by Ali Brandon
Praise for the New York Times Bestselling Black Cat Bookshop Mysteries
“A charming, cozy read, especially if cats are your cup of tea. Make sure the new Black Cat Bookshop series is on your bookshelf.”
—Elaine Viets, national bestselling author of Checked Out
“A fun mystery that kept me guessing to the end!”
—Rebecca M. Hale, New York Times bestselling author of How to Catch a Cat
“Those who like clever animals . . . will feel right at home.”
—Publishers Weekly
“I can’t get enough of Hamlet.”
—Socrates’ Book Reviews
“[Brandon] creates a lively whodunit.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Fun to read . . . The mystery was very good and the cat really added some interest to the story.”
—Fresh Fiction
“This series really does have it all: [a] bookstore, cats, likable, relatable characters, and a strong mystery.”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
“Brandon has designed an amazing bookstore.”
—Open Book Society
“For one of the very best cat-centered cozies on the market, pick up a Black Cat Bookshop mystery!”
—Melissa’s Mochas, Mysteries & Meows
“[A] finely tuned whodunit that quickly became a page-turner . . . nonstop action . . . great cast.”
—Dru’s Books Musings
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Ali Brandon
Black Cat Bookshop Mysteries
DOUBLE BOOKED FOR DEATH
A NOVEL WAY TO DIE
WORDS WITH FIENDS
LITERALLY MURDER
PLOT BOILER
TWICE TOLD TAIL
Leonardo da Vinci Mysteries writing as Diane A. S. Stuckart
THE QUEEN’S GAMBIT
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
A BOLT FROM THE BLUE
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Tekno Books
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9781101605974
First Edition: November 2016
Cover illustration by Ross Jones
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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This is not a dedication; rather, it’s a humble and heartfelt “thank you” to all the readers, reviewers, booksellers, and bloggers who have taken Hamlet and Darla—and me!—into their hearts. Your kind words and enthusiasm for a certain snarky black feline and his compadres has made this series a joy to write. Sadly, after this outing, it’s time to say good-bye, at least when it comes to new adventures featuring Hamlet and his friends.
But the wonderful thing about books is that, once written, their characters live on in the imagination forever. And so, Hamlet and Darla and James and Robert will always be hard at work at Pettistone’s Fine Books, with Jake and Mary Ann and Reese popping in for their regular visits. And super-feline sleuth Hamlet will never give up his book-snagging ways. When it comes to murder in Brooklyn, he and Darla will always be on the case.
As for me, you can keep up with my future doings at www.dianestuckart.com. So, again, thank you for your support over the years. Hamlet and Darla and I love you all. Sending warmest purrs to ya! ~ Ali
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Black Cat Bookshop Mysteries wouldn’t be what they are without the support of many people. And while numerous folks have my undying gratitude, I owe the greatest thanks to the following:
To Larry Segriff, my editor at Tekno Books for most of the series duration—your patient and low-key approach, along with good commonsense editing, made working with you a pleasure.
To Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, my editor at Berkley Prime Crime for the first five Hamlet novels—your sharp and brilliant editing made me a better writer, and the Black Cat Bookshop Mysteries better books. It was a privilege to partner with you.
To my husband, Gerry, who has always been Hamlet’s biggest fan, and even insisted we add a couple of black cats to our already-large menagerie—thanks for all your love and support over the years. I couldn’t have done it without you!
To my family and friends who bought my books and constantly spread the word, and the love—you’re the best!
And, finally, to Denise Little, my friend and original editor at Tekno Books, whose gentlemanly black cat, Hamlet, was the inspiration for my own snarky feline—thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me the opportunity to write this series. I hope I did you proud.
CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR THE BLACK CAT BOOKSHOP MYSTERIES
TITLES BY ALI BRANDON
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
“Oh my Gawd, Darla, you gotta help me! My wedding gown I custom-ordered finally showed up. I did a fitting last night and, Darla, it was horrible!”
The nasal Jersey tones emanating from Darla Pettistone’s cell phone belonged to Connie Capello, the brash Snooki wannabe who had an irritating tendency to refer to herself as the future Mrs. Fiorello Reese. The self-bestowed title had been moderately amusing the first few times Darla had heard it. But in the four-plus months since Connie’s engagement to Darla’s ex-almost-boyfriend, NYPD Detective Reese, she had grown a bit weary of the joke.
Suppressing a sigh, Darla stepped away from the counter where her bookstore manager, Professor James T. James, was busy ringing up an order. Conversations with Connie tended to drag on. Since Darla was the eponymous owner of Pettistone’s Fine Books—a converted Brooklyn brownstone that featured the bookstore on two levels, and her own apartment on the third—she put particular stock in presenting a professional image in front of her customers. Personal phone calls were to be kept to a minimum during business hours.
