Double Booked for Death

EIGHTEEN

“SO DID YOU CATCH ANYTHING ON CAMERA LAST NIGHT?”

Jake had come knocking at the shop’s front door that next morning a few minutes before ten. Darla had let her in, and then gone back to finish her opening routine. Now, having given the new security system a quick look—the program allowed her to fast-forward through hours of tape in a matter of minutes—she gestured toward the screen with its compound eye of a store view.

“It all looked pretty quiet. I assume you didn’t hear any footsteps after midnight again?”

“Not a step,” Jake replied. “And I assume Hamlet didn’t build any more book towers?”

“He was still sulking about Ted getting one over on him yesterday, so he stayed pretty well behaved all night long.”

Before she could say more, another tap at the door sounded. It was James, coffee thermos in hand, ready to start his shift.

“Good morning,” he greeted her, and then gave an approving nod. “I heard about the hat from Jake. I am glad to see you found an appropriate outfit to go with it. I predict you will be the hit of the memorial service.”

“That wasn’t exactly my intent, but thank you,” Darla said a bit sourly as she flipped the sign to “Open.”

She was dressed for the memorial service in a basic black wrap dress, which had already seen funeral duty a time or two since its purchase. She’d dragged it from the back of her closet last night, along with a lacy black shawl that she’d tossed over one shoulder. With her cape of auburn hair twisted into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and the hat pinned on at a casual angle, she had been pleasantly surprised at the stylish results. Of course, it was the hat that made the difference. Maybe she’d been missing something all these years, limiting her headgear to ball caps and those knit toboggan thingies, she now told herself as she bagged it up again for the car ride.

Jake ostentatiously cleared her throat. “Hey, what about me?” she demanded. “And here I have that whole Kato vibe going.”

Darla grinned at her friend. In her black pantsuit with a tightly cinched jacket waist, and her curly hair neatly tucked under a driver’s cap, Jake did rather resemble the Green Hornet’s sidekick . . . except, of course, that she was female, Caucasian, and a good six inches taller than the late Bruce Lee.

“I think you look like you could kick some serious butt,” she told the ex-cop. To James, she added, “Thanks for running the place alone for a few hours. Since you’ll be stuck here for lunch, feel free to have the deli deliver you something, and tell them put it on my charge card.”

“I shall do so. And I expect a full report upon your return.”

She and Jake had started for the door, when the other woman paused. “Since I’ll be sitting around for a while, you think I can borrow something to read?”

“Sure.” Darla smiled and reached for a book off the stack of Haunted High novels and handed it over. “This seems appropriate.”

Jake took it and smiled a little, too, as she tucked it into the big hobo bag she carried. “Guess I should go ahead and read it, since the whole rest of the world already has.”

They walked to the garage in near silence. For once, Darla didn’t even make her usual half-serious protests about having to hoof it everywhere. Instead, she mulled over how best to approach the matter of the shootings with Jake. By the time she’d retrieved Maybelle from her slot and driven down the ramp to pick up her friend, she had decided that a direct approach was the best.

Jake, however, beat her to it.

“Okay, kid, spill it,” the woman demanded once she’d buckled herself in and they pulled out from the garage. “You’ve been acting odd ever since yesterday and something tells me it’s not because you’re eaten up with grief over Valerie Baylor.”

“You’re right.”

Darla glanced Jake’s way. The woman had pulled out her mirrored sunglasses and slid them into place, so that Darla couldn’t read her eyes. Which, in a way, made it easier. Taking a deep breath, she blurted, “What’s the story behind you shooting that guy in the parking garage?”

“What guy?” Jake swiveled around in her seat for a swift look back at where they’d just left. “What in the hell are you talking about, kid? I don’t even have my service revolver on me.”

Then Darla saw realization dawn on the woman’s face before her features hardened into an unreadable expression beneath the mirrored lenses. “Oh, yeah, the parking garage. So, where did you hear that story? Was James talking out of school?”

“No, he didn’t say a word. I searched your name on the Internet and found an article mentioning it.”

“You Googled me?”

Jake’s voice hit a high pitch that Darla had never heard out of her before. “What in the hell did you do that for? Who do you think I am, some loser you met on an online dating site?”

They had stopped for a red light. A bit defensively, Darla turned to meet her gaze.

“Okay, maybe it was a crappy thing to do,” she admitted, “but I was getting concerned that you kept hearing footsteps in the night, and we never found anyone in the store. So I went online. I started by looking up poltergeists, and it ended with looking up you. I found the article about how you got shot trying to arrest a suspect. It all seemed pretty straightforward, and I decided I was worried for nothing. And then I stumbled across that story about the guy in the garage.”

Jake began to sputter in outrage, but Darla held her ground. “I mean, I thought we were gun-happy in Texas, but finding out about your shooting two guys in two months was kind of scary.”

