Double Booked for Death

EIGHT

“JAMES, YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS,” DARLA MUTTERED IN her store manager’s ear, casually drawing him aside from the others still inside the bookshop. She waited until they were near the front door, and softly added, “You know the driver of the van that killed Valerie Baylor? It turns out she is that same crazy woman who wrote the letter I showed you.”

“You mean, Mrs. Bobby Jennings of the Lord’s Blessing Church? You actually talked to her?” James stared at her, one eyebrow raised . . . for him, an indication of extreme surprise.

She nodded. “The highway patrol officer brought her over to me. He was taking her statement about the accident, and she told him that she knew me.”

Darla went on to relate her mercifully brief encounter with Marnie and the other congregation members a few minutes earlier. With their church van impounded by the police, they were stranded, at least for the night. For a single awful moment, Darla had feared that the woman was going to ask if she and her church posse could stay with her. Relief had swept her when Marnie had told her they had already been in contact with a local church who’d agreed to put them up until their van was returned to them.

“And thank God for that,” Darla finished, the words as heartfelt as any prayer of Marnie’s. “You should have heard the things she was saying about hellfire and damnation. I was serious when I told you she was a crazy woman.”

“So do the police think this was a deliberate attack on her part?”

“Surely not, or they would have arrested her . . . or at least held her longer for questioning.”

Darla hesitated. But, could it have been?

“No,” she repeated more firmly, “no way could she have known that Valerie would step out onto the street, and no way could she have timed it so exactly. Heck, no one even realized the dead woman was Valerie at first, with all those girls and their black capes. Awful as it is, I would guess Marnie’s not going to be charged with anything.”

Though Darla cynically wondered if all the nasty vibes Marnie and her gang had sent Valerie’s way could be considered a contributory factor in the tragedy. Changing the subject, she asked, “So how are things going in here?”

“Your Detective Reese has already taken my statement, as well as those of Lizzie, Mary Ann, Mavis, Mr. Foster, and Ms. Gables. Ms. Baylor’s bodyguard is the last person waiting to be interviewed . . . that is, besides you.”

Darla nodded. She saw that Everest now sat with Reese at the signing table, while everyone else was gathered near the register, where someone had arranged a few of the chairs in an impromptu circle. Mavis slumped desolately in one, flanked by Koji and Mary Ann, both of whom were murmuring words of consolation. Lizzie sat slightly apart, her nose in a new paperback romance, while Hillary sat texting away on her phone. The agent looked up as Darla and James approached. “I don’t know why they’re bothering to take our statements,” she said with more than a hint of pique. “We were all here inside when it happened.”

“Not necessarily,” was James’s smooth rejoinder. “Busy as we all were, I venture to say that no one was taking attendance. Besides which, almost everyone in the store with the exception of myself and those two gentlemen”—he gestured at Everest and then Koji—“was wearing a black cape, making it difficult to know who was where, and when.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” Hillary snapped back.

“Yes, what does that mean?” Lizzie echoed, a quaver in her voice as she looked up from her novel. “Are you saying one of us might have followed her outside?”

“I am merely pointing out that the police are obliged to check out all possibilities when someone is killed. But it does seem apparent that what happened to Ms. Baylor was, in fact, nothing more than a tragic accident.”

“Are you certain about that, James?”

This came from Mary Ann, who had left Mavis’s side and now was busy wrapping the uneaten food. As all eyes turned her way, she calmly went on, “I heard there was some girl who was causing trouble out there on the street. In fact, I overheard Officer Reese say that she might have pushed Valerie into traffic on purpose.”

“It’s Detective Reese, ma’am,” the man in question corrected as he approached the group. “And all I said was that one of the witnesses claimed she saw what she believed to be a deliberate push. We don’t know for certain yet exactly what happened tonight.”

“But are you saying that maybe it was murder?” Lizzie’s quaver had morphed into a squeak, while her fingers fluttered at the ties that held her black cape around her throat.

