Double Booked for Death

NINE

“UH, THINK I MIGHT GET MY SHIRT BACK NOW?” THE DETECTIVE asked.

Darla frowned in confusion; then, with a blush, she realized that she still had his denim shirt wrapped around her waist. Feeling uncomfortably like a high school girl who’d been parading about wearing her boyfriend’s clothes to impress the other girls, she hastily handed over the shirt with a mumbled, “Sorry.”

She plopped into the seat at the table beside him, not caring it was the same black-covered chair where Valerie had sat. Neither did she care that her wavy red hair now was fairly bristling out of the French braid that, hours before, had lain so sleekly against her neck.

“I guess you need to do the question routine with me, too.”

“We’ll make it fast,” the detective assured her, his effort at a smile reflecting her own tired state of mind.

He began with the expected queries as to her name, profession, and connection to “the deceased,” as the author had now become known. From there, he made her recount her actions up to the time of the accident. Most of the questions she replied to, but a few she had to answer with an “I don’t know.” One question, in particular, gave Darla momentary pause.

“The books the deceased wrote had to do with ghosts, right?” he asked, getting a nod in return from her. “So, I’m curious. Why are all her fans wearing black capes? That’s a vampire thing, isn’t it?”

“Or goth, or steampunk,” Darla replied, having been educated somewhat on the subject by her younger relatives. “A lot of her readers apparently subscribe to those lifestyles. But you’re right . . . I wondered that, too. I know that Valerie wears—wore—a black cape in her publicity photos, so that’s probably why all her fans do, too. Besides, they’d look pretty silly wearing white sheets.”

Which reminded her of Marnie and the other Lord’s Blessing people in their white choir robes. She fleetingly wondered if she should tell him about the letter she’d received from Marnie, threatening a boycott. Maybe later, she decided. Reese could find out about the Lord’s Blessing people from the highway patrol officer, if he hadn’t already. For now, she was suddenly too weary to want to drag things out any longer than she had to.

Reese, meanwhile, appeared still to be mulling over the black versus white costuming issue, but to his credit he made no further comment on the subject. A few minutes and a few more questions later, he flipped his notebook shut and capped his pen.

“Done,” he declared ungrammatically, but Darla didn’t bother to correct him. She stood, instead, and headed toward the door.

“No offense, but if you have everything you need, I’m going to kick you out,” she said, hand on knob. “It’s been a hell of a night and I’m tired. Besides, I still have to find Hamlet.”

Reese followed her to the front of the store. Now, he nodded in recognition, for the missing obnoxious feline had been part of her official statement to him.

“I can help you look for Hamlet,” he offered. “I’m pretty much a dog man myself, but my sister had a cat when we were growing up. Pain in the butt, he was . . . probably could give your little guy a run for the money. But I got pretty good at cat wrangling.”

“Thanks, but I’d better handle it on my own. The way my luck’s going tonight, he’d probably gnaw a chunk out of your leg for your trouble. I’m already anticipating Valerie’s family coming after me with a wrongful death suit or something. I can’t afford the city taking me to court to cover your pain and suffering, too.”

“Hey, I’m off the clock. And I promise, I won’t sue.”

Reese gave her the same chip-toothed smile that she’d seen from him earlier that night. It occurred to her then that maybe his offer wasn’t totally altruistic. Had he decided to overlook her lamentable interest in the printed word and hit on her?

Darla managed not to succumb to a reflexive eye roll at the thought.

Talk about cliché. How better to get on a woman’s good side than return her missing pet to her? And even if they didn’t find the wily beast, she’d be in her apartment alone with a man she just met. Though Jake had pretty much vouched for Reese’s character, Darla still remembered her Single Girl 101 training. Rule number one: the easier it is for a guy to get into a woman’s apartment, the harder it is to convince him he can’t get into something else! Rules number two and three: see Rule number one.

“Truly, I appreciate the offer,” she repeated, pulling open the door, “but between me and Jake I think we have it covered. If Hamlet hasn’t shown up by morning, I’ll call you to put out an APB on him.”

“Suit yourself.”

His attitude all professional now, Reese stuffed the notebook into his back pocket. “Sorry about how things turned out tonight,” he added. “Jake and I have done this kind of thing a hundred times before. I don’t know how—”

“Don’t worry, Jake already gave me the apology,” she cut him short, stifling a yawn. “ All I want is for you to find out for sure that Valerie’s death was accidental.”

“I’ll be on the computer the rest of the night looking for uploads of video and photos,” he assured her. “With the crowd you had, I can almost assure you that we’ll find something to make the case, one way or the other. ’Night, Darla,” he said and headed down the front steps.