Before Jake could respond, a car behind them blared its horn. Darla looked up to see the light had changed back to green. She threw Maybelle into gear and hit the gas, wishing she could leave behind this awkward conversation as well.

If only Jake had let her ease into the subject instead of forcing her to leap right in, she thought in annoyance, her grip on the steering wheel tightening. Maybe she should swing back around and drop Jake back at the building, because it looked like her fear of spending the day stuck in the same car with an angry ex-cop was justified.

When she glanced over at Jake again, however, she was surprised to see that the woman was smiling. To be sure, her expression held more than a note of irony, but it was better than the outrage Darla had expected.

“Okay, kid, why don’t we clear the air a little?”

“Works for me,” Darla agreed in relief, deciding she could risk continuing toward the expressway, as planned, rather than turning back around and heading home again. That was, assuming that the shooting story could be explained away in a rational fashion.

She looked over again in time to see Jake’s smile slip just a little.

“Now, as far as the guy in the garage, your news story was right, to a point,” she began. “I did shoot him, but the bastard damn well deserved it. No, no, not this lane . . . move over to the left!” she loudly interrupted herself and made wild gestures as a four-door whose main color was primer abruptly swerved into their lane. Darla hit the horn but held her ground—years of negotiating Dallas rush hours had prepped her for New York City driving—and reclaimed her spot.

Crisis averted, Jake went on in a milder tone, “It happened just a few days after I’d been discharged from the hospital. Ma had driven all the way up from Florida to stay with me until I could get around on my own. So here we were in this parking garage, trying to find where she’d left her car—me in a wheelchair, and my seventy-year-old mother pushing me. And then some punk leaps out from behind a van waving a knife and demanding our money.”

Darla gasped as Jake continued, “Of course, being the good Jersey girl she is, Ma wasn’t going to take crap off of anyone. So before I could say anything, she jumps in front of the wheelchair and yells at the guy, You stay the hell away from my little girl.”

Jake’s smile grew grimmer. “Then he starts cursing at her and acting like he’s going to cut her, and she’s yelling at him that he’d better pray his mother doesn’t find out what he’s doing. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in my wheelchair yelling at Ma to get behind me, and yelling at the punk to put down his knife because he’s under arrest, and neither one is listening to me. So, I pulled out my piece, grabbed Ma and dragged her into my lap, and then blew off the punk’s little toe, more to shut him up than anything else.”

“Wow,” was Darla’s succinct reply, torn as she was between amazement and admiration. She made another quick lane change, catching a look at Jake’s coolly satisfied expression in the process. Clearly, the Martelli women as a group were not to be messed with, particularly if one wanted to keep all one’s digits.

Jake merely shrugged.

“The perp tried to run off, but he didn’t get far,” she continued. “The patrol officer who responded followed a nice little blood trail and found him one level down, crying behind a Delta Eighty-Eight and holding what was left of his tootsies. I found out later on that he had a rap sheet that stretched from here to next year . . . and, that he was suspected of attacking two other elderly people in two different parking garages that same week. One of the old guys didn’t make it, and the other one was laid up in the hospital for a month. Anyhow, the shooting was ruled justified, and Toeless Joe ended up sentenced to life. Guess the papers forgot to report that part.”

“Wow,” Darla repeated, a bit inadequately. “He’s lucky you didn’t hit him somewhere more vital.”

“Actually, I was aiming for his crotch. Ma jerked my arm at the last minute and knocked my aim off.”

They drove in silence for the next few minutes, with Darla feeling slightly lower than worm footprints over the whole situation. She should have known that Jake was just what she appeared to be, and all the drama was in her own head. She glanced Jake’s way again and in a meek tone said, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, next time you think I’ve turned into some sort of deranged ex-cop with a vendetta, how about you ask me about it first?”

She said it without rancor, however. Darla felt her earlier uneasiness lighten, while her death grip on the steering wheel loosened.

“And if it makes you feel any better,” Jake added, “when I found out you were the one inheriting Dee’s estate, I went ahead and had an old friend of mine in Records run your name, just to make sure you were legit.”

When Darla did a little sputtering of her own, Jake grinned.

“Kinda pinches, that shoe on the other foot, eh? But we all decided that you were about the most boring person we’ve ever run, so I was pretty sure that Dee knew what she was doing. Now, you wanna call it even, and we’ll move on?”

“Even,” Darla agreed with a smile and no little sense of relief.

They drove on for a while, then Jake announced, “Okay, that’s out of the way, let’s plan how we’re going to handle this funeral. I know the reason you’re going is to pay your respects, but you might as well take advantage of the opportunity. It might sound like a cliché, but you’d be surprised at how often killers show up at their victims’ funerals.”

Then, when Darla shot her an alarmed look—killer?—Jake gave a wry shrug.