“Slow down, Connie,” she urged, even as she wondered why the woman was unloading on her, and not on one of her twelve—or was it thirteen?—bridesmaids. She and Connie were really no more than acquaintances, n
ot BFFs who paged through bridal magazines together.
“It’s probably just pre-wedding jitters that make you feel like that,” she continued. “You showed me the sketch back in September, and it was a truly lovely dress.”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t lovely on. I swear I looked like a freakin’ cow in it!”
Darla highly doubted that last. The woman was almost as tall as Darla’s best friend, the six-foot-tall ex-cop-turned-private-investigator, Jacqueline “Jake” Martelli. And, in Darla’s opinion, Connie was in perpetual need of a Big Mac or three to fatten her up. Still, she could hear the tears in Connie’s voice, meaning that the bovine illusion was definitely real to her.
“It’s really awful,” the woman raged on. “The stupid dress makes my butt look fat and my boobs look flat, and it was supposed to be ivory, but they made it ecru. So I don’t just look like a cow, I look like a freakin’ corpse of a cow. And now it’s too close to the wedding to get another gown special-made for me-e-e-e.”
First-world problems was Darla’s first thought, a notion she promptly shoved away as uncharitable.
She knew how stressful weddings could be. Heck, she’d had nightmares before her own (ultimately ill-fated) nuptials that the cake, of all things, wasn’t quite right. And with Connie’s fashion obsession—the woman wore heels and full makeup just to pop down the block for a latte—the perfect gown would be particularly essential. Besides, when one paid big bucks for a single-occasion dress like a wedding gown, one expected to look fabulous in it.
Managing a consoling tone, she dutifully replied, “I’m sure the gown just needs some alterations, and then it will be gorgeous on you. I know a nice little old lady a couple of blocks down who does sewing out of her daughter’s dry-cleaning shop. She altered a tweed jacket I got from my sister last year, and it fits like a dream now. I can give you her address and phone number, and you can—”
“It’s too late for that.” Connie cut her short with another wail. “I got mad and stuffed the stupid thing in the incinerator last night, and now I gotta buy a new wedding dress off the ra-a-a-ack!”
That last pathetic howl was loud enough that Darla had to hold the cell phone away from her ear, while James and his elderly customer both shot her stunned looks.
Darla gave them an apologetic headshake and headed toward the staircase that led to the coffee bar that Darla had installed upstairs the previous spring. Her teenaged goth-clerk-turned-barista, Robert Gilmore, ran the bar with such efficiency that the add-on to her book business was already beginning to show a bit of profit. But since it was almost 11 a.m., her early-morning regulars had pretty well dispersed, leaving only a couple of stragglers until the next small rush at noon.
And since it was a Thursday, that rush was more likely to be a trickle.
By the time Darla had waved to Robert and settled at one of the wicker bistro tables to continue the call, Connie’s wails had dwindled to a few sedate sobs.
“I’m so sorry,” she told the woman once she was sure Connie was listening again. “I can imagine how disappointed you are. But I’m not sure how I can help you.”
Then, as a thought occurred to her, she quickly added, “Wait. Maybe you could try Davina’s Bridal. It’s a little store maybe ten or twelve blocks from here, and they got a nice write-up in one of the city magazines recently. What did the headline call it? ‘Couture Looks at Rack Prices,’ or something like that. They do custom gowns, but I’ve looked in their window before, and it seems like they have lots of ready-made dresses in stock, too.”
“Really?” The sniffling sounds abruptly ceased. “Oh, Darla, you’re brilliant! I told Fi”—Connie pronounced her nickname for Reese’s given name as Fee—“that you’d have the answer. I’m going to call right now and see if they can fit me in after lunch.”
“Darla saves the day again,” Darla muttered to herself as the phone went silent, without even a final good-bye from the woman.
Still, she smiled a little as she tucked her phone into the pocket of her khakis. Much as she probably should, she really couldn’t dislike Connie Capello. Despite her often dismissive attitude, the woman had an amusingly brash way about her that Darla found—if not exactly endearing—refreshing. Of course, she could do without Connie’s constant jokes about Darla’s Texas accent.
And her red hair and freckles.
And the fact that she owned a bookstore.
But Connie did have her good points, Darla conceded. For one, she did seem to truly love Reese. For another, Connie had given no indication that she cared that Darla and her fiancé were friends. That alone gave the woman major props in Darla’s book. And she was as generous with small gifts as she was with snippy digs. Darla was still using the uber-expensive red lipstick Connie had given her a few months ago.
“Hamlet, no!”
