A Novel Way to Die

by Ali Brandon

  SIX

  “TELL CURT I’M SORRY IT TOOK ANOTHER WEEK FOR HIS book to finally show up,” Darla said with an apologetic smile, handing over the long-awaited book on historically accurate woodwork and trim. “I swear, I sometimes think they send those special orders by mule train.”

  “No problem. This book is worth the wait.”

  Brown eyes alight, Barry Eisen flipped through the pages and then stabbed an enthusiastic finger at one of the full-color photos. A faint cloud of plaster dust wafted from the sleeve of his gray hooded sweatshirt and onto the page. “Take a look. We’re not talking about your basic home improvement store wainscoting here.”

  Darla smiled but took a prudent step back to avoid a similar dusting. Apparently, Barry had worn this garment on the job site recently. The flannel shirt in shades of black and yellow under it, however, appeared freshly laundered, and his jeans were crisp enough that they probably had come starched from the dry cleaner’s the day before. Obviously he hadn’t been by the brownstone yet that morning.

  “This is pretty close to what Curt and I had in mind for the first floor,” he went on, “and it’s authentic to the brownstone’s original décor. Sure, the wood itself might be oak, but you’ve got your classic hand-carved egg-and-dart panel moldings, and those inlays are mahogany. I’m not sure I like the wreath design for the inlays, though. Maybe a nice rosette motif instead.”

  Then he flipped back a few pages to another photo. “But this works, too. See, the raised panels are simple, but that’s okay. The denticulated chair rail along the top really classes it up, and it won’t overwhelm the other architectural detail in the rooms.”

  “Either one would be beautiful,” Darla assured him, wondering if she should brush up on her interior design vocabulary if she was going to hang around the man.

  While she’d learned a little about typical brownstone styles simply by living in a prime example of same, Darla couldn’t describe most of its features beyond basic color and texture. But the fact that Barry and Curt intended to replicate the period-style paneling and other woodwork and plaster, themselves, impressed her almost as much as Barry’s easy familiarity with such terms as “denticulated.”

  “We’ve still got a little more time to decide,” he replied with careless shrug, shaking off a bit more dust. “We’re starting the plastering tomorrow, and that will take us a while.”

  Then, closing the oversized volume with an almost reverential gentleness, he gave Darla a hopeful smile and added, “If you can spare an hour or so, why don’t you come back to the brownstone with me so you can get a final ‘before’ look at the place, and then we can grab some lunch at the deli?”

  A date! He’d beat her to it! Smiling a little, she began, “I’d like to, but—”

  She paused for a look at Robert, who was busy straightening stock near the back of the store. The youth had been working part-time for a little more than a week now and was already proficient in the store’s main protocols. Even better, despite the first “yo, hoss” incident, Robert had managed to ingratiate himself with the eternally stodgy James. The crowning touch had come yesterday, when the teen had engaged the former professor in debate on some theory Robert had developed regarding Charles Dickens and what he’d decided was the metaphorical use of orphans in his writing. James had vigorously argued a counterpoint, but Darla had heard the pleasure in his voice at discussing his specialty with someone equally as interested in that time period.

  But James would not arrive for his shift until after lunch, and Darla still felt uneasy leaving Robert to mind the store alone after the confrontation with Porn Shop Bill the week before. So far as she knew, the issue between Robert and Bill was settled, but on the off chance that the man returned, she didn’t want to leave the teen alone to deal with such a volatile situation. Then again, Jake was just a cell call away downstairs. After all, what could happen in an hour or so on a Thursday?

  “—but next meal is on me,” she finished, making the quick decision that the teen had the smarts to work on his own for a bit.

  “Robert,” she called, “I’m going to step out for an early lunch. Do you feel comfortable handling things alone until James gets here?”

  Not that he’d be totally alone, she reminded herself. He’d have Hamlet for company.

