Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

Ever the professional, Everest had blocked the exit with his substantial bulk, and Koji had joined him, though the tears running down the publicist’s round cheeks had made him look anything but formidable beside the larger man. Fearing that the girls still might struggle past and tumble into the street just as Valerie had, Darla had rushed to assist the pair. With a bit of strong-arm help from the bodyguard, she had managed to convince the weeping girls to sit in a circle on the floor and take deep breaths until they had sufficiently recovered themselves to be trusted not to make some melodramatic gesture.

Her next concern had been for Callie. The girl’s sister, Susanna, and Susanna’s two BFFs had promptly joined in the general wailing. Callie, however, had stood silently by, looking like one of those hooded medieval cemetery statues as she clutched her unsigned novel. Tears ran down her thin cheeks and washed away the last traces of her red lipstick. Unsure how best to comfort the girl, Darla had gone with the tried and true, and given her a hug.

Callie had allowed this familiarity for a few moments. Then, firmly if politely pulling away, she said in a small voice, “I want my mommy.”

Since Darla had been thinking along much the same lines herself, she gave the girl a sympathetic nod. “Hold on a few minutes longer, honey, and I’ll ask Mr. Reese if it’s OK for you and Susanna to go home.”

It took longer than a few minutes, however, for Darla to keep that promise. Between the police and EMTs and reporters, not to mention almost five hundred teenage girls in various states of hysteria, Reese and Jake had plenty on their hands outside for the moment. Darla decided to let things settle down before seeing about sending everyone in the store home.

She next turned her attention to Valerie’s entourage. Both Hillary and Koji had whipped out their respective cell phones, and from snippets of overheard conversation Darla assumed they were notifying various people of the situation. She’d expected shock, or even dismay—after all, at least two of the four had just lost their respective jobs with no Valerie to guard or gussy up—but to her surprise, they all seemed struck by genuine grief.

Mavis had broken down into delicate sobs, his broad shoulders shaking as he buried his face in his large hands, while Hillary sniffled into the tissues that Lizzie had prudently fetched from the storeroom. Though he remained dry-eyed as befitted his job, Everest wore the guilty expression of a man who realized that he had, in the end, failed to keep his charge safe. Darla noticed him give a discreet honk into his crisp linen handkerchief. As for Koji, the lost expression he wore better befitted a boy than a middle-aged man.

Had she been mistaken in her judgment regarding the author? Had Valerie actually been a paragon rather than a pain?

Darla swiped at an unexpected tear of her own, while a glance at Lizzie and Mary Ann showed both women dabbing at their eyes, too. Mass hysteria, perhaps? It was hard not to be swept away by the emotion permeating the room, she rationalized, given the sheer volume of tears being shed by the author’s fans.

For now, however, her mission was to keep the teen fans under control. At her urging, James had begun reading aloud from Valerie’s latest novel. While no fan of the Haunted High series, the retired professor could never resist an audience; the soothing tones of his melodious baritone soon reduced the chorus of sobs to muffled sniffles.

After perhaps an hour, a grim-faced Jake had come into the shop to advise Darla that the fans could all be on their way. “But the police will have some questions for the rest of you,” she added, her gaze encompassing Darla’s people as well as Valerie’s. “So make yourselves comfortable here awhile longer.”

Most of the fans outside had dispersed, save for a handful of those who’d been closest to the spot where Valerie had met her dramatic end. Reese was still taking notes, and Darla wondered how many pages he’d gone through so far. The reports doubtless would make for some substantial reading for someone who professed never to crack open a book, Darla thought with a momentary lapse into snark. Then, chiding herself for being petty at such a time, she concentrated on escorting out the fans, particularly Callie and the other three girls.

Traffic outside had slowed to near glacial upon reaching the flashing police lights. Those seeking a quick thrill would be disappointed, for the police vehicles and a hastily erected barrier assembled from sawhorses covered with tarps blocked their view. To Darla’s relief, Valerie’s body had been removed. Unfortunately, the area where she’d landed was now marked with Day-Glo spots of spray paint, and the accident investigators were still measuring and photographing the scene.

At least they didn’t draw one of those cliché body silhouettes , Darla thought in relief as she deliberately kept Callie to her far side in order to spare her the sight of the death scene. Unfortunately, Susanna and her friends had shrieked with sufficient vigor upon glimpsing the lonely pair of red pumps still lying in the street that Callie had looked, too. She’d said nothing, however, but merely clutched Darla’s hand more tightly.

Somewhat to Darla’s surprise, Susanna politely protested Darla’s plan to call a taxi for them. “It’s, like, not necessary,” the teen said with a shrug, managing a blasé tone despite the twin trails of tear-spilled black eyeliner that now bisected either pale cheek. “We can totally walk home.”

Before they walked off, Callie lingered behind her sister for a moment. “I never even got my book signed,” she said, her soft tone filled with resigned sorrow.

Darla gave her an encouraging smile. “Tell you what. Give it a few days for things to settle down, and then have your mom bring you by the store. I’ll see if I can make it up to you.”

Satisfied the girls were safely on their way, Darla had returned inside to wait with the others. By then, the worst of the grief storm had passed, replaced by a general air of defeat. Someone had brought the food down from upstairs and arranged it neatly on the counter near the register, but it didn’t appear anyone was hungry. Not feeling much of an appetite herself, Darla spent the next half hour straightening stock, until, tiring of the busywork, she’d settled herself at the far side of the signing table. No one, it seemed, wanted to sit in the black-draped chair that had been Valerie’s.

What would Great-Aunt Dee have done had this happened on her watch? Darla frowned, considering. Knowing Dee, she probably would’ve sponsored some big memorial event at the store for her customers: a splashy-yet-tasteful party that would make all the papers. It was a good idea, Darla thought. Maybe she should consider something similar.

She sighed. For the moment, her only plan was to snag a signed copy of Valerie’s book for Callie, assuming that the girl ever returned to the store. The memory of the girl’s pinched features and silent tears haunted Darla almost as much as the image of Valerie’s slack, waxen face thrown into harsh relief under the headlights’ glare. Perhaps an autographed copy would ease a bit of her young pain.

The ching of the cash register roused her from her state of mental exhaustion.

“James, what in the heck are you doing?”

Darla stared in dismay at the sight of her employee, casually ringing up an armful of books. Valerie Baylor’s books, to be exact. And they’d not come from the remaining stacks that now waited forlornly for autographs that would never be penned. Instead, they were from the under-counter stash of books that Valerie had signed at the beginning of the night, which had been tagged as store copies.