Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“Here, Hamlet! Kitty, kitty, kitty.”

She was certain Hamlet would not deign to come to her on command—particularly not if she called him “kitty”—but with any luck he’d shoot her an evil glare that would reflect back to her should the flashlight’s beam happen to skim over him.

“C’mon, fellow,” she urged in a slightly louder tone, trying not to sound desperate.

She’d always heard that animals were experts at sensing fear. Mr. Beelzebub in Fur Pants was probably a black belt in fear detection and would doubtless laugh his cat self silly if he thought she was worried about his safety. While she’d gotten used to the obnoxious beast, Darla could not in any honesty claim to be fond of him. But he had been Great-Aunt Dee’s beloved pet, and he was a store fixture.

Consider it keeping tabs on inventory , she told herself as she searched the final shadowy corner. Other than a few scuttling roaches and spiders, she found nothing.

Muttering a curse, she turned her beam on the gate. It was still just as she and Koji had found it when they’d gone in search of the missing author: wide open so that any vagrant could slip in. Or any cat slip out.

Damn that woman! The least she could have done was shut the freakin’ gate , Darla silently fumed as she peered into the alley again. Odd, though, that a presumed cat lover such as Valerie would have left Hamlet in such potential peril. She must have been revved up, indeed, to have gone storming out without realizing she’d left her new feline friend at risk.

Darla started down the alley in the opposite direction from which she’d run a few hours earlier. While no fan of rodents and other crawlies, she hoped there might be a sufficient number of them lurking there to hold Hamlet’s interest should he have ventured that way. Gingerly tiptoeing lest those same rodents and crawlies take an interest in her, she shone the rapidly fading flashlight beam down the narrow passage. No eyes reflected back to her, and no meows answered her calls.

She bit her lower lip and gave herself a quick mental pep talk. For all she knew, Hamlet might never have left the courtyard for the alley at all. He might be lounging somewhere in the store now, or else had long since returned to his comfortable digs upstairs in the apartment. Heck, he might even be watching her out the bathroom window that overlooked the courtyard, his green eyes bright with evil satisfaction at her obvious distress.

The flashlight chose that moment to peter out. Darla gave it a brisk slap against her palm, trying to revive the beam, but to no avail. She was halfway down the alley now, wrapped in shadows and not a stone’s throw distance from where a woman had been tragically killed but a few hours earlier.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the night’s chill sent gooseflesh down her arms. Not that she believed in ghosts, she assured herself; still, under the circumstances she couldn’t help being reminded of the Haunted High book she’d read last night, packed full of specters and hauntings. It would be just like Valerie to emulate her heroine and hang around tormenting the living instead of going into the light, or wherever it was that dead folks were supposed to go.

Then there was that little business about someone—something?—that had been stomping about her store in the night and flicking lights on and off. What if Stompy Foot and Valerie had joined forces in the afterlife? Darla winced. Great, that’s just what she needed, her bookstore being turned into phantom central for all local ghosts.

Something skittered in the darkness behind her. Darla gave a startled yelp and then looked around in embarrassment in case someone—something?—was watching. Heck, in another minute, she was going to be sobbing out the Cowardly Lion’s famous declaration, I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do, I do, I do!

Though she managed not to make a run for it, her pace still was brisk as she made her way back up the alley and through the courtyard. The tingling on the back of her neck didn’t cease until she was inside the shop again.

“Did you find Hamlet?” Lizzie wanted to know as Darla locked the door behind her.

Darla shook her head. “I’m hoping he’s hiding somewhere inside and just being obnoxious about not showing himself.”

She had debated during her foray through the alley whether or not to leave the gate open overnight, just in case Hamlet was still out there. Prudence had trumped concern, and she’d ultimately decided to lock it. Hers wasn’t exactly a bad neighborhood, but neither was it small-town Texas. And while she’d never seen the cat exert himself unduly unless it was strictly necessary, Hamlet was certainly athletic enough to scale the wall or else slip between the bars if he was outside and decided he wanted back in.

She saw that Lizzie and Mary Ann were gathering their respective purses and exchanging black capes for sweaters. Lizzie gave an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, we’re both beat. I hope you don’t mind if we leave things the way they are. James said he’d come in early on Tuesday morning to straighten up. That is, if—”

“If we’re even open Tuesday,” Darla finished for her. At least since she was always closed on Mondays, that would give her a day to recoup. “Under the circumstances, I’m wondering if we ought to close for an extra day. Or maybe a week.”

Lizzie nodded. “You mean, out of respect.”

“My gracious, don’t be silly, Darla,” Mary Ann interjected while giving Lizzie a severe look. “Losing a week of profit won’t do anything to bring back the dead. Go ahead and stay closed tomorrow, as you normally would, but no more than that—not to be morbid about it, but the shop will probably have more business than you can handle on Tuesday. You know how ghoulish people are. Everyone will want to see the spot where the famous Valerie Baylor met her grisly end, and then buy one of her books as a souvenir.”

Darla sighed. Things could go either way . . . a full-blown boycott or a sales blowout. It occurred to her, too, that she ought to give her insurance agent a call. Technically, the accident didn’t happen on her property, but the last thing she needed was to be hit with a civil suit from Valerie’s family. If the late author’s relatives were anything like Valerie, they likely kept a lawyer on staff for just such contingencies.

Suddenly, Hamlet and his infamous claws didn’t seem like such a liability anymore.

Aloud, she merely said, “You’re probably right, Mary Ann. James”—she glanced over to where the older man was chatting quietly with Reese—“we’ll reopen on Tuesday, as usual.”

“A reasonable decision,” he agreed as he gathered his stack of Valerie’s books. “And now, since the good detective has dismissed us, I need to hurry home and set up my auctions. I believe I will start with a reserve price of five hundred dollars and see where things go from there.”

A few moments later, he and the two women had departed the store, leaving Darla alone with Reese.

NINE

“UH, THINK I MIGHT GET MY SHIRT BACK NOW?” THE DETECTIVE asked.

Darla frowned in confusion; then, with a blush, she realized that she still had his denim shirt wrapped around her waist. Feeling uncomfortably like a high school girl who’d been parading about wearing her boyfriend’s clothes to impress the other girls, she hastily handed over the shirt with a mumbled, “Sorry.”

She plopped into the seat at the table beside him, not caring it was the same black-covered chair where Valerie had sat. Neither did she care that her wavy red hair now was fairly bristling out of the French braid that, hours before, had lain so sleekly against her neck.