Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“The store looks lovely,” Hillary spoke up, as if she sensed Darla’s concerns, though her distracted gaze was fixed on the closed bathroom door Valerie had disappeared behind. She pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and snuffled into it. “Sorry, allergies,” she explained, tucking the tissue away again. “And I was so sorry to hear about your aunt. I met her once before during another event here and thought she was charming.”

“Well, I’m sure she would have gotten a kick out of Val Vixen returning to her store as the famous Valerie Baylor after all these years.”

“Much better,” Valerie declared as she burst from the restroom and headed back toward the table. Plopping into the slipcovered chair, she added, “Koji, you did make sure the people here know my rules about what I will and won’t sign, didn’t you? For Chrissakes, we don’t need a bunch of little twerps selling scraps of paper with my signature on them all over eBay. And if the press show up, no interviews. They can read what I have to say in my blog. C’mon, Mavis, I need a touch-up.”

This last was directed toward the silent assistant, who obediently plucked an oversized satin bib from her bag of tricks and tied it about Valerie’s neck before she began applying dramatic smudgy color to the author’s lids. She used her array of brushes with the swift expertise of one of those artists on the old PBS how-to-paint television shows, much to Darla’s admiration. She herself was still trying to perfect the art of applying mascara without leaving behind a few clumps and smears.

Darla noted in passing that Mavis’s hands seemed unusually large for her thin frame, though they fluttered about her client’s neck with practiced grace as she adjusted the bib. And she couldn’t help but admire the heavy gold puzzle ring the woman wore on one long finger. Darla recalled a far cheaper version of that ring that she’d once bought for herself, having been intrigued by the series of thin interlocked bands that linked together to form what resembled a Celtic knot. Unfortunately, she’d succumbed to temptation and had taken it apart, only to concede after several fruitless hours that she had no clue how to put the darn thing back together again. In frustration, she had given the ring to her then six-year-old niece—and within five minutes, the girl was triumphantly sporting her auntie’s reassembled ring on one chubby finger, leaving Darla to shake her head in amazement.

“And make sure you keep things moving this time, Koji,” Valerie instructed the publicist as, shadow applied, she rolled her eyes upward for an application of mascara. Shutting them for a dusting of powder, she went on, “I want these kids in and out again as quickly as possible . . . not like the last event. We spent way too much time in that store in Boston. Christ, I had one girl talking to me for almost three minutes before you managed to get her out of my face.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be moving your readers through here lickety-split,” Darla hastened to assure her, not sure whether to laugh or simply be appalled at the woman’s cavalier manner toward her fans. “In fact, I have a stopwatch that we use for the writers’ critique group that meets here. Maybe I can let Koji borrow it.”

She smiled as she said it, intending the suggestion as a mild joke to take the tension down a notch. To her surprise, however, the writer nodded.

“Not a bad idea. Dig it out, why don’t you, and we’ll get this down to a science.” Then, snatching a hand mirror from Mavis, who had finally set aside her brushes, Valerie stared at her retouched reflection a moment before making a sound of disgust.

“For Chrissakes, I’m supposed to look ethereal, not like the Crypt Keeper. No, no, leave it alone,” she went on as Mavis attempted a bit of repair with a cosmetic puff. “We don’t have time to fix it. I’ll just look a hot mess, and who the hell cares?”

Yanking off the bib, she tossed it and the mirror onto the table and shoved back her chair. “God, I need that cigarette now,” she announced in Darla’s direction. “Is there a place out back I can smoke?”

“Right this way, Ms. Baylor,” James smoothly interjected. “We have an enclosed courtyard just behind the store that you can use.”

Darla suppressed a smile. The word “courtyard” was a bit fancy for what basically was a walled rectangle of brick-paved space five feet wide and perhaps twice as long that stretched from back door to alley. At its far end was one of those open-style walls—the kind with every other brick missing—which flanked a wrought-iron gate that opened onto the alley. The accoutrements were equally simple: a wrought-iron table with two matching chairs, and a pair of stone urns holding some sort of evergreens topiaried into three stacked balls. Here, Darla and her employees took lunch when the weather was nice, and here Jake indulged in the occasional cigarette herself; that was, when she wasn’t in the middle of another attempt to quit.

“Uh, sir, if you don’t mind?” This interjection came from the bodyguard, Everest. “I need to check it out first, sir, just to make sure no fans will see her and try to get in that way.”

“The space is hardly large enough to fit a mob,” James responded, “and the gate locks from the inside. But I understand your concern. You are welcome to make your inspection.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, I forgot that Grandma Everest sees danger lurking behind every lamppost,” Valerie said with exaggerated politeness. Then, giving him a proprietary pat on his beefy arm, she added, “Just kidding, Ev. Come along, if you must, but for Chrissakes make it fast so I can hurry up and suck down a bit of nicotine, okay?”

Led by James, the odd couple made their way to the back of the store. Darla could almost hear a collective sigh of relief from everyone—herself included—in the wake of Valerie’s departure. What she definitely did hear, however, was a single soft word: “Bitch.”

Muttered in an unmistakable baritone that seemingly was meant only for her ears, the descriptive made her jump . . . not so much because she disagreed with the sentiment, but because it had come not from Koji, but Mavis. She—or, rather, he—shrugged a skinny shoulder.

“I call them as I see them,” he explained in the same soft yet manly tones as he began packing up his gear again.

While Darla struggled a moment in uncomfortable silence—had anyone else heard or noticed what had just happened? —Lizzie shook out the folds of her black cape and brightly proclaimed, “All righty, then. Why don’t I bring out some of those refreshments, like James suggested?”

“Good idea,” Darla said with a grateful nod in the other woman’s direction. To Hillary and Koji, who were pulling on black cloaks of their own, she added, “I’m going to give my folks outside the heads-up that we’re almost ready to begin. Can I get anything for you?”

“You might want to grab that stopwatch,” Hillary answered with a sour little smile, while Koji blinked nervously. “I can guarantee that if you don’t, she’ll ask about it.”

Could be worse , Darla told herself as she headed to the front. At least Valerie hadn’t asked for a bevy of male strippers and a tub of M&Ms with all the yellow ones picked out. She peered out the door only to wince as the fans’ Valerie chant began anew.

“Almost ready,” Darla yelled to a waiting Jake. “Give us five, okay?”

Having apparently blessed the miniscule courtyard as being safe for his charge, Everest had now returned to his post. A few minutes later, Valerie also returned, trailing a noticeable odor of cigarette smoke after her but looking surprisingly cheerful. Settling into her chair, she said to Darla, “That’s one cute kitty you have out there. We had a nice little chat.”