Double Booked for Death

ELEVEN

JAKE FLIPPED THE PAPER OVER. ON WHAT SHOULD HAVE been the blank reverse side, she saw what Darla already had noticed in some alarm . . . someone had scrawled a few words in what appeared to be dark red lipstick.

“We need to talk. Now,” the older woman read aloud. Frowning, she glanced from the paper to Darla. “So someone wrote a note last night. What’s the big deal?”

“Maybe nothing. On the other hand, think about it. Wasn’t it a bit odd how Valerie spontaneously decided to abandon her book signing to go after the Lone Protester, and accidentally got herself run over in the process? Maybe this note was meant for her, to deliberately get her out onto the street.”

“You mean someone lured her out there?” Jake gave the page a doubtful look and shook her head. “Kid, I think you’ve been spending too much time in the mystery section. I know you feel guilty about Valerie—hell, we all do—but this is grasping at straws. There were hundreds of these trivia sheets floating around last night, and just about everyone in the vicinity had a red lipstick with them. Any one of the girls waiting in line could have written that note to one of her friends. Beside, who would want to knock off Valerie Baylor?”

“Well, the Lone Protester, for a start. And don’t forget, Valerie was mean to Mavis and condescending to Koji and Everest. And she pretended not to know Lizzie, when the two of them had taken a college writing class together. Oh, and you might as well toss Marnie and her friends into the pot. I think the only one she didn’t tick off was Hamlet.”

“Which is why he’s digging up clues to prove the author’s accidental death was actually a ghastly murder?” Jake finished for her, not bothering to hide a friendly smirk. She reached down to scratch the ersatz detective behind his ears, but he was having none of it. With a hiss and a flick of one paw—that last for show only, since he didn’t bother to unsheathe his claws—Hamlet stalked off in the direction of the classics.

Inspecting her hand for damage and finding none, Jake went on, “Look, if being a bitch was a killing offense, half the world’s women would be dead, and the other half behind bars. Same thing with the men. So if you and Hamlet want to play Nancy Drew and Ned, you need to dredge up some better clues than this.”

“Fine. As of this moment, Hamlet and I are officially retired from the detective biz.” Darla smiled, however, as she said it. She picked up the quiz and made a show of depositing it in the wastebasket under the counter. Then, displaying empty hands, she added, “But don’t come crying to me when you need DNA evidence off the lipstick, and it’s not here.”

“Fine, hang onto it, and I’ll mention it to Reese. Speaking of which, I ought to ring him up while we’re walking to lunch.”

“Right, lunch.” She’d almost forgotten her offer. She dug the paper out of the trash again; then she continued, “I’ve got to head upstairs and get my wallet before we go. Let me check on Hamlet, and then you can wait in the foyer after I lock up here.”

While Jake amused herself with the Jane Austen action figures next to the register, Darla walked over to the classics section. Hamlet was seated at the foot of the “A through H” section, in seeming contemplation of Hemingway’s collective oeuvre.

“Hey, Hammy, Ms. Ex-Cop doesn’t think much of our detecting skills,” she told him. “But I’m still going to buy her lunch, anyhow. You want to stick around down here while we’re out, or go upstairs?”

She paused, expecting either a hiss—he understood the words “go upstairs”—or else his trademark leg-over-the-shoulder kiss-off in response. Instead, he gave a little chirp of a meow and stretched at full length against the bookshelf. With seeming deliberation, he used one large paw to snag the spine of a volume on the C – D shelf and pull it out of its slot. The book landed on the polished wood floor with a gunshot-loud splat that made her jump.

“Darn cat,” Darla muttered, reaching down to retrieve the volume. She stopped short, however, as she flipped it over in her hands and saw the book’s title and stark, iconic cover art. Surely it had to be a coincidence. But, still . . .

“Jake,” she called.

Raising the book, she read the title aloud. “In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. Here I tell Hamlet that you think his clue is bogus, and he drops this book at my feet. Maybe he really did see something last night, and he’s trying in his own way to let us know there’s something fishy about Valerie’s accident.”

