Double Booked for Death

SEVENTEEN

“HOW ABOUT THIS ONE, DEAR?”

Mary Ann held up a length of gold fabric with a faint stripe pattern that gave it a vintage tone-on-tone look. When Darla admired it and ventured aloud that it resembled organza, the old woman smiled and shook her head.

“Very similar, yes, but this is called grenadine,” she explained. “It was considered a dress fabric as far back as the eighteenth century, but it fell out of favor right about World War I. Of course, everything old is eventually new again, and it was reborn sometime in the 1920s as a curtain fabric. If you look at old dry goods catalogues from the 1930s through the 1950s, you’ll see listings for just that—curtain grenadine. I think this example would look lovely in your foyer.”

“I’ll take it,” Darla agreed, stifling a yawn as she handed over her credit card.

Since Wednesdays were James’s day off, she had left the bookstore in Lizzie’s care this morning while she did a little shopping at Bygone Days Antiques. After last night, her primary motivation had been to find something to cover the glass door leading up to her apartment. But it had also been a handy excuse for her to take another look at The Hat.

For it had occurred to her that a vintage picture hat would be the ideal thing to wear to a celebrity funeral. She already had a decent black dress, so it didn’t make sense to buy a new one just to impress people she’d never again see after tomorrow. Splurging on some one-of-a-kind headgear, however, seemed a perfectly justifiable expense.

“Do you have a curtain rod to hang the fabric?” Mary Ann asked, breaking in on her thoughts. “If not, we have some reproduction hardware that would be quite appropriate for the era. And, I’m sure Brother wouldn’t mind popping over to install it for you, free of charge.”

Darla smiled. The old woman definitely had mastered the art of the up-sell. Maybe she should ask her if she wanted a few paid hours at the bookstore . . . that was, assuming things ever got back to normal.

Her smile faded. So far that morning, the only person besides her and Lizzie to set foot inside the store had been a reporter from a tabloid magazine looking for a new angle on Valerie Baylor’s tragic death. Feeling certain that if she didn’t provide a few pithy quotes, the reporter would make up his own, she’d agreed to a brief interview.

Much to Darla’s dismay, Lizzie had been eager to get in on the act and spin her own dramatic take on events. As she’d launched into her version for the reporter’s benefit, however, Hamlet had leaped on the counter and knocked over a display of bookmarks. In the confusion to recover the scattered inventory, Darla had managed to escort the reporter out the door before Lizzie realized in disappointment that he’d gone.

And, after waiting a few minutes to make sure the reporter wouldn’t return, Darla had retrieved a bit of chicken breast from the salad she’d brought for lunch, and given it to Hamlet as a reward.

Now, she nodded her approval of a curtain rod.

“Why don’t you pick out something for me and add it to the bill? And you can tell Mr. Plinski to stop by anytime it’s convenient for him to do the install.”

“Wonderful! I have one in mind that is eye-catching without being terribly ostentatious, and it’s reasonably priced, to boot,” she replied, carefully refolding the vintage curtain. “ And I’ll make sure Brother takes care of this today. Now, is there anything else for you, my dear?”

“Well . . .”

Darla walked over to the mannequin that still sported the black picture hat with its drape of black veiling. Examining it more closely, she saw that the satin ribbon around its crown was a soft shade of dove gray, and that a matching gray satin rose was pinned to it.

“I know I really shouldn’t,” she began, only to have Mary Ann cut her short.

“Of course you should, dear,” she exclaimed, lifting the hat from the painted head and placing it at a rakish angle atop Darla’s red waves.

“It’s good to treat oneself on occasion,” she went on as she adjusted the veil down over her chin. “After all, you never know if a particular day will be your last. Oh dear.”

Mary Ann stepped back, looking abashed at her unfortunate observation, and Darla smiled. “Actually, I was thinking of wearing it to Valerie Baylor’s funeral tomorrow. It seems appropriate.”

The woman nodded and held up a silver-framed hand mirror so Darla could admire her reflection. “It looks lovely on you, and I think quite somber enough for the occasion without looking too funereal. And suppose I give you a little discount, just so you don’t feel guilty about indulging yourself?”

