Double Booked for Death

SEVEN

THREE EMPTY TISSUE BOXES SAT IN THE CENTER OF THE table, while the tiny wastebasket Darla had commandeered from the restroom overflowed now with soggy Kleenex. The refuse served as mute testament to the torrent of emotion that had washed through the store a couple of hours earlier, right after Darla announced in somber tones that Valerie Baylor had just been killed after stepping into the path of a van while outside taking a break.

Darla sighed, remembering the reaction to her pronouncement: total pandemonium. A communal shriek rose from the three dozen or so fan girls there in the store. A good third of them collapsed onto the floor upon hearing the news, causing Lizzie and Mary Ann to rush to their collective aid with motherly words of comfort. Most of the remainder simply gave way to noisy sobs, though a few of the girls hurried for the door, apparently intent on mourning at their idol’s dead feet.

Ever the professional, Everest had blocked the exit with his substantial bulk, and Koji had joined him, though the tears running down the publicist’s round cheeks had made him look anything but formidable beside the larger man. Fearing that the girls still might struggle past and tumble into the street just as Valerie had, Darla had rushed to assist the pair. With a bit of strong-arm help from the bodyguard, she had managed to convince the weeping girls to sit in a circle on the floor and take deep breaths until they had sufficiently recovered themselves to be trusted not to make some melodramatic gesture.

Her next concern had been for Callie. The girl’s sister, Susanna, and Susanna’s two BFFs had promptly joined in the general wailing. Callie, however, had stood silently by, looking like one of those hooded medieval cemetery statues as she clutched her unsigned novel. Tears ran down her thin cheeks and washed away the last traces of her red lipstick. Unsure how best to comfort the girl, Darla had gone with the tried and true, and given her a hug.

Callie had allowed this familiarity for a few moments. Then, firmly if politely pulling away, she said in a small voice, “I want my mommy.”

Since Darla had been thinking along much the same lines herself, she gave the girl a sympathetic nod. “Hold on a few minutes longer, honey, and I’ll ask Mr. Reese if it’s OK for you and Susanna to go home.”

It took longer than a few minutes, however, for Darla to keep that promise. Between the police and EMTs and reporters, not to mention almost five hundred teenage girls in various states of hysteria, Reese and Jake had plenty on their hands outside for the moment. Darla decided to let things settle down before seeing about sending everyone in the store home.

She next turned her attention to Valerie’s entourage. Both Hillary and Koji had whipped out their respective cell phones, and from snippets of overheard conversation Darla assumed they were notifying various people of the situation. She’d expected shock, or even dismay—after all, at least two of the four had just lost their respective jobs with no Valerie to guard or gussy up—but to her surprise, they all seemed struck by genuine grief.

Mavis had broken down into delicate sobs, his broad shoulders shaking as he buried his face in his large hands, while Hillary sniffled into the tissues that Lizzie had prudently fetched from the storeroom. Though he remained dry-eyed as befitted his job, Everest wore the guilty expression of a man who realized that he had, in the end, failed to keep his charge safe. Darla noticed him give a discreet honk into his crisp linen handkerchief. As for Koji, the lost expression he wore better befitted a boy than a middle-aged man.

Had she been mistaken in her judgment regarding the author? Had Valerie actually been a paragon rather than a pain?

Darla swiped at an unexpected tear of her own, while a glance at Lizzie and Mary Ann showed both women dabbing at their eyes, too. Mass hysteria, perhaps? It was hard not to be swept away by the emotion permeating the room, she rationalized, given the sheer volume of tears being shed by the author’s fans.

For now, however, her mission was to keep the teen fans under control. At her urging, James had begun reading aloud from Valerie’s latest novel. While no fan of the Haunted High series, the retired professor could never resist an audience; the soothing tones of his melodious baritone soon reduced the chorus of sobs to muffled sniffles.

After perhaps an hour, a grim-faced Jake had come into the shop to advise Darla that the fans could all be on their way. “But the police will have some questions for the rest of you,” she added, her gaze encompassing Darla’s people as well as Valerie’s. “So make yourselves comfortable here awhile longer.”

