Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery)

by Ali Brandon

  But when Darla opened the door to the condo, she saw that the conversation was going to have to be put off for quite a different reason: Mildred herself was sitting on the rattan sofa, looking comfortable and prepared to stay awhile. And there was no sign of Jake or Nattie.

  “Hello, dear,” the woman said with a friendly wave and a smile revealing the ever-present spot of pink lipstick. “I just popped in to ask Nattie about the memorial service. I see you and Hamlet have been out and about?”

  Darla managed a smile and a wave back before leaning down to unbuckle Hamlet. The cat leaped onto the rattan chair and gave the old woman a baleful look, not even bothering to pretend disinterest. Darla could only hope that Mildred didn’t question this obvious feline snub too closely.

  “Oh, we just made a quick run outside so Hamlet could stretch his legs. Out front, to the fountain,” she added, to make sure Mildred would have no reason to wonder if they’d been prowling around near the pool. “Where are Jake and Nattie?”

  “Jake ran off to the powder room, and Nattie wants to show me some kind of trick, though I must confess I’m not certain this is a good idea.”

  “Eh, don’t be a stick-in-the-mud, Millie,” Nattie said as she came from the hallway dragging a large ironing board with a pink-flowered cover.

  She propped it against the archway between dining and living room areas. As Darla watched in growing confusion, the old woman pulled one of the straight-backed dining chairs into the middle of the living room. Then she reached for the ironing board and laid it across the chair seat. A third of the ironing board overhung front and back, like a floral teeter-totter.

  “Gidget did this on her bed,” Nattie explained to Mildred as she gripped the seatback and hiked one foot up onto the makeshift surfboard, “but I think this will work better on a chair. It’ll be more like real surfing, don’t ya think?”

  “Ma, get down and put the ironing board away before you hurt yourself!”

  This from Jake, who stood at the hall doorway staring in horror at her mother. Nattie left her foot where it was and shot her daughter a peeved look. “You won’t let me take a surfing lesson, so this is the closest I’ll ever get to trying it,” she said, and hopped up onto the center of the ironing board.

  “See? I’m surfing,” Nattie said, gaining her balance and striking a pose with arms flung wide. But her triumph lasted only a moment, as the ironing board began to wobble precariously.

  Darla gasped and started toward her, and even Mildred sprang up from her seat. Jake, however, was faster than both of them. She grabbed Nattie just in time to prevent the old woman from taking a nasty tumble.

  “Down,” Jake demanded once Nattie regained her balance. She continued to hold on to her mother’s arm until Nattie reluctantly clambered off her ersatz surfboard.

  “Eh, I almost had it,” the old woman said with very un-Gidgetlike snort. “I just need a little more practice.”

  “Practice, my rear end. You try that stunt again and break a hip, and I swear I’ll put you in a nursing home.”

  “Why don’t you ever want me to have any fun? I might be old, but that don’t mean I’m dead,” Nattie declared. “And Mildred was a gymnast. I bet she can do it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I can,” the other woman said with a smile and duck of her head, so that the overhead light flickered off her glasses. “But I always work with a spotter. And I’m sorry, Jake, but I really didn’t think she’d try it.”

  “Not your fault, Mildred,” Jake answered, giving her mother a stern look. “Now, why don’t we all sit down and watch the rest of the movie like grownups.”

  “Oh, I can’t stay,” Mildred replied with a flutter of her hands. “As I told Darla, I just wanted to ask Nattie how the memorial gathering went.”

  “Hoo-boy, it was a doozy! And I even got some of it on video,” Nattie declared with a grin, pulling her phone from her pants pocket and waving it in delight. “How about we get together in the morning and I tell you all about it?”

  Mildred brightened. “Actually, the formal memorial for Ted is tomorrow morning at a synagogue in West Palm Beach. Do you want to come with me and tell me about it on the way?”

  “Sure, that would be great fun. I haven’t been to a good memorial in at least a month.” Then, when Darla and Jake both stared at her in dismay, she added, “What? You get to my age and you’ll like going to these things, too. It’s like a game, seeing how many people you outlive.”

