Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“We need to talk. Now,” the older woman read aloud. Frowning, she glanced from the paper to Darla. “So someone wrote a note last night. What’s the big deal?”

“Maybe nothing. On the other hand, think about it. Wasn’t it a bit odd how Valerie spontaneously decided to abandon her book signing to go after the Lone Protester, and accidentally got herself run over in the process? Maybe this note was meant for her, to deliberately get her out onto the street.”

“You mean someone lured her out there?” Jake gave the page a doubtful look and shook her head. “Kid, I think you’ve been spending too much time in the mystery section. I know you feel guilty about Valerie—hell, we all do—but this is grasping at straws. There were hundreds of these trivia sheets floating around last night, and just about everyone in the vicinity had a red lipstick with them. Any one of the girls waiting in line could have written that note to one of her friends. Beside, who would want to knock off Valerie Baylor?”

“Well, the Lone Protester, for a start. And don’t forget, Valerie was mean to Mavis and condescending to Koji and Everest. And she pretended not to know Lizzie, when the two of them had taken a college writing class together. Oh, and you might as well toss Marnie and her friends into the pot. I think the only one she didn’t tick off was Hamlet.”

“Which is why he’s digging up clues to prove the author’s accidental death was actually a ghastly murder?” Jake finished for her, not bothering to hide a friendly smirk. She reached down to scratch the ersatz detective behind his ears, but he was having none of it. With a hiss and a flick of one paw—that last for show only, since he didn’t bother to unsheathe his claws—Hamlet stalked off in the direction of the classics.

Inspecting her hand for damage and finding none, Jake went on, “Look, if being a bitch was a killing offense, half the world’s women would be dead, and the other half behind bars. Same thing with the men. So if you and Hamlet want to play Nancy Drew and Ned, you need to dredge up some better clues than this.”

“Fine. As of this moment, Hamlet and I are officially retired from the detective biz.” Darla smiled, however, as she said it. She picked up the quiz and made a show of depositing it in the wastebasket under the counter. Then, displaying empty hands, she added, “But don’t come crying to me when you need DNA evidence off the lipstick, and it’s not here.”

“Fine, hang onto it, and I’ll mention it to Reese. Speaking of which, I ought to ring him up while we’re walking to lunch.”

“Right, lunch.” She’d almost forgotten her offer. She dug the paper out of the trash again; then she continued, “I’ve got to head upstairs and get my wallet before we go. Let me check on Hamlet, and then you can wait in the foyer after I lock up here.”

While Jake amused herself with the Jane Austen action figures next to the register, Darla walked over to the classics section. Hamlet was seated at the foot of the “A through H” section, in seeming contemplation of Hemingway’s collective oeuvre.

“Hey, Hammy, Ms. Ex-Cop doesn’t think much of our detecting skills,” she told him. “But I’m still going to buy her lunch, anyhow. You want to stick around down here while we’re out, or go upstairs?”

She paused, expecting either a hiss—he understood the words “go upstairs”—or else his trademark leg-over-the-shoulder kiss-off in response. Instead, he gave a little chirp of a meow and stretched at full length against the bookshelf. With seeming deliberation, he used one large paw to snag the spine of a volume on the C – D shelf and pull it out of its slot. The book landed on the polished wood floor with a gunshot-loud splat that made her jump.

“Darn cat,” Darla muttered, reaching down to retrieve the volume. She stopped short, however, as she flipped it over in her hands and saw the book’s title and stark, iconic cover art. Surely it had to be a coincidence. But, still . . .

“Jake,” she called.

Raising the book, she read the title aloud. “ In Cold Blood , by Truman Capote. Here I tell Hamlet that you think his clue is bogus, and he drops this book at my feet. Maybe he really did see something last night, and he’s trying in his own way to let us know there’s something fishy about Valerie’s accident.”

Barely were the words out of her mouth than she realized just how lame they sounded. A cat communicating by way of book titles? Still, it was too late to call back what she’d said. And so it was left for her to cringe a little when Jake gave her the expected bright smile . . . the kind people used to humor small children and mental patients.

“Uh-huh. Kid, I don’t know how to break it to you, but the only thing fishy around here is Hamlet’s food. So far as the officers on the scene were able to tell, Valerie’s death was an accident. Your Lone Protester might have gotten into a shoving match with her, but worst that makes it is manslaughter. Assuming they find the girl, and assuming they uncover some sort of video or eyewitness testimony to convince a grand jury to take it to trial.”

“I know, I know,” Darla muttered, torn between a grin and a groan at Jake’s unassailable logic. She settled for a blush as she stuck the book back in place, adding, “I think I’m a bit punchy from all that’s happened. Pretend you never heard what I said, okay?” To Hamlet, she added, “Come on, let’s get out of here before I make a bigger idiot of myself.”

To her surprise, the feline followed her upstairs without protest. A few minutes later, having settled Hamlet comfortably in the apartment, Darla rejoined Jake. From the foyer, they made a quick visual reconnoiter of the sidewalk beyond and then, seeing no media sorts, started toward the deli. Unfortunately, they had to pass the Valerie shrine in the process.

“Holy crap, wouldja look at that,” Jake said in an undertone as they approached the still-growing mound of tribute candles and flowers. “The whole street smells like a florist shop. I bet the local flower sellers are making money hand over fist today. What do you want to bet that the kid who played the Boy Wizard in all those movies wouldn’t get half this attention if he dropped dead tomorrow?”

Darla could only shake her head by way of response as she stared in equal amazement.

The spread had doubled in size since she’d seen it from her window a couple of hours earlier. And Jake was right: the perfume of roses and carnations and burning candles did overwhelm the usual street smells of exhaust and restaurant food. The tribute made one thing perfectly clear: unpleasant as she might have been one-on-one, Valerie Baylor had obviously touched untold numbers of readers with her books. And perhaps that fact outweighed the other , she thought, feeling suddenly humble.

Jake, however, appeared untroubled by sentiment but had seemingly succumbed to her more ghoulish nature. Heedless of the dozen or so silent, sobbing teens who stood respectfully by, she knelt alongside the mound and began methodically pawing through the notes and cards that had been left there.

“Hey, dude, not cool!” one of them protested, drawing murmurs of resentful assent from the other fans gathered there.

Jake shot the girls a stern look as they began moving toward her and Darla. “Police business, ladies. I’ll need you to keep your distance until I’m finished.” Darla eyed the girls with some trepidation. Last thing they needed was a band of grieving high school kids going after them.

To her relief, however, the authority in her friend’s voice held the teens at bay as Jake continued her search, though what she was looking for, Darla couldn’t guess. Finally, the older woman stood and dusted her knees, then reached into her back pocket for a slightly crushed cigarette.