Plot Boiler

by Ali Brandon

  The soft sound of a motor that was the lift chair descending heralded Mary Ann’s return. Once it reached bottom, she hopped off the seat and made her brisk way over to where Darla stood.

  “Well, I certainly hope Detective Reese gets through to my brother,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve worn myself out trying to explain things to him.”

  “Don’t worry. Reese is pretty good at that.” Then, running a longing hand along the Chippendale chest, Darla added, “This dresser is simply beautiful. Where did you find it?”

  Mary Ann entertained her with the story of that particular piece while Darla tried to convince herself that she really didn’t have room for it in her apartment. Fortunately, Reese returned downstairs just as she was weakening enough to consider asking Mary Ann about payment plans.

  “Don’t worry,” he told the old woman. “Mr. Plinski and I talked for a while, and he understands that there’s no serial killer wandering around. But he’s still concerned about the neighborhood. Sitting up there with his binoculars is his way of helping.”

  “But I do worry about him,” Mary Ann replied, voice quavering. “What if he gets confused, or he gets too warm up there?”

  “He’s got a big glass of ice water and his walkie-talkie, so he can call you if he needs any help.”

  And Darla hurried to add, “Robert and I can come by to check on him every so often, if you’d like.”

  The old woman smiled, visibly relieved.

  “That would be wonderful, my dear. I try not to fuss, but there’s no two ways around it. Brother and I are getting old, and you know what that means. We’re frail . . . forgetful . . . and we certainly have no business being guardians of the neighborhood. That’s a job for young people.”

  Reese gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t sell Mr. Plinski short. Surveillance takes patience, and that’s something he’s got that most young guys don’t. And he knows the neighborhood . . . what should and shouldn’t be going on. I say if he wants to keep watch, let him. We cops can use all the extra eyes we can get these days.”

  “Very well. If he can do it, so can I.”

  With that, Mary Ann reached across the counter for what presumably was the other half of the walkie-talkie set her brother carried. She clipped it to the belt of her shirtdress. “I’m set. Thank you, both of you.”

  “Another day, another good deed,” Reese quipped as, leaving the old woman to her shop, they walked down the concrete steps to the sidewalk. “I wish all my cases were this easy to solve. Now, how about I take you to lunch to make up for bailing on you the other day?”

  Darla considered the offer for a moment. On the one hand, this would be an opportunity for her to quiz him on the whole Penelope situation. Even if he gave her no answers, she might be able to read between the lines of what he did say. On the other, she had a good suspicion that “lunch” was code for I’m going to try again to bring up some awkwardness about our relationship that’ll just embarrass us both. Unsettled as she was feeling over the whole Penelope situation, the last thing she needed was more drama to sort through.

  She smiled and shook her head. “How about I take a rain check on the rain check? Today’s my day off, and now that the block party is behind me, I have lots of stuff to do around my place.”

  “All right, scratch the lunch. But give me five minutes to talk, okay?”

  By now, they’d reached her stoop. The detective halted and stretched one arm to grasp the opposite balustrade, so that he was blocking her way up to her door. Whether or not the gesture was deliberate, Reese’s body language was that of a man who wasn’t prepared to take “no” for an answer.

  Great. Darla gave the offending limb a pointed look and purposefully crossed her own arms.

  “Mr. Plinski is three stories up and watching your every move,” she reminded Reese, only half kidding as she added, “He might call the cops if he sees you’re trying to keep me from my home.”

  It took him a moment to register what she meant.

  “Oh, sorry,” he muttered, swiftly lowering his arm and stepping to one side. “So, you gonna give me that five minutes?”

  “I’ll give you two,” she said with a bright smile. Might as well get this over with. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I wanted to explain about Connie and this whole engagement business. I mean, since you and me . . . that is, because we once . . .”

  “Reese, you don’t owe me any explanations,” she cut him short as he stumbled over his words. “It’s not like we were dating. We went out, what, twice? We didn’t click that way, so that was the end of it. You were certainly free to do your own thing without my approval—up to, and including, getting engaged.”