  Or would he? Darla looked around. The cat had spent most of the last hour stretched across one end of the counter, recovering from a strenuous morning of watching her and Robert unpack shipping cartons. Apparently, however, he had regained his strength in the few minutes she’d been chatting with Barry, for he was nowhere to be seen now.

  Robert, however, did not seem to share her concerns. “Take all the time you need, boss. I’m, like, good,” he replied and gave an exaggerated “okay” sign in case she didn’t believe him.

  He wore his usual black jeans and black shirt, but today he’d topped the outfit with a black knit vest in apparent emulation of James’s personal uniform. She wasn’t quite sure if the fashion statement was genuine or simply a subtle bit of tongue-in-cheek ribbing at the older man’s expense. She rather suspected the latter explanation, but if James was offended, he was perfectly capable of taking the youth down a peg or two.

  “All right, then,” she told him. “Hold down the fort until I get back. If you have an emergency, call me on my cell, or else call Jake. The numbers are taped to the register.”

  Robert gave her a snappy salute in return, and she sighed. Apparently, she’d forgotten what it was like to be that young and impulse-control challenged, for the cheeky gesture wasn’t as amusing as Robert surely thought it was. “Quick, let’s get out of here before I change my mind,” she told Barry and grabbed her phone and familiar olive sweater from underneath the counter.

  The air outside had a distinct nip to it despite the fact it was already after eleven o’clock. She hurriedly pulled on the sweater, feeling a small tingle of pleasure when Barry helped adjust its collar. It had been a while since she’d had a man pay her that sort of small courtesy. Maybe Jake had had a point about her hooking up with him.

  Darla glanced over at Barry, who was now expounding on plastering techniques. At five-ten and with even features, and minus the beer gut many men pushing fifty sported, he was more than acceptable in the looks department. True, he wasn’t the muscle-bound, young blond hunk like Jake’s cop buddy, Reese . . . but then, most men weren’t.

  She smiled a little as she pictured the burly police detective. She had briefly—as in, for about ten minutes—considered exploring a possible relationship with him after their first meeting, and had even sensed a few vibes that indicated he might be open to said exploration. Then common sense had kicked in, and she had decided they were better suited as friends. Besides, Darla had learned the hard way that good looks alone weren’t a strong enough basis for a lasting romance. Sighing just a little, she turned her attention back to Barry and listened to his plastering homily.

  They reached the brownstone a few minutes later. “What happened?” was Darla’s first comment as she took in the scene before her. Then, realizing that might sound critical, she hurriedly amended, “I mean, uh . . . that is . . .”

  In its glory days, the building would have been a prime example of what Barry had told her on her first visit was Greek Revival style. Not technically a brownstone, the three-story house was red brick and fronted with what he had explained was called a “Grecian doorway”: fluted columns atop a short stoop supporting a flat porch roof. And typical of the style, the simple windowsills and lintels—the “eyebrows” of the windows—barely protruded from the surrounding brick, giving the place a sleeker look than its neighbors. Those architectural touches were enhanced, quite appropriately, by Greek key designs worked into the stone.

  But what gave the property its greatest value was the fact that it was set back slightly from the street and had a tiny slip of what once had been green lawn, though the grass had since been trampled into the dirt. A tree pit to one side of the yard held what
appeared to Darla’s untrained eye to be some sort of large oak whose leaves had turned a mottled yellow and orange for the season. But with some decent landscaping and an updated facade, the men would be able to turn an enviable profit on their investment even with only the most basic remodeling being done to the interior.

  While she struggled for something encouraging to say about the building’s current state, however, Barry laughed. “Yeah, it looks kinda rough right now, but I promise we’re making progress.”

  “Rough,” Darla privately thought, was putting a charitable spin on the situation. Indeed, rough was the shape the place had been the last time she’d seen it. The first-floor windows had been partially boarded up, and net-style orange barrier fencing had taken the place of the wrought iron fencing with a Greek key design that had surrounded the handkerchief-sized yard.