Barely were the words out of her mouth than she realized just how lame they sounded. A cat communicating by way of book titles? Still, it was too late to call back what she’d said. And so it was left for her to cringe a little when Jake gave her the expected bright smile . . . the kind people used to humor small children and mental patients.

“Uh-huh. Kid, I don’t know how to break it to you, but the only thing fishy around here is Hamlet’s food. So far as the officers on the scene were able to tell, Valerie’s death was an accident. Your Lone Protester might have gotten into a shoving match with her, but worst that makes it is manslaughter. Assuming they find the girl, and assuming they uncover some sort of video or eyewitness testimony to convince a grand jury to take it to trial.”

“I know, I know,” Darla muttered, torn between a grin and a groan at Jake’s unassailable logic. She settled for a blush as she stuck the book back in place, adding, “I think I’m a bit punchy from all that’s happened. Pretend you never heard what I said, okay?” To Hamlet, she added, “Come on, let’s get out of here before I make a bigger idiot of myself.”

To her surprise, the feline followed her upstairs without protest. A few minutes later, having settled Hamlet comfortably in the apartment, Darla rejoined Jake. From the foyer, they made a quick visual reconnoiter of the sidewalk beyond and then, seeing no media sorts, started toward the deli. Unfortunately, they had to pass the Valerie shrine in the process.

“Holy crap, wouldja look at that,” Jake said in an undertone as they approached the still-growing mound of tribute candles and flowers. “The whole street smells like a florist shop. I bet the local flower sellers are making money hand over fist today. What do you want to bet that the kid who played the Boy Wizard in all those movies wouldn’t get half this attention if he dropped dead tomorrow?”

Darla could only shake her head by way of response as she stared in equal amazement.

The spread had doubled in size since she’d seen it from her window a couple of hours earlier. And Jake was right: the perfume of roses and carnations and burning candles did overwhelm the usual street smells of exhaust and restaurant food. The tribute made one thing perfectly clear: unpleasant as she might have been one-on-one, Valerie Baylor had obviously touched untold numbers of readers with her books. And perhaps that fact outweighed the other, she thought, feeling suddenly humble.

Jake, however, appeared untroubled by sentiment but had seemingly succumbed to her more ghoulish nature. Heedless of the dozen or so silent, sobbing teens who stood respectfully by, she knelt alongside the mound and began methodically pawing through the notes and cards that had been left there.

“Hey, dude, not cool!” one of them protested, drawing murmurs of resentful assent from the other fans gathered there.

Jake shot the girls a stern look as they began moving toward her and Darla. “Police business, ladies. I’ll need you to keep your distance until I’m finished.” Darla eyed the girls with some trepidation. Last thing they needed was a band of grieving high school kids going after them.

To her relief, however, the authority in her friend’s voice held the teens at bay as Jake continued her search, though what she was looking for, Darla couldn’t guess. Finally, the older woman stood and dusted her knees, then reached into her back pocket for a slightly crushed cigarette.

“All right, let’s get that lunch.”

Leaving behind the scowling girls, the two of them skirted the remainder of the blossom mountain and continued down the street. Darla waited until they were out of hearing range of Valerie’s fans before asking, “Okay, I’ll bite. What were you looking for back there?”

“Clues, Ms. Drew.”

Then, at Darla’s sour look, Jake went on, “I’m not saying I think there’s anything more to Valerie’s death than what we know, but I’ll admit that note did set off my hinky meter just a bit. I figured since we were standing right there, I’d check to see if there were any other lipstick notes or any writing that looked like what we saw back in the store.”

“And did you see any?”

“Not a one.”

They traveled the final block to their destination in mutual thoughtful silence, Darla planning a look at the flower tribute herself. Her hinky meter had been running at the high end of the scale since the moment Hamlet had dropped that book at her feet, no matter that she’d tried to pretend otherwise.