They concluded the transaction, and Darla walked out feeling quite stylish in her new purchase. When she entered the bookstore, however, Lizzie surveyed her with something less than approval. Jake had stopped by in Darla’s absence, and she also stared in dismay at Darla’s approach.

Darla didn’t blame them. After all, she was dressed for work in brown slacks and a bulky café au lait sweater that blunted the frothy feminine effect of the hat, not to mention that it worked off a whole other color palette.

“Uh, nice chapeau, kid, but lose the outfit,” was Jake’s blunt assessment.

Lizzie shook her head and looked pained. “Oh, Darla, please tell us you haven’t been wandering around town dressed like that.”

“Don’t worry,” Darla replied as she carefully folded back the black veil and removed the hat. “I bought this over at Mary Ann’s while I was shopping for a curtain. I thought I’d wear it to Valerie Baylor’s service tomorrow.”

“Oh, then that’s okay,” was Lizzie’s response. “And then next year, you can wear it to the Kentucky Derby.” She pantomimed sipping from a glass while fanning herself with her free hand. Then, lapsing in what Darla assumed was an imitation of her Texas accent, the woman exclaimed, “Whah, yes, Ah would like another mint julep. They’re so refreshin’.”

Jake chuckled appreciatively, while Darla rolled her eyes. It had been an ongoing mission ever since she moved to New York to educate the natives that not all southerners talked alike, and that not all native-born Texans shared a common accent. Unfortunately, said mission was usually greeted by blank looks, particularly from those who were certain they could imitate Darla’s twang. And since she’d tried and failed with Lizzie several times already on this subject, she decided to let it slide.

Instead, reaching beneath the counter for tissue paper and an oversized plastic bag in which to temporarily store her hat, she said, “Don’t forget, Lizzie, I’ll be gone most of the day tomorrow. Can you and James get along without me?”

She meant, as in play nicely together, but Lizzie chose to take the other meaning.

“If tomorrow’s anything like today, there’s probably no point for me to come in at all,” she said with a sigh. “So far, the only one to come in besides Jake was that reporter.”

Jake, of course, wanted to hear that story, which Lizzie told with great relish, even as she bemoaned the fact that the reporter had left before she could share her version of the night’s events.

“You know, I think Hamlet knocked over those bookmarks on purpose, just to spoil my interview,” she said with a pout in the feline’s direction. Hamlet, who was sprawled now at his favorite sunny spot near the door, merely flicked a whisker but didn’t deign to otherwise acknowledge the accusation.

Darla had finished packing up her hat by now. She sidestepped the subject of the interview lest it occurred to Lizzie that it had been she who’d shooed out the reporter, rather than he who had escaped while Lizzie was distracted. Instead, she agreed. “If you don’t mind taking the day without pay, go ahead and stay home. If we’re lucky, the worst of it will have blown over by next week, and things will be back to normal again.”

“Do you want I should tag along to the memorial service with you tomorrow?” Jake chimed in.

“No! That is, they won’t let you in. Hillary said the list will be checked, and your name has to be on it.”

Her reply was more abrupt than she’d intended, and Jake gave her a questioning look. Darla shifted a little under the scrutiny, aware that her view of Jake had taken a slightly different tilt since she’d gone poking about the Internet last night.

Unfortunately, the story about the second shooting that Jake had been involved in had been frustratingly vague despite its incriminating tone. Short as it had been, Darla had memorized it in a couple of readings.

An NYPD detective recently wounded in a high-profile shooting incident has been involved in yet another shooting controversy. Detective Jacqueline Martelli, a 20-year veteran, was charged yesterday with shooting and seriously injuring an alleged mugger in a local parking garage. The officer remains on paid leave pending an internal investigation. No charges have been filed as yet against the shooting victim.

Once she’d gotten over the original shock of finding that bit of intelligence, Darla had spent another good hour trolling the Internet for additional information. Despite her best efforts, however, she could find no more references to the incident. Finally, bleary-eyed, she’d crawled back to bed wondering how she would approach her friend with this new knowledge. Two shootings by one police detective in just a few weeks seemed extreme, even in Brooklyn.