  Now, the place appeared more demolition than renovation. A construction Dumpster had been squeezed into a narrow gap between that building and the one beside it, while a pile of brick surrounded by more of the orange netting spilled alongside the barred windows of the basement. One of the porch columns had been removed and replaced by several sturdy wooden posts, while the pieces of the missing column were propped against the building’s corner like an afterthought.

  “I guess I should have brought my hard hat,” she replied. “I’m sure it looks better on the inside.”

  “Ha, not by much,” a man’s unfamiliar nasal voice behind them proclaimed with a sniggering laugh.

  Startled, Darla swung around to see a tall, thin man about Barry’s age standing on the sidewalk clutching a clipboard. He was dressed in baggy brown trousers and a white buttoned shirt topped by a bomber-style cloth jacket with a fake shearling collar. The jacket hung open, and Darla spied what appeared to be an official photo ID hanging from a lanyard around his neck. A city worker of some sort?

  From Barry’s expression, Darla guessed that he knew the man, and that he was not terribly pleased to see him. “What are you doing here, Toby?” he demanded, his usual affable tone sharp now with irritation.

  Toby waved his clipboard, the untidy sheaf of multipart forms fastened to it flapping like a paper hen. “We got a little inspection business here to take care of, pal. Or did you forget?”

  “I didn’t forget anything. You’re not supposed to be here until next week.” Barry took a few steps toward the man, his stance challenging. “You’d better not have been wandering on my property without my permission.”

  “Relax, I just got here. But I need to move up the schedule, know what I mean?”

  “I’ve got someone with me right now. It’s not a good time. Understand?”

  Darla glanced from an obviously ticked-off Barry to the glib newcomer, who bore an uncanny likeness to one of those artist renditions of an alien. His small, pinched features appeared to have slid south toward his receding chin, leaving a broad expanse of forehead to fend for itself. The lopsided effect was enhanced by the way he’d scraped back his collar-length, surfer-blond hair—a home-bleach job if Darla had ever seen one—into a single frizzy tail that looked more porcupine than equine. As for his personality, Darla had known him for less than a minute and already found his company distasteful.

  Unfortunately, if the man was indeed a city inspector, then Barry likely had to put up with his rudeness in order to keep his job site running.

  “Tell you what, pal,” came Toby’s nasal reply. “I’ll give you until Monday. Fair enough?”

  “Monday,” Barry agreed, his expression stiff. “Until then, stay the hell off my property.”

  “That’s what I get for being a pushover,” the man complained with a grin, giving Darla a wink. “You’d think I’d get a thank-you every so often, but no . . .”

  Tucking his clipboard under his armpit, the man sauntered his way to a battered white two-door parked quite illegally and on the wrong side of the road. He climbed inside; then, with mocking wave, he pulled out into traffic accompanied by the blare of horns from those drivers he’d just cut off.

  “And I thought retail was a tough business,” Darla observed in an ironic tone that, per her intent, earned a reluctant smile from her companion.

  “Yeah, dealing with the city is always a good time. But if we want a certificate of occupancy, we’re stuck with him.” Then, in an obvious effort to recapture the earlier bantering mood, he added, “But don’t let Toby scare you off about taking the nickel tour inside.”

  He gestured Darla up the steps. After fiddling with his key in the knob, Barry pried open the front door and, to the accompaniment of squealing hinges, ushered her inside. Darla halted a few steps past the threshold and gazed about her in bemused disbelief.

  This is better?

  On her last visit, the rooms had stood empty, forlornly stripped to their plaster, with fixtures removed and wires hanging like pointy tentacles from open outlets. Now, large sections of plaster were missing, revealing the original studs and wood supports and what appeared to be new electrical wiring running through the recesses. A pile of two-by-fours temporarily blocked the only other door, located beyond the foyer and at the end of a short hall. Not that this last inconvenience particularly mattered, for she knew from her previous visit that the rear door opened onto a miniscule enclosed courtyard. And, unlike the brownstones on her block, the homes on this street had no alley behind them, an alley being something of a rarity in Brooklyn, as Darla had been surprised to learn.