Outside the deli door, they paused while Jake pulled out her phone. “Since you’re buying, go ahead and order me the usual. I’m going to call Reese about any updates, and then I’ll meet you.”

Darla nodded and headed inside to order two mile-high turkey Reubens with extra sauerkraut, potato salad, and diet colas. By the time she paid for the full tray, Jake had already claimed a table and was waving her over.

“So what did Reese know?” Darla asked once they’d both made significant progress with their sandwiches.

Jake took another large bite, chewed, and swallowed before replying.

“Well, it looks like there won’t be any criminal charges filed against your buddy Marnie. There’s no evidence that she was negligent or impaired, and she didn’t flee the scene, so she’s pretty much in the clear . . . unless the family goes after her with a civil suit. As far as anything else, Reese was being a typical damn cop and playing it cagey. But it sounded like he might have found something interesting posted on the Internet. He wants to drop by later this afternoon, if that’s all right by you.”

“Works for me,” Darla mumbled through a mouthful of turkey. “Which reminds me, I never did find out what his first na—”

Jake’s phone abruptly let loose with a few riffs from the ominous “Imperial March” from the original Star Wars movie, cutting short Darla’s question.

“Sorry, kid, I gotta take this one,” Jake exclaimed, her expression wry. Flipping open the phone, she said, “Hi, Ma, how’s it going down there in Florida? Yeah, yeah, I know I call you every Sunday by noon, but I got tied up yesterday morning and forgot.”

By now, Darla had wrapped the other half of her sandwich for later and was piling her empties on the tray. At her questioning look, Jake shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Don’t wait on me,” she whispered, the hand over her phone not blocking out her mother’s tinny voice coming through the speaker. “This might take a while.”

Grinning, Darla left her friend and headed out alone. Once on the sidewalk again, however, her grin thinned to a firm look of determination. She hadn’t forgotten her plan to do a little snooping herself through the mound of flowers. By the time Darla reached the makeshift shrine again, a new group of mourners was paying homage. Keeping her distance, she knelt as Jake had done and began a quick survey of the written tributes. Most were written by hand—some on traditional condolence cards, others on girlish stationery or even lined notebook paper. A few had been printed off computers with an almost professional élan, featuring photos of Valerie and her book covers with garish red text the same font as in the Haunted High graphics. All of them, however, were brimming with heartfelt sentiments of love and loss, as if Valerie had been a sister or a mother unfairly taken from them.

“Hey, lady,” a girl’s peevish voice abruptly said, “leave this stuff alone.”

“Yeah, it’s like, sacred,” a young male chimed in, sounding equally put out.

Darla looked up to see a pair of teens in full goth regalia—kohled eyes, black lipstick, and yards of black lace and velvet—advancing on her. While she’d learned during her brief retail tenure that the badass emo goth reputation was, for the most part, unfounded, these particular representatives looked as if they meant business.

She scrambled to her feet and tried out Jake’s line. “Sorry, kids, police business. Move along now, you hear?”

“Yeah, right. If you’re a cop, where’s your freakin’ badge?” the girl demanded, her face a black and white mask of disdain.

Her companion gave a cold little smile. “She don’t need no freakin’ badges, just like in that movie. But that’s because she’s not a cop. Right, lady? You’re probably some religious freak who thinks we’re going to hell for liking Valerie’s books. You just want to mess things up for everyone because you don’t like anyone who dresses like us.”

“That’s not true,” Darla protested, truly stung. “I’m a big fan of Valerie. In fact, I’m the one who set up the autographing at the store last night so everyone could meet her in person.”

She realized as soon as the words left her lips that she’d made a tactical error. The teens made the connection just as swiftly. The bored expression on the girl’s face promptly morphed into a look of genuine horror—likely the first emotion she’d allowed herself to show in an adult’s presence for months.

“Oh my Gawd, you’re the reason Valerie is dead! If you hadn’t made her come here, like, she’d still be all alive!”