Most of the fans outside had dispersed, save for a handful of those who’d been closest to the spot where Valerie had met her dramatic end. Reese was still taking notes, and Darla wondered how many pages he’d gone through so far. The reports doubtless would make for some substantial reading for someone who professed never to crack open a book, Darla thought with a momentary lapse into snark. Then, chiding herself for being petty at such a time, she concentrated on escorting out the fans, particularly Callie and the other three girls.

Traffic outside had slowed to near glacial upon reaching the flashing police lights. Those seeking a quick thrill would be disappointed, for the police vehicles and a hastily erected barrier assembled from sawhorses covered with tarps blocked their view. To Darla’s relief, Valerie’s body had been removed. Unfortunately, the area where she’d landed was now marked with Day-Glo spots of spray paint, and the accident investigators were still measuring and photographing the scene.

At least they didn’t draw one of those cliché body silhouettes , Darla thought in relief as she deliberately kept Callie to her far side in order to spare her the sight of the death scene. Unfortunately, Susanna and her friends had shrieked with sufficient vigor upon glimpsing the lonely pair of red pumps still lying in the street that Callie had looked, too. She’d said nothing, however, but merely clutched Darla’s hand more tightly.

Somewhat to Darla’s surprise, Susanna politely protested Darla’s plan to call a taxi for them. “It’s, like, not necessary,” the teen said with a shrug, managing a blasé tone despite the twin trails of tear-spilled black eyeliner that now bisected either pale cheek. “We can totally walk home.”

Before they walked off, Callie lingered behind her sister for a moment. “I never even got my book signed,” she said, her soft tone filled with resigned sorrow.

Darla gave her an encouraging smile. “Tell you what. Give it a few days for things to settle down, and then have your mom bring you by the store. I’ll see if I can make it up to you.”

Satisfied the girls were safely on their way, Darla had returned inside to wait with the others. By then, the worst of the grief storm had passed, replaced by a general air of defeat. Someone had brought the food down from upstairs and arranged it neatly on the counter near the register, but it didn’t appear anyone was hungry. Not feeling much of an appetite herself, Darla spent the next half hour straightening stock, until, tiring of the busywork, she’d settled herself at the far side of the signing table. No one, it seemed, wanted to sit in the black-draped chair that had been Valerie’s.

What would Great-Aunt Dee have done had this happened on her watch? Darla frowned, considering. Knowing Dee, she probably would’ve sponsored some big memorial event at the store for her customers: a splashy-yet-tasteful party that would make all the papers. It was a good idea, Darla thought. Maybe she should consider something similar.

She sighed. For the moment, her only plan was to snag a signed copy of Valerie’s book for Callie, assuming that the girl ever returned to the store. The memory of the girl’s pinched features and silent tears haunted Darla almost as much as the image of Valerie’s slack, waxen face thrown into harsh relief under the headlights’ glare. Perhaps an autographed copy would ease a bit of her young pain.

The ching of the cash register roused her from her state of mental exhaustion.

“James, what in the heck are you doing?”

Darla stared in dismay at the sight of her employee, casually ringing up an armful of books. Valerie Baylor’s books, to be exact. And they’d not come from the remaining stacks that now waited forlornly for autographs that would never be penned. Instead, they were from the under-counter stash of books that Valerie had signed at the beginning of the night, which had been tagged as store copies.

“Employee discount purchase,” he replied, his crisp tone unapologetic as he ran his American Express card through the reader, then, per policy, handed the receipt to her, along with a pen. “I do have my retirement to consider, if you would be so kind as to oblige?”

Darla stared at the slip of paper for a moment before sighing. “Sure,” she replied, aware she probably should put her foot down about such a ghoulishly opportunistic buy, but not caring. She had more to worry about than James making a few bucks selling books that more properly ought to remain store stock. Her bigger concern was how this was going to affect the shop’s business from here on out. She still had several hundred copies of Valerie’s new book in boxes and on display. Would people want to buy their books from the place that, for all intents and purposes, had been the site of the country’s most popular author’s death?