He passed Jake, who was sitting on the stoop finishing off another cigarette. So much for her friend’s latest attempt at quitting, Darla thought, though after tonight’s events she wasn’t about to fault her. Reese paused long enough to exchange a few words with the woman, and then headed off. Darla waited until she was certain he was on his way, and then took the few steps down to join her.

“You ready to call it a night?” she asked sympathetically.

Jake sighed and shook her head as she stared out onto the darkened street in the direction of the accident scene.

“I think I’ll spend awhile on the computer looking for pictures and video of the event. We still need to find out who your Lone Protester is. Even if your religious friend doesn’t face any charges, chances are that girl is looking at some jail time if they find proof she shoved Valerie. And since I’m the only one who got a good look at her face, I’ll be giving Reese a hand on this.”

She paused and glanced Darla’s way. “Any luck finding Hamlet?”

“The little beggar’s still on the lam,” she replied, drawing a faint smile from her friend, “but he’s a big boy, so I’m not going to agonize over it any more tonight. I’ll check out back one more time, and if he’s not back inside by then, that’s his tough luck. I’m going to go to bed and pull the covers over my head until morning.”

“He’ll be fine. Text me if you find him all snuggled up on the sofa, would you?”

“Will do.”

Darla started to rise, only to pause again as Jake put a restraining hand on her arm.

“Listen, Darla, you don’t know how sorry I am about all this,” the older woman said, her usual brassy tones heavy now with contrition. “I did off-duty security lots of times when I was still a cop, with crowds two and three times the size of what we had tonight. Believe me, nothing like this ever happened before.”

“Don’t worry, no one blames you,” Darla hurried to assure her, echoing Mavis’s earlier sentiment and knowing just how her friend felt. “You and Reese had everything down to a science. Not to point fingers at the victim, but if Valerie had just stayed put, she’d have been riding off in that limo with the rest of them right now. It’s her own damn fault for getting into a shoving match. Truly, it’s Marnie who I feel most sorry for, even if she is a wackaloon. She’s got to live with this.”

Jake, however, seemed unconcerned with the churchwoman. She shook her head, shaggy curls bouncing. “I swear, kid, I don’t know how it happened. I all but frog-marched your protester back across the street. I can’t figure out how she got back over on this side again without me noticing.”

“Might have been the fact there were four hundred ninety-nine other girls all dressed in black capes standing around on that same street. Do you think the police will be able to track her down and get any sort of confession out of her?”

“It’s the age of Twitter and cell phone cameras,” Jake said with a shrug. “That many teenagers around, odds are good someone snapped a picture or took a video that caught at least part of the action. Between YouTube and Facebook, something’s bound to show up . . . assuming there is something.”

“Okay, that’s the same thing that Reese said.”

She left Jake and headed back into the store, where she finished her closing routine more quickly than usual; then, after another look in the courtyard and then setting the alarm code, she slipped through the side door connecting to her private hall and locked the shop door behind her.

As she mounted the first stair, she half expected Hamlet to go flying between her feet in his typical kamikaze kitty routine. In fact, tonight she would have welcomed his bad behavior. But she made it up both flights unhampered by fleet paws trying to trip her. Neither was he sitting at the top of the main landing trying to open the door by pure force of his cold green stare.

The little beast is probably lounging by the refrigerator, she reassured herself as she turned the key. But once inside her apartment, a quick sweep through the living room and kitchen did not reveal Hamlet in any of his usual spots.

“Hey, boy, I’m home,” she called out experimentally, even though she would have fainted on the spot had she received a cheerful meow in return. Hamlet never greeted her when she came home. He waited for her to come to him bearing food, water, or the occasional catnip mouse. Coming when called was something that lower forms of life, like dogs, did.

“Fine, stay outside all night,” she muttered into the resulting silence and headed toward her bedroom. If he was still gone come morning, she’d enlist Jake’s help and slap up a couple of “lost cat” signs in the neighborhood. Otherwise, she had enough troubles without having to worry where Mr. Prince of Darkness, Jr., was going to lay his feline head this night.

That decided, Darla flipped on the bedroom light, glanced at her bed, and let out a muffled shriek.

Hamlet lay sprawled upon his back in the center of her blue and gold comforter. His sleek black legs stuck out in the direction of all four compass points, while his head was turned at an unnatural angle. His eyes were green slits, and his jaw hung open to reveal sharp white teeth and a pink tongue that lolled to one side. She’d never noticed the thumbnail-sized diamond of white fur on his lower belly before.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, taking a cautious step closer toward the motionless form.

In the few months that she’d lived in the apartment, Hamlet had never once set paw in what was now her bedroom. Since he seemed to think the rest of the place belonged to him, she’d wondered if this was a nice little cat courtesy on his part, or if his marked boycott of her personal space simply was some sort of veiled feline insult. But now, he lay on her bed, looking like that guy in the opening scene of The Da Vinci Code. All he needed was the circle drawn around him and a few more fuzzy legs to be the quintessential Vitruvian Cat.

