Twice Told Tail

by Ali Brandon

Shaking her head, Darla dug into her own bag and found some clean fast-food napkins and a packaged wet wipe. She used the latter to clean the worst of the mascara streaks off Connie’s cheeks and then handed her the paper napkins.

  “All right, now take a couple of deep breaths, and maybe you can tell me what’s really wrong.”

  Connie gave a final snuffle and did the breathing thing, and then turned to Darla with a watery smile. “Oh, Darla, you’re so nice to me, and you’re not even my friend. I mean, you’re my friend, but a different kind of friend. Not like the girls I grew up with.”

  “Thanks . . . I think,” was Darla’s wry reply, though she smiled, too. “Now, what’s wrong? Are you still upset about what happened to Mr. Plinski?”

  “No. I mean, of course I’m upset, but that’s not what’s wrong.” She twisted the paper napkins into a tortured knot, then said, “If I tell you something, will you swear you won’t tell anyone else?”

  “I swear.”

  Connie pursed her red-lipsticked lips as if still debating whether to confess. Then, finally, she blurted, “I love Fi. I really do. But I kind of think I don’t want to get married to him anymore.”

  FIFTEEN

  “You don’t want to marry Reese?” Darla asked in confusion. “Why in the world not?”

  Connie shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t want to get married to him, but I’m thinking maybe it’s not such a good idea. I mean, he’s always busy, or having to leave places early, or get there late. It’s like I can’t depend on him.”

  “But he’s a cop,” Darla reminded her. “Being busy, or early, or late all comes with the job. You knew that when you started dating him, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then, if you love him, you put on your big-girl panties and deal with it, right? Forget the times you’re disappointed and concentrate on all the positive things about being the future Mrs. Fiorello Reese.”

  Connie gave a small smile at that last. Then the flicker of amusement faded, and she fell silent again as she began tearing the paper napkins into strips.

  Finally in a small voice, she said, “I can do that. And I understand that he’s a cop. I got a couple of cousins and an uncle who are all cops. I guess I really didn’t think about it before, but when I saw that dead guy in the store the other day, I got scared. I mean, what if someone murdered Fi. I-I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  Darla caught a breath. Of course, that would be something she would worry about. Anybody who read the papers or watched the news would know that an officer dying in the line of duty was always a possibility—seemingly more so these past months. But she’d looked up the statistics once herself, and found to her surprise that being a cop was far from the most dangerous job there was.

  She told Connie as much, adding, “And even if it were the riskiest job on the list, that’s not a good reason not to marry him. He could be a nine-to-five guy working a nice office job and still get T-boned by a semi on his way home from work one day. You never know what life is going to hand you, and nobody gets any guarantees.”

  Connie thought about that for a moment and then slowly nodded.

  “You know, you’re right. He could be a construction guy and fall off a building, or a longshoreman and get squished by one of those giant cargo containers. Or a high school principal and get shanked by some punk kid. Or—”

  “I get the picture.” Darla dryly cut her short. “So, do you think you can put aside your fear and go ahead with the wedding? Because, if not, I’ve got a party to cancel on Saturday.”

  Connie laughed outright at that. “Darla, you are so funny. Don’t worry, you don’t need to cancel the party. If I did, Ma would kill me, anyhow, because that would be two dresses down the tubes.”

  “Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Darla said as she stood and gingerly rubbed her half-frozen rear end. “Now, let’s get to the deli before I turn into a complete icicle.”

  But, as it turned out, neither was in any danger of succumbing to the weather. They had walked but another block when they heard the sharp blat of a car horn, and Reese pulled up alongside them.

  “Change of plans,” he called through the open window. “Hop on in.”

  “I thought there was a law against nonemergency honking in this town,” Darla said with a sly smile as she slid into the backseat.

  Reese blandly met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, well, go tell a cop.” To Connie, he said, “Sorry, babe. I gotta drop Darla off at her place and take you to your mom’s. So it’s a rain check on lunch.”