Then again, James was probably right. Darla could remember quite clearly how, the day after the Princess of Wales’s tragic death in Paris, she’d impulsively headed to her local bookseller to pick up one of those Diana coffee-table books as a memento. Everyone else in town apparently had had the same idea. By the time she got there, every Diana tell-all bio and picture book had been wiped from the shelves, along with every gossip magazine that might have contained a scandalous photo or two of the princess. Darla had counted herself fortunate to score a week-old copy of a news magazine with an article on Diana that she’d found stashed behind the napkins in the coffee bar area of the store. In fact, she’d been so stoked that she had not even bothered to ask for a discount to account for the coffee rings on the front cover.

Given that, chances were that Valerie’s books, even the unsigned ones, would fly off the shelves come Tuesday, when she opened again.

That was, if she decided to reopen the store at all, after what had happened.

Hillary broke the silence as she watched James’s transaction.

“Put a couple on eBay tonight,” the agent advised in a glum tone. “You’ll get the first wave of hysterical fandom that’ll be glad to bid away their entire college fund for a piece of Valerie.”

Then, when everyone else stared with faintly horrified looks at her choice of words, she gave an inelegant snort. “Oh, for Chrissakes, I don’t mean literally,” she clarified, seemingly channeling her dead client for a moment. To James, she went on, “Hang on to the others for later, and you’ll catch the serious collectors. If the books have tonight’s date along with her signature, so much the better.”

While James reviewed the title page of each and nodded in satisfaction, Darla rose. “I’ll check with Jake and see if they’re ready to take our statements now,” she told the others. “It’s almost eleven, so hopefully they’re about done out there.”

And, outside, things did finally seem to be winding down. The police appeared finished with photographing the scene and taking measurements, though the light show from the emergency vehicles continued on. The death van, as Darla morbidly found herself thinking of it, already had been loaded onto a flatbed wrecker. The wrecker, in turn, now idled impatiently as the police began removing the barricades still blocking off that lane.

She wondered what had happened to the driver who’d hit Valerie, until she noticed a handful of people who must have been that van’s passengers huddled near one of the police cruisers. Another figure—presumably the driver—was barely visible behind the officer who appeared to be questioning him. Darla felt sorry for the guy, for chances were he’d never even seen Valerie coming. Now, given her rabid fans, he might end up needing to change his name and leave town—heck, leave the country!—as soon as the law let him.

She glanced back to the action on the sidewalk. Reese was taking a statement from a final pair of black-caped girls, both of whom were gesturing with exaggerated animation. Jake stood removed from it all, leaning against one of the blue sawhorses still on the sidewalk. The red glow of her cigarette somehow seemed a fitting punctuation point to the night’s events.

Darla headed in Jake’s direction. “So what’s the word with my staff and Valerie’s people?” she asked as she settled on the wooden support alongside her.

“Reese or one of the other cops will want to get brief statements from them first, and then they’ll be free to go.” Jake took another deep drag on her cigarette, then exhaled an impatient cloud of secondhand smoke. “The police will be sticking around a bit longer. It’s never quick and dirty when it’s a pedestrian fatality.”

“I still don’t understand that part,” Darla protested. “Traffic was moving, but it wasn’t going that fast. How can she be dead?”

Jake flicked an ash and glanced Darla’s way.

“You don’t have to be hit by Speed Racer to be killed by a moving vehicle. Even if the van was going only thirty miles an hour or so, that’s still a pretty good smack. She probably flew at least fifteen feet. All it takes is landing headfirst on the pavement, and you’re dead on scene. We’ll know the exact cause later.”

Darla suppressed a shudder. “So has anyone figured out why she ended up in the street in the first place?”

“Since I’m not a cop anymore, kid, I’m pretty much on the outside here. They took my statement just like they did with your fan girls.”

She paused for another draw on her cigarette.

“Unofficially, from what I’ve overheard of our witness statements, it looks like Valerie decided to confront your Lone Protester, and the two of them struggled,” she went on. “Of course, at the time, no one realized it was Valerie herself doing the confronting. She was wearing the same hooded black cape that everyone else and their dog had on. As far as anyone who noticed that little smackdown knew, she was just another fan who didn’t like seeing her pet author being dissed. It seems Valerie managed to grab the sign, but lost her footing in the process and stumbled off the curb just as that poor SOB in the van was driving past. At least, that’s what our witnesses say they saw.”

