Double Booked for Death

THREE

“JAMES, TAKE A LOOK AT THIS.”

Darla rose from her spot behind the cash register and handed her store manager a single-spaced, typewritten page, its demure, oyster-colored stock matching its accompanying envelope. The letter had been part of the stack she’d collected the night before but was only now getting to this morning. While the return address had been an unfamiliar one, the Dallas postmark had prompted her to open that correspondence first.

Someone writing from home, had been her first pleased thought.

And so it had been, though the letter’s contents had been anything but homey.

James took the proffered page and adjusted his gold-rimmed reading glasses, and then began to read aloud.

Dear Darla: You do not know me, but I am a neighbor of your sister, Linda. She has told me much about you, and the fact that you left your husband and now own a bookstore in New York City, of all places. While I do not APPROVE of such a lifestyle, I myself am also a SINNER and so do not stoop to casting stones. But I cannot remain silent now that I have heard your young nephews telling my children that you have actually invited the author VALERIE BAYLOR to your store to sign her books.

James paused in his narrative to shoot Darla a wry look and then continued reading.

As a Christian, it is my DUTY to warn you that you are about to bring EVIL into your life by allowing THAT WOMAN into your store. Her books are of SATAN! She corrupts YOUNG MINDS with her stories of supernatural beings. If you allow this, then you are as GUILTY as she is in spreading THE DEVIL’S WORD! I have been praying daily that you will see GOD’S LIGHT and cancel this sinful affair. And I must warn you that, if you don’t, members of The Lord’s Blessing Church will be there to protest MOST VOCIFEROUSLY against you and that woman. Take care for your own soul! Yours in the LORD, Mrs. Bobby Jennings (Marnie).

Darla stood in shocked silence a moment after he’d finished reading. Hearing the words spoken aloud had an even greater impact than seeing them on paper. Finally, she took a calming breath and asked, “So, what do you think?”

“I think the woman has a fixation with the uppercase,” James remarked in his usual understated manner as he handed back the letter to her. “But I am confused. I thought you had told me your sister ran off to Seattle, married a grunge musician, and became a corporate lawyer while her spouse stayed home to care for their three children. What is she doing befriending this odd churchwoman?”

“Actually, my sister Brenda is the lawyer . . . and it’s Portland, not Seattle. Linda is still back home in Texas. She’s the stay-at-home mom with two boys, and her husband is a financial analyst.”

Darla grimaced at that last. Said brother-in-law, though a decent enough guy, also happened to be Darla’s ex-husband’s cousin. That inconvenient relationship had led to a few tense moments those times that her sister had hosted any extended-family get-togethers in the two years following Darla’s divorce.

Darla sighed. She had left Texas and taken on the responsibility of her late great-aunt’s store knowing full well that times were tough for independent booksellers. It had been a gamble . . . but, as far as she could see, a reasonable one. With nothing but debt (courtesy of her deadbeat ex) and a dwindling job market left to her in Dallas, she had jumped at the opportunity of owning both a home and a business, free and clear.

She hadn’t realized just how tough things actually were, however, until she’d started keeping the shop’s books. Each month, the gap between black ink and red continued to narrow. While she was still turning a modest profit—James’s rare-books expertise and her push into Internet sales had been proving the difference—one bad month and the red ink would begin spurting. The rent she collected from Jake was a nice little bonus, but since the lease terms as negotiated with Great-Aunt Dee were far below the going rate, those payments didn’t do much to offset any real drop in store revenues.

The last thing she needed now was a boycott to run off the customers she had!

“Anyhow, I’m sure Linda isn’t involved with these Lord’s Blessing people,” Darla went on, shoving aside her unpleasant memories to concentrate on the new bad stuff. “She and her family attend your basic garden-variety Methodist church. But I did read something about this church in the Dallas paper last year. The congregation decided that a movie theater in a town about thirty miles north of the city was busy doing the devil’s work. Apparently, the place showed horror-movie marathons on Friday and Saturday nights. It was a real draw for the local teens.”

“Ah, let me guess,” James interjected. “Mrs. Jennings and her fellow churchgoers saw evil incarnate and decided that a little soul saving was in order.”