  Connie opened her mouth to protest; but then, apparently thinking better of it, she clamped her lips shut again.

  Darla gave her a mental nod of approval. Aloud, she lightly said, “Anything we need to know?”

  Reese shot her another look in the mirror, but all he said was, “Active police investigation. You know the drill.”

  Right. Need-to-know basis.

  Trying to be a good example to Connie, Darla bit her lip for the couple of minutes that it took to reach her bookstore. Once they pulled up in front of her stoop, however, she raised a bent little finger and said, “Reese, before I get out of the car, I want your pinky swear that you’re going to be at the engagement party on Saturday . . . no ifs, ands, or buts.”

  “Pinky swear? Seriously?” He turned in his seat and looked at her from over the top of his mirrored sunglasses. “That kind of stuff’s for teenage girls.”

  Connie snorted and gave her gum a smack. “Yeah, well, you could do like they do in the movies. You know, slice your palms with a hunting knife and then slap them together in a big old macho handshake. Or spit in your hands and shake. Or—”

  “How about I just tell Darla that I’ve got the day off and I’ll be there . . . no pinkies or spit or blood necessary?”

  “Works for me,” Darla told him. To Connie, she said, “I’ll email you the pictures.”

  She hopped out and hurried up the steps into the bookstore, only to be greeted by what sounded like some DEFCON 1 alert.

  “What in the world? James! Robert! What’s going on?” she demanded, rushing toward the back of the store where the piercing sound seemed to be originating, along with a definitely chilly breeze.

  Sure enough, the door to her courtyard was open, and both James and Robert stood there peering out. At her approach, they turned, and Robert exclaimed in an excited voice, “We got her, Ms. P.! We captured the mystery cat!”

  “What did you do, catch her in a leg snare?” Darla facetiously asked as she peered out into the courtyard as well.

  Sylvie—Robert’s friend from the pet rescue group—was crouched over a large wire cage from which the high-pitched keening originated. Managing to hear Darla’s question despite the literal caterwauling, Sylvie stood and waved.

  Slim and pert, with shoulder-length black hair currently topped by a bulky multihued ski cap, the young woman was a part-time college student who worked with her mother’s animal rescue group when she wasn’t busy with her studies. Sylvie had been by the bookstore several times, and not only on animal rescue missions.

  Darla smiled to herself. As far as she knew, Sylvie and Robert were just good friends, having bonded over their mutual love of animals. But Darla had noticed the way her young barista watched the girl when the pair were together, and she suspected that there might be a budding romance . . . at least on Robert’s part.

  “Hi, Ms. Pettistone,” the girl called as Darla waved back. “This was an easy one. We just put an open can of some really stinky cat food in the trap, and she ran right in.”

  By now, the high-pitched cries had begun to abate somewhat, so Darla went over to take a look at the no-longer-fugitive feline.

  “Yep, that’s her,” she confirmed as she bent over the cage. A pair of emerald green eyes the same shade as Hamlet’s stared back at her. “Robert says you’ll
take her to the vet to have her scanned for a chip and checked out to see if she’s healthy?”

  “Right. I didn’t think we’d catch her this fast, so I need to call my mom and tell her to head on back to get us.”

  “Well, in the meantime, we can wrap the cage with some blankets to keep her snug in there, and Robert can whip you up a nice hot latte or whatever you want while you’re waiting. Robert,” she called back to the youth, “there are a couple of moving blankets up in the storeroom if you want to get them for Sylvie.”

  “Sure, Ms. P.”

  While Robert hurried to comply, Darla left the girl in charge of the captured kitty and followed James back inside, closing the door after her.

  “So I thought I was going to have all the excitement,” she told her manager with a smile. “I wonder what Hamlet thinks of all this.”

  “Hamlet has made himself scarce throughout the proceedings,” James replied. “And I believe that his strategy was the correct one. My ears are still ringing from our captive’s protests.”