  Unsure whether to laugh or be horrified, Darla merely shook her head. As for Jake, she gave a longsuffering sigh.

  “Ma, I thought you were going shell hunting on the beach early in the morning with me and Darla.”

  “Eh, I’ve got seashells out the patoot. You girls go, and when Millie and I get back, we’ll drive around town and see the sights.”

  “I’ll come over at nine o’clock and get you so we can be there early for good seats,” Mildred agreed.

  Nattie walked her to the door, the “surfing lesson” forgotten in her glee over Ted Stein’s upcoming memorial. Jake shook her head and put the ironing board back herself, while Darla returned the chair to the table. Hamlet kept a cool green gaze fixed on everyone until Mildred was gone; then he jumped down from the chair again and slipped like a black shadow back into the guest room.

  By the time the final credits rolled on the big-screen television, Darla had come up with a subterfuge to get Jake alone. . . . She’d say she lost a tag off Hamlet’s harness during their walk and needed Jake’s help outside to find it.

  Fortunately, Nattie saved her the trouble, declaring, “I need to get my beauty sleep if I’m going to make that memorial in the morning. How about you girls lock up for me?”

  “Will do, Ma. Sleep tight.”

  Jake waited until Nattie had disappeared down the hall, and the faint sound of running water came from the master suite, before she turned to Darla.

  “All right, kid. You’ve been twitching like Hamlet’s tail ever since you got back from that walk. What’s going on?”

  Darla gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I thought I was being pretty subtle. I hope your mother didn’t notice anything.”

  “She only notices things when it suits her. Now go ahead—spill.”

  Darla needed no further encouragement to relate what she’d seen with Mildred, Cindy, and the mysterious box. Jake asked no questions, though her expression went from concerned to perplexed as Darla described the final, incriminating meow she had heard.

  “I don’t get it,” the PI said when Darla finished. “Maybe some sort of clandestine rescue thing going on? Could it have been Ted’s Minx cat?”

  “I guess that’s a possibility,” Darla agreed. “But I think Ted’s sister was going to take his cat. And Mildred was so . . . so sneaky about it. Maybe they’re dealing in stolen champion cats?”

  Jake gave her a slanted look. “What, you think Cindy is selling blue-ribbon kitties in some back alley to support her drug habit? And Mildred gets a cut of the action, too?”

  “Well, when you put it like that . . .”

  Darla trailed off with a reluctant smile and shook her head. “Okay, I agree. I probably overreacted. Chances are whatever happened between Cindy and Mildred was perfectly innocent.”

  “Don’t worry, kid. Enough hinky stuff has been going on these past few days that I don’t blame you for thinking the worst.”

  “Thanks. But speaking of hinky stuff, do you think Detective Martinez is any closer to figuring out who killed Ted Stein . . . and who hit you and stole Hamlet?”

  Jake shrugged. “It’s not like back home, where I’m still part of the good old blue rumor mill. But I’ll put in a call to Sam in the morning, see if she’s made any progress on the case. Besides,” she added as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her own phone, “Ma’s not the only one who did a little clandestine filming during the memorial
service. I figure after we do our shell hunting in the morning that we meet up with Sam and show this to her.”

  * * *

  “SERIOUSLY, DARLA, ARE YOU PLANNING ON CARRYING THAT WHOLE BAG of seashells back to Brooklyn?” Jake asked the next morning as they packed up their towels and other gear after a couple of hours on the beach.

  Nattie had been the first to head out from the condo—wearing her funeral chapeau, as Jake had dubbed the flamboyant black hat—and had departed with Mildred for Ted Stein’s official memorial. Once she’d left, Darla and Jake had thrown on their swimsuits and borrowed some of Nattie’s beach gear before absconding in her Mini Cooper in search of sun and surf. Darla had left Hamlet behind at the condo contentedly lounging on the balcony and catching some rays.

  Now, Darla looked down at the bulging plastic grocery bag she’d been diligently filling all morning. Her best find had been what another shell hunter had told her was a Scotch bonnet. Slightly larger than Hamlet’s paw but cream colored and accented with rows of tan, rectangular splotches, it was a petite, sleek little cousin to those giant conchs whose pink-mouthed selves gaped from the shelves of every local gift shop.