  Even if you had to go and settle on Miss Jersey Shore, she silently added.

  Reese, meanwhile, gave a relieved nod. “Right. That’s what I thought, but you never know with women.”

  When Darla shot him a look that said, You’re wandering into dangerous territory, bub, he shrugged and added, “You know what I mean. Sometimes, they get these ideas in their heads that’ve got nothing to do with reality. You and me, we’re friends, nothing more. So we’re all good?”

  “All good,” she agreed. “And I think it’s great you’re getting married. It was just a big surprise to everyone.”

  “You want the truth? It was a surprise to me, too.”

  He hesitated, and Darla stared at him. Had the engagement been Connie’s idea? Before she had time to consider that possibility more fully, however, he went on, “But, bottom line, I had to do it.”

  “No, not that kind of had to,” he clarified with a snort when Darla widened her eyes. “Not that my Ma would mind at this point. Look, I’ll be thirty-five years old in a couple of months. You know how long I’ve been listening to Ma ask when she’s gonna get some grandkids? Besides, I’m tired of coming home to an empty apartment every night. I hate cooking my own dinner and doing my own wash. Connie might not be perfect, but she gets me. She’s not one of those liberated broads, not like—”

  He broke off, apparently realizing that “dangerous territory” was about to be his permanent address, but Darla mentally filled in the blanks for him.

  She’s not one of those liberated broads, not like you.

  Telling herself she wasn’t insulted by that sentiment—at least, not too much—she shook her head and smiled a little.

  “Don’t worry. I get it,” she assured him. “Anyhow, congratulations again. Connie’s a great catch. Now, I need to go clean up the coffee bar. I promised Robert I’d tidy up after playing barista.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for understanding. You’re a good broad, Darla Pettistone.”

  She leaned closer to him. “Word to the wise,” she softly said. “Where I come from, the term ‘broad’ is not a compliment.”

  Still, she was smiling as she gave Reese’s hand a swift, impulsive squeeze as she passed him on the steps and headed back inside. She waited, however, until she’d relocked the door behind her before she drew a deep breath and sagged against the foyer wall.

  Liar, liar, she thought with a shake of her head, checking to make sure that her khakis weren’t by chance on fire. Because despite all her protestations to the contrary, she realized that she didn’t think Reese’s getting married was the least bit great.

  “Me-OOW!” came a protesting yowl at her feet that made her jump.

  Satisfied that he had her attention, Hamlet strode over to the door leading to the store. As soon as Darla opened it, he flew past her into the bookstore and headed up the stairway to the second floor.

  “Right, Hamlet,” she muttered. “Let’s keep things in perspective. We all know what’s important around here, and that’s you.”

  Still, Darla smiled as she watched him go. By the time she made it upstairs, Hamlet was already perched on the coffee bar counter with his nose deep in the tiny stain
less steel pitcher that she’d used to steam the milk for the lattes earlier.

  Darla rolled her eyes. “Shoo, Hammy,” she told him. “You’re lucky we’re closed. A customer sees you doing that, and the health department will shut us down so fast it’ll make your whiskers spin.”

  Hamlet raised his fuzzy black snout from the small jug and shot her a disapproving green look. Darla could almost read his mind. What do you mean? Can’t you see that I am assisting with the washing up?

  “Seriously, Hamlet, scoot,” she told him and gave a little clap of her hands as emphasis.

  Foam clinging to his whiskers, the feline stalked off in a huff. He found a spot on the floor beneath one of the tables and began his après-steamed-milk bath. Darla, meanwhile, gathered the cups and containers from earlier and scrubbed them clean. A few minutes later, she had just put the last item on a clean towel to dry, when a rhythmic noise nearby caught her attention.

  Roll-clack; roll-clack.

  “Hamlet, is that you?”

