by Ali Brandon
“Yeah, well, the guy holds a grudge.”
Darla knew from Curt’s dour tone he was referring not so much to Robert’s situation as to whatever “unfinished business” the porn shop owner had alluded to before leaving. Not that she planned to pursue the subject. The less she knew about Curt’s dealings, the better!
Nodding, she said, “I think that situation is all settled, but if he ever sets foot in my store again, I’ll have him arrested for trespassing.”
“Good plan.” Then, literally brushing off the earlier unpleasantness—and sprinkling a bit of plaster dust on her clean floor, in the process—Curt resummoned his flashy grin. “So, is my book in yet?”
Darla took a look under the counter where special orders were staged, and then shook her head. “Sorry, it doesn’t look like your book on vintage trims and moldings has arrived yet.”
“No problemo. We still have the last bit of wiring to finish before the new plaster goes up.” Curt glanced about the shop. “Where’s that big cat of yours hiding?”
“Hamlet? Oh, he’s somewhere around.”
“Are you sure?”
Darla smothered a smile. The feline in question had slipped away during the confrontation between Bill and Curt. Now he reappeared, silently padding his way out of the children’s section and beyond Curt’s line of sight. Spying the man, Hamlet halted and shot him the same look of green-eyed contempt he gave Curt every time the man entered the store. Darla did a silent countdown—three, two, one—and nearly laughed aloud when, right on cue, Hamlet flopped on the floor to give Curt his patented kiss-off treatment.
Unfortunately for insults, Curt chose the same moment to pause in front of one of the barrister-style bookshelves that housed their first editions. While Hamlet was busy flinging hind leg over shoulder, Curt was using the glass front as a makeshift mirror while he dislodged a bit of leftover breakfast from between two back teeth; thus, he missed the demonstration. Hamlet paused in midlick as he realized his dissing was going unnoticed. Scrambling upright again, he hissed in Curt’s direction before stalking off.
“Oops, you just missed him,” Darla said with a smile, pointing at the cat’s retreating form. “Maybe next time.”
The man shrugged. “Well, I seen a big black cat that looked just like him running out of my brownstone this morning when I got there.”
“Really?” Recalling her suspicion that the crafty beast was making nighttime forays, she cautiously replied, “He runs back and forth between the store and my apartment, but he’s an indoor cat. Or, at least, he’s supposed to be.”
“I dunno. It sure looked like your guy. Had to be around six, six thirty in the a.m. Scared the crap out of me. I thought it was a giant rat or something at first.”
Then he gave a wise nod. “Cat’s gotta be careful around a construction site. I seen a stray end up in a bucket of plaster someone left open one time. Wasn’t a pretty sight the next day when the tape-bed man showed up. Know what I mean?”
“I can imagine,” Darla replied with a reflexive shudder. “I’ll be sure to keep a good eye on him.” Then, eager to change the subject, she pointed to the nearby display table marked “Just Arrived.” “Since your special order isn’t in, what about some new true crime instead?”
She knew from previous purchases that both Curt and Barry were suckers for real-life blood and gore. But this time, Curt shook his head, his megawatt grin dimming.
“Actually, that whole crime thing is kind of why I’m here. Barry sent me over to warn you.”
“Warn me?” Darla echoed, a frisson of worry sweeping her at his dour tone. “About what?”
“Eh, those damn scrap thieves are back. We got hit last night. They made off with a roll of copper pipe we had chained to a joist. Hell, they used our own saw to cut the damn two-by-ten so they could steal it.”
“Curt, I’m so sorry.”
Her momentary panic was replaced by relief that his news was nothing disastrous, and then supplanted by a flash of anger on their behalf. “I can guess how maddening that has to be. I swear, I can’t believe they haven’t been caught yet.”
The “they” in question had been a scourge in the surrounding blocks for several weeks now. Working in the wee hours, the thieves’ usual targets were construction sites or vacant buildings, but they’d been bold enough to hit a few occupied places as well. Searching for copper or aluminum, or any other metal they could conceivably sell for scrap, they’d left an equal amount of damage in their wake. So far, the police had been unable to catch them in the act, even with stepped-up patrols. And, despite the reward offered by the neighborhood association, no one had come forward to identify any of the parties responsible.