“Hamlet, are you okay?” Darla whispered, realizing the question likely was futile. She’d driven past enough roadkill on Texas highways to know it when she saw it.

A cold little blade of guilt pierced her. She should have dragged his furry butt out of the courtyard the minute Valerie said she’d seen him there. But she hadn’t, and as a result maybe he’d found something toxic in the alley—a puddle of antifreeze or one of those plastic trap things filled with rat poison. Or maybe he’d been hit and run over by Marnie and her gang, and stubbornly managed to hang on long enough to crawl home and die. Or perhaps all the dark stars had aligned at once, and it simply had been his time to go to the big litter box in the sky.

Or maybe he witnessed something he should not have seen, a little voice whispered in her head, and curiosity—or rather, its human equivalent—actually killed this cat!

Shoving aside that last thought as way over the top, Darla sighed and started toward the bed. If she could find an old towel or something to wrap him in, she could bury him in the courtyard tomorrow and then hold a little service for him with Lizzie and James and Jake the day after. Maybe she’d even buy one of those pet memorial stones with his name and date, she told herself, surprised to realize that a tear had drizzled down one cheek. Brushing it away, she reached down to lift the furry limp form.

A sleek black paw whipped toward her with the speed of a striking cobra. Two fanglike claws snagged the sleeve of her blouse before she could move out of range.

“Hamlet!”

Her shriek held equal parts relief and outrage as she stared down at the obviously hale and hearty feline. After that initial attack he had flipped onto his belly and swiftly gathered together his limbs and his dignity. Now, he sat crouched with his tail wrapped tightly around him, green eyes daring her to remind him that she’d caught him in a vulnerable position.

Darla’s indignation faded into unwilling sympathy. Poor cat, he was smart enough to know that something bad had happened. Needing comfort, he’d put aside feline self-esteem for the security of her room, doubtless feeling he would be safe there. It was only bad luck on his part that she had caught him in the act.

“It’s okay, Hamlet,” she softly told him. “We’ve all had a rotten night tonight. If you want to sleep on the bed with me, I don’t mind.”

She half expected him to hiss and stalk out of the room at this impertinent suggestion. When he didn’t, she left him where he sat, and, after sending Jake a quick text message—Hamlet safely home!—she headed for the bathroom. She returned a few minutes later, wearing one of the oversized T-shirts that served as her usual sleep attire. She saw in amusement that, in the interim, Hamlet had moved to the farthermost corner of the queen-sized bed. He lay curled so tightly that she could barely tell head from tail.

“You scooch down any farther away from me, and you’re going to fall off,” she warned, feeling an unwilling rush of fondness for the ornery beast. Truth be told, she would welcome a little company, even Hamlet’s. Careful not to disturb him, she slipped under the comforter and snapped off the light.

“Sleep tight,” she told him, though she doubted she herself would be able to do any such thing. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw Valerie Baylor sprawled on the asphalt.

Okay, so think of something pleasant.

Abruptly, Reese’s face flashed through her mind, and she grimaced into the darkness. No, not him! Deliberately, she settled her imagination on a cute little bed-and-breakfast located deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas where she’d once spent a restful three-day weekend. The tranquil mental scene made her smile, until she recalled she’d made that trip with her slimeball ex-husband.

She gave a frustrated groan and, managing not to dislodge the cat at her feet, settled on her back. She still remembered some of the yoga relaxation techniques she’d learned in the beginner’s class she used to attend. Maybe they’d help her block out the night’s events and get some shut-eye.

The technique must have worked. The next thing Darla knew, she had struggled awake from a confusing dream where she was wearing earmuffs while mowing the lawn. She glanced over at the LCD alarm clock on the table beside her bed and saw it was almost three thirty a.m. But for some reason she could still hear the lawn mower that she had been pushing in her dream. Moreover, something very warm and furry was definitely pressed against her ear.

Hamlet.

Sometime after she’d fallen asleep, he had abandoned his sulky post at the bottom of the bed and crept his way onto her pillow, where he now lay snoring beside her. Apparently, the little hell-raiser had deigned to forge a truce between them . . . at least, while no one else was looking. And she had to admit that his presence in the dark of night was surprisingly comforting. She gave a sleepy smile and shut her eyes again. Doubtless in the morning they’d be back to their mutually adversarial ways, but for now the lion was lying down with the lamb.

Just to play it safe, however, tomorrow she’d do a little research in the religion section of the store and make sure that Hamlet’s unexpected lapse into feline civility was not one of the lesser known signs of a coming apocalypse.