Darla frowned. “What, do you think there’s more to it than that?”

“Like I said, I’m on the outside here. But from all the publicity I’ve read about her, I have to wonder why in the hell Valerie would’ve abandoned her adoring masses just to lay down the law to some kook. If it worried her that much, she could have sent her bodyguard out to do the old intimidation routine. I don’t even see how she knew that protester was out here.”

“Probably one of the fans mentioned it when she was autographing, and it ticked her off,” Darla reasoned. “So she made up the excuse about needing another smoke break, and instead she snuck out to deal with the girl.”

She was about to ask if the police had tracked down this unknown antifan who’d been the root cause of the tragedy. Before she could, however, the officer who had been interviewing the driver began herding all the van’s occupants away from the accident site and toward where Darla and Jake were leaning.

Darla, who had given the passengers only a cursory look before, now stared in surprise. While Valerie’s fans had all been dressed in black capes, this group was attired in white robes that billowed behind them as they walked and which gleamed beneath the artificial light. The effect was even more pronounced, given the crisp black precision of the officer’s tapered motorcycle breeches and tall boots.

“Must have been running late for a KKK meeting,” Jake observed with a snort as she stood and stubbed out her cigarette on one leg of the barricade. Flicking away the tobacco remains, she straightened and stuck the filtered butt into her back pocket.

“How’s it going, Harry?” she addressed the cop, who had halted before them, the van passengers hanging back in a small uncertain knot behind him.

The officer pulled off his cap to reveal a balding pate. Wiping a sleeve across his brow, he resettled his hat and shrugged. “You know how it is, Jake. Good as it gets under the circumstances.” Then, with a look at Darla, he added, “You’re Ms. Pettistone, the bookstore owner?”

“That’s me,” Darla said, wondering which of his five white-clad charges was the ill-fated driver. Best she could make out, there were three women and two men, all dressed in the same odd fashion.

The cop thrust a beefy thumb over one shoulder. “We’ve got the driver’s and passengers’ statements, so these folks are free to go for the moment. But the driver wanted to talk to you . . . claims she knows you.”

She?

That was Darla’s first surprised thought. Somehow, she had expected that the driver would have been male. On the heels of that came confusion. How in the world did the driver know her, unless maybe she was a bookstore customer who’d had the horribly unfortunate bad luck to be driving past at the same moment that Valerie stepped off the curb? But before she had much more than a moment to wonder, one of the white-robed women pushed past the cop to stand toe-to-toe with her.

She was about Darla’s age, with blond hair that had been teased and sprayed into a magnificent concoction that rose a good three inches at the crown of her head. But despite the woman’s exaggerated hairdo, Darla was surprised to note that she wore almost no makeup, just a touch of mascara on her wide blue eyes. And as soon as the woman opened her mouth and Darla heard a familiar twangy drawl, she knew this was no Snooki wannabe.

“This is so unfortunate,” she exclaimed in a soft voice that wavered on the edge of tears. “You don’t know how sorry I am”—she gestured at her companions—“how sorry we all are for this terrible accident. I was just trying to find us a parking spot—I swear, there’s not one to be had in this city!—and I never saw that poor woman until she was right in front of me. You can be sure that our entire congregation will be praying that she repented of her sins in those last precious moments of life. Eternal damnation is not a pleasant fate, I do assure you.”

Eternal damnation? Darla’s confusion deepened . . . and then, abruptly, she realized just who this woman might be.

“You’re my sister Linda’s neighbor, the one who wrote me that letter,” she choked out in disbelief.

The wavering lips firmed into a small smile that didn’t quite reach those wide blue eyes.

“Why, yes. Yes, I am,” she replied and stuck out a small, neatly manicured hand from the oversized sleeve of what Darla realized now was a choir robe. “I’m Marnie Jennings. My fellow brothers and sisters in Christ drove all the way here from the Lord’s Blessing Church in Dallas, Texas, to help you and all those poor children find salvation.”