Double Booked for Death

SIXTEEN

“AS OF EIGHT FORTY-FIVE THIS MORNING, THE BIDDING WAS at eight hundred seventy-nine dollars for my first autographed Valerie Baylor book.”

His tone satisfied, James gave a brisk nod and straightened his vest. “I suspect the bids have reached one thousand dollars by now,” he went on. “I have made this a twenty-four-hour auction to heighten the interest. I shall post another book at the end of the week to take advantage of those who missed out on the first offering and are regretting their timidity in bidding. I predict that second auction will be even more profitable.”

Darla shot him a wry look. “Well, good for your retirement fund. I have to admit, we did pretty well here yesterday, especially since we were technically closed. Maybe I should have jacked up our prices, too.”

She gave him a quick rundown of yesterday’s impromptu sales. “I felt like I was running a speakeasy,” she added with a sigh. “Let’s just hope that we don’t see a backlash today, with everyone staying away in droves.”

So saying, Darla flipped the sign to “Open” and unlocked the front door of the shop. Much to her surprise, she had managed a full night’s sleep last night, with her dreams undisturbed by authors, poltergeists, or cops. She didn’t wake until almost seven, when Hamlet commenced with his usual hurry-up-and-feed-the-poor-starving-kitty routine.

Feeling masochistic, she had flipped on the television news for a Valerie update while she pulled on the day’s work outfit of a pale green sweater set and a knee-length denim skirt. The author’s untimely death still rated a periodic ten-second crawl along the bottom of the screen, but other more pressing world events had knocked it off the main broadcast rotation. A look out her front window had shown the Valerie shrine still intact, but seeming to have reached maturity. All but a few of the largest candles had long since sputtered into misshapen wax puddles, and the bloom was definitely off the blossoms.

Now, she took another look. The tribute remained an impressive if faded sight. A few hardcore Valerie fans had already returned to set up mute vigil on the sidewalk in defiance of truancy laws . . . and, hopefully, not as a precursor to Sunny and Robert’s proposed boycott. And, on the bright side, the television news crews had seemingly lost interest in the story, for she’d not seen any more reporters stopping off to shoot a bit of video.

She glanced down to see that a fresh bundle of the local free paper lay on the stoop, and she carried the stack inside to set by the register. At least this newspaper didn’t have headlines about Valerie Baylor’s death, she thought in relief. But she was pretty sure the story would be different when the distributor brought this week’s allocation of news and gossip magazines. Chances were those publications would have pages dedicated to the story. She only hoped that she and the store could continue to stay out of the limelight. She’d managed so far to avoid the press, but her luck wouldn’t hold forever.

While James worked the most recent rare-book orders, Darla reconciled a few invoices while glancing occasionally toward the door. The bell remained disconcertingly silent, however. When it finally jingled around noon, both she and James gazed up with anticipation, only to let loose with a collective sigh of disappointment.

“Uh, hey, Jake,” Darla managed.

James gave a formal nod and echoed, “Ms. Martelli.”

“Wow, back down on that enthusiastic greeting,” the woman replied with a tired grin. Glancing around the otherwise empty shop, she added in commiseration, “Slow day, huh.”

“Yeah, they’re beating down the doors not to get in,” Darla replied. “We got the hard-core Valerie fans yesterday, so I figured today it would be the regulars and probably a few ghouls who’d want to see the store where she did her last signing. But, nada . . . zip.”

“Maybe they thought you’d be closed for the day,” Jake suggested, plopping down on her favorite beanbag chair in the children’s section. “Don’t worry, kid, I’m sure business will pick up tomorrow. So, anyone feel like having lunch delivered ?”

James called out for soup and salads, and they made a small party of it in the tiny courtyard outside, leaving the door open so Darla could listen for the front bell. While they ate, the retired professor regaled Jake and Darla with stories of deceased authors from the past two centuries whose books appreciated significantly after their unexpected demise.

The fact they were holding this conversation in one of the spots where Valerie Baylor had spent some of her final moments was not lost on any of them.