“Exactly. They picketed the theater every weekend for two months until most of the kids gave up and quit going to the movies. The owner finally had to shut the place down,” Darla finished with a disgusted shake of her red mane.

James gave a genteel snort. “It sounds as if Mrs. Jennings and her fellow fanatics have forgotten that both Old and New Testaments are rife with supernatural happenings far more outlandish than anything you will find in movie theaters or Ms. Baylor’s books. But do not worry. In my estimation, your immortal soul is safe even if you refuse to cancel the signing.”

“It isn’t exactly my soul that I’m worried about,” Darla replied as she took back the offending letter and shoved it into its envelope. “It’s my livelihood that concerns me. It’s bad enough that we had a girl outside the store yesterday waving a sign accusing Valerie Baylor of plagiarism. What if those church people really do show up here this weekend and raise a stink about the signing? The same thing might happen to us that happened to the theater owner.”

“My dear Darla, I can assure you that in this part of the world, such a protest would only increase business. But if you are uncomfortable with that sort of publicity, I will be happy to deal with them for you should they make an appearance.”

That last brought a weak smile to Darla’s lips. If anyone could handle a group of chanting fanatics, it would be James. Countless semesters of dealing with college students had endowed him with a no-nonsense attitude, while his own self-confessed stint as a sixties activist had taught him all the tricks of the protester trade. And his years in retail had prepared him for anything.

Darla’s smile broadened as she recalled James’s history with the store. He had assumed the management reins from Great-Aunt Dee after she suffered her first stroke half a dozen years earlier, taking on the responsibility for the day-to-day running of the store right up until her death. Per a provision in the old woman’s will, he had continued in that role during the weeks it took to sort out her estate and, eventually, turn the store over to her great-niece.

Quite understandably, he had been somewhat reluctant to relinquish those responsibilities to Darla, no matter that he had reached official retirement age and could easily have supported himself on what he’d once hinted was a generous university pension. But Darla considered herself fortunate that James preferred to keep working. He’d not hesitated to inform her that his expertise buying and selling rare volumes brought in a nice revenue stream, doing much to keep the store going in an era when numerous independent bookstores were shutting their doors. Moreover, he had quite a customer following, despite his acerbic manner and barely veiled disdain for anything he personally did not view as worthy literature.

Recognizing his value to the business, Darla had made the first move by paying him a substantial bonus in recognition of his past contributions. Mollified, he had allowed her to take on the administrative role after a week’s intensive training, though she’d insisted he retain the title of manager.

“Perhaps it is better this way, after all,” he had conceded once he’d turned over the passwords to the various accounting and inventory spreadsheets. “Now, I can concentrate on fine literature and no longer have to pretend to enjoy selling genre fiction and tell-all books.”

With his rich, cultured tones reminiscent of a Richard Burton or a James Earl Jones, James could have easily had a career in voice-overs had he not opted to teach. A couple of decades earlier, he might even have landed a leading man’s role had he been interested in a stage career. Now, however, his short-cropped hair and beard were completely gray in stark contrast to his mahogany features, though many of the older female customers—and even some of the younger ones—still considered him quite debonair. And although he was proud to say he’d been active in the Civil Rights movement in his twenties, he did not coddle the current crop of youth who hung out on the various street corners nearby looking menacing and occasionally poking a head inside the store.

“If you wish to shop in this store, you will pull up your pants and shut off your iPods so as not to disturb the other customers,” was his standard speech to any young person bold enough to step over the threshold. “And if you would like a recommendation on some uplifting literature, I will be glad to provide it. Otherwise, you may take your business elsewhere.”

Darla had watched this scenario perhaps twenty times in her first weeks there, at first with trepidation, and later with appreciation. Usually, the youth in question would spew a few choice epithets before turning on a heel and leaving without incident. A few times, however, the kid in question would actually pull up, shut off, and then come inside. About half of those young folk left with a purchase in hand—perhaps one of Ralph Ellison’s works, or something from Twain or Austen or a similar author.

One or two of them had even become regular, discount-card-carrying customers.

Yes, if anyone could handle the Lord’s Blessing people, it was Professor James James, Darla reassured herself. Besides, it was already Saturday, and no busload of church people had yet spilled out into the street in front of her store. She glanced at the letter’s envelope and saw the postmark was from two days ago. Not much time to organize a cross-country boycott. Perhaps it had all been an empty threat. But as for the Lone Protester . . .