  “You’re right. Once I got them home, they’d probably just sit in a box somewhere, anyhow,” Darla said, pulling the Scotch bonnet out as a keeper. She handed the rest of her morning’s collection off to a couple of nearby grade-schoolers who were delighted to add her shells to their collection.

  She tucked the empty bag into her tote to properly dispose of later—a lifeguard had warned her that turtles frequently mistook floating grocery bags for their favorite food, the moon jellyfish, and swallowed them with often fatal results. Then she reached for the sleeveless, green batik tank dress that she was using as a cover-up and pulled it on over her pale green two-piece. Given that she had a redhead’s typical fair complexion, which freckled and burned rather than tanned, Darla had slathered on plenty of sunscreen even though the sun hadn’t reached its peak.

  Jake, with her olive skin, had no such similar worry, not even bothering with a ball cap like Darla wore to keep the sun off her face. The older woman had gone for a classic black maillot, halter-strapped and ruched. On anyone else the suit might have looked frumpy, but Jake gave it a distinct bad-girl vibe, probably because the high-cut legs showed off the unmistakable scar that ran like a thin purple lightning bolt from hip to halfway down her thigh.

  This was the first time that Darla had ever seen evidence of the woman’s career-ending injury, though she’d watched Jake set off the metal detector at the airport security checkpoint because of the various pins in her leg. Jake caught her glancing at it and shrugged.

  “Guess it kind of ruins my chances of a career in nude modeling,” she said with a smile, “but compared to some of those nasty chest scars I’ve seen on the cops who’ve had open-heart surgery, this is nothing. But I’ve been thinking about maybe getting it tattooed . . . you know, turn the scar into a snake or a flower vine or something.”

  “Sure, why not? That could be interesting,” Darla agreed. She wasn’t keen on tattoos for herself, but she could appreciate the artistry in some of the more elaborate examples of body art.

  “Maybe when we get back home.”

  “Well, whatever you do, don’t get a tattoo while you’re down here. You’ll only encourage your mother to want a battleship inked on her chest,” Darla said with a chuckle. “Speaking of Nattie, I’ve been meaning to ask—she seems like a typical Italian mom, right? So why in the heck did she name you Jacqueline, and not something like Isabella or Giovanna? I mean, Jacqueline is a lovely name, but it’s not Italian. It’s French.”

  “So was my grandmother,” Jake explained with a smile. “Ma named me after her mother, Jacqueline Prevot. That was my cross to bear in the old neighborhood, being a quarter French. On the bright side, though, I got a double dose of the foodie gene.”

  “Right. So how come I’m the one who always has to count calories?” Darla good-naturedly complained.

  Jake laughed as she stuck her magazine into her woven red beach bag and then pulled out a matching red sarong. She wrapped and tied the textured cloth around her into a respectable-looking sundress. “All right, let’s go. Sam’s meeting us over at the restaurant in about ten minutes.”

  They set off the few yards up the beach to the wooden steps that would take them back up to the parking lot. Darla noticed that, without the benefit of her customary boots, Jake was limping more than usual through the uneven sand. That, in turn, reminded her of Trixie the three-legged rescue cat. They’d need a plan to pick Trixie up on Saturday.

  Tossing their gear into the back of the Mini, they made the five-minute trip to the Porto del Sol diner. A ramshackle, tin-roofed wood structure about a block from the water, the restaurant was perched on short stilts. It featured a mural of boats docked beneath a blazing sun that illustrated the diner’s name, though in Darla’s opinion, the artist had had more enthusiasm than talent.

  Jake agreed, it seemed.

  “Either that’s a brilliantly ironic example of South Florida primitivism,” she said, “or else the owner saved himself some cash by having his kids paint the place for him.”

  “I’m betting on the kids, but I kind of like it,” Darla said with a smile. “Maybe I should do something similar at the bookstore.”