“And then, as far as twentieth-century writers go, you have Hunter S. Thompson,” James said once he’d exhausted writers of the 1800s. “And, more recently, you might recall an interest in Michael Crichton, though the value was sentimental rather than literary. Of course, there is always Salinger. He never signed many books to begin with, and so the pool for collectors has always been limited. The occasional tome turning up with his reputed signature always brings a frenzy of interest among serious bidders.”

While Jake nodded in interest—genuine or feigned, Darla was not sure—he continued, “With Ms. Baylor, she had just begun her tour for this book, and so had signed only a few copies to this point. Once again, we are talking scarcity. For the books I am auctioning, I am providing a framed print of the photographs that I took, as well as our store certificate signed by me, to guarantee authenticity. Of course, since Ms. Baylor is not a literary figure in the classic sense, the value for her signed works will drop appreciably once the grief factor dissipates. But until then, I will take my profit where I can.”

With a look over at Darla, he added, “I think it would appear, shall we say, inappropriate for Pettistone’s Fine Books to have a presence on a public auction site; however, I intend to send private messages to some of our more avid collectors of popular fiction to gauge interest in our signed store copies.”

“Wouldn’t want to be inappropriate, now,” Jake agreed with a grin, which broadened as she turned to Darla. “Speaking of which, Reese wasn’t upstairs very long last night. Here I all but gift wrap this good-looking hunk of a man for you and send him up to your place, and you don’t take advantage of the situation?”

“Hey, just being polite,” Darla replied, trying not to blush. “I figured he might be off-limits, since you and he are so tight.”

“Not a chance. You’ll never catch me on the cougar prowl,” she replied, doing a little mock claw swipe. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind looking at cute young things, but when it comes down to it, I like my men a bit more seasoned. But the two of you would make a cute couple, and he could use a change from his usual type.”

“Really, Jake, I trust you are not pimping out your friends to my employer, or vice versa,” James interjected in a disapproving tone.

The woman was not to be squelched.

“Don’t be such a killjoy, James,” she shot back, turning the grin on him. “Darla’s a big girl. She can tell me to back off if she wants.”

“Okay, back off,” Darla agreed, but she said it with a smile, even as she wondered what Reese’s usual type was. Probably barely legal, with that whole Jersey Shore look going on. “Reese is a nice guy, but I can’t see him as anything but a friend. Especially while we still have this whole Valerie mess hanging over our heads.”

Her smile faded at that last, and she abruptly stood to peer into the store in case a customer had managed to slip in without triggering the bells. It was still empty, except for Hamlet. He padded past the open doorway, tail waving in a carefree manner. Apparently, he enjoyed having the place to himself.

“It’s after one o’clock,” she proclaimed, looking at her watch, “and we haven’t had a single customer. James, why don’t you go on home? I’ll pay you for the whole shift, of course.”

“If you insist. I am rather anxious to check the status of my auction.”

“I insist. I’ll hang out here a bit longer and then shut down for the day. Maybe business tomorrow will be better.”

“I am certain it shall be. And I will make sure to send out those emails of inquiry from home. Good afternoon, ladies,” he finished with a formal nod, and headed back into the store. A few moments later, jingling bells announced his exit.

Darla sat back with a sigh and raked her hands through her wavy auburn hair, which she’d let hang loose this day. “I’ll call Lizzie and tell her not to bother coming in after class this afternoon. Maybe she can do some social networking on our behalf. And I’d better have her post a message of condolence on our website, too.”

“Good idea, kid. Don’t worry, the customers will be back.”

She stood and helped Darla gather the remains of their lunch; then, once the cleanup was completed, Jake too headed for the door. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything new from Reese,” she promised. “Now go home and have a relaxing afternoon.”

As if, Darla wryly thought while the sound of jingling bells followed her friend out. She’d probably spend all afternoon with her nose pressed to the window watching for a return of Marnie, or else sit glued to the cable news channels waiting for segments on the whole Valerie fiasco. With the funeral on Thursday, the media vultures would be hovering again. Which reminded her . . .

Grabbing up the store Rolodex, she flipped through until she found Hillary Gables’s phone number. Surprisingly, she reached the agent at her office on the first try.