  Shaking her head, Darla abandoned her post behind the bar and went looking for the cat, assuming that this would also bring her to the source of the sound. Sure enough, she found Hamlet facing the far corner and batting something back and forth into the wall. On closer inspection, the object of his interest proved to be something familiar looking.

  “Where did you get this?” she demanded as she reached down to retrieve a red vapor pen. No doubt a customer had dropped it . . . but how long ago?

  “You’re a better janitor than Robert,” she told the cat. “I’ll stick this in our lost-and-found and see if anyone claims it.”

  Hamlet on her heels, Darla went downstairs again. The store’s lost-and-found was nothing more than an open cardboard box tucked under the register. Darla pulled it out and took a quick inventory of its current contents: a Yankees ball cap; a flashlight key chain minus any keys; and a crumpled ten-dollar bill that, if not claimed by week’s end, Darla planned to donate to the animal rescue group where Robert volunteered.

  She added the vapor pen to the lot. It was by far the most expensive item in the box, so chances were its owner might come looking for it. But if it remained unclaimed for too long, she would toss it in the trash. Last thing we need floating around here, she told herself. She was returning the box to its spot, when the sudden smack of a book hitting the wooden floor made her jump.

  “Hamlet!” she called in exasperation. “Quit playing around and let’s go back upstairs.”

  But when she looked, the cat was already sitting quietly at the door waiting on her. Shaking her head, she told him, “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”

  She made a quick round of the shelves, looking for the book that had gone flying. Why was Hamlet doing his book snagging thing now, when the matter of Penelope and Livvy’s deaths had supposedly been resolved? Did the crafty feline have his doubts, too? Or was he simply ticked that she’d taken away his new toy and so had decided to punish her by making her work a little on her day off?

  It wasn’t until she reached the fine arts section that she found the fallen volume. Curious, she picked it up to return it to the shelf.

  “A Short History of Body Art,” she read aloud, frowning a little at the cover photo of a woman’s hand embellished with intricate henna designs.

  What mehndi had to do with anything, she couldn’t guess. Curious, she flipped through the pages and then turned to the back cover. The photo on the reverse was a close-up of a muscular male arm totally covered in bright ink, the images of fish and water and blooms definitely Asian inspired. The copy listed the author’s name and background and then went on to briefly extol the international cultural influence of various body arts . . . primarily tattoos.

  Tattoos?

  Darla studied the back cover photo more closely, a sick feeling rapidly building in her stomach. The brightly scaled koi erupting from a stylized splash of blue waves resembled the one tattooed on Hank’s arm more than she cared to admit.

  Was Hamlet trying to tell her that Reese had come to the wrong conclusion regarding Penelope and Livvy’s deaths? And, even more chilling, was the clever feline trying to say that Hank Tomlinson had had something to do with them?

  “No way,” Darla exclaimed as she swiftly reshelved the book and rushed to the door. Hamlet was still waiting, green gaze fixed on the exit. At Darla’s approach, however, he swiveled his fluffy black head and gave her an emerald blink.

  “All right, spill,” she told him as she reached for the knob. “What do tattoos have to do with anything? Are you trying to pin something on Hank just because he made fun of Roma?”

  But as her hand closed on the cool metal, she mentally replayed that get-together with Jake and Hank. Hamlet had done his feline best to stare down the latter, perhaps even being responsible for Hank’s confessing to an uncomfortable encounter with Penelope. The tale that Hank had told seemed to indicate that Penelope had been the aggressor, and that he’d been happy to keep his distance.

  But what if Hank had lied about the whole cougar scenario, and he’d actually been the one to put the moves on Penelope? And what if he’d been rebuffed by her . . . and hadn’t taken that rejection well, at all?

  But even as the notion flashed through her mind, she dismissed it.

  “No way, Hammy,” she said aloud as they climbed the stairs to the third floor. “You’ve got your whiskers crossed on this one. For one thing, you’re forgetting about Livvy. Both deaths have to be connected because of the whole oleander thing. And for another, if Hank ever did decide to off someone, don’t you think he’d use some kind of martial arts trick instead of poison?”

