by Ali Brandon
Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe Penelope had just been in a hurry, Darla decided. Or maybe she’d asked one of her students to put the notice up for her.
She stepped into the store only to practically stumble over Hamlet, who came racing past her like he had a bottle rocket tied to his tail. Skittering after him with long pink tongue lolling and star-spangled leash trailing was Roma. Rushing right behind the dog was Robert.
“Uh, sorry, Ms. P.,” he exclaimed over his shoulder as he continued the chase. “Since it’s pretty dead here, we were working on ‘sit’ when Hamlet came over and hissed at her.”
“And the race was on,” James dryly finished for him from his spot at the collectible books locked case. He finished polishing the glass shelf front and then carried cleaner and rag to the counter.
“Perhaps we should rethink our ‘pet-friendly’ policy,” he added as he tucked those items beneath the register.
Robert, meanwhile, had corralled Roma and returned her to the front. “Hamlet started it,” he said a bit defensively, giving the small dog a consoling pat. “But, don’t worry. I’ll take her back to my apartment as soon as my shift is up.”
“Go on ahead now. It’s close enough,” Darla said with a glance at her watch, smiling a little at the fact that, for once, Robert had taken Roma’s side over Hamlet’s.
As the teen left with his pup, Darla turned her attention to James and smiled as she took a good look at his vest du jour.
“Interesting sartorial touch,” she said, indicating the mod paisley print he was wearing that shrieked 1960s and was a definite change from the traditional wool or tailored linen he favored. In fact, the vest looked like one of the funky thrift store finds that Robert often wore as a bit of friendly ribbing at the expense of the older man.
James gave the vest a straightening tug. “As a matter of fact, this was a gift from Martha,” he said with lofty dignity. “She found it in a vintage clothing shop. According to the vest’s provenance, it came from the Jimi Hendrix estate.”
“Impressive,” Darla agreed. But the mod vest reminded her of the story he’d told earlier. Changing the subject, she asked, “You know how people always start out stories by saying, ‘A friend of mine did such-and-such,’ when they really mean that they did it themselves, but they don’t want to admit it?”
“A common dissociative conversational tactic, yes.”
“Well, about that guy you said you knew back in the day who sold cat food lids. Was he by any chance you?”
“Certainly not.” James shot Darla an offended look, which Hamlet promptly echoed with an outraged meow. “And I assure you that, should I ever choose to engage in any such flimflam, my deception would not so easily be discovered.”
“You’re right, my apologies,” Darla said with a chagrined smile. Then she took a deep breath and said, “You know, I have a friend myself with a small dilemma that she told me about.”
“And what is your friend’s issue?”
“Well, she kind of had a thing going with this guy she liked, except that nothing really came of the relationship. She was okay with that, because she figured if it was meant to be, it would happen, and so she let things ride.”
“And the problem . . . ?”
Darla hesitated, wondering what had compelled her to begin making such a confession to her store manager, of all people. Finally, she finished in a rush, “The problem is that she found out that he’s unexpectedly gotten engaged. Now she’s thinking maybe she’ll regret missing the boat, and she’s not sure what to do about it.”
“I see.”
James considered the matter for a few moments, while Darla waited uncomfortably for him to share his opinion. When it came to personal relationships, James wasn’t exactly the “Dear Abby” of booksellers. But when it came to cutting through the crap, Professor James T. James was definitely the champ.
Finally, he said, “As I see it, your friend has two options. She can choose to wish the man sincere felicitations and retain him as a friend, or she can choose to confess her true feelings to him and see where that takes them.”
“Well, she’s already tried option number one, and so far it’s not working for her,” Darla admitted. “But if she tries option number two, she might end up making a fool of herself if it turns out he doesn’t have the same feelings and runs screaming into the night. And then, when all the dust settles, she’s an idiot who’s also lost a good friend.”
“A difficult decision, indeed, and one where there is no right or wrong answer. But at the conclusion of the day, only you—pardon me, your friend—can make that choice. Everyone else’s opinion is moot.”