“I’m not saying that I think Valerie was murdered, but let’s cover all the bases. Look around, see who’s there, and listen to the gossip. You never know, someone might fling themselves on Valerie’s coffin and admit to doing the deed.”

They stopped for a brief lunch once they got out of the city; then, switching places so that Jake was driving and Darla was sitting in the back, they hit the road again.

It was a quarter to two when they pulled up in front of the Episcopal church: an elegant, white-stoned edifice complete with bell tower and cross, and set well back from the road in the midst of a manicured green lawn. A curved drive led from the street to a small parking lot along one side of the building. Darla could see a sleek black hearse and two limousines idling under the distant portico, but further vehicles were blocked from joining them by a row of oversized orange cones.

All this meant that the mourners had to hike the distance from curb to church. Shiny new Jaguars, Bentleys, Porsches, and BMWs made up most of the vehicles discharging passengers there at the gated front walk, though Darla also noticed a couple of Rolls-Royces purring past. She saw, as well, that a large wooden podium manned by half a dozen crisply uniformed young men had been set up along the curb. As each new group of mourners piled out, their respective drivers were pointed toward a nearby lot where they could await their employers’ return. For those mourners slightly lower down the food chain—meaning they had driven themselves—one of those youths promptly leaped behind the wheel of the empty car and drove it off to a second location.

“Valet parking at a funeral,” Darla murmured in amazement, wondering if one was supposed to tip in such circumstances and feeling slightly smug that she had a driver of her own.

Jake grinned. “That’s the Hamptons for you.”

Darla pinned on her oversized hat again as Jake pulled into line with the rest and waited their turn. She noticed a couple of local police cars prowling the winding road, no doubt dispatched to hustle away any paparazzi, fans, or Lord’s Blessing Church protesters who might have learned the location of the service. For the moment, however, it appeared that the destination remained a secret. The only black garb she spied was the fashionable funeral attire worn by the parade of wealthy guests.

As they reached the valet stand, a young man rushed to Darla’s side to open her door.

“Enjoy hobbing with the nobs, kid,” Jake told her as she climbed out. “And if you see anyone there you think I should meet”—she pulled her glasses down to her nose and waggled her brows meaningfully—“send me a text.”

Darla adjusted her veil so that it caught on her chin and draped the shawl over her shoulders before starting down the walk toward the church. Ahead of her, a sixtyish man in a black suit was escorting a paper-thin blonde less than half his age who could have been a model. Darla was pleased to see that the young woman wore a black wrap dress similar to Darla’s own, though hers had a stand-up white collar and was hemmed a good foot shorter than Darla’s knee-length outfit. She suspected, however, that the model’s dress was also worth twenty times the cost of Darla’s sensible knit, which she had found on sale for less than a hundred dollars.

Her feet in the unaccustomed heels had already begun to ache by the time she reached the broad marble staircase leading up to the church’s pair of arched wooden doors. She thought longingly of the running shoes she’d left behind in the car, but she knew too well that the fashion of pairing that footwear with formal wear had gone out with the eighties.

Several other guests already were gathered, waiting to enter. The promised security was there, too: two beefy, black-suited men situated on either side of the massive entry. Darla didn’t need a second look to recognize one of them. Everest stood with a clipboard in hand as he marked off the names of each arrival.

“Ms. Pettistone,” Everest greeted her with professional pleasure when it was her turn to give her name. “It’s good to see you again, ma’am, despite the circumstances. Let me see if you’re on the list.”

Frowning, he scanned his clipboard and then shook his head. “John,” he called to his cohort, “check to see if Ms. Pettistone is on your list.”

The other man obediently scrutinized his paper before shaking his head as well. “She’s not on it.”

“I’m not?” Darla stared at Everest in consternation, feeling herself blush behind her veil. She’d never in her life gatecrashed an event, but now it appeared she was on the verge of doing just that. “I don’t understand. Hillary Gables promised that she would add my name.”

“I’m sure she did, Ms. Pettistone,” came Everest’s diplomatic reply.

Unspoken were the words, Yeah, that’s what they all say, lady.

Her blush deepening, she went on, “Seriously, Everest, I talked to Hillary not two days ago. She’s the one who gave me directions. She even said she’d look out for me just in case there was a problem. Maybe I can pop into the church and find her so she can come back out and vouch for me?”

Everest shook his head, his diamond earring sparkling in the afternoon sun.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. If it was just me, I’d let you right in, but I have orders from the family to stick to the list. I hope you understand.”

“How about if I wait here in case Hillary notices I’m not inside and comes looking for me?” Darla persisted, biting back the few choice words for the agent that threatened. How could Hillary let her come all the way out here from Brooklyn, only to forget to put her on the list? And how was she supposed to do the look-and-listen routine that Jake had assigned her if she couldn’t even get past the door?