  But as she let herself and Hamlet into the apartment, it occurred to her that maybe the cat’s tattoo clue was supposed to be generic.

  Abruptly, her thoughts turned to George and his ballerina tattoo. If there was one thing she’d learned from both Reese and Jake, it was that you could never dismiss a victim’s “significant other.” It wasn’t hard to imagine the explosive-tempered George having turned against both Livvy and Penelope.

  Certain she was onto something, Darla wrestled with the issue of George’s theoretical guilt for the rest of the afternoon as she went about her typical day-off chores. She could picture him killing Livvy in a fit of rage, no question of that. Unfortunately, just as with Hank, what she simply couldn’t see was George distilling up a poisonous batch of oleandrin-tainted “juice” with which to spike her vapor pen.

  On the other hand, George was meticulous when it came to roasting coffee, so maybe he would have also had the patience necessary to concoct a deadly tincture. Moreover, he had ready access to the necessary plant. And she couldn’t forget that George did have a powerful motive . . . at least, in Livvy’s case.

  “But what about Penelope?” she wondered aloud midway through sorting a pile of laundry, the question drawing a keen look from Hamlet. What reason would the coffee shop owner have had to kill her, too? Even if they’d once been an item, that was old history.

  “Come on, Hammy,” she urged the feline in question. “What else do you know?”

  Unfortunately, Hamlet proved of no further help in the matter. Rather than snagging more books whose titles might clarify the matter, he settled onto the back of her horsehair sofa while she labored. There, he spent the afternoon napping in between watching repeat episodes of his favorite cable television shows on the nature channel. As for Darla, by six o’clock she finally called a halt to chores and treated herself to a quick supper of homemade Cobb salad. Then, still mulling over the issue of oleanders, she fired up her trusty laptop for an Internet search on that plant.

  The images she found were of a bushy shrub, the dark green, spiky foliage bearing five-petal blooms that she learned could be pink or yellow or red or white, depending on the species. She studied the pink oleander photo more closely. No doubt about it, this was the same bushy, flowering plant that w
as tucked away on the landing behind the bistro table at Perky’s.

  Then, hoping that Reese never had cause to seize her computer for evidence, she did a search for oleander poisoning.

  In a short time, she knew more about that toxic shrub than she’d ever hoped to learn: how all parts of it—seeds, leaves, sap—were extremely poisonous, although some preliminary studies were being done on its use in treating cancer.

  That last stopped her for a moment. Maybe Livvy had found some literature touting oleandrin as a cure for rheumatoid arthritis and had decided to experiment, with fatal results.

  Then she shook her head. That might explain Livvy’s death, but not Penelope’s. Apparently, it was quite a bitter plant, so that it would be rare for anyone to ingest it accidentally without noticing. She frowned over that for a bit, wondering if perhaps the taste could be camouflaged. From what little she knew about vapor pens, the oil that was “smoked” often contained sweet fruit flavors that might well mask the bitterness, the same way one added cream and sugar to coffee.

  More compelling, however, was the laundry list of symptoms that oleander poisoning caused. Nausea, blurred vision, dizziness, disorientation . . . and that was but a sampling. Depending on how and how much was ingested, and how quickly medical treatment was given, she read that it wasn’t always fatal. But with a high enough concentration, and no immediate intervention, death was usually swift and inevitable. Shuddering a little, Darla closed the browser window and rose from her computer desk.

  “What do you want me to do, Hamlet? Reese is the detective, not me.”

  The cat was still in his favorite spot, having moved only to grab a quick bite of kibble while Darla was eating. Now, he was avidly watching the television screen again, his green gaze fixed on a python devouring what looked like a feral hog. Deliberately moving between him and that gruesome scene—he’d watched enough of that sort of thing the other night!—Darla went on, “Sorry, I tried, but I don’t think I’m going to bring Reese over to our side with only your word—um, your book snagging—that George might have been involved.”