Reese shook his head. “That’s not my call. Unless we come up with some hard evidence that points to criminal intent, it’s up to the medical examiner to decide if Ms. Baylor’s death was an accident or not. So it would help me out”—his sharp blue gaze swept the whole group—“if all of you kept that kind of talk under your hats until after we have a formal ruling.” He paused. “But you’re all free to go now, all except for Ms. Pettistone. I still need her statement. We’ll let you know if we need anything more from any of you. Oh, and sir—er, ma’am,” he added as Mavis began scooping up Valerie’s purse and cigarettes, “if those belonged to Ms. Baylor, leave them here. We’ll see that her property gets couriered over to her family in the morning.”

Mavis stared blankly at him for a moment and looked as if she’d protest, but then nodded. Gathering up the oversized makeup bag, the assistant joined Hillary and Koji as Darla—after assuring Reese that she would be right back—walked the somber group to the door and waited with them on the outer steps. Everest had walked on ahead to retrieve the limo parked farther down the block.

Darla glanced down the street and was relieved to see that the last police car was pulling away from the scene. The crews from the satellite trucks emblazoned with various local news station logos were packing up their equipment. Very soon, traffic would be back to its usual late-Sunday-night pattern, with no sign that a death had occurred there on the pavement a few hours earlier.

“There goes the rest of the tour,” Hillary said with a sharp sigh as she tapped her foot on the concrete step with ill-concealed impatience.

Indeed, to Darla, she now sounded less grief stricken and more aggrieved when it came to her recently deceased client. She’d shed the earlier reticent air that had hung about her as she had catered to Valerie and now seemed snappishly capable in manner. Perhaps the subdued version of Hillary had been but an act she’d put on for the author’s benefit.

“What about Valerie’s family?” Darla asked, knowing only what she’d told Jake, that the author supposedly lived on the family estate in the Hamptons. “Did she have a husband, or any children?”

“No kids,” Hillary confirmed, “just an ex-husband who’s been out of her life for the last twenty years or so. But she’s got parents and a brother who still live in the area. Koji drew the short straw, so he gets to ride out there with the cops to let them know what happened.”

Darla gave a puzzled frown. Somehow, she would have expected Valerie’s agent to have taken on that particular duty. But Darla saw that the same officer that Jake had called Harry was signaling the publicist to join him. Koji nodded and then turned to Darla.

“Good-bye, Ms. Pettistone,” he told her in a glum tone as he held out a hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you. And I will be sure to inform everyone at Ibizan Books that your arrangements here tonight had no bearing on this tragedy.”

Not sure if a “thank you” was an appropriate response to that last, Darla merely nodded.

Hillary waited until he was just out of earshot and then snorted. “He is so fired tomorrow, I guarantee you.”

“Oh no! Surely the publisher won’t blame him?”

Hillary gave her a pitying look, and Darla hurriedly changed the subject. “I’m guessing the burial will be private?”

“God, can you imagine the circus if it isn’t? Ibizan Books is sure to sponsor some sort of public memorial for her fans later on, but I can guarantee the actual service will be just relatives and the important people in the business.”

She went on to tick off the names of current and past New York Times bestselling authors and their respective publishers, and then dropped a few Hollywood names as well.

“Since they’re still casting the movie version of Haunted High,” she explained. “We’re hoping to get Miley to play Lani, but we’ve got a couple of backups in case she goes Lindsay on us.” She paused and gave Darla a shrewd look. “I’ll do what I can to get you a seat at the service, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’d like to pay my respects, that’s all,” she replied, trying not to sound offended. “I can’t help but feel somehow responsible for what happened.”

Everest pulled up in the limo just then, so she followed the remainder of Valerie’s entourage as they trouped down the steps to where he was holding open the car door. Before slipping inside, Hillary paused to give Darla a quick air kiss.

“If I do get you in, promise me you won’t tell anyone who you are. You think Koji’s butt is in the fire? Just wait until you get introduced to the CEO of Ibizan as the person who killed off their golden goose.”

While Darla pictured that last unpleasant scenario and Hillary settled herself in the limo, a red-eyed Mavis extended a large pale hand in Darla’s direction. “I appreciate your kindness tonight,” he said in a tone so low that she barely made out the words. “And ignore Hillary. Don’t worry, no one blames you for any of this.”

“Thanks, Mavis. I appreciate it,” she replied, most sincerely.