The bodyguard glanced at the Rolex on one beefy wrist and then nodded. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you stood here for a few minutes, at least until the service starts. But I do ask that you step aside so that the other guests can pass by.”

“Sure.”

Darla stepped aside and pretended she had come out of the church for a breath of fresh air. If not for the circumstances, she might have enjoyed the wait. The afternoon breeze coming off the Atlantic Ocean was just cool enough to offset the sun, and she was in the center of more greenery than she’d seen since she moved to Brooklyn. A veritable meadow stretched before her, the meticulously manicured lawn as carefully maintained as any golf course. Across the distant street, she could see where all the valet cars were parked. They appeared arranged in order of retail value, with the Rollses up front, and the other cars behind.

As for the guests, their numbers at the door had increased dramatically. Darla recognized a couple of B-list film stars and even one controversial radio personality among them, as well as several faces from the publishing industry that she had seen in various trade magazines. She glanced at her non-Rolex and saw it was but a couple of minutes to two. Was one always fashionably late, even to a funeral, in the world of the rich?

As unobtrusively as she could, she pulled out her phone and texted Jake. Not on list, Security won’t let me in. What 2 do?

A reply popped up almost immediately: Sneak in with someone else?

Can’t, she typed back. Hat’s 2 big.

Lose it!!!!!

Darla glanced around. The crowd at the door was growing, so that it looked more like the line outside a popular club than a gathering of mourners. John and Everest were busy going over their lists, and someone had finally propped open the immense arched doors to better accommodate the flow. She looked around one last time for Hillary but didn’t see her. It’s now or never, she told herself.

As casually as she could, she reached up hands that suddenly were trembling and unpinned her hat. Tucking the lavish headwear beneath her arm, she pulled up her shawl like a mantilla. Now, it covered her red hair and draped over her shoulders, concealing the hat as well. The result harkened back to the old-school Catholic-lady look she remembered from her childhood, but it would serve to disguise her, at least until she got inside the church. What she needed to do was find someone—preferably male, older, and very nearsighted—who’d already been checked off the list. Then she could latch onto him and slip past the door right under Everest’s nose.

With a bit of genteel shoving, she made her way into the center of the crowd. Directly ahead of her was a man who, at least from the back, looked like a perfect candidate to serve as her shield. He was tall and thin and dressed in the requisite black, so that his shock of white hair appeared even whiter. Best of all, he appeared to be alone.

She pressed in closer behind him, keeping her head tilted downward so that the shawl concealed her face from either side. Not satisfied with that, she hunched her shoulders and sank into herself a little, hoping to present a more convincing silhouette that might pass for the old fellow’s wife. He had reached the front of the line now, and she could feel her heart pounding with nervous anticipation as she crowded closer still to him.

Despite herself, she jumped as she heard Everest’s familiar rumble. “My apologies, sir, you shouldn’t have stood in line out here. Please, step right in.”

She took this as her cue and reached forward to grasp the man by one thin but surprisingly sinewy arm. “Let’s go inside, dear,” she said before he could protest. Using him as a veritable human screen in front of her, she hustled the unresisting man past the bodyguard and into the church’s dim foyer.

She expected to feel Everest’s beefy hand closing over her shoulder at any instant, but a glance back showed that he was already distracted by the next person in line. Her subterfuge had worked! Now, all that was left to do was unload the old geezer and find a seat for herself in the main sanctuary.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” she began, letting go of his sleeve so she could put her hat back on and resettle her shawl back on her shoulders where it belonged. “I’ve been waiting for Hillary Gables and she seems to have been delayed, so I’m afraid I took advantage and slipped past security with you.”

“I quite understand. Ms. Gables is not the most . . . dependable of people.”

The voice was far younger than she’d expected, and she glanced up in surprise. He had turned now to look at her, and she saw that he was not an old man after all. He was gauntly handsome and likely no older than she. It was the hair that had fooled her, hair that was preternaturally white-blond. But more odd was the fact that something about him—perhaps it was his pale blue eyes—seemed vaguely familiar.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” she asked, putting out her hand. “I’m Darla Pettistone. I knew Valerie, uh, professionally. Were you a friend of hers?”

He gave her a faint smile, and the first thing that struck her was that his smooth forehead did not reflect that change in expression. The second thing she noticed as he lightly clasped her hand was that he wore a heavy gold puzzle ring on one long finger.

“I’m Morris Vickson,” she heard him say. “Valerie’s brother. Her twin brother.”

Darla stared at him for a long moment through her veil, even as she murmured the appropriate words of sympathy. All the while, however, one thought was swirling through her mind, a realization at once unbelievable and patently obvious. There was no question about it—Valerie’s brother Morris was, in reality . . . Mavis!