“I can always wait down the street somewhere until it’s over with,” she heard Jake reply, the words dragging Darla back into the moment. “Besides, I’d kind of like to get a look at the guest list, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean, investigate?” Darla shot her a look, momentarily forgetting her other concerns. “Do you think whoever hired Janie might be at the funeral?”

“You never know, kid. Anyhow, I told Reese I’d see if I couldn’t tag along.”

“I suppose I could tell anyone who asked that you’re my driver,” Darla agreed, hurrying to add, at the covetous look in the woman’s eyes, “not that you get to drive Maybelle . . . at least, not until we’re almost there.”

And the long car ride might make for an ideal opportunity for her to question Jake about the whole shooting thing. Of course, that tactic could also backfire on her. If there was more to the story than what the news articles had indicated, Darla might find herself stuck in a car for a very long time with a very p.o.’d ex-cop.

“Wait,” Lizzie broke in, her tone excited, “maybe I can go, too, since you gave me the day off—”

“No!” Darla and Jake chorused, rounding on the woman at the same time. Darla tempered their response with the reminder, “This isn’t a social event, it’s business. I’m representing Pettistone’s Fine Books. And like I told Jake, there’s a list.”

Lizzie sniffed, not to be mollified. “Fine, I know when I’m not wanted. I think I’ll go unpack some more books. And, just for the record, I think that hat is ridiculous.”

She took off for the storeroom, with Darla unsure whether to laugh or be annoyed. Jake gave her an encouraging nod. “Ignore her, kid. I think your hat is kick-ass. If you don’t wear it tomorrow, I will.”

The mental picture of Jake the Amazon decked out in that sort of frippery tilted Darla back toward amusement, and she smiled. “The hat’s mine,” she said with a shake of her head, “but tell you what. Do a good job of giving me directions to the church tomorrow, and I might even let you drive back.”

“Deal. Oh, and by the way, I made that call for you. Ted the security guy can come by today if you want. I’ll give you the number so you can make the arrangements with him.”

The front door bell jangled just then, and two customers came into the store. Sending up a silent thank you to the literature gods, Darla told Jake to write down the number and then rushed over to help her first customers in days. By the time she had loaded them up with half a dozen books each and explained about the increasingly forlorn-looking flower memorial down the block, Jake had gone and a still-pouting Lizzie had run off on lunch break.

Darla took the opportunity to put in a quick call to James at his home to warn him about the security system that would likely be in place by the time he arrived in the morning. She opted against telling him about the late-night footsteps that Jake had been hearing—no need to drag James into that other melodrama. Rather, she used the confusion surrounding the autographing and its ghastly aftermath as the reason for the additional safety measures.

He agreed that the cameras were a good idea.

“Given the fact that many of our first-edition books are quite valuable, it would seem prudent to protect that investment,” he opined. “ And, as you said, if we are ever faced with a similar, ahem, situation as we had with Valerie Baylor . . .”

He trailed off, leaving unsaid what they both knew. Darla fleetingly wondered if she should take the opportunity to also ask him about the news stories that she’d found on the Internet the previous night. The question was, would he speak freely to her concerning Jake?

Not that she didn’t trust James implicitly. Between her aunt’s provisions for the man in her will, and the lawyer’s glowing assessment of the former professor, Darla felt confi – dent that James had no ulterior motives or shady past that would come back to bite her. But he had known Jake for far longer, and his loyalties might lie with her.

Deciding there was no need for the moment to put her store manager to the test, she rang off and then went to call Ted.

The security man arrived a couple of hours later, dragging an oversized case on wheels behind him. A blond bulldog of a man, Ted had a tendency to punctuate his conversation with mock shots from finger pistols.

“I know you’re in a hurry to get it done today, ma’am, so here’s the plan.”

Pow, pow.

“If it’s okay by you,” he went on, “I’m gonna get it all set up this afternoon and come back tomorrow to hide the wires all nice and neat.”

It was okay by her, Darla assured him. Grinning, Ted blew imaginary gun smoke from the tips of his forefingers and then dragged his case to the back.