  As for the stained carpeting and torn linoleum—doubtless courtesy of previous remodels that had gone for practicality rather than aesthetics—that floor covering had been ripped up to reveal the original wood beneath. In some areas, all that remained was the subflooring, or nothing at all.

  She recalled Barry previously telling her that they’d turned off the electricity at the box while they were redoing the wiring. As a result, heavy black extension cords snaked along the floors and up the stairway, posing tripping hazards for the unwary. To make up for the missing light fixtures, a scattering of portable lights—some heavy-duty contractor floor lamps, and others the cheap clamp-on style with the big aluminum shades—sat in corners or clung to exposed studs. At the moment, however, none were turned on, so the only illumination inside the place came from the open door and the man-sized gaps in the ceiling where portions of the second-story flooring had been sawed out.

  Barry, however, seemed concerned with something other than her lack of enthusiasm. His earlier expression of amusement had been replaced by a frown. “Is something wrong?” she asked in concern.

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure. But I know I locked the front door when I left here yesterday, and it wasn’t locked just now when I stuck the key in.”

  “Maybe Curt is already here?” Darla suggested, recalling how the man had mentioned being at the brownstone at six in the morning the day he’d claimed to have seen Hamlet wandering loose.

  But Barry was eyeing the area with suspicion. “If he was here, he’d have heard us and come out already, even if he was down in the basement. You can’t sneak into this place, not with those rusty hinges. That’s one reason we never oiled them. Kind of like a homemade alarm system.”

  Darla smiled at what she assumed was a small joke. When she saw he was deadly serious, however, she instinctively edged closer to him.

  “Should we call the police or something?” she asked, her fingers tightening around the cell phone in her sweater pocket.

  Barry made no immediate reply as he reached for a bulky silver flashlight that had been left on one of the stairs. Clicking it on, he took a few steps and shined its beam through the open arch to their left that led into the next room. Gray shadows danced behind the flashlight’s broad yellow swath of light, but they concealed nothing more incriminating than a row of five-gallon buckets and a neatly folded drop cloth. Then he shook his head.

  “There’s nothing to call about. For all we know, Curt stopped by earlier and then decided to run out for a cup of coffee without bothering to l
ock up. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that.”

  She heard a flicker of irritation in his tone, but he managed a strained smile for her and added, “Why don’t you wait here while I take a look around?”

  “No, I’ll come with you.”

  She thought for a moment from his expression that he’d protest her decision, but then he nodded. “Okay, but stick close,” was his doubtful reply. “With everything torn all the hell up, I don’t want you smacking your head on something or twisting an ankle.”

  Neither did she, but no way was she waiting there alone while Barry checked out the place. After all, how many times in the movies did the character that remained behind in the supposedly safe spot fall victim to the mad killer? Not that there was any killer lurking about in your basic distressed brownstone, she reassured herself. Like Barry said, maybe Curt had simply been careless. Heck, he’d probably show up in another couple of minutes with a double latte in one hand and a cruller in the other while swearing that he’d locked the place before he left.

  Darla trailed Barry down the short hall to what was now the kitchen. She pulled her sweater more closely about her, all too aware there was no heat source in the house. Come winter, the place would be an icebox if they didn’t set up some of those big portable heaters while they worked.

  But the cool temperature was less on her mind than Curt’s warning to her the week before about the salvage thieves. What if they had come back, breaking in to the place in search of more spoils? Worse, what if they were still somewhere in the building?

  “Curt,” Barry abruptly called, the sound echoing through the open rooms and making Darla jump. “You in here, buddy? Darla and I are here on the first floor, looking for you.”

  That seemingly innocuous statement, she knew, translated to, If someone’s here who doesn’t belong, you’ve still got time to hop out one of the windows before we stumble across you and things get all nasty.