The cry came from Robert, who was busy at the sink cleaning a handful of logoed coffee mugs. Fearing the worst, she half rose from her chair to see what mischief the bookstore’s official mascot, Hamlet the cat, was getting into now. Forget other people’s wedding disasters. She had to contend with cat-astrophes!
Sure enough, the big-boned black feline was purposefully striding along the coffee bar’s polished wood countertop. He was headed, Darla saw, toward a milk pitcher trailing leftover foam as it waited to be washed.
Rule number one, Darla reminded herself. No cats in the coffee area.
Rule number two. Cats do whatever they want to do!
Fortunately, Robert was on board with the first rule, even if a particular furry troublemaker embraced the second edict.
“No,” he repeated, rushing to stick a sudsy arm between Hamlet and his milky objective. “You know better than that, little goth bro. You’re not allowed to drink out of anything except, you know, your own bowls.”
Darla smiled as she resumed her seat. The teen was heavily into the goth subculture: black wardrobe, dyed black hair, piercings, vampiric makeup (the latter two of which he’d willingly toned down since taking the job at Pettistone’s). He’d worn his hair five or six different ways since Darla had known him. The most recent style had been one of those asymmetrical cuts, with hair buzzed almost all the way up on one side, and a long swoop of locks combed over onto the other side of his head. Fortunately for Darla’s somewhat compulsive need for proportion, he’d finally tired of that look and shaved both sides, leaving a broad cockscomb of dyed black hair on top.
His ongoing joke with Hamlet was that the feline subscribed to the same lifestyle, given his inky black coat; hence, the “little goth bro” reference.
“And you’re not supposed to be on the counter, either,” Robert said, continuing his lecture. “The health department dude, he doesn’t like cat paws on food prep areas.”
At that last, Darla shot a worried look at the two current customers in the coffee bar with her and Robert. If they were anti-cat (although Hamlet’s fuzzy face was all over the coffee bar’s mugs, and a sign at the front door warned of a feline mascot), they might be inclined to make a complaint call to the city. Fortunately, both women appeared engrossed in their respective books and unconcerned with any cat antics.
Darla let out a relieved breath. It was physically impossible to ban Hamlet from the loft. The cat had come to the brownstone ten years earlier as a feral kitten adopted by Darla’s late great-aunt Dee, who had willed the place—Hamlet included!—to Darla. And with a feline’s canny intuition, Hamlet had found every secret passage between the apartment and bookstore in the old building, even finding his way outside and into the adjoining buildings. The best Darla could hope for not to run afoul of health codes was prompt and effective damage control any time the feisty feline flouted the rules.
Hamlet, meanwhile, was shooting Robert a cold green look, while irritation fairly bristled from him. While the youth was one of Hamlet’s favorite people, the feline wasn’t used to being dictated to. Darla could almost h
ear him thinking, You’re not the boss of me, human.
Robert obviously caught the meaning behind the cat’s stare, for he lowered his voice and assumed a conciliatory air. “If it was just me, I wouldn’t care. But sometimes there are, like, rules. So hop down, and I’ll put a little foam in a saucer for you.”
With a grudging mm-rumph, Hamlet sprang like a small black panther from bar top to floor. Robert, meanwhile, tipped the pitcher over a small plate, the resulting mound of froth quivering as the youth lowered the crockery to the ground. Hamlet’s velvety black nose quivered, too, but he waited patiently until Robert stepped away before plunging his face into the foam and lapping away.
“You know, he really shouldn’t be drinking that,” Darla told Robert with a tolerant shake of her head. “The dairy isn’t good for his tummy, and it’s fattening. I think he’s put on a pound or two since we opened the coffee bar.”
“Don’t worry, Ms. P., it’s mostly air,” he assured her. “And I only give him the foam a couple of times a week.”
Hamlet, meanwhile, paused and shot Darla the same look he’d earlier turned on Robert. You could stand to drop a couple of pounds yourself, she could almost hear him thinking. Unfortunately for Hamlet’s snark-cred, the cute sprinkling of foam on his black whiskers overruled what should have been a peeved emerald green stare.
“Okay, but just go easy on the treats,” she conceded. “I don’t want him getting in the habit of begging. Thanksgiving is coming up sooner than I’d like, and it’s going to be hard to keep his paws out of all the food I’ll be cooking that week.”
“Yeah, well, too bad I’m going to miss it,” Robert replied. “But thanks for letting me have Thanksgiving week off. I talked to my dad again, and he’s real excited we’re going to spend the holiday together.”
Darla gave him a doubtful look. “I’m glad you two are reconciling, but if you change your mind about going to Connecticut, you know you’re welcome to spend Thanksgiving Day with me and Jake and the Plinskis.”