  “Well, it’s definitely all for the best. The cat will end up in a safe, loving home and Hamlet won’t have to worry about a usurper anymore.”

  “So how did your mission work out?” James asked as they reached the front counter. “Were you able to learn anything from Detective Reese about Bernard’s case?”

  Darla set her bag near the register and shrugged out of her coat.

  “He basically did the old need-to-know routine, like I predicted, said it was still an active investigation.” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully, and then added, “He learned something rather disturbing about one of the witnesses, but that’s all I can say since he swore me to silence.”

  James nodded. “Understood. For all that, I think we must take comfort in the fact that Detective Reese is good at his job. I have every confidence that he will unravel this terrible crime and bring our friend justice. And Ms. Capello’s dress adventures went well?”

  Darla snorted. “The dress fitting part went fine. But something pretty strange happened at the bridal shop that might interest you. I think I know who BookBuyer75 is.”

  She hurriedly hung up her coat, smiling as she saw Robert clomping down the stairs with moving blankets tucked under his arm. While he dashed past her, she returned to the register and pulled her copy of The Marble Faun out of her purse, sticking the latter beneath the counter and the former atop it.

  “While I was waiting for Connie during the fitting, one of the shop’s owners sat down with me. His name is Vinnie, and he and his half brother, Daniel, own the place. He saw what I was reading and wanted a closer look at the book. Then he offered to buy it for two hundred dollars.”

  “Interesting.” With a gesture at the volume, he added, “And, obviously, since it is still here with us, you did not accept the offer.”

  “Well, like I told you, I’ve gotten pretty fond of it,” she countered with a wry smile. “Anyhow, I mentioned the 1871 set he could have for that same price, but he wasn’t going for it. I think he started to say he’d already seen it, but he caught himself in time. He claimed he wanted this particular edition as a gift for a friend,” she ended, giving that last word air quotes.

  “But you only saw my buyer from a distance. Are you are sure this Vinnie person is he?”

  She nodded.

  “Pretty sure. He even used the same phrase you said he told you—cash in hand. Besides, it would be too much of a coincidence for him to be homing in on the exact same book. And he did say he thought he knew me, though he swore he’d never been to our store before. So we exchanged cards, and I told him that if I changed my mind about selling, I’d give him a call.”

  Then she frowned. “And that wasn’t the only odd thing. He started asking about real estate and wanted to know if I had space to lease in the building and did I live here. He said he had a friend who was starting up a business and needed a place.”

  “Probably the same friend whom he wished to gift with a copy of The Marble Faun,” James absently replied as he bent over the computer keyboard and started punching keys.

  Then, after a few mouse clicks, he said, “Aha. I have found the website for Davina’s Bridal, where the owners have thoughtfully posted their pictures on the ‘About Us’ page. And this”—he pointed to an untitled headshot that showed a slightly beefier, happier version of Vinnie—“appears to be the gentleman with whom I recently dealt. Although the person in the second photograph does look surprisingly like him.”

  “That would be his half brother, Daniel, the guy who sold Connie her dress,” Darla confirmed as she looked over James’s shoulder. “So at least that mystery is solved. But I have to say, I’m dying to know why he wants this book so badly.”

  While they were staring at the computer screen, Hamlet had returned from wherever he’d taken refuge during the “mystery cat” incident. Now, he leaped up onto the counter. But whether by design or accident, the brawny feline slid right into the Hawthorne volume and sent it flying off the countertop onto the floor behind the register.

  “Hamlet,” she scolded him, “careful! That’s my book.”

  As she bent to retrieve it, she saw that the impact had jostled loose Vinnie’s business card from its pages, so that the small rectangle of white cardboard fluttered to the ground almost at James’s feet. The store manager picked it up.

  “Darla,” he said in a considering voice as she set her book back on the counter, “did you happen to look closely at this card?”

  “No, I just stuck it in the book. Why?”