“You can imagine what it’s been like here,” the woman told her after they exchanged pleasantries. Her sharp New York City demeanor, punctuated by a few sniffles, seemed to slice through the phone lines as she went on, “The tour had just begun, and we had radio and television spots booked. And, even worse, we don’t have another manuscript from her. Her contract allows two years between books, so her next one wasn’t due for a couple of months. I’m afraid this is the end of the line, unless we can ghost out the book to someone else to finish.”

She paused, and Darla heard a small chuckle on the other end. “Ghost out . . . kind of appropriate, when you think about it,” she added, sounding far more chipper about the entire situation than expected.

Darla simply said in return, “You told me the service for Valerie would be Thursday. Will you still be able to get me in to pay my respects?”

“Sure, why not? But, remember what I said. Don’t tell people who you are if you can avoid it. Some of the relatives might hold a grudge. Know what I mean?”

Darla agreed that she did. Satisfied, Hillary gave her the location of the church in Southampton, adding, “Be there by two. Your name will be on the list, but I’ll keep an eye out for you in case security doesn’t want to let you in. Oh, and dress up. It’s not Brooklyn out there. The Hamptons might go casual for everyday, but make it a social affair like a funeral, and they’ll dress for it like it’s the red carpet.”

Darla managed not to make a snide retort to that last. Instead, she thanked the agent and rang off, wondering now if attending the funeral would be a mistake. Hillary might be right, in that Valerie’s family could well be blaming her for what happened.

She wondered, too, if Marnie and her fellow congregants would somehow find their way to the church with their protest signs on Thursday. Chances were the van wouldn’t yet be repaired, meaning they’d have plenty of spare time on their hands for their demonstration. But at least if they were picketing there, that meant they wouldn’t be marching in front of her store. Despite Marnie’s promise, Darla wouldn’t put it past the woman to make at least a token protest at Pettistone’s before she left town, if only to satisfy the tax man that she and her associates had indeed been traveling on church business.

Darla sighed and then slowly spun around, surveying her small kingdom of books. She hadn’t realized until now just how much this store had come to mean to her. Before, it had been strictly business, working as a matter of duty and pride to keep her fiscal head well above water in these challenging economic times. After all, she’d been handpicked to carry on this piece of the Pettistone legacy. Great-Aunt Dee could have willed her literary child to any one of twenty other relatives. No way was Darla not going to come up to Pettistone snuff.

Good intentions, however, were not enough. Between the online bookselling behemoths undercutting the little guys, and e-books swooping in to take their surprising share of the market, it was getting harder and harder for brick-and-mortar places to compete. Every day, it seemed, she read in the trades about another well-established bookstore that had slipped into bankruptcy. Keeping a positive attitude after each such doleful announcement, she continually told herself it wouldn’t happen to her.

But if today was a harbinger of things to come, she might be the next in line to be washed away by that red-ink tide.

And then what in the heck would she do?

“No sense borrowing trouble,” she muttered, reflexively channeling her mother, who was prone to spout such well-worn chestnuts. She had a flexible business plan, and so long as she stuck to it, she should be able to weather the unfavorable economic storm. And if not, maybe she’d simply have to ditch the books and reopen as a coffee shop or a New Age boutique.

Her true dilemma for the moment would be deciding what a good old Texas gal should wear to a filthy rich New York author’s funeral.

“DAMN IT, I WAS AFRAID YOU’D ANSWER.”

Awakened as she’d been from a sound sleep, it took Darla a few moments to realize that the soft voice on the other end of the phone was Jake’s. Alarmed, she grabbed up her bedside clock to check the time.

Five after two in the a.m. Like her dad always told her, nothing good ever happened after midnight. Reflexively, she dropped her own voice to a whisper and demanded, “What’s wrong?”

“Footsteps,” was Jake’s succinct answer. “It’s that same sound of someone walking around in the store again. I’m headed up to take a look.”

Not again!

Tracking down possible intruders in the dead of night was the last thing Darla wanted to do after all that had happened. Unfortunately, her sense of responsibility kicked in right on schedule, and she heard herself saying, “I’ll go in through the side door. I’ll be down as soon as I throw on a robe.”

