Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“All right, let’s get that lunch.”

Leaving behind the scowling girls, the two of them skirted the remainder of the blossom mountain and continued down the street. Darla waited until they were out of hearing range of Valerie’s fans before asking, “Okay, I’ll bite. What were you looking for back there?”

“Clues, Ms. Drew.”

Then, at Darla’s sour look, Jake went on, “I’m not saying I think there’s anything more to Valerie’s death than what we know, but I’ll admit that note did set off my hinky meter just a bit. I figured since we were standing right there, I’d check to see if there were any other lipstick notes or any writing that looked like what we saw back in the store.”

“And did you see any?”

“Not a one.”

They traveled the final block to their destination in mutual thoughtful silence, Darla planning a look at the flower tribute herself. Her hinky meter had been running at the high end of the scale since the moment Hamlet had dropped that book at her feet, no matter that she’d tried to pretend otherwise.

Outside the deli door, they paused while Jake pulled out her phone. “Since you’re buying, go ahead and order me the usual. I’m going to call Reese about any updates, and then I’ll meet you.”

Darla nodded and headed inside to order two mile-high turkey Reubens with extra sauerkraut, potato salad, and diet colas. By the time she paid for the full tray, Jake had already claimed a table and was waving her over.

“So what did Reese know?” Darla asked once they’d both made significant progress with their sandwiches.

Jake took another large bite, chewed, and swallowed before replying.

“Well, it looks like there won’t be any criminal charges filed against your buddy Marnie. There’s no evidence that she was negligent or impaired, and she didn’t flee the scene, so she’s pretty much in the clear . . . unless the family goes after her with a civil suit. As far as anything else, Reese was being a typical damn cop and playing it cagey. But it sounded like he might have found something interesting posted on the Internet. He wants to drop by later this afternoon, if that’s all right by you.”

“Works for me,” Darla mumbled through a mouthful of turkey. “Which reminds me, I never did find out what his first na—”

Jake’s phone abruptly let loose with a few riffs from the ominous “Imperial March” from the original Star Wars movie, cutting short Darla’s question.

“Sorry, kid, I gotta take this one,” Jake exclaimed, her expression wry. Flipping open the phone, she said, “Hi, Ma, how’s it going down there in Florida? Yeah, yeah, I know I call you every Sunday by noon, but I got tied up yesterday morning and forgot.”

By now, Darla had wrapped the other half of her sandwich for later and was piling her empties on the tray. At her questioning look, Jake shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Don’t wait on me,” she whispered, the hand over her phone not blocking out her mother’s tinny voice coming through the speaker. “This might take a while.”

Grinning, Darla left her friend and headed out alone. Once on the sidewalk again, however, her grin thinned to a firm look of determination. She hadn’t forgotten her plan to do a little snooping herself through the mound of flowers. By the time Darla reached the makeshift shrine again, a new group of mourners was paying homage. Keeping her distance, she knelt as Jake had done and began a quick survey of the written tributes. Most were written by hand—some on traditional condolence cards, others on girlish stationery or even lined notebook paper. A few had been printed off computers with an almost professional élan, featuring photos of Valerie and her book covers with garish red text the same font as in the Haunted High graphics. All of them, however, were brimming with heartfelt sentiments of love and loss, as if Valerie had been a sister or a mother unfairly taken from them.

“Hey, lady,” a girl’s peevish voice abruptly said, “leave this stuff alone.”

“Yeah, it’s like, sacred,” a young male chimed in, sounding equally put out.

Darla looked up to see a pair of teens in full goth regalia—kohled eyes, black lipstick, and yards of black lace and velvet—advancing on her. While she’d learned during her brief retail tenure that the badass emo goth reputation was, for the most part, unfounded, these particular representatives looked as if they meant business.

She scrambled to her feet and tried out Jake’s line. “Sorry, kids, police business. Move along now, you hear?”

“Yeah, right. If you’re a cop, where’s your freakin’ badge?” the girl demanded, her face a black and white mask of disdain.

Her companion gave a cold little smile. “She don’t need no freakin’ badges, just like in that movie. But that’s because she’s not a cop. Right, lady? You’re probably some religious freak who thinks we’re going to hell for liking Valerie’s books. You just want to mess things up for everyone because you don’t like anyone who dresses like us.”

“That’s not true,” Darla protested, truly stung. “I’m a big fan of Valerie. In fact, I’m the one who set up the autographing at the store last night so everyone could meet her in person.”

She realized as soon as the words left her lips that she’d made a tactical error. The teens made the connection just as swiftly. The bored expression on the girl’s face promptly morphed into a look of genuine horror—likely the first emotion she’d allowed herself to show in an adult’s presence for months.

“Oh my Gawd, you’re the reason Valerie is dead! If you hadn’t made her come here, like, she’d still be all alive!”

“Yeah, it’s your fault,” her companion hotly agreed, tossing the single inky lock that dangled from his otherwise shaved hairline. His drawn-on black brows dove into an accusing frown as he jabbed his forefinger in Darla’s direction. “So how ya gonna fix it? We’re already telling everyone we know to boycott your store.”

“Yeah,” the girl chimed in, snapping her gum, “I already posted on my Facebook page.”

“But it wasn’t my fault! It was an accident. The police already said as much,” Darla countered. Between the goth kids and the Christian crowd, she seemingly couldn’t win for losing. As for the boy’s threatening demeanor, that had her glancing back the way she’d come to see if Jake was nearby. Unfortunately, it looked like she was on her own, with only half a turkey Reuben to use as a defensive weapon.

“Look, er, kids,” she tried again. “We can’t bring Valerie back, but there’s a chance I might be able to get my hands on some signed books from her.” Seeing a spark of interest replace their hostility, she went on, “I can’t guarantee anything, of course, but—”

“Sunny, Robert, how are you?” a familiar voice called.

Glancing back at the buildings behind her, Darla saw Mary Ann waving from the front door of her brother’s shop, Bygone Days Antiques. “What are you two doing out of school so early?”

“We declared it a day of mourning,” Sunny answered for them, her tone appropriately doleful. “Like, no way I could sit through social studies thinking about Valerie.”

“I understand,” the old woman answered with a sympathetic click of her tongue. “I felt the very same way when I heard that Carole Lombard had died.”

While the teens exchanged blank glances at the mention of one of Hollywood’s most famous Golden Age actresses, Mary Ann went on, “Be sure to stop by the store this weekend. We just unpacked some vintage mourning jewelry that you might like.”

“Sick,” the obviously misnamed Sunny replied in apparent approval.

“Ill,” Robert added, seemingly agreeing with his girlfriend. “Thanks for the heads-up, Ms. Plinski.”