Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

Just to play it safe, however, tomorrow she’d do a little research in the religion section of the store and make sure that Hamlet’s unexpected lapse into feline civility was not one of the lesser known signs of a coming apocalypse.

TEN

DESPITE THE RESTLESS START TO HER NIGHT, DARLA DID not wake until almost nine o’clock Monday morning, well past her usual rising time, even for her day off. Between her pounding headache and queasy stomach, she felt hungover, despite not touching a single drop of alcohol the night before. Bleary-eyed, she stumbled to the kitchen, where Hamlet sat beside his empty food bowl. At her approach, he turned a baleful green gaze upon her, their détente apparently forgotten in the wake of his empty stomach.

“Hold your horses,” she muttered, knowing she’d be useless until she had at least one cup of coffee in her.

She made swift work of filling her small coffeemaker and punched the “On” button with the fervor of an acolyte awaiting divine intercession. That begun—the coffee-making process, not the blessing—she dragged out the canister of dry cat food from the cabinet. Hamlet continued his disdainful regard of her until she’d poured the kibble and refilled his crystal bowl with water. Then, with what had to be a deliberate curl of his lip, he turned his back on her and commenced crunching away at his breakfast.

“And good morning to you, too,” she answered the snub, taking one of Great-Aunt Dee’s antique chintz-patterned teacups from the cabinet.

The smell of brewing coffee revived her somewhat. It also brought back into sharp focus memories of the previous night’s tragedy, and concern about what this day would bring. She’d seen at least three news trucks filming the scene in the hours after the accident, but maybe dead authors didn’t rate national coverage. With any luck, the story had made last night’s eleven o’clock news and was already played out.

She waited until she had a steaming cup of coffee liberally laced with cream in hand, however, before she dared turn on one of the cable news channels to test that theory. Would Valerie’s death still be an item of interest?

It was.

Remote in hand, Darla winced as she clicked back and forth among the major news channels. Every minute or so, the ubiquitous headline tickers scrolled an abbreviated account of the fatality across the bottom of the screen, the story sandwiched between the most recent political scandal and a foreign sports triumph. She breathed a bit easier when she saw that the crawl did not mention her store by name. She groaned, however, and paused in her channel surfing when she recognized on one of the stations the same blonde who’d interviewed her the afternoon before. And she almost dropped her chintz cup into her lap when the camera swung away from the reporter, and the familiar gilded words, Pettistone’s Fine Books , abruptly filled the television screen, along with the banner proclaiming, “Live Report.”

“Holy crap, Hamlet, they’re right outside,” she shrieked as she rushed to the window and twitched aside the curtain.

Sure enough, the same news van from yesterday was parked on the street right below her apartment, with the same reporter and female camera operator posed on the step outside Darla’s store. Apparently, the local affiliate station had been tapped to give its take on the dramatic death. Standing at the window, Darla divided her disbelieving gaze between the live drama below and the broadcast going on there in her living room.

On-screen, the reporter was recounting Valerie’s final minutes, her blond bob quivering with sincerity as she shook her head over the tragedy. While she continued to speak in voice-over, scenes from the previous night played: a discreet view of a covered figure lying in the street; a close-up of the church van’s front end; a long shot of the crowd of weeping, black-cape-clad teens . . . and all illuminated by the strobing lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles. The scene looked like something out of an end-time movie.

The voice-over continued, “The driver of the vehicle responsible for this fatal accident has been identified as thirty-two-year-old Marnie Jennings of Dallas, Texas.”

A grainy shot of Marnie, her mouth wide in midshout, flashed on-screen.

“Ms. Jennings and her fellow members of the Lord’s Blessing Church out of Dallas were on their way to protest the Valerie Baylor autographing when the tragedy occurred,” the reporter continued. Abruptly, the television screen was filled with footage of a chanting group of picketers all dressed in white choir robes. “This same church has previously been responsible for protests against what they consider, quote, Satan-based events, unquote, in the Dallas area, but it now appears they are attempting to extend their influence nationwide. For the moment, however, no charges have been filed against Ms. Jennings, and unconfirmed eyewitness accounts suggest that an unrelated sidewalk scuffle might have precipitated the accident.”

The newscast switched back to the live feed, and the camera panned right, sliding past the iron railing of Jake’s basement apartment and in the direction of Mary Ann’s brother’s antique shop. Just beyond that point, at the approximate spot where Valerie and the van had had their fatal encounter, Darla could see that a shrine of sorts had been erected.

She gasped. Heedless of the news crew below, she shoved up her window and craned her neck for a better look. From above, the shrine was even more impressive than it appeared on the small screen. A veritable florist shop’s worth of flowers—a few carnations and daisies, but mostly red roses—interspersed with candles and stuffed animals, lay against the building and covered a large section of sidewalk. The display rivaled the spontaneous tributes to Lennon and Jackson and other pop culture icons that Darla recalled seeing on TV.

Quickly, lest the reporter catch sight of her and turn the camera in her direction, she slammed her window shut again. She returned her attention to the television in time to see two more teens walk into the shot and lay another fistful of red roses atop the mound of blossoms.

“Last night, five hundred adoring fans—mostly teenage girls—were lined up on this sidewalk waiting for the chance to see Ms. Baylor in person,” came the reporter’s words while the camera zoomed in on a single red rose tied with a black ribbon. “Now, those same fans have been visiting the site of her untimely death over the last few hours to leave flowers, candles, and notes of condolence.”

The camera pulled back, and the reporter maneuvered herself into the shot once again. “It’s obvious that this tragedy has struck a large segment of the reading public to the heart,” she went on. “Valerie Baylor’s previous Haunted High books have sold more than ten million copies to date. For now, her fans are contenting themselves with buying up Valerie’s final novel while the authorities continue to investigate.”

The reporter allowed herself a final dramatic pause and stared straight into the camera. “Reporting live from the scene of Valerie Baylor’s untimely death, this is Juanita Hillburn, Channel Twelve News. Back to you, David.”

Barely had Darla let the curtain drop than her phone began to ring. Her first frantic thought was that the media had tracked her down and that someone wanted a statement from her. A glance at the caller ID, however, showed it was Jake on the other end.

“Any chance you were watching television just now, or looking out the window?” the other woman asked before Darla could manage a hello.

“Both.”

Darla muted the television and sank onto the couch, clutching the phone in one hand and holding her head with the other. “My God, they even showed the front door of the store. And that mountain of flowers is unbelievable.”