Double Booked for Death

TEN

DESPITE THE RESTLESS START TO HER NIGHT, DARLA DID not wake until almost nine o’clock Monday morning, well past her usual rising time, even for her day off. Between her pounding headache and queasy stomach, she felt hungover, despite not touching a single drop of alcohol the night before. Bleary-eyed, she stumbled to the kitchen, where Hamlet sat beside his empty food bowl. At her approach, he turned a baleful green gaze upon her, their détente apparently forgotten in the wake of his empty stomach.

“Hold your horses,” she muttered, knowing she’d be useless until she had at least one cup of coffee in her.

She made swift work of filling her small coffeemaker and punched the “On” button with the fervor of an acolyte awaiting divine intercession. That begun—the coffee-making process, not the blessing—she dragged out the canister of dry cat food from the cabinet. Hamlet continued his disdainful regard of her until she’d poured the kibble and refilled his crystal bowl with water. Then, with what had to be a deliberate curl of his lip, he turned his back on her and commenced crunching away at his breakfast.

“And good morning to you, too,” she answered the snub, taking one of Great-Aunt Dee’s antique chintz-patterned teacups from the cabinet.

The smell of brewing coffee revived her somewhat. It also brought back into sharp focus memories of the previous night’s tragedy, and concern about what this day would bring. She’d seen at least three news trucks filming the scene in the hours after the accident, but maybe dead authors didn’t rate national coverage. With any luck, the story had made last night’s eleven o’clock news and was already played out.

She waited until she had a steaming cup of coffee liberally laced with cream in hand, however, before she dared turn on one of the cable news channels to test that theory. Would Valerie’s death still be an item of interest?

It was.

Remote in hand, Darla winced as she clicked back and forth among the major news channels. Every minute or so, the ubiquitous headline tickers scrolled an abbreviated account of the fatality across the bottom of the screen, the story sandwiched between the most recent political scandal and a foreign sports triumph. She breathed a bit easier when she saw that the crawl did not mention her store by name. She groaned, however, and paused in her channel surfing when she recognized on one of the stations the same blonde who’d interviewed her the afternoon before. And she almost dropped her chintz cup into her lap when the camera swung away from the reporter, and the familiar gilded words, Pettistone’s Fine Books, abruptly filled the television screen, along with the banner proclaiming, “Live Report.”

“Holy crap, Hamlet, they’re right outside,” she shrieked as she rushed to the window and twitched aside the curtain.

Sure enough, the same news van from yesterday was parked on the street right below her apartment, with the same reporter and female camera operator posed on the step outside Darla’s store. Apparently, the local affiliate station had been tapped to give its take on the dramatic death. Standing at the window, Darla divided her disbelieving gaze between the live drama below and the broadcast going on there in her living room.

On-screen, the reporter was recounting Valerie’s final minutes, her blond bob quivering with sincerity as she shook her head over the tragedy. While she continued to speak in voice-over, scenes from the previous night played: a discreet view of a covered figure lying in the street; a close-up of the church van’s front end; a long shot of the crowd of weeping, black-cape-clad teens . . . and all illuminated by the strobing lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles. The scene looked like something out of an end-time movie.

The voice-over continued, “The driver of the vehicle responsible for this fatal accident has been identified as thirty-two-year-old Marnie Jennings of Dallas, Texas.”

A grainy shot of Marnie, her mouth wide in midshout, flashed on-screen.

“Ms. Jennings and her fellow members of the Lord’s Blessing Church out of Dallas were on their way to protest the Valerie Baylor autographing when the tragedy occurred,” the reporter continued. Abruptly, the television screen was filled with footage of a chanting group of picketers all dressed in white choir robes. “This same church has previously been responsible for protests against what they consider, quote, Satan-based events, unquote, in the Dallas area, but it now appears they are attempting to extend their influence nationwide. For the moment, however, no charges have been filed against Ms. Jennings, and unconfirmed eyewitness accounts suggest that an unrelated sidewalk scuffle might have precipitated the accident.”

The newscast switched back to the live feed, and the camera panned right, sliding past the iron railing of Jake’s basement apartment and in the direction of Mary Ann’s brother’s antique shop. Just beyond that point, at the approximate spot where Valerie and the van had had their fatal encounter, Darla could see that a shrine of sorts had been erected.

She gasped. Heedless of the news crew below, she shoved up her window and craned her neck for a better look. From above, the shrine was even more impressive than it appeared on the small screen. A veritable florist shop’s worth of flowers—a few carnations and daisies, but mostly red roses—interspersed with candles and stuffed animals, lay against the building and covered a large section of sidewalk. The display rivaled the spontaneous tributes to Lennon and Jackson and other pop culture icons that Darla recalled seeing on TV.