“Rumor I hear, the cops think it’s a couple of kids looking for quick cash so they can party. They found candy bar and cupcake wrappers at a couple of the crime scenes, all that junk them kids like to eat. I’m considering staying overnight in the building for the next few days in case those punks come back again. I catch them trying to make off with anything, and I’ll introduce them to Mr. Crowbar,” Curt threatened, waving a phantom bludgeon for emphasis.
Darla gave a sympathetic nod, even as she hoped that he and Barry would leave the derring-do to the police. While chances were that the thieves weren’t armed with anything more dangerous than brass Spaldings, as Jake would put it, one never knew.
“And you’re not home free,” he added, shaking a thick finger in Darla’s direction. “You got some nice fixtures outside—them brass numbers, and that fancy new knob on your door. Them punks, they wouldn’t think twice about pryin’ them off even with you right here in the store.”
Before Darla could reply to that, she heard a sudden blast of cha-cha rhythm, and the lyrics of a late-1990s megahit emanated from the vicinity of Curt’s chest. “Gimme your heart, make it real. Or else forget about it . . .”
Darla suppressed a grin as she mentally sang along to the familiar lyrics—though, in Curt’s case, those last few words should probably be “fuhgeddaboudit.” “Smooth,” with Rob Thomas’s soulful vocals and Carlos Santana’s signature guitar wails and trills, had been one of her favorite songs during the tag-end of her misspent youth before her marriage. She suspected, however, that Curt had chosen that ring tone less in tribute to a special lady and more as a paean to himself.
He plucked the phone from his shirt pocket, frowned a little as he checked the caller ID, and then hit the “Ignore” button. “Now, back to what I was tellin’ you—”
“Don’t worry, Curt, I’ve got security cameras at the front and back doors. And I’ve got Jake downstairs, just for good measure.”
“Oh, yeah, the lady cop.” Curt’s grin returned as, seemingly forgetting his outrage, he wagged his eyebrows meaningfully. “She looks pretty good for a broad her age. You think she might be interested in a date with yours truly?”
“Ex-cop,” Darla hurriedly clarified. “And I think she’s, er, already seeing someone.”
A small falsehood Jake would owe her for, Darla thought with an inner grin. Jake had met Curt once in the store and had been distinctly underwhelmed by the man—though, of course, the “older” woman (Jake barely had a couple of years on Curt) had been a bit earthier in her recap of the encounter. Then came a more sobering thought, and Darla added with a frown, “Besides, Curt, I thought you were already dating someone. Haven’t you been going out with Tera Aguilar?”
The daughter of Great Scentsations owner Hilda Aguilar, Tera was barely twenty-one. In face and figure, she closely resembled her petite, elegant mother, but unlike Hilda, Tera favored revealing clothing and exaggerated makeup, which, in Darla’s opinion, masked the girl’s genuine beauty. What she saw in Curt, who was twice her age and pretty far down the scale from Prince Charming, Darla couldn’t guess. But even if Darla didn’t think much of the matchup, she still didn’t like seeing the girl played for a fool.
Curt, however, displayed no embarrassment at being called out.
“Sure, me and Tera
, we have a few laughs together, but, hey, I like to play the field,” he replied, smoothing back his hair in a preening gesture.
The move shifted the open collar of his polo shirt, revealing a glimpse of gold chain against hairy chest and reminding her of Robert’s Mr. Gold Chain Dude. Darla suppressed a grimace. What was it with these middle-aged guys pursuing girls half their ages? Well, she knew what it was; she just couldn’t believe that the girls in question fell for it every time.
To Curt, she simply said, “I’d watch my step if I were you. Hilda Aguilar might look all sugar and spice, but I have a feeling that she could kick the butt of any man she thought was two-timing her daughter.”
“Hey, who’s to say I didn’t already put the moves on Mama, too?” Curt countered with a wink. “I like ’em young, I like ’em old.” Then, when Darla shot him a sharp look of disapproval, he puffed his cheeks in an exaggerated sigh. “What? I was kiddin’. You women, you got no sense of humor.”