  James moved over to where the volume once again lay on the countertop. Fortunately, since the area behind the counter was carpeted, the old book had suffered no damage. He gently flipped open its front cover and laid the business card atop the pasted-down endpaper. “Do you notice anything interesting?”

  “You’re kidding,” Darla gasped as she took a look. He’d laid the card just below the faintly lettered name of the previous owner, one V. Modello. The printed name on the business card underneath read, in embossed black script, Vincent Modello.

  “I had no clue what his last name was. So it was Vinnie’s book all along?”

  James shrugged. “Perhaps, though I would say it was more likely that it belonged to a parent or grandparent with the same first initial as he. And chances are he’s been checking with all the used-book dealers and online auction houses looking for this particular volume, perhaps for some time now.”

  “But why be so mysterious about it? If I were Vinnie and I’d seen me with the book, I would have told me, Hey, this belonged to my dearly departed relative, do you mind if I buy it off you? And of course, I would have said yes to that.”

  “An interesting point. I rather think your first instinct was correct. I suggest that you hold on to the book for a while, and I shall do some more research on this edition.”

  “Right. And if he calls, I’ll let it go to voice mail. Who knows, maybe this particular Faun is worth a lot more than two hundred dollars!”

  * * *

  Several hours later, with the bookstore long since closed and she and Hamlet well-fed, Darla settled on the couch with her copy of The Marble Faun.

  “We’re going to solve this mystery,” she told the cat, who was lounging on the sofa back. “Let’s go through the pages again first, in case we missed something stuck in them. Or maybe there’s an underlined paragraph that will give us a clue.”

  For the next several minutes, she paged through the old volume one leaf at a time looking for something out of the ordinary. Once, she was certain she’d found a secret code in pencil on one page, and obviously written by the same person who’d inscribed his or her name on the endpaper. But a quick online search revealed that the letters “akshard hamdelhi” faintly lettered beneath the phrase “Carrara quarries” referred to Akshardham, a Hindu temple in New Delhi built in the twenty-first cent
ury.

  “Someone liked either temples or marble,” she muttered to Hamlet, “but unless this is a clue to a valuable marble sculpture from India, I think it’s a dead end.”

  She flipped through a few more pages, and then her cell phone abruptly rang. Leaving the book on the sofa, she rushed over to her desk, where the phone was charging, and checked the caller ID.

  Jake.

  “Hi, what’s up?” she asked as she hit the green button.

  “Just being a nosy neighbor,” the PI replied. “Flip off your living room light and go take a look out your front window.”

  “What? Why?”

  Not waiting for Jake’s answer, she hurriedly shut the light off and then eased her way over to the window in question. Then, keeping to one side like she was a cowboy trying to avoid a shootout, she flipped the curtain a little and squinted through the darkness to the street below.

  “See anything?” came Jake’s voice in her ear.

  Darla squinted a moment longer. “Not from here. The sidewalk looks empty. Why, what did you see?”

  “Well, I snuck out for a quick smoke—don’t say anything, it’s only the second cigarette this week—when I noticed some guy had beat me to it. He was leaning against that fancy metal trash can puffing away and looking up at your place.”

  Smoking next to the trash can. Just like the night before Bernard’s murder!

  Darla shivered. “Did you get a good enough look at him to identify him?”

  “No. Since I was walking up my steps, I saw him before he saw me, but I was looking through the wrought iron, and he was pretty well bundled up. I couldn’t call from where I was standing, because he’d hear me, so I went back inside again to call you. Maybe he heard my door close, and it scared him off. It’s probably not anything, but I thought I should let you know.”

  Darla took a steadying breath.

  “Actually, it might be something,” she replied. “I saw something—someone—doing the same thing out there the night before Mr. Plinski’s murder. I didn’t tell you or Reese, because it didn’t seem like anything, but now I’m not so sure. If you want to come up, I—Hamlet, no!”