  Leaving the mural behind, they walked around back and spied Detective Martinez at one of the painted white picnic tables on the deck. Once again, the detective was wearing a sober black pantsuit. This time, however, it was enlivened by a yellow blouse the same sunny hue as the tiny coffee cup on the table before her. Since it was almost noon, the remaining tables on the deck were all occupied, but only Martinez sat with her back to the distant view of the water, sunglasses pushed up on her head while she rapidly typed on her cell phone. She looked up as they approached, however, and gestured them to join her.

  “So what’s this about a brawl at Stein’s memorial service?” she asked without preamble.

  “It was more of a spirited discussion,” Jake replied as she and Darla took the seats at her table, facing the water.

  She pulled out her own phone from the red beach bag. “I only caught a couple of minutes of the action, but it gives you the gist of what was going on.”

  Jake pressed play and handed the phone to Martinez. The volume was turned up, so that Darla could hear a murmur of recorded conversation that she guessed was Rosalind. Next followed the sound of tiny shouted voices, as the pro-Ted and anti-Ted factions began to rally. She saw Martinez raise a brow, probably when the one old man had ripped apart the poster and flung it into the pool. The video lasted only a few moments longer after that and then cut off.

  Martinez nodded and handed the phone back to Jake. “Mind emailing this to me? We’re looking in another direction on this case, and your video might be useful.”

  While Jake typed out the email, Darla asked in surprise, “Another direction? Does that mean Billy Pope isn’t under arrest anymore?”

  Before the detective could answer, an excessively tanned waitress in cutoff blue jeans and a denim halter top that barely contained her assets sidled up with menus. Her entire right arm had been tattooed with all manner of flowers and skulls—a sleeve, as Darla had heard it described—and her black hair had a wide streak of turquoise in it.

  Darla initially guessed the woman to be in her midforties despite her rebellious appearance . . . and then downgraded it by a decade when she spotted the year emblazoned on her class ring. Obviously, there was at least one major disadvantage to living in a semitropical climate. Still, the waitress’s smile was warm as she asked, “You ladies need a little Cuban coffee to get started with?”

  Darla and Jake exchanged glances before Darla nodded. “Since I’ve got that coffee bar going in at the bookstore, I might as well work on expanding my own coffee horizons.”

  “Two cups, coming right up,” the wo
man replied, leaving behind the menus and sauntering back inside.

  Jake, meanwhile, picked up where Darla had left off. “So, what’s the word, Sam? Is Pope really off the hook for Stein’s murder?”

  The detective reached for her tiny yellow cup and slanted them both a cool look from over her coffee. “That decision hasn’t been made yet.”

  “I’ve got to think the motive is pretty thin. You’re not convinced Pope did it, are you?”

  Martinez took a sip of her coffee. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. There’s someone else you’re looking at, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  The detective finished her coffee but played with the tiny cup a moment, rolling it between her palms as she seemed to consider her next words. Before she could speak again, however, the waitress once again interrupted them as she returned to the table bearing two more demitasse-sized cups.

  “Two Cuban coffees,” she cheerfully announced. She set a white cup with green and orange stripes on it before Darla, and a navy blue cup with what looked like a melted red heart on it in front of Jake.

  The few ounces of coffee the cup held were dark like espresso with a hint of foaminess. Jake slugged hers down in a couple of gulps. Darla, however, decided that her cup deserved the wine-tasting approach. She took an experimental sniff and caught a whiff of what smelled like burnt socks.

  Maybe Cuban coffee wasn’t all she’d heard it to be. Steeling herself, she took a cautious sip, and then promptly changed her mind. The steaming coffee was strong and incredibly sweet, with just enough complexity of flavor that she had no choice but to take another taste.

  Seeing her reaction, the waitress smiled.

  “First time, huh? The stuff’s addicting, and it’ll get you through the day better than those little bottles of energy drink you buy at the convenience store. Now, can I get you ladies lunch?”

  At Martinez’s suggestion, Jake went for the blackened dolphin tacos—which, the waitress clarified, meant dolphin fish a.k.a. mahi mahi, and not Flipper or one of his porpoise friends. Relieved to have that misunderstanding cleared up, Darla decided to order the same thing. Once the waitress was out of earshot again, Jake returned the conversation to the subject at hand.