“Yeah, it’s your fault,” her companion hotly agreed, tossing the single inky lock that dangled from his otherwise shaved hairline. His drawn-on black brows dove into an accusing frown as he jabbed his forefinger in Darla’s direction. “So how ya gonna fix it? We’re already telling everyone we know to boycott your store.”

“Yeah,” the girl chimed in, snapping her gum, “I already posted on my Facebook page.”

“But it wasn’t my fault! It was an accident. The police already said as much,” Darla countered. Between the goth kids and the Christian crowd, she seemingly couldn’t win for losing. As for the boy’s threatening demeanor, that had her glancing back the way she’d come to see if Jake was nearby. Unfortunately, it looked like she was on her own, with only half a turkey Reuben to use as a defensive weapon.

“Look, er, kids,” she tried again. “We can’t bring Valerie back, but there’s a chance I might be able to get my hands on some signed books from her.” Seeing a spark of interest replace their hostility, she went on, “I can’t guarantee anything, of course, but—”

“Sunny, Robert, how are you?” a familiar voice called.

Glancing back at the buildings behind her, Darla saw Mary Ann waving from the front door of her brother’s shop, Bygone Days Antiques. “What are you two doing out of school so early?”

“We declared it a day of mourning,” Sunny answered for them, her tone appropriately doleful. “Like, no way I could sit through social studies thinking about Valerie.”

“I understand,” the old woman answered with a sympathetic click of her tongue. “I felt the very same way when I heard that Carole Lombard had died.”

While the teens exchanged blank glances at the mention of one of Hollywood’s most famous Golden Age actresses, Mary Ann went on, “Be sure to stop by the store this weekend. We just unpacked some vintage mourning jewelry that you might like.”

“Sick,” the obviously misnamed Sunny replied in apparent approval.

“Ill,” Robert added, seemingly agreeing with his girlfriend. “Thanks for the heads-up, Ms. Plinski.”

“Oh, no problemo, it’s chill,” the elderly woman exclaimed, her garbled attempt at hipness drawing tolerant snickers from both teens. Then she turned her attention to Darla, gesturing her to join her. “Darla, I need your help here in the store. When you say good-bye to your friends, can you stop in for a moment?”

“Sure, Mary Ann, I’m on the way,” Darla called back, realizing she’d just been tossed a life preserver, in a manner of speaking. To the goth pair, she brightly added, “We’ll talk more later. Bye!”

She turned on her heel and took the dozen or so steps to the antique shop at a brisker pace than usual. Once past the shop door, she glanced back for a final look. The teens were still eyeing her with suspicion but did not appear inclined to pursue. She closed the door behind her and turned to Mary Ann with a sigh.

“Thanks for the rescue. I was afraid it might get a bit nasty out there.”

“Oh, surely not,” the old woman said with a smile. “Sunny and Robert are perfectly nice children and good customers, to boot. But I happened to look out the window and saw everyone standing there outside. They did seem rather upset, so I thought I should defuse the situation. My gracious, aren’t all those flowers something?”

“They’re something, all right,” Darla agreed with a sigh. “I imagine it’s been pretty unnerving for you today, too. Did you see the cable news people circling like hawks this morning? And you were right about people wanting to buy. I ended up opening the store for a couple of hours. But good old Sunny and Robert said that they’re organizing a boycott against me.”

She gave Mary Ann an overview of her morning, including the fact that the police had determined not to charge Marnie in connection with the author’s death. She left out the part about Hamlet’s finding the lipstick note, however, as well as her debate with Jake as to whether or not it constituted a clue. The older woman nodded sympathetically as she listened, and Darla felt herself relax just a bit. Something about the woman’s briskly cheerful attitude seemed to dial down her own feeling of doom.

The store itself added to that homey feel. Unlike other similar establishments with their emphasis on overpriced European antiquities, Bygone Days Antiques specialized in eighteenth – and nineteenth-century Americana, the sort of items that one might find in one’s grandparents’ house. Though she’d only visited the store a couple of times, the faintly musty scents of old wooden furniture and vintage clothing and linens always made Darla feel at home.