By then, however, he already had folded himself into the limo, dragging his wheeled makeup kit in next to him. Everest gave her a polite “Ma’am,” and after closing the rear door, took his seat behind the wheel. She heard the soft purr of the stretch vehicle’s engine, and then the limo made a smooth merge into the late-night traffic. Its twin red taillights gleaming in the darkness reminded her of Hamlet.

“Oh my God, Hamlet!” So saying, Darla rushed over to where the blue sawhorses that earlier extended down the sidewalk had now been gathered into several neat stacks for the barricade guy to retrieve come morning. Jake had just finished chaining the lot together against theft in the interim, padlocking the final length of chain to the wrought-iron railing in front of her basement apartment. She was brushing her palms against her black-denim-clad hips to knock off the worst of the grime as a breathless Darla joined her.

“I forgot about Hamlet,” she hurried to explain. “Valerie said he was out in the courtyard with her the first time she took a smoke break. He was probably still there the second time she went out, too. Damn it, and she left the gate wide open. I need to make sure that he didn’t wander out after her. He’s never left the courtyard before . . . but then, the gate has never been left open for him, either.”

“Go ahead,” Jake told her. “I’ll take a look out here, just in case he snuck around the front. Reese can take your statement later, if need be. It’s not like we don’t know where to find you.”

With a quick word of thanks, Darla took off at a run toward the store. With luck, Hamlet would be lounging in a darkened corner of the courtyard prepared to treat her with lordly disdain once she found him and fawned over him in relief. That, or she’d find him skulking about the alley looking for something furred or feathered he could chomp on. She didn’t want to think about him wandering the streets of Brooklyn, where chances were he’d meet Valerie’s same fate beneath some vehicle’s tires.

“Gotta find the cat,” she told James and Lizzie as she scrambled beneath the counter for a flashlight. “Back in a minute.”

Reese, who was chatting with Mary Ann, half rose out of his chair at the sight of Darla flying past him, flashlight now in hand. Whatever he might have called after her, she did not hear as she slipped into the dark courtyard and snapped on her light.

Its feeble yellow beam did not so much pierce the shadows as bounce right over them. Making an annoyed mental note to see about adding a security light over the door ASAP—that, and buying new batteries—she waved the flashlight in a regular pattern from corner to corner of the enclosure. An oversized glass ashtray sat in the table’s center, filled with several lipstick-stained cigarette butts. Even with the passage of a few hours, the odor of stale cigarette smoke hung heavily in the air, and she suppressed the sneeze that threatened.

“Here, Hamlet! Kitty, kitty, kitty.”

She was certain Hamlet would not deign to come to her on command—particularly not if she called him “kitty”—but with any luck he’d shoot her an evil glare that would reflect back to her should the flashlight’s beam happen to skim over him.

“C’mon, fellow,” she urged in a slightly louder tone, trying not to sound desperate.

She’d always heard that animals were experts at sensing fear. Mr. Beelzebub in Fur Pants was probably a black belt in fear detection and would doubtless laugh his cat self silly if he thought she was worried about his safety. While she’d gotten used to the obnoxious beast, Darla could not in any honesty claim to be fond of him. But he had been Great-Aunt Dee’s beloved pet, and he was a store fixture.

Consider it keeping tabs on inventory, she told herself as she searched the final shadowy corner. Other than a few scuttling roaches and spiders, she found nothing.

Muttering a curse, she turned her beam on the gate. It was still just as she and Koji had found it when they’d gone in search of the missing author: wide open so that any vagrant could slip in. Or any cat slip out.

Damn that woman! The least she could have done was shut the freakin’ gate, Darla silently fumed as she peered into the alley again. Odd, though, that a presumed cat lover such as Valerie would have left Hamlet in such potential peril. She must have been revved up, indeed, to have gone storming out without realizing she’d left her new feline friend at risk.

Darla started down the alley in the opposite direction from which she’d run a few hours earlier. While no fan of rodents and other crawlies, she hoped there might be a sufficient number of them lurking there to hold Hamlet’s interest should he have ventured that way. Gingerly tiptoeing lest those same rodents and crawlies take an interest in her, she shone the rapidly fading flashlight beam down the narrow passage. No eyes reflected back to her, and no meows answered her calls.