“Yeah, I—I mean, she—was afraid of that. I’ll tell her to take that under consideration.”
With the subject settled—at least, for the moment—James went upstairs to work on his special orders and troll his usual sources for any interesting deals. Darla, meanwhile, did a little inventory review and put the finishing touches on next week’s orders. But when a couple of hours had passed and no other customers had dropped in, she summoned James from his rare book lair.
“No point in keeping the doors open until closing if we’re not even going to cover the electric bill,” she told him. “Why don’t we call it a day a few hours early?”
“I have no objection to that.”
“Perfect,” she decreed. Then she frowned. “You know, as soon as I lock up, I might take Hamlet and wander down to Doug’s shop. I tried to get him on the phone several times already today, and Robert said this morning that his shop was locked up, but maybe he’s there now. I really want to meet with all the block party committee while things are fresh in our minds.”
“I have no other plans, myself,” James said. “Would you like me to accompany you there?”
“Sure, I’d rather like the company. Let me shut everything down and get Hamlet ready.”
A quarter of an hour later, humans and feline were walking in the direction of Doug’s doughnut shop. Perhaps it was the circumstances of the past day, along with the fact that Penelope was apparently MIA, too, but Darla couldn’t help but wonder at her friend’s seeming disappearance. She said as much to James, who gave her a reassuring nod.
“I suspect his cellular phone battery died and he did not realize it; that, or he turned the ringer down previously and forgot to turn it up again. I am certain there is nothing sinister surrounding his absence—or Ms. Winston’s, for that matter.”
Hamlet, padding briskly alongside them, meowed his agreement.
A block later, they crossed to the opposite sidewalk and halted outside Doug’s DOUGhnuts. The neon sign in the window was on, falsely claiming that fresh doughnuts were ready for the eating, but the window display case that usually was filled with tempting offerings was empty. On the street-level door was taped a sign that looked familiar: black marker on the blank side of a shoe box lid.
“Closed for the holiday weekend,” she read, and then glanced over at James. “Remember that I told you Penelope’s studio was closed? Funny, this sign is identical to the one I saw on her door.”
“Not so strange, if the same person made both notices,” James pointed out.
Darla shook her head. “Maybe, but when Robert told me about checking out Doug’s store this morning, he specifically said there wasn’t a sign anywhere. And now there is.”
“Really, Darla, you are making a mystery out of nothing. For all we know, Doug stopped by after Robert was here and posted his sign. And perhaps Penelope had asked him to place one on her door at the same time. Or maybe Doug asked Penelope to place a sign at his shop when she posted one on hers.”
Darla considered that a moment. What James said made sense; still, something nagged at her. She peered into the shop window again, trying with little success to fight an unsettled feeling. Then a movement beside her caught her attention.
�
��Hamlet, what’s the matter?”
Darla glanced down to where the cat had been sitting quietly at her feet. Now, he stretched on his hind legs to his full length so that he, too, could peer through the glass. With one oversized paw, he began tapping on the glass.
“James, try the door,” she urged.
The man gave the knob a quick jiggle. “Locked,” he confirmed. “Does Doug live above the shop?”
“No, he lives somewhere nearby, but I’m not sure exactly where.”
“Me—OOW!”
Hamlet had increased his fervor from simply batting on the window to assaulting the glass. Darla shot James a worried look.
“Something’s wrong, or Hamlet wouldn’t be acting like this. We should call 9-1-1 for a welfare check.”
“Darla, I find Hamlet’s behavior concerning, as well,” he said with a frown, peering into the window. “But you can hardly expect the police to break down Doug’s door simply because a cat is meowing and pawing at the window of a food establishment. They would say—and rightly so—that there is probably some rodent within that has caught his attention.”
“You mean, like the catnip?” Then her resolve stiffened again. “It wasn’t just that he wanted the catnip. He was letting us know something was up with that coffee.”