“Guess not,” Darla agreed in a cheerful tone, though she wasn’t smiling. Odd how, with just a few words, the man could use up his store of goodwill that he’d banked with her only a few minutes before. “Anyhow, thanks for the warning about the scrap thieves. We’ll keep our eyes open. Tell Barry I said hi.”
Curt raised his blunt hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I know when I’m not wanted. Call me when that book comes in, will ya?”
“Sure thing, Curt. Have a nice day, now.”
The door closed behind him, and Darla felt a bit of serenity return. Just for good measure, though, she spritzed again with the organic gardenia scent. Robert, meanwhile, poked his head from around the reference shelf again, then, seeing Darla’s “all clear” nod, he led his customer toward the register. The mom-to-be was busily perusing one of the short stack of volumes she clutched, seemingly unaware of the unpleasantness that had just occurred.
Darla stepped aside to let Robert handle things, watching in approval as he zipped through the transaction like a pro. One of the advantages of his having grown up in an era when Baby’s First Toy was, more often than not, something electronic, she supposed. Her own favorite electronic toy took that opportunity to ring. A glance at the caller ID confirmed her guess that it was Jake on the line.
“Hey, kid, I was in the middle of a client conference call, so I just got your SOS,” came her friend’s concerned voice before Darla could get out a hello. “Hang tight. I’m headed up there right now.”
“Don’t worry, the crisis is over,” Darla assured her. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Go ahead and tell me about it now,” Jake replied, her voice in stereo as she stepped into the store.
Darla gave a wry smile as she hung up her cell. “A day late and a dollar short, as my dad always says,” she told her friend as Jake strode toward her. Darla glanced over at Robert, who was bagging up his customer’s purchase, and waited until the woman had started for the door before saying to him, “I need to chat with Jake for a minute. Will you be all right alone?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” he said with an exaggerated nod. “And thanks for, like, sticking up for me with Bill.”
“No problem. And we can spread out that loan over a few paychecks,” she added, earning another grateful nod.
“So what was that all about?” Jake asked as they settled into the twin wing chairs tucked behind the self-help area, the weather being a bit too chilly for sitting outside in the tiny courtyard for more than a minute or two. “Something to do with your distress call?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Darla quickly recapped for Jake the unpleasant encounter with Porn Shop Bill, including his unfinished threat against her and Robert. Jake listened, her expression grim, though she smiled a little when Darla described Hamlet’s strong-arm—or, rather, strong-paw—tactics to convince Bill to sign the receipt. But her expression darkened again when Darla explained how Curt had appeared just as things were getting tense.
“Yeah, that Curt Benedetto gets around, doesn’t he?” the older woman remarked, whipping out a small notebook and one of those half-sized pens Darla remembered using when she was in grade school. “Speaking of which, I’m conducting interviews for my investigation for Hilda Aguilar. Maybe you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?”
What did Curt have to do with Hilda’s case? And what could she possibly know that had anything to do with it? Curious, Darla shrugged and nodded. “Sure, if you think I can help.”
“Our friend Mr. Benedetto has been a customer at your store for about a month now. Can you tell me what you know about him . . . I mean, outside the fact that he’s a class-A jerk?”
Which had been what Curt had called Porn Shop Bill, Darla thought with a flash of amusement. Maybe Jake should be told about that situation. But first, she gave her friend the rundown as she knew it, including Curt’s admission that he played the field while dating Tera Aguilar. And, unable to resist temptation, she also recounted the man’s question regarding Jake’s own relationship status.
Jake snorted, and her bland expression sharpened just a little.
“Man lives in a dreamworld,” she retorted, lips curling as if she’d accidentally taken a bite of seafood past its prime. Then, in what sounded to Darla like an exaggeratedly casual tone, she asked, “I don’t suppose Curt ever mentioned if he was married, did he? Or maybe talk about any ex-wives?”