“Lizzie,” Darla called as her other employee made a timely if breathless entry through the front door that sent the bells jangling. “Is that girl out there this morning, the one dressed like Valerie Baylor and carrying a sign?”

“Oh, Darla, I am so sorry I’m late,” the woman exclaimed, ignoring the question and almost knocking over a display of celebrity cookbooks in her rush to reach the counter.

Lizzie’s plump face beneath a chin-length brown bob was flushed, and her pink lipstick was half gone already from her nervous habit of gnawing her lips. She stuffed the oversized canvas tote that held the manuscript she was perpetually rewriting beneath the register; then, with an exaggerated shudder, the middle-aged woman turned back to Darla.

“The bus took forever to get to my stop, and this man there kept watching me the whole time we were waiting,” she declared. “Then, when the bus finally showed up, the same creepy guy sat down right behind me, even though there were plenty of other seats. The last straw was when he started breathing on my neck. He made me so nervous that I got off two stops early and walked the rest of the way. Seriously, I’m still looking over my shoulder to make sure he’s not there.”

“How very unsettling for you,” James commented. “Perhaps once you recover from the shock of it, you might take a look at the genre shelves. They could use a bit of restocking.” To Darla, he added, “I’ll be up in the storeroom finishing inventory if you need me.”

So saying, he picked up his coffee cup and started toward the stairs. Lizzie waited until his back was turned and then stuck out her tongue in his direction.

Darla sighed and suppressed the urge to chastise the pair with a stern, “Play nicely, children.” Both were older than she—Lizzie by a decade, and James by a good thirty years!—and yet it seemed that she was the one playing the parental role.

Darla had noticed that over the past few weeks, Lizzie had grown increasingly snippy toward James while he, in turn, had become even more patronizing than usual in his dealings with Lizzie. When previously questioned, each had denied any friction existed between them. Still, looking back, Darla was pretty sure the trouble had begun when Lizzie resumed her college classes and started working only part-time at the store, leaving more of the burden to James.

She suspected the turning point had come when Lizzie had declared one morning that she would soon be a professor just like James had been. What Darla had overheard of James’s response had owed more to good old Anglo-Saxon than Latin or Greek, camouflaged though it had been among numerous polysyllabic words. By way of response, Lizzie had turned on the waterworks, and Darla had found herself playing peacekeeper.

Part of the problem, she knew, was that while James retained the store manager title, Darla reserved for herself the final word on hiring and firing. And since Lizzie had been a loyal employee for a couple of years prior to Darla’s tenure, and seemed to genuinely enjoy dealing with their customers, Darla was loath to let her go strictly to assuage James’s considerable ego. But that didn’t mean that Lizzie’s drama-llama tendencies didn’t get on her nerves on occasion, too.

“I’m sorry you had a fright, Lizzie,” she said in a mollifying tone, “but that’s to be expected if you use public transportation. What I’m more concerned about is that girl I asked you about. Was she out there?”

“Girl?” Lizzie opened her eyes wide and shook her head, sending the bob swinging. “Cross my heart, Darla, I don’t know anything about her. Ooh, customers,” she added as the bells on the door jangled, and a young couple walked in. “Gotta go help them out!”

“I didn’t ask if you—oh, never mind,” Darla muttered to Lizzie’s departing form and marched toward the front window to take a look for herself.

The street had been empty of all save the usual Saturday traffic when she’d finally dragged herself out of bed that morning after having stayed up until well after midnight finishing Valerie Baylor’s book. Darla allowed herself a rueful smile. The story had sucked her in, pure and simple, and it had been all she could do not to sneak back down to the store and grab copies of the first two in the series so that she could catch up. Later, after the signing, she promised herself as she warily peered out onto the street.

She heaved a relieved sigh when she saw no sign of the Lone Protester. Of course, it was only quarter after ten on a Saturday morning. The girl was probably still sleeping, like any normal kid her age. Darla would have slept in even later herself, save that by eight a.m. an unsympathetic Hamlet had reached the caterwauling stage as far as demanding breakfast.