“The hell you will. We’ve had this discussion before. You can wait downstairs in the hall if you want, but don’t you dare set foot inside the store until I open the door for you.”

This time, it was Jake’s phone that went dead before Darla could protest. She set down the receiver and flipped on the light, and then grabbed her robe. To be honest, she was relieved that Jake had insisted she stay out. Sooner or later, they were going to catch whoever—or whatever—was stomping around the store after hours.

Just to be sure, she took a quick look around the apartment for Hamlet, finding him in his lounging spot in front of the refrigerator. He yawned and blinked in irritation as she flipped on the kitchen light, a pretty good indication that he wasn’t the one responsible for the commotion Jake had heard.

This left two possible explanations. Either there was an intruder in the shop, or else Great-Aunt Dee had returned from the Beyond to do an inventory check.

Oh, and there was a third option, she reminded herself. Maybe the ghost of Valerie Baylor had decided to come back and finish her interrupted autographing event.

“Ridiculous!” she protested aloud, the vehemence in her tone drawing an offended meow from the cat.

She tugged on her robe with more force than necessary, angry at herself that such thoughts had even crossed her mind. Surely it was only because she was stressed and had been torn out of a sound sleep that her overtaxed brain had conjured up such far-fetched explanations. Though, in a way, the haunting thing was preferable to having someone continually breaking into the bookstore for some unknown purpose!

She snatched up her keys and hurried out the door. The light from the replica Tiffany lamp on the small table near her front door put out just enough of a golden glow to light her way down. She took the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could in her bare feet, reaching the foyer in record time.

The sight of a shadowy figure looming beyond the frosted glass of the hallway’s outer door made her gasp. In the next instant, she heard the soft scrape of a key in the lock and realized from the silhouette’s shape that the intruder was Jake. Doubtless the ex-cop had decided to try a different tactic and sneak in the side door, rather than come in with figurative guns blazing through the front.

Maybe it was time to hang a nice opaque curtain behind the glass, Darla fleetingly thought, realizing that the lamp that had brightened the stairwell also illuminated the foyer suffi – ciently so that someone outside the hazy glass door could see her shadow, too.

Making a mental note to check in with Mary Ann for something suitably vintage in window coverings, Darla hurried to let her friend in.

Jake, unlit flashlight in hand, gave her a look of annoyed resignation as she stepped inside and then moved to the other door. The panel light at the jamb still flashed red, meaning that no one had turned off the alarm. Jake frowned and then punched in the code, bringing it back to green status.

“I’m going in,” she whispered. “Wait out here for me, and don’t you dare come in until I give the all clear.”

Darla waited until Jake was safely inside and then pressed a cautious ear to the door. She stood there listening for several moments, hearing no movement through the paneled wood. Soon enough, her nervousness blossomed into concern. How long had it been since Jake had gone in? Five minutes, perhaps ? Surely time enough to sweep through the store and see if anyone was inside. So where was she?

By way of answer, the door abruptly opened inward with Darla still pressed against it.

She gasped and stumbled into the store, catching her balance with Jake’s help. All the store lights were on, and she squinted against the sudden brightness for a moment. When her eyes adjusted, she saw Jake standing before her, expression one of extreme disgust.

“Not a damn thing,” the woman groused, slapping her flashlight against her palm in obvious irritation. “I thought I saw a shadow on the stairs, and I could have sworn I heard more footsteps, but when I ran up to the second floor, there wasn’t anyone there. I searched every square inch of the place. Twice. And, nada.”

Then, as Darla stared at her, wide-eyed, Jake’s anger fizzled.

“Oh God, listen to me. If someone was telling me this same story, I’d be looking at them like they were crazy, too,” she said with a deprecating little laugh. “I swear, I truly did hear someone in here. You believe me, don’t you?”

“I believe you, Jake,” Darla assured her. “Maybe there really is a poltergeist, like Mary Ann said.”

“Don’t even go there,” Jake countered. “I’ve lived in apartment buildings all of my life, and believe me, I know what someone walking on the floor above you sounds like. This isn’t one of those Valerie Baylor books, and those weren’t little ghost-y footsteps.”

“Okay, scratch the poltergeist. But maybe it’s time I get a security camera installed.”