She bit her lower lip and gave herself a quick mental pep talk. For all she knew, Hamlet might never have left the courtyard for the alley at all. He might be lounging somewhere in the store now, or else had long since returned to his comfortable digs upstairs in the apartment. Heck, he might even be watching her out the bathroom window that overlooked the courtyard, his green eyes bright with evil satisfaction at her obvious distress.

The flashlight chose that moment to peter out. Darla gave it a brisk slap against her palm, trying to revive the beam, but to no avail. She was halfway down the alley now, wrapped in shadows and not a stone’s throw distance from where a woman had been tragically killed but a few hours earlier.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the night’s chill sent gooseflesh down her arms. Not that she believed in ghosts, she assured herself; still, under the circumstances she couldn’t help being reminded of the Haunted High book she’d read last night, packed full of specters and hauntings. It would be just like Valerie to emulate her heroine and hang around tormenting the living instead of going into the light, or wherever it was that dead folks were supposed to go.

Then there was that little business about someone—something?—that had been stomping about her store in the night and flicking lights on and off. What if Stompy Foot and Valerie had joined forces in the afterlife? Darla winced. Great, that’s just what she needed, her bookstore being turned into phantom central for all local ghosts.

Something skittered in the darkness behind her. Darla gave a startled yelp and then looked around in embarrassment in case someone—something?—was watching. Heck, in another minute, she was going to be sobbing out the Cowardly Lion’s famous declaration, I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do, I do, I do!

Though she managed not to make a run for it, her pace still was brisk as she made her way back up the alley and through the courtyard. The tingling on the back of her neck didn’t cease until she was inside the shop again.

“Did you find Hamlet?” Lizzie wanted to know as Darla locked the door behind her.

Darla shook her head. “I’m hoping he’s hiding somewhere inside and just being obnoxious about not showing himself.”

She had debated during her foray through the alley whether or not to leave the gate open overnight, just in case Hamlet was still out there. Prudence had trumped concern, and she’d ultimately decided to lock it. Hers wasn’t exactly a bad neighborhood, but neither was it small-town Texas. And while she’d never seen the cat exert himself unduly unless it was strictly necessary, Hamlet was certainly athletic enough to scale the wall or else slip between the bars if he was outside and decided he wanted back in.

She saw that Lizzie and Mary Ann were gathering their respective purses and exchanging black capes for sweaters. Lizzie gave an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, we’re both beat. I hope you don’t mind if we leave things the way they are. James said he’d come in early on Tuesday morning to straighten up. That is, if—”

“If we’re even open Tuesday,” Darla finished for her. At least since she was always closed on Mondays, that would give her a day to recoup. “Under the circumstances, I’m wondering if we ought to close for an extra day. Or maybe a week.”

Lizzie nodded. “You mean, out of respect.”

“My gracious, don’t be silly, Darla,” Mary Ann interjected while giving Lizzie a severe look. “Losing a week of profit won’t do anything to bring back the dead. Go ahead and stay closed tomorrow, as you normally would, but no more than that—not to be morbid about it, but the shop will probably have more business than you can handle on Tuesday. You know how ghoulish people are. Everyone will want to see the spot where the famous Valerie Baylor met her grisly end, and then buy one of her books as a souvenir.”

Darla sighed. Things could go either way . . . a full-blown boycott or a sales blowout. It occurred to her, too, that she ought to give her insurance agent a call. Technically, the accident didn’t happen on her property, but the last thing she needed was to be hit with a civil suit from Valerie’s family. If the late author’s relatives were anything like Valerie, they likely kept a lawyer on staff for just such contingencies.

Suddenly, Hamlet and his infamous claws didn’t seem like such a liability anymore.

Aloud, she merely said, “You’re probably right, Mary Ann. James”—she glanced over to where the older man was chatting quietly with Reese—“we’ll reopen on Tuesday, as usual.”

“A reasonable decision,” he agreed as he gathered his stack of Valerie’s books. “And now, since the good detective has dismissed us, I need to hurry home and set up my auctions. I believe I will start with a reserve price of five hundred dollars and see where things go from there.”

A few moments later, he and the two women had departed the store, leaving Darla alone with Reese.