She turned from the window again and shook her head. Just like Lizzie and her bus-stop guy, she’d be peering over her shoulder the rest of the day lest the Lone Protester or the Lord’s Blessing congregation make a surprise appearance outside her door.

But over the next few hours, things were busy enough in the store that Darla didn’t have much time for over-shoulder peering. Between finalizing arrangements for the Valerie Baylor appearance and a glut of teen customers all trying to snag a copy of Ghost of a Chance early—“Sorry, no sales until the autographing tomorrow”—she and her staff kept busy well past lunch. Even Hamlet stayed relatively civil toward the shoppers, save for a small incident with a teacup poodle traveling in its Paris-Hilton-wannabee owner’s purse.

The girl—in her midtwenties, and wearing exaggerated eye makeup and a pink dress that, to use one of Jake’s expressions, barely covered her lady parts—made the unfortunate error of setting down said purse next to a stack of books. Unfortunately, Hamlet had chosen the spot behind that stack for his postlunch nap.

What happened next was pure Hamlet. The teacup pup had sensed the cat’s presence and promptly let loose with a high-pitched bark of challenge. The obnoxious sound caused the feline to open one baleful green eye. He’d not bothered responding, however . . . at least, not until the poodle barked again. This time, Hamlet emitted a hiss that sounded like a cross between a ticked-off lion and a set of air brakes being released. And he’d accompanied that threatening sound with the swipe of a single oversized black paw from around the stack, hitting the purse square on.

The bag had already been sitting dangerously close to the counter’s edge. The force of Hamlet’s blow sent it skittering so that it now hung halfway off. It took but a single bound from the frightened pup for the inevitable to happen.

Darla had seen what was coming, though, and was already in full-swoop mode. She reached the counter in time to catch the handbag in midfall, saving the feisty dog from a tumble.

“Oh. My. God!” the Paris clone exclaimed in outrage, wheeling about to snatch the purse with its yelping occupant from Darla’s grasp. “Your cat nearly killed my puppy!”

“He did no such thing,” came Darla’s stern rebuke. She pointed to a standup sign on the counter, right next to where the purse had been sitting, and went on, “And if you’d read our policy, you would have known that any pet brought into the store must be held at all times. That same notice is on our front door, too.”

“Well, I didn’t see it.” The young woman gave her head a careless toss and slipped her purse strap over her shoulder, so that the pup was now tucked under her arm. “I think I’d better leave now, before that beast of yours attacks again. You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue for pain and suffering.”

“Pain and suffering, my butt,” Darla muttered as the girl stalked her way to the front door. The only one in pain and suffering was the poor dog that was being carted around like an accessory. Why, she had half a mind to—

“Wait!” Lizzie called, trotting past the girl and beating her to the door. Smile bright, she went on, “With all the excitement, you must have forgotten that lovely blue fountain pen you picked up. I know you’ll enjoy using it. It’s such an elegant writing instrument.”

Then, when the girl made no response, Lizzie added, “Cash or charge?” and held out an expectant hand.

The girl hesitated; then, a blush mottling her powdered cheeks, she reached down the neckline of her dress and plucked out a flat, red-velvet-covered case. Thrusting it at Lizzie, she sputtered, “I forgot to grab a shopping bag and had to put it somewhere while I was looking around. But I’ve changed my mind. Here,” she finished, and then pushed past Lizzie and rushed out the door.

Her smile triumphant now, Lizzie sashayed her way back to the counter while Darla stared at her, openmouthed. “How—how did you know she was shoplifting?” she asked as Lizzie laid the expensive pen upon the counter.

The other woman shrugged. “She didn’t look at the back cover of a single book, so I knew right off she wasn’t a reader. Then, when I went by the pen display, I saw that one of them was missing. Really, Darla, you need to get a lock for that, no matter what Ms. Pettistone said,” she scolded.

Darla nodded her agreement. Great-Aunt Dee had been big on the whole touchy-feely concept for her customers, figuring they were more inclined to purchase a high-end item if they didn’t have to track down someone to unlock a case. But given that the pens in question retailed from one hundred dollars on the low end—with the almost-stolen blue one worth more than twice that—Darla had to agree with Lizzie on this one.

