see if we can’t learn a little more.”

  “Do you really think he’d talk to us, after what happened the other day?”

  “Trust me, if he saw his sister killed right in front of him, he’s going to want to talk to someone eventually. We’ve got your copy of the business card that Morris gave you, so I’m thinking we try his office. If we go to his house, he’ll probably set the dogs on us.” She took a quick look at her watch. “It’s still early. You wanna go now?”

  “Good plan, except today is Sunday. What are the chances he’ll even be there?”

  “Any entrepreneur worth his salt works weekends,” Jake replied. “You should know that. And if he’s not there . . . well, maybe it will give us a chance to poke around and find out a little more about how Morris and Mavis fit into this whole sorry mess. You think you can stand opening the store a little late?”

  “The church crowd won’t be out in force until later, anyhow, and I’m the only one working today, so why not?”

  They returned to the courtyard, made quick work of the rest of their breakfast, and then went back inside to do a quick map check online. “Only about twenty blocks to his office,” Jake said in satisfaction. “Easy walk.”

  Darla stifled a groan—she never was going to get used to all this hoofing it about town—but only said, “Let me run upstairs and get a decent pair of walking shoes, and I’ll meet you out front.”

  To Hamlet, who was lounging on the counter, his breakfast long since consumed, she said, “You’re the boss for the next couple of hours. Don’t let anyone into the store unless they have a credit card with no limit.”

  Hamlet gave her a stony green glare—he knew patronizing humor when he heard it—and knocked the stack of free newspapers off the counter by way of response. Darla shook her head. The mess could wait until later. Right now, she was in Nancy Drew mode, with a possible killer to catch!

  “HE’S NOT HERE . . . THAT, OR HE’S NOT ANSWERING.”

  Darla and Jake had twice rung the intercom buzzer alongside the tiny brass nameplate frame bearing a handwritten label with Morris’s last name and suite number. So far, they’d had no response, and Darla was beginning to feel a bit conspicuous standing on the chilly stoop outside the three-story apartment building that matched the address Morris had written on the back of his business card. This neighborhood had a much seedier vibe than hers. While the place presumably housed Morris’s office, Darla had begun to wonder what sort of business he actually conducted there, given the condition of both the building and the surrounding area.

  Unlike her own tidy digs, this building, stuck midway down a line of row houses, gave off a distinct air of neglect. The façade’s dun-colored brick was pockmarked, as if someone with a grudge had unloaded a few rounds of buckshot at the place. Here and there, the brick was more deeply scarred, as if someone else had followed later with a few judicious blows from a hammer. Above, two rows of three filthy, barred windows each gave a bird’s-eye view from the second and third stories . . . that was, if said bird was wearing a blindfold.

  Centered between the two equally barred and grimy windows on the ground floor was what charitably could be called a portico, but was in actuality little more than an alcove large enough to shelter a single person. Even though it was morning, a fly-specked bulb glowed from the open iron fixture hanging overhead. Darla didn’t need that light to make out the wooden door’s peeling brown latex, which revealed a visual account of at least three previous paint jobs, all in similar muddy hues that showed a decided lack of decorating flair. As for the stoop on which they were standing, it looked positively leprous with chunks of concrete missing from the steps. The iron railing gave a definite wobble under hand that spoke of future lawsuits.

  It was hardly the sort of place where she expected a man of Morris’s apparent money and good taste to conduct business. In fact, she suspected that anyone who worked in that building also lived there, for the other tenants were all listed by a surname and not a business moniker.

  Darla gazed nervously around her in time to see a trio of young men sauntering down the sidewalk toward them. In defiance of the morning chill, they were dressed alike in hooded sweatshirts and pants so baggy that they required a hand clutching their crotch to keep their jeans from sliding off completely. All three challenged her and Jake with a look as they drew closer.

  “Yo, what’s doin’, pretty ladies?” one of them demanded, the cold gleam in his eyes turning what might have been a flirtatious question into something far more threatening.

  While Darla tugged her wool jacket more closely around her in a reflexively defensive gesture, Jake turned and gave the three her own icy look from behind her mirrored pair of aviators. Her patented don’t-even-think-of-jacking-with-me expression combined with her tough-girl outfit of a battered black leather jacket over the usual jeans, boots, and sweater apparently got the point across. That, or it was still too early on a Sunday for the youths to care to indulge in any real harassment.

  Watching them keep on walking past, Darla decided that there were some distinct advantages to hanging with an almost six-foot-tall gal pal who also happened to be an ex-cop. Even better than owning a Doberman, she thought with a nervous giggle.

  “What do we do now?” Darla asked. “We can’t get past the front door if there’s no one to ring us in.”

  By way of answer, Jake gave her a pitying look. “Watch and learn, young grasshopper,” she intoned and pressed another buzzer, seemingly at random.

  When nothing happened, she chose another. A woman’s raspy voice made even sharper by the intercom’s distortion asked, “Who’s there?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Yeah? Me who?”

  “Deb.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t know no Debs. Go to hell!”

  Jake gave a philosophical shrug at the figurative door slamming in her face and tried another buzzer. This time, it was a man’s disembodied voice that demanded, “Whaddya want?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Yeah? Me who
?”

  “Deb.”

  Darla waited for the next round of “Go to hell!” but instead she heard the distinctive click of the door unlocking. Jake gave it a quick push open and gestured her inside. Darla, meanwhile, gave her friend a questioning look. “Deb?”

  “Just playing the odds, kid,” Jake answered with a shrug as she joined her in the darkened foyer. “Everyone knows five or six Debs. In a larger building, it’s even easier. Just punch all the buttons at one time and someone’s bound to buzz you in without all the Q and A.”

  Darla nodded, blinking a little as she tried to accustom her eyes to the abrupt change in light. The inside of the building seemed surprisingly homey. Honey-colored wood on the floor and walls emitted a faint hint of beeswax and linseed oil, as if someone had polished there within recent memory. While the treads and risers of the narrow staircase were covered in ancient green linoleum, the trim and railings were painted a contrasting deep cream color for a look straight from a decorating magazine. Over the double row of brass mailboxes mounted on the far wall, someone had hung a series of flea-market prints featuring nineteenth-century New York City street scenes that completed the urban-vintage vibe.

  While Darla was still processing this stark juxtaposition between interior and exterior, the male voice from the intercom demanded from above, “Hey, where the hell’s Deb?”

  She and Jake glanced up to see a bald, florid-faced man in his thirties leaning over the third-floor railing. He was wearing an undersized wife-beater undershirt that displayed his hairy belly and impressive crop of black armpit hair to distinct advantage. Darla gave a small prayer of thanks that the railing mostly blocked the view of his baggy blue plaid boxers.

  Without missing a beat, Jake shoved her sunglasses up on top of her head and opened her eyes wide. “You mean the blonde?” she answered in feigned innocence. “Strange chick . . . she ran off as soon as our friend buzzed us in.”