Quickly, lest the reporter catch sight of her and turn the camera in her direction, she slammed her window shut again. She returned her attention to the television in time to see two more teens walk into the shot and lay another fistful of red roses atop the mound of blossoms.

“Last night, five hundred adoring fans—mostly teenage girls—were lined up on this sidewalk waiting for the chance to see Ms. Baylor in person,” came the reporter’s words while the camera zoomed in on a single red rose tied with a black ribbon. “Now, those same fans have been visiting the site of her untimely death over the last few hours to leave flowers, candles, and notes of condolence.”

The camera pulled back, and the reporter maneuvered herself into the shot once again. “It’s obvious that this tragedy has struck a large segment of the reading public to the heart,” she went on. “Valerie Baylor’s previous Haunted High books have sold more than ten million copies to date. For now, her fans are contenting themselves with buying up Valerie’s final novel while the authorities continue to investigate.”

The reporter allowed herself a final dramatic pause and stared straight into the camera. “Reporting live from the scene of Valerie Baylor’s untimely death, this is Juanita Hillburn, Channel Twelve News. Back to you, David.”

Barely had Darla let the curtain drop than her phone began to ring. Her first frantic thought was that the media had tracked her down and that someone wanted a statement from her. A glance at the caller ID, however, showed it was Jake on the other end.

“Any chance you were watching television just now, or looking out the window?” the other woman asked before Darla could manage a hello.

“Both.”

Darla muted the television and sank onto the couch, clutching the phone in one hand and holding her head with the other. “My God, they even showed the front door of the store. And that mountain of flowers is unbelievable.”

“Yeah, I heard people tromping past my place all night long.” Jake’s raspy voice held more than a note of weariness. “I’m waiting for the swarm of honeybees next.”

“It’s not the flowers that worry me, it’s the media,” Darla replied. Summoning a hopeful tone, she added, “Do you think this was it as far as news reports?”

“Not a chance, kid. You just missed the folks from the Spanish-language station. The other major networks have already come and gone, and the smaller cable channels are circling the block now like vultures. Famous author plus grisly death equals news. If I were you, I’d stay inside until tomorrow.”

“Great,” Darla answered forlornly.

“Listen, I’m going back to bed, kid. Didn’t get much sleep last night, you know? But I’ll yell if Reese calls with any updates.”

Darla hung up and shut off the television, and then peered out the window again. By now, two more news trucks had stopped in the curbside lane and were blocking traffic as they scrambled for some quick shots of the scene. The passing drivers either responded with a blare of a horn and rude gestures, or else slowed to gawk at the floral tribute, further snarling traffic. A few more fans had gathered now, joining hands in what appeared to be a gothic ring-around-the-rosy.

Jake has the right idea, she thought with a groan, abandoning the window as she contemplated heading right back to bed, too. Since the store was closed today anyhow, she had nowhere to be for the rest of the day. Camping out under the covers seemed the best plan.

Darla contemplated that bit of self-indulgence for a few more minutes and then shook her head. The apartment needed a good vacuuming, laundry needed washing, and a stack of store paperwork awaited her. Mundane tasks to be sure, but unless the good fairies paid her an unexpected visit, none of it would get done unless she did it.

Giving the bed a final longing look, she dragged herself to the shower. Thirty minutes later, her auburn hair was freshly braided and she was wearing her official lounge-around-the-house uniform of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Since the apartment held a bit of a chill, she also pulled on an oversized black sweater to complete her less-than-stunning ensemble and then headed back to the kitchen for more coffee and a yogurt.

Hamlet had long since finished his own breakfast and lay stretched out full length on the back of the horsehair couch, watching her from the living room. He contented himself with a protracted baleful green stare in her direction, until she finished off the last bite of lemon-cream yogurt. Then he rose in an elegant move and gave a single sharp meow.

“What?” Darla demanded in a grumpy voice.

Hamlet did not waste his delicate lungs on a repeat but merely hopped off the couch and strolled to the front door. There, he planted his furry butt and stared in fierce concentration at that section of heavy wood paneling that led to the great outdoors. He was still seated there a few moments later after Darla had washed her spoon and coffee cup. She shot him a baleful look of her own and then sighed.

“Fine, we’ll head down to the store first,” she agreed, grabbing up her keys. “I need to review a whole pile of invoices. But you’d better mind your manners. And no going outside into the courtyard.”

Hamlet took the lead, his long black tail held aloft as he negotiated the steps in a series of graceful bounds, rather than padding properly one riser at a time. By the time Darla reached the lower landing, he was already at the door leading from hall to shop, standing on his hind legs with both front paws wrapped around the cut-glass knob.

“Sorry, buddy, you can’t open the door without a key,” she reminded him as she unlocked the door and stepped inside the shop. While she shut off the alarm system, Hamlet flew past her, his momentum leaving a fleeting feline hurricane in his wake.