“Well, I’m glad the poor driver won’t have to face any charges,” Mary Ann said. “ As for the rest, it’s my opinion that when it’s our time to leave this world, it’s our time to go, and nothing can stop us. So consider yourself absolved of any fault. Now, would you like to come upstairs for a cup of tea?”

Darla considered the offer a moment and then shook her head. “Normally, I would, but Detective Reese is supposed to stop by later to discuss a few things. I probably should clean the apartment a little before he arrives.”

“Ah.”

The old woman’s knowing smile made Darla blush despite herself, but she figured any protest would only add fuel to the fire. Cripes, couldn’t she have a casual chat with a good-looking guy without people trying to read something into it?

With a glance out the shop window, she deflected that subject and instead said, “Looks like Sunny and Robert are gone, so I’d better duck out now while the getting is good. Too bad there’s no connecting door between your place and mine, so I wouldn’t have to go back out onto the street in case another news van drives past.”

The other woman chuckled, and pointed to a display of wide-brimmed, beribboned women’s chapeaux, saying, “If you want, you can borrow a shawl to wrap around your head, or one of those big picture hats.”

“No, I’m good.”

That last was said with just a tinge of regret. Another time, Darla wouldn’t mind trying out the black straw number with a matching veil . . . the one sitting rakishly atop a mannequin head that sported a painted bob the same red color as her own dark auburn hair.

Bidding Mary Ann farewell, she slipped out the shop door and made hasty tracks to her own stoop. She couldn’t tell from a glance at the basement apartment if Jake had made it home yet, but she’d catch up with her when Reese showed up. In the meantime, Darla took the lipstick letter she’d snagged from the store trash, tucked it carefully into a clear sheet protector, and then headed upstairs to give her place the once-over.

Hamlet was waiting at the door when she let herself back into the apartment. The timbre of his meow indicated displeasure with something she’d apparently done . . . or not done.

“All right, Hamlet, spit it out. You’ve got food, fresh water, and I even took your side on this whole note thing”—she waved the plastic-wrapped flier in his direction—“when Jake laughed at us. So what more do you need? And, no, you’re not getting my sandwich.”

By way of response, the cat padded over to the front window overlooking the street below. He reared up onto his hind legs, just as he’d done with the bookcase earlier, stretching so that his front paws were on the windowsill. Black nose pressed almost to the glass and tail twitching, he meowed again.

“What is it, fellow?”

Frowning, Darla tossed the sandwich into the fridge and made her own way to the window. In the short time that they’d shared space together, she had never seen Hamlet demonstrate interest in the activity on the street below. He preferred things up close and personal, be it in the store or underneath her feet. A glance outside at the mountain of flowers showed little change from the scene she’d left only a little while earlier. A new group of mourners was busy paying their respects, a few dressed much like Robert and Sunny, and the rest in the classic teen uniform of jeans, tops, and jackets.

“Just your typical Haunted High fans,” she muttered. So what was it that had attracted the cat’s attention? She shrugged and started to turn away, when abruptly she found herself staring just like Hamlet.

One of the jean-clad teens stood slightly apart from the rest, holding what appeared from Darla’s vantage point to be an oversized card. Her black hair was well below shoulder length, and so straight that Darla guessed that she must use one of those ceramic flat irons on it. Something about her posture, the way she tilted her head, looked oddly familiar. Darla squinted, her own nose a bare inch from the glass, trying for a better look as she struggled to recall where she might have seen the girl before.

As she watched, the girl bent and propped her card on a pile of black carnations alongside a lit red pillar candle. The action sent the shawl-like black scarf she wore sliding forward, momentarily hooding her features. The sight sparked an even stronger sense of familiarity, and Darla frowned.

And then it came to her.

“Oh my God, it’s the Lone Protester!”