Now it was Darla’s turn to snort, even as she eyed Jake in surprise. “He never mentioned anything about being married. Though I could pretty well guarantee that if he ever was, there’s at least one bitter ex-wife wandering around.”
“What about kids? Legitimate or not?”
“None that he’s ever talked about. Sorry, we just haven’t gotten that personal in our conversations, thank goodness.”
By now, Darla’s curiosity had bypassed overdrive and shot straight into redline, though it wasn’t hard to put together the puzzle pieces. If Hilda was Jake’s client, and Jake was asking questions about Curt, then it stood to reason that Hilda was worried about the man’s relationship with her daughter. But hiring a private detective? It did seem like overkill. Then again, for helicopter parents like Hilda, such coddling was pretty much the norm these days.
“There’s something else you probably should know,” she added. “I told you how Curt happened by just as Porn Shop Bill was threatening us. Well, it seems like there’s some sort of feud going between those two. They almost came to blows right here in the store.”
“Do tell,” Jake murmured, scribbling notes. “Any clue what this feud is about?”
“Bill just called it unfinished business, and later on Curt told me that the man holds a grudge. They didn’t part friends, but at least there wasn’t any blood spilled.”
“Yeah, well, the two of them deserve each other,” Jake replied and snapped her notebook shut. “You’ve been a big help, kid. You think of anything else, you let me know. And I’ll mention to Reese about the threats. If it happens again, don’t wait on me. Call him.”
But the mention of Reese reminded Darla of her other conversation with Curt about the scrap thieves.
“Curt actually did have a good reason for stopping by,” she told Jake. “He wanted to warn me that the same people who’ve been stealing copper and aluminum are back in the neighborhood. He had a whole roll of copper pipe stolen out of his building.”
“Well, I guess it sucks to be Curt, doesn’t it?” was Jake’s glib reply.
Darla nodded. “Maybe, but he was nice enough to point out that they’re stealing stuff from occupied buildings, too. He was concerned because of those antique brass fixtures I bought from the Plinskis’ store last week.” A bit defensively, she added, “And it’s not just Curt taking the hit. It’s Barry, too.”
Jake’s expression brightened. “Yeah, what’s up with you and geeky Mr. Chrome Dome? He seems like a nice enough guy, even though his partner is a jerk. You two hooking up yet?”
“Jake!” Darla protested in embarrass
ment, glancing around to make sure Robert wasn’t suddenly in earshot. Lowering her voice, she went on, “Really, I hardly know the man. But I can tell you he’s not a geek. He and Curt both were jocks in high school . . . Curt was a running back on the varsity team, and Barry ran track and pitched two years for their school’s baseball team. And he’s not bald; he simply has a receding hairline.”
When her friend grinned knowingly at her instinctive defense of the man, Darla blushed and conceded, “All right, I admit it, I like him, but—”
“Like?” her friend cut her short with a shake of her curly head. “What, are you two in junior high? Next thing, you’ll be asking me to call him up and ask him if he likes you, too. Quit playing coy, kid. If he won’t make the first move, you do it. Ask him out on a date already. You’ve got his phone number, don’t you?”
“Well, no. He hasn’t offered it, and I’d feel kind of weird asking for it.” Of course, she did happen to have Curt’s number, since he was the one who usually picked up their special orders from the store.
Jake, meanwhile, was giving her a pitying look. “You could tell him you’re updating the bookstore mailing list and you want his contact info. Or you could just say you’re thinking of asking him out and need a way to get hold of him.”
“How about I compromise and offer to spring for lunch at the deli the next time he stops by, instead?”
“Perfect. And then spill the gory details to me afterward.”
“Only if you promise to spill about Hilda’s case.”
Which would never happen. No way would Jake breach client confidentiality, not even for the prospect of good gossip. Darla allowed herself a smug grin, knowing she’d won this particular skirmish.
Jake must have agreed, for she gave Darla a rueful smile in return.
“Fair point. But I warn you, don’t run back asking me for advice when you’ve got old Barry on the line and can’t close the deal,” she declared, mixing metaphors in a manner that would have given James fits. “When it comes to your love life, you’re on your own, kid.”