“Perhaps so, but others may take more convincing,” he said, then with a sigh added, “Very well, I shall try the lock again. Perhaps there’s a back way in, and we—”
“Hey, people,” came a familiar voice from behind them, “if you need a doughnut that bad, there’s a chain store down on West 63rd where you can get yourself one of those mass-produced lumps of lard.”
“Doug!” Darla whipped around and nearly sobbed in relief at the sight of the grinning, burly baker.
She almost didn’t recognize him, for he wasn’t wearing his usual baker’s whites. Rather, he was dressed in blue jeans that had been cut off below the knees and an untucked pale blue fishing shirt with the sleeves rolled to show his tanned forearms.
“We were worried because your store was locked up and no one could get you on your cell,” she told him, feeling foolish now for panicking, and leaving off any mention of Hamlet’s behavior.
He chuckled, the gold chains around his neck jingling. “Yeah, I couldn’t find my phone, and I finally figured out I musta left it here, so I came back out to look for it.”
He held up a set of keys and gave James, who still had a hand on the doorknob, a friendly nod. “Hey, pal, how about we go inside the traditional way?”
“Be my guest,” James replied, stepping aside with a small sweep of his arm to usher Doug over.
The baker frowned, however, as he caught sight of the handwritten sign taped to his door.
“Where in the heck did this come from?” he muttered, his reaction drawing matching concern from Darla as she realized her previous suspicions were correct. “I just shut the place for the day, not the whole weekend.”
Ripping down the sign, he tucked the cardboard under one beefy arm and stuck his key in the lock. He opened the door, and the familiar beeping of an alarm system greeted them. Doug stepped inside and punched a few numbers on the lighted panel next to the doorjamb, ending the beeps.
“Okay, we’re good to go. C’mon in,” he said, and then wrinkled his nose as he looked around. “Musta forgot to take the trash out last night.”
Darla and James, accompanied by Hamlet, stepped inside the bakery. It was warm within, not much cooler than the outside temperature. Still, that made sense if Doug had planned to shut down the place for a day. But he was right, she thought, wrinkling her nose. The place held the faintest unpleasant aroma, though she couldn’t identify what it might be.
While Doug headed back to the kitchen, Darla glanced around the store.
It was obvious that Doug had headed out in a hurry last night. Someone—presumably he—had tossed a couple of large red and blue striped cloth tarps over what Darla knew was a combination order counter and glass-fronted display case beneath. Darla recognized the coverings as the ones from Doug’s booth at the block party. A couple of Penelope’s giant red, white, and blue pinwheels—the ones she’d “gone Brooklyn” on to get in time—were propped against the counter’s front, as well.
Hamlet made as if to paw at these, but Darla gently pulled him back by his leash and gave him a headshake, no.
Otherwise, the place looked its usual self: a few mismatched wooden tables and chairs meant for dining in, a pair of mixing bowl hanging lamps overhead, and oversized photos of elaborately iced doughnuts framed in salvaged barn lumber hung along one wall. Food porn, Darla always called it. Now, she stared at the photos a bit longingly. It was a while yet until supper, and she could use a snack.
Doug, meanwhile, came striding back from the rear. “Hey, James, you mind dialing my number? That phone’s gotta be around here somewhere.”
James obligingly pulled out his own cell and punched in the numbers Doug gave him. Almost immediately, the sound of an old-style telephone ringing filled the room.
“I believe the tone is coming from beneath those drop cloths,” James said with a wave toward the covered counter.
Doug nodded his head. “I musta set the phone down while I was hauling in the decorations and didn’t even realize it,” he said, heading behind the counter and whipping off the tarps so that they pooled on the floor at his feet, revealing the glass display front.
“Look,” he confirmed in triumph, grabbing up the still-ringing cell from the laminated countertop. “I feel like an idiot. It was here all along, and—what? What’s wrong, Darla?”