Darla followed more slowly, flipping on only a couple of necessary lights lest the store appear open for business. It was cool inside without the heat turned on, but not unpleasantly so. Otherwise, the place was just as she’d left it, the moveable shelves still pushed to either side of the main room to form a broad aisle down the center. The red and black draped table was still piled with neat stacks of brand-new books and looked eerily abandoned behind the empty maze where Valerie’s fans had waited with such anticipation. From the easel near the table, Valerie’s dramatic image continued to hold court, her carefully composed features seeming to stare out from her publicity poster with more than a bit of malice.

Suppressing a shiver, Darla hurried over to the easel and pulled down the poster. Great-Aunt Dee had kept similar promotional posters of famous authors hanging in the upstairs loft and storeroom as reminders of past events. But the last thing Darla wanted was the late Haunted High author hanging around her store—even in the figurative sense—laying a guilt trip on her every time she happened to glance at the photo. She’d tuck away the poster behind the counter for now and let James haul it off tomorrow. Chances were he could get a tidy bit of cash for it on one of his online auctions.

Suddenly impatient to return the place to normal, Darla decided not to wait for James to do the heavy lifting in the morning but to tackle the job herself, here and now.

Restoring order took perhaps an hour, requiring a moderate amount of sweat and the unfortunate breakage of one fingernail. She doffed the oversized sweater a few minutes into it, since hauling around the loaded shelves was sufficient activity to raise a good sweat. Hamlet supervised her work from atop the bestseller shelf, looking like a small panther as he lay draped along one wooden edge. She had just folded the last of the table throws and was ready for a break when she heard frantic tapping on the front glass.

Startled, she glanced in that direction to see a hooded dark figure looming on the other side of the door. Her reflexive gasp was released as a small groan when she realized on second look that the intruder was one of the ubiquitous black-caped teens. No doubt the girl had come to pay her respects at the impromptu Valerie shrine and had noticed Darla moving about inside the store.

Pantomiming sorry, go away gestures, she headed toward the door and called through the glass, “I’m afraid we’re closed today. Try us again tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow will be too late!” the fan wailed back, her breath frosting the glass. “I’m the only one I know who didn’t get a copy of Ghost of a Chance yet. If I can’t read it along with everyone else, I’ll die.”

Darla’s first impulse was to tell the girl she’d just have to make funeral arrangements, but a second look at the teen’s pleading face did her in. After all, she could have been putting on a hysterical display out there on the stoop, blaming Darla for her idol’s death, instead of wanting to put money into the store’s coffers. With a reluctant nod, she turned the lock and opened the door.

“Okay, just this once,” she agreed as the girl, with a little skip of joy, slipped in past her. “Grab a book off the display while I power up the register.”

A few minutes later, she was letting the teen out the door again, the book gleefully clutched to her chest. “Don’t tell anyone else I did this for you,” Darla called after the girl as she hurried down the steps toward the street.

Whether or not the teen heard that directive, Darla wasn’t sure. What she could see was the teen waving her newly acquired book in triumph as she rushed toward a cluster of Valerie’s fans kneeling by the growing mountain of flowers. Remember what she said: everyone else already has a copy, Darla thought with a shrug. She locked the door again and caught Hamlet’s cool green gaze as she headed back toward the register.

“So sue me, I did something nice,” she told him as she grabbed up a sheaf of invoices that needed reconciling to orders. “Besides, it was just that one time.”

Barely had the words left her lips, however, when she heard more tapping at the front glass. This time, it was two fan girls, both plump with spiked black hair and silver rings in their respective noses. Seeing that Darla had noticed them, they began frantically waving.

“Lindsay said you were open for Valerie’s fans,” one of them called through the glass as Darla approached, intent on putting a stop to this nonsense once and for all. “That is so, like, chill. No one else understands.”

Darla sighed. Since she was there in the store anyhow, she might as well make some money. And she needed Valerie’s readers on her side, in case things turned nasty with the glut of news stories that was sure to fill the airwaves the next few days.

Besides, how could she resist being thought of as “chill” by the high school set?

Over the next two hours, she sold almost fifty copies of Ghost of a Chance, along with a few copies of Valerie’s first two Haunted High books. She felt like she was operating a speakeasy, with her teen customers being admitted one or two at a time into the darkened store. Moreover, entry was granted only after she scrutinized them through the front-door glass to make sure Juanita Hillburn or one of the other reporters wasn’t trying to sneak in under cover of cape. Some of the fans sobbed with happiness as they scrambled in; others maintained a proper goth-girl stoicism as they paid for their books, though their reddened eyes betrayed their inner emotions. And before letting them out again, Darla gave each a stern warning not to let anyone but true Valerie fans know about this special event.

“We don’t want the press barging in,” she cautioned. “They don’t respect Valerie like her readers do. I’m keeping the store open a couple of hours today just for you, and not the public.”