“And the dog was part of it, too,” the other woman went on with a wise nod. “Even if Hamlet hadn’t smacked the purse, she’d put it so close to the edge of the counter that the puppy was bound to make it fall. She was already planning to use it as an excuse to leave, and figured we’d be so upset about the dog that we’d let her go without paying much attention. It’s an old shoplifter’s trick.”

“Wow, good job,” Darla told her, most sincerely. “The only shoplifters I ever came across when I worked at the chain were ten-year-old boys sticking comics down the backs of their pants. I guess I’ll have to start being a little less trusting.”

“Yeah, well.” Lizzie shrugged, her smile slipping. “You never know who’s going to steal something from you until they do. And then you can’t always prove it.”

With those cryptic words, she grabbed up the pen once more and headed off to return it to its rightful spot. Darla didn’t have time to puzzle over her meaning, for the door jangled again, and another gaggle of teen girls entered, determined looks in their overly made-up eyes. She did, however, discuss the afternoon’s events with Jake that night after she’d closed the store and sent her employees home with strict instructions to rest up for tomorrow night.

“Lizzie’s right, you never know who might be a shoplifter,” Jake agreed as she sipped a diet soda—she told Darla that she never drank the night before a job—rather than her usual glass of red. “That was pretty sharp-eyed of her, catching the woman like that.”

They were in Jake’s garden apartment, sitting at the 1950s-era chrome kitchen table in her combination living and dining room. That piece of furniture would have looked out of place, except that Jake’s entire apartment was decorated with a distinct mid-twentieth-century vibe that reminded Darla of old television sitcoms. From what Jake had told her, the previous tenant had left behind a mishmash of furniture dating from that era. Rather than hauling it all to the curb, however, she’d embraced the style and tied everything together with finds from various thrift shops. From the starburst wall clock to the mod floor-to-ceiling lamp with its three shades that looked like melted red plastic bowls, the décor had a funky kitschy look that usually made Darla smile.

This night, however, any smile was forced as she contemplated how the Valerie Baylor autographing might play out. In her fantasies, it would be a triumph of execution, with La Baylor begging to return to her store with every new book published. But in her nightmares, the dual threats that were the Lone Protester and the Lord’s Blessing congregation shut down the event before it even started, reducing Pettistone’s Fine Books to pariah status in the eyes of readers and authors alike.

“Don’t sweat it, kid,” Jake reassured her after she’d voiced those last concerns aloud. “Even if those church people do manage to make their way to Brooklyn, there are plenty of laws saying how they can and can’t conduct their protests. We’ll handle it for you. Besides, Valerie has probably seen her share of wackaloons claiming that she’s written the second coming of The Satanic Verses. Like they say, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

Yeah, tell that to the theater owner these particular wackaloons shut down, was Darla’s first reflexive thought. But those defeatist words were crowded out by an image that flashed in her mind of Great-Aunt Dee as she’d last seen her almost twenty years ago: short-cropped hair dyed an impossible shade of red that verged on purple, and wrinkled features so heavily powdered that her ruddy complexion looked almost white. Her blue eyes had still been clear as a summer sky in Texas, however, and they’d snapped with intelligent impatience anytime something—or someone—stood in her way. How else had she managed to snag and outlive three wealthy husbands?

Darla hesitated a moment as she contemplated WWDD: What Would Dee Do? For sure, the old woman wouldn’t sit around dwelling on a bunch of what-ifs and maybes. She’d forge ahead with her own plans and steamroll right over anyone who tried to throw a monkey wrench into the works. Darla could almost hear the woman’s unmistakable twang echoing in her mind.

Hell, girl, are you gonna let folks like them tell you how to run this here store of ours?

Feeling abruptly cheered, Darla shook her head. Not just no, but, hell no!

“You’re right,” she told Jake with a grin and a toast of her diet soda. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. So let’s hear it for the Lone Protester and the Lord’s Blessing Church.”

“To wackaloons,” Jake agreed with a clink of her glass. Then she gave Darla a wry smile. “And don’t forget the five hundred teenagers who are going to start lining up outside your store at the crack of dawn. Mix them all together, and something tells me that tomorrow’s going to be a long, long day.”