The rest of the afternoon proceeded with no particular drama. And, much to Darla’s relief, customers began to trickle in as well. It was not quite at the usual pace, but the earlier drought seemed to have ended. For his part, Hamlet spent the afternoon sulking high above the action. His self-imposed exile had come after he attempted a stealth attack on Ted. That assault had backfired, however, when the man calmly pulled out a can of compressed air from his case and puffed it in the cat’s general direction.

The resulting hiss from the can, which sounded like an even larger, more obnoxious feline than the one doing the stalking, had sent Hamlet scrambling for cover in a most undignified fashion. Safely ensconced among the various flavors of Soup books, he had alternated between napping and sending Ted the green stink eye. Darla had received her share of nasty cat looks, too, even though she had been careful not to laugh at his comeuppance. Obviously, Hamlet was aware that she’d authorized Ted’s presence in the shop, and he made sure that Darla knew it.

Lizzie had proved almost as great a distraction as Hamlet, announcing her own technological expertise and offering to help Ted out. Rather than using the spray can on her, however, Ted had distracted her with a manual the size of an old Sears catalogue that he asked her to review in case he needed help later. As Lizzie staggered off self-importantly under the burden, he and Darla had exchanged glances. Ted mouthed a single pow as he triumphantly shot off one of his finger pistols, causing Darla to swallow back a laugh lest the woman hear it and realize she’d been had.

Ted proved as good as his word. A little before six, he called the three of them—Jake had rejoined them by that point—over to the store’s computer to demonstrate the equipment.

“What you got here is my custom EZ-Does-It kit,” he explained proudly. “You got your six cameras: two down here, two upstairs, and one each outside at the front door and back. The outside ones and one of the cameras on each floor are your night vision.”

At Darla’s nod, he went on, “The other two, they’re your standard-resolution indoor dome cameras. They’re hooked directly into your computer system so you can watch and record right there on your PC. If you’ve got another computer upstairs in the apartment, you can log into this system from there. There’s even a microphone to the audio input on your computer if you want to listen to what’s going on.”

He shot a look at Jake and then clarified to Darla, “Of course, it’s illegal for you to record anything unless the other person knows he’s being recorded. I’ll leave you some stickers you can slap on your front windows to let people know they’re under audio and video surveillance.”

He pulled up the monitoring screen, which was divided into six sections, each a bird’s-eye view from one of the cameras. He spent another half hour showing them how to switch to a single channel, zoom in live, and review previously recorded images.

“Now, the way you got this place divided up with all this shelving, we still got a couple of blind spots on both floors,” he reminded Darla. “But, hey, I can always expand the system if you want, bring in another camera or two.”

“No, this looks wonderful,” Darla exclaimed, feeling like a combination spy and casino security guard as she stared at the small picture of the four of them gathered near the register. Funny what was visible from up above. She’d never noticed until now that Jake had more than a few gray hairs among the black curls. Neither had she realized until this moment that her own hastily plaited French braid was decidedly off-kilter.

Putting a self-conscious hand to the offending hairstyle, she asked Ted, “I don’t suppose you have a dummies’ version of the manual to go with all this?”

He grinned. “Don’t worry, there’s a one-page checklist at the front of the binder. That’s all you should actually need. You have any problems, though, you call old Ted for help.”

Right on cue, the finger pistols went off. She thanked Ted, choked a little at his invoice—“Just pay me tomorrow, when I finish the wiring”—and then showed the man out.

After locking the door behind him, she returned to the counter to find Jake and Lizzie focused on the live-action shot being broadcast from outside the front door, where Ted stood at the curb, alternately hiking up his trousers and adjusting the resulting wedgie. He repeated the gesture several times, while a grinning Jake zoomed in and out.

“Big Sister is watching,” she said with a chortle.

Then, catching Darla’s disapproving look, she said a bit defensively, “Oh, come on, everyone is a voyeur at heart. And it’s not like old Ted didn’t know he’d be on camera standing right in front of the steps like that. He probably did all that on purpose, just to see if we were watching.”

“Well . . .” Darla allowed herself a reluctant smile. “You’re probably right,” she finally agreed. “But keep in mind I’m spending the big bucks for these cameras for security reasons, and not for our personal entertainment.”

Unless, of course, the cameras caught a poltergeist, in which case she planned to post that video online and wait for it to go viral!