Vaguely, Darla was aware that she’d taken a staggering step back and that Hamlet had pulled his leash free of her suddenly limp grasp and had trotted to the display counter. She heard Doug still speaking . . . registered James’s shocked intake of breath as Doug’s cell phone quit ringing.
Her attention, however, was fixed on what—or, rather, who—lay upon the cool white tile floor, wedged up against the glass display case.
Penelope Winston looked as if she were sleeping, gently curled on her right side, eyes closed and hands neatly folded beneath her cheek. She was wearing a flowing, lacy white sundress, and Darla was reminded of Swan Lake’s tragic Odette felled by an errant arrow.
But Darla knew that, just as with the swan princess, Penelope would never awaken to dance again.
THIRTEEN
“I mean, no offense to the dead people, but this is really cutting into my time with my fiancé,” Connie complained as she sat on the stoop near Doug’s shop while fanning herself with a bridal magazine. “I can’t believe this is happening twice in one weekend.”
Darla shot the woman a sour look. Connie’s outfit for today was a slight improvement over yesterday’s wardrobe choice: a floral camp-style shirt, the top several buttons left undone, and a pair of white short shorts (all the better to show off her tanned legs). The oversized red canvas tote Connie had slung over her shoulder had more square inches of fabric to it than any article of clothing she wore on her body. As for her hair, it was still sky high, though today she’d accessorized with a perky headband that matched her shirt.
Catching Darla’s disapproving expression, Connie shrugged. “Sorry, I was just sayin’,” she huffed, opening her periodical and leafing through the pages.
Darla, meanwhile, settled in for the wait, wishing she had a magazine to fan herself with, too. She and James were waiting for their turns to be questioned by Reese. Two dead in two days . . . two ballerinas cut down in midpirouette. While she’d seen no immediate sign of trauma on Penelope’s body to indicate anything other than a natural death, it was too strange—too coincidental—for the two women to have died within a day of each other.
Let Reese figure it all out, she told herself. She and Hamlet had done their part by discovering the body.
The body.
Shocking as Livvy’s death had been, somehow the sight of Penelope’s lifeless form lying there beside Doug’s display case was even more unnerving. As for Doug, himself . . .
She shook her head at the grim memory. At the look on Darla’s face, Doug had rushed around the counter to discover just what had stunned both her and James into silence. One look at the woman’s lifeless body, and he’d dropped to his knees with a gasp. A moment later, however, he’d rallied and reached out to her, only to be held back by James.
“You cannot do anything for her,” the older man had assured him as Doug attempted to break free again. “She is already beyond help. We must leave everything untouched and call the police right now.”
Apparently, James’s advice had sunk in, for he subsided, though Darla had been surprised to see tears trickling down Doug’s plump cheeks, which were red now with emotion. But, of course, it would have been a shock to find a body in one’s place of business, Darla had told herself, let alone that of a friend. She’d had a few tears running down her own face.
While James and Doug had waited outside the bakery for the authorities to arrive, Darla had hurried back to the bookstore with Hamlet. No need to keep him there in the midst of what would very soon be a police investigation, she’d told James. Having left the clever feline to his kibble, she’d headed back to the scene of the crime.
She had called Jake as she race-walked her way back to the bakery, needing a bit of moral support. She’d not worried about phoning Reese, certain that he’d be arriving soon enough in the wake of the 9-1-1 call.
The PI had been stunned, as well. Like Darla, Jake had only known Penelope casually, but the two women had enjoyed each other’s company.
But that hadn’t been Jake’s only concern.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole thing, kid,” she’d said, echoing Darla’s earlier unsettling thoughts. “First Livvy, and now Penelope? Not that there’s any indication it’s not just a weird coincidence, two people dropping dead like that. After all, Penelope was a smoker, and she might have had some health problems no one knew about. But the fact that she was underneath the drop cloth, not on top of it, seems to point to someone trying to conceal a body. And what was she doing in Doug’s store, anyhow?”