The idea had just come to her, and she couldn’t help but think it was the only solution to the problem. Jake obviously agreed, for she gave a vigorous nod.

“Good idea, kid. I know a guy named Ted who’s in the security business. I’ll call him for you tomorrow and see what kind of deal he can cut you on some cameras. I think that’s the only way we’re ever going to put this one to bed. Speaking of which, I guess we both might as well head back to ours.”

“Sure. Thanks for checking things out. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

She let Jake out the front and locked the door after her before setting the alarm and leaving through the side door, as usual. Her mood was thoughtful as she made her way back upstairs. Hamlet was waiting for her inside the front door, having apparently decided that the middle of the night was as good a time as any for a little snack.

She topped his kibble with some fresh but passed on anything for herself. Instead, she settled at her desk and turned on her computer. She hesitated a moment once she’d brought up the search engine; then, feeling only a bit foolish, she typed in the word “poltergeist.”

Instantly, the results popped up—well over five million results. Staggered, she sat back in her chair. Talk about information overload! Cautiously at first, and then more rapidly, she began to click on the links, skimming the pages.

“Well, Hamlet,” she told him after half an hour of reading, “all the so-called experts say that if I have poltergeist activity, it should stop as quickly as it started, and shouldn’t last more than a few months. On the other hand, if it’s a ghost hanging out in the building, I’m pretty well stuck with it unless I get one of those paranormal teams in to run it off. They also say that there can be plenty of non-supernatural explanations, like high electromagnetic frequencies, mold, and animal infestations. So what do you think? Do we bring in a team, or tough it out on our own with a security camera?”

Hamlet apparently had no opinion on the subject, for he looked up from where he’d settled on the couch, gave her a cold green stare, and then went back to napping.

Darla snorted and started to shut down the computer again, when another unsettling thought occurred to her. Jake had seemed more than a little upset at the idea that she could have imagined the sounds, or that Darla might have thought she had. Maybe the ex-cop had encountered some similar situation during her career that made her sensitive to the likes of ghosts and mysterious footsteps in the night.

Fingers on the keyboard, she hesitated. Then, feeling equal parts determined and unaccountably guilty, she typed her friend’s name into the search engine.

By inputting all variations she could think of, Darla found herself with several pages of entries about Jake. Some were but a sentence or two mention. Jake had been on the building committee at Mary Queen of Peace Catholic Church five years earlier and had taken part in a fund-raiser for the Big Sisters. Others were police accounts where she’d been the arresting officer. Nothing, however, about ghosts.

Finally, Darla found a news story recounting the circumstances of the shooting that had led to Jake’s retirement from the force. She clicked on the link and read with interest. The report was straightforward and echoed the story she had pieced together herself via offhand mentions from Jake.

Authorities are charging the man who shot at a New York City police officer this morning with attempted capital murder. Martin Edward Rose, 52, remains at City Medical Center in good condition after he and the officer exchanged gunfire Tuesday morning in the 300 block of West Olive Street.

Police officials say Rose allegedly fired first, wounding Detective Jacqueline Martelli, a 20-year police veteran. Despite a bullet to the upper thigh, she was able to fire back, hitting him in the torso. Other patrol officers arriving on the scene pulled Martelli to safety and subdued her shooter. Both were taken to the hospital.

Martelli was attempting to arrest Rose on a previous charge of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Her condition was upgraded this morning from critical to serious, and she is expected to recover.

A follow-on story from the day after reported that the suspect had been released from the hospital and subsequently denied bail on all charges, while mentioning that Jake’s condition was now “good” and that she would be released in a few days. No alarm bells in any of that, Darla thought in relief. She had been afraid she might find something untoward, like, Crazed police officer claims to have shot undead suspect.

“See, Hamlet,” she exclaimed, glancing over her shoulder at the cat. “You were worried for no good reason.”

But barely had the words left her lips when she noticed at the bottom of the screen a link to a story dated a few weeks after the shooting. Jake’s name was highlighted as a keyword, and the stark headline said it all.

POLICE OFFICER ON DISABILITY LEAVE CHARGED WITH ATTEMPTED MURDER