To a girl, each swore only to tell her BFFs who truly loved Valerie and her books. Fans of the Boy Wizard novels were pointedly scorned as not worthy of sharing in the secret.

Between customers and invoices, Darla glanced out occasionally to see what was happening down the street. The parade of mourners continued slow but unabated, as did the caravans of press vehicles. Fortunately, the latter seemed more concerned with the shrine to Valerie and interviewing the fans who came to pay their respects, rather than checking out the bookstore that had been the catalyst for the tragedy. As for Hamlet, he proved surprisingly well behaved. Having abandoned his earlier ceiling-high perch for the checkout counter, he lounged there casually grooming his sleek black coat and accepting the respectful compliments of the similarly attired customers.

Around eleven thirty, when almost twenty minutes had passed since the last teen had sought entry, Darla decided that it was time to shut down the clandestine operation. But barely had she powered off the register again when another tap at the glass drew her attention. Determined now to hold firm, she went to the door ready to send away the newcomer, when she recognized Jake’s frizzy mane through the glass.

“Oh no, did I wake you?” she asked in concern as she ushered in her friend.

Jake, she saw, was wearing an identical barely-out-of-bed outfit of sweatpants and T-shirt, topped with oversized sweater. Somehow on her the über-casual clothes didn’t look quite so frumpy. Probably because she’s tall, Darla assured herself. Aloud, she went on, “I kept getting Valerie’s fans coming by looking for her latest, and I couldn’t turn them down.”

“You’re a real Mother Teresa,” Jake replied with a weary grin, following Darla toward the register. “But, no, it wasn’t you. Every time I closed my eyes, another one of those crazy kids was tromping past my place to go pay homage to the glorious Valerie. It’s Monday. Shouldn’t they all be in school or something?”

“They probably cut class to come out here,” Darla guessed, wondering if “Valerie flu” was running rampant throughout all the local schools.

Jake snorted. “I wouldn’t mind it so much except, I swear, they must all have feet the size of dinner plates.”

“I know what you mean. The little ninety-eight-pounders are the worst.” Darla smiled at this last, and then added, “But, seriously, I really did feel like I was performing a public service, seeing how they were all so thrilled to get their books.”

“Worth getting slapped with an unexcused absence from school, right?”

“Don’t look at me, I’m not the truant officer,” Darla said with a shrug and an even broader smile. Then, sobering, she added, “Any news trucks still outside?”

“Last one left about thirty minutes ago. I think we’re safe for the moment.”

“Great.” Darla paused and glanced at her watch. “It’s almost noon. How about I finish up here real quick, and we head down to the deli for lunch, my treat?”

“Have you ever seen me pass up a free meal, kid? Don’t worry, I can entertain myself for a few minutes.” With a look around the store, she added, “Fast work getting the place back in shape. And Hamlet decided to lend a hand, I see.”

Hearing his name, the cat looked up from his countertop perch where he was luxuriating in obvious comfort. He sneezed twice and then deliberately hopped down onto the floor.

“I think he caught the sarcasm,” Darla explained as she filed the rest of her paperwork into designated folders. “Actually, he’s been pretty well behaved since he gave me my latest heart attack.”

She went on to describe finding Hamlet on her bed looking like he’d just been visited by the feline Grim Reaper. Jake laughed and shook her head. “He’s what, ten years old now? Ornery creature that he is, I bet he hasn’t used up more than one of his lives so far. I think he’ll be with you for the long haul.

“Oh, but look,” she added with another chuckle, pointing toward the rear of the main room, “I think my guilt trip worked. The little beggar is actually playing janitor.”

In fact, Hamlet had discovered a crumpled piece of paper sticking out from beneath one of the shelves that Darla had just rolled back into place. As she and Jake watched in amusement, he snagged it with a claw and dragged it out into the open; then, with the skill of a professional soccer player, he batted the wad from paw to paw so that it skittered across the smooth wooden floor. With a final swipe of one large paw, he sent the paper ball flying so that it landed squarely between Jake’s booted feet.

“And he scores!” Jake said, giving Hamlet a round of applause while Darla grinned in appreciation. “I wonder how he is at softball. Reese said they need a couple of fielders for the precinct team.” She bent and retrieved the paper, and smoothed the sheet and held it up in the dim light.

“It looks like one of those Haunted High trivia sheets Lizzie was passing out to the fans yesterday,” she confirmed. Tsking a little, she added, “It’s not like you don’t have trash cans in here. If someone didn’t want their copy, they could have—”

Jake broke off as she apparently realized that Darla was now frowning in her direction. “What . . . do I have something stuck in my teeth?”

“Not that I noticed,” Darla answered, unable to keep the sudden urgency from her tone, “but you might want to take a look at the back of that page you’re holding.”