Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“Well, I didn’t see it.” The young woman gave her head a careless toss and slipped her purse strap over her shoulder, so that the pup was now tucked under her arm. “I think I’d better leave now, before that beast of yours attacks again. You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue for pain and suffering.”

“Pain and suffering, my butt,” Darla muttered as the girl stalked her way to the front door. The only one in pain and suffering was the poor dog that was being carted around like an accessory. Why, she had half a mind to—

“Wait!” Lizzie called, trotting past the girl and beating her to the door. Smile bright, she went on, “With all the excitement, you must have forgotten that lovely blue fountain pen you picked up. I know you’ll enjoy using it. It’s such an elegant writing instrument.”

Then, when the girl made no response, Lizzie added, “Cash or charge?” and held out an expectant hand.

The girl hesitated; then, a blush mottling her powdered cheeks, she reached down the neckline of her dress and plucked out a flat, red-velvet-covered case. Thrusting it at Lizzie, she sputtered, “I forgot to grab a shopping bag and had to put it somewhere while I was looking around. But I’ve changed my mind. Here,” she finished, and then pushed past Lizzie and rushed out the door.

Her smile triumphant now, Lizzie sashayed her way back to the counter while Darla stared at her, openmouthed. “How—how did you know she was shoplifting?” she asked as Lizzie laid the expensive pen upon the counter.

The other woman shrugged. “She didn’t look at the back cover of a single book, so I knew right off she wasn’t a reader. Then, when I went by the pen display, I saw that one of them was missing. Really, Darla, you need to get a lock for that, no matter what Ms. Pettistone said,” she scolded.

Darla nodded her agreement. Great-Aunt Dee had been big on the whole touchy-feely concept for her customers, figuring they were more inclined to purchase a high-end item if they didn’t have to track down someone to unlock a case. But given that the pens in question retailed from one hundred dollars on the low end—with the almost-stolen blue one worth more than twice that—Darla had to agree with Lizzie on this one.

“And the dog was part of it, too,” the other woman went on with a wise nod. “Even if Hamlet hadn’t smacked the purse, she’d put it so close to the edge of the counter that the puppy was bound to make it fall. She was already planning to use it as an excuse to leave, and figured we’d be so upset about the dog that we’d let her go without paying much attention. It’s an old shoplifter’s trick.”

“Wow, good job,” Darla told her, most sincerely. “The only shoplifters I ever came across when I worked at the chain were ten-year-old boys sticking comics down the backs of their pants. I guess I’ll have to start being a little less trusting.”

“Yeah, well.” Lizzie shrugged, her smile slipping. “You never know who’s going to steal something from you until they do. And then you can’t always prove it.”

With those cryptic words, she grabbed up the pen once more and headed off to return it to its rightful spot. Darla didn’t have time to puzzle over her meaning, for the door jangled again, and another gaggle of teen girls entered, determined looks in their overly made-up eyes. She did, however, discuss the afternoon’s events with Jake that night after she’d closed the store and sent her employees home with strict instructions to rest up for tomorrow night.

“Lizzie’s right, you never know who might be a shoplifter,” Jake agreed as she sipped a diet soda—she told Darla that she never drank the night before a job—rather than her usual glass of red. “That was pretty sharp-eyed of her, catching the woman like that.”

They were in Jake’s garden apartment, sitting at the 1950s-era chrome kitchen table in her combination living and dining room. That piece of furniture would have looked out of place, except that Jake’s entire apartment was decorated with a distinct mid-twentieth-century vibe that reminded Darla of old television sitcoms. From what Jake had told her, the previous tenant had left behind a mishmash of furniture dating from that era. Rather than hauling it all to the curb, however, she’d embraced the style and tied everything together with finds from various thrift shops. From the starburst wall clock to the mod floor-to-ceiling lamp with its three shades that looked like melted red plastic bowls, the décor had a funky kitschy look that usually made Darla smile.

This night, however, any smile was forced as she contemplated how the Valerie Baylor autographing might play out. In her fantasies, it would be a triumph of execution, with La Baylor begging to return to her store with every new book published. But in her nightmares, the dual threats that were the Lone Protester and the Lord’s Blessing congregation shut down the event before it even started, reducing Pettistone’s Fine Books to pariah status in the eyes of readers and authors alike.

“Don’t sweat it, kid,” Jake reassured her after she’d voiced those last concerns aloud. “Even if those church people do manage to make their way to Brooklyn, there are plenty of laws saying how they can and can’t conduct their protests. We’ll handle it for you. Besides, Valerie has probably seen her share of wackaloons claiming that she’s written the second coming of The Satanic Verses . Like they say, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

Yeah, tell that to the theater owner these particular wackaloons shut down , was Darla’s first reflexive thought. But those defeatist words were crowded out by an image that flashed in her mind of Great-Aunt Dee as she’d last seen her almost twenty years ago: short-cropped hair dyed an impossible shade of red that verged on purple, and wrinkled features so heavily powdered that her ruddy complexion looked almost white. Her blue eyes had still been clear as a summer sky in Texas, however, and they’d snapped with intelligent impatience anytime something—or someone—stood in her way. How else had she managed to snag and outlive three wealthy husbands?

Darla hesitated a moment as she contemplated WWDD: What Would Dee Do? For sure, the old woman wouldn’t sit around dwelling on a bunch of what-ifs and maybes. She’d forge ahead with her own plans and steamroll right over anyone who tried to throw a monkey wrench into the works. Darla could almost hear the woman’s unmistakable twang echoing in her mind.

Hell, girl, are you gonna let folks like them tell you how to run this here store of ours?

Feeling abruptly cheered, Darla shook her head. Not just no, but, hell no!

“You’re right,” she told Jake with a grin and a toast of her diet soda. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. So let’s hear it for the Lone Protester and the Lord’s Blessing Church.”

“To wackaloons,” Jake agreed with a clink of her glass. Then she gave Darla a wry smile. “And don’t forget the five hundred teenagers who are going to start lining up outside your store at the crack of dawn. Mix them all together, and something tells me that tomorrow’s going to be a long, long day.”

FOUR

“SOMETHING TELLS ME THAT TODAY IS GOING TO BE A long, long day.”

The curt words came from James as he hung up the phone, which had been ringing almost nonstop all morning. The majority of the calls had been from teenage girls wanting to know a) how long the line was already, and b) would Valerie sign more than two books for her since she was Valerie’s Biggest Fan Ever. The clipped answers James gave to these questions were a) very and b) no.

“I know it’s a pain, James, but just keep being polite,” Darla told him, feeling more than a bit harried herself.