Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“Oh, no problemo, it’s chill,” the elderly woman exclaimed, her garbled attempt at hipness drawing tolerant snickers from both teens. Then she turned her attention to Darla, gesturing her to join her. “Darla, I need your help here in the store. When you say good-bye to your friends, can you stop in for a moment?”

“Sure, Mary Ann, I’m on the way,” Darla called back, realizing she’d just been tossed a life preserver, in a manner of speaking. To the goth pair, she brightly added, “We’ll talk more later. Bye!”

She turned on her heel and took the dozen or so steps to the antique shop at a brisker pace than usual. Once past the shop door, she glanced back for a final look. The teens were still eyeing her with suspicion but did not appear inclined to pursue. She closed the door behind her and turned to Mary Ann with a sigh.

“Thanks for the rescue. I was afraid it might get a bit nasty out there.”

“Oh, surely not,” the old woman said with a smile. “Sunny and Robert are perfectly nice children and good customers, to boot. But I happened to look out the window and saw everyone standing there outside. They did seem rather upset, so I thought I should defuse the situation. My gracious, aren’t all those flowers something?”

“They’re something, all right,” Darla agreed with a sigh. “I imagine it’s been pretty unnerving for you today, too. Did you see the cable news people circling like hawks this morning? And you were right about people wanting to buy. I ended up opening the store for a couple of hours. But good old Sunny and Robert said that they’re organizing a boycott against me.”

She gave Mary Ann an overview of her morning, including the fact that the police had determined not to charge Marnie in connection with the author’s death. She left out the part about Hamlet’s finding the lipstick note, however, as well as her debate with Jake as to whether or not it constituted a clue. The older woman nodded sympathetically as she listened, and Darla felt herself relax just a bit. Something about the woman’s briskly cheerful attitude seemed to dial down her own feeling of doom.

The store itself added to that homey feel. Unlike other similar establishments with their emphasis on overpriced European antiquities, Bygone Days Antiques specialized in eighteenth – and nineteenth-century Americana, the sort of items that one might find in one’s grandparents’ house. Though she’d only visited the store a couple of times, the faintly musty scents of old wooden furniture and vintage clothing and linens always made Darla feel at home.

“Well, I’m glad the poor driver won’t have to face any charges,” Mary Ann said. “ As for the rest, it’s my opinion that when it’s our time to leave this world, it’s our time to go, and nothing can stop us. So consider yourself absolved of any fault. Now, would you like to come upstairs for a cup of tea?”

Darla considered the offer a moment and then shook her head. “Normally, I would, but Detective Reese is supposed to stop by later to discuss a few things. I probably should clean the apartment a little before he arrives.”

“Ah.”

The old woman’s knowing smile made Darla blush despite herself, but she figured any protest would only add fuel to the fire. Cripes, couldn’t she have a casual chat with a good-looking guy without people trying to read something into it?

With a glance out the shop window, she deflected that subject and instead said, “Looks like Sunny and Robert are gone, so I’d better duck out now while the getting is good. Too bad there’s no connecting door between your place and mine, so I wouldn’t have to go back out onto the street in case another news van drives past.”

The other woman chuckled, and pointed to a display of wide-brimmed, beribboned women’s chapeaux, saying, “If you want, you can borrow a shawl to wrap around your head, or one of those big picture hats.”

“No, I’m good.”

That last was said with just a tinge of regret. Another time, Darla wouldn’t mind trying out the black straw number with a matching veil . . . the one sitting rakishly atop a mannequin head that sported a painted bob the same red color as her own dark auburn hair.

Bidding Mary Ann farewell, she slipped out the shop door and made hasty tracks to her own stoop. She couldn’t tell from a glance at the basement apartment if Jake had made it home yet, but she’d catch up with her when Reese showed up. In the meantime, Darla took the lipstick letter she’d snagged from the store trash, tucked it carefully into a clear sheet protector, and then headed upstairs to give her place the once-over.

Hamlet was waiting at the door when she let herself back into the apartment. The timbre of his meow indicated displeasure with something she’d apparently done . . . or not done.

“All right, Hamlet, spit it out. You’ve got food, fresh water, and I even took your side on this whole note thing”—she waved the plastic-wrapped flier in his direction—“when Jake laughed at us. So what more do you need? And, no, you’re not getting my sandwich.”

By way of response, the cat padded over to the front window overlooking the street below. He reared up onto his hind legs, just as he’d done with the bookcase earlier, stretching so that his front paws were on the windowsill. Black nose pressed almost to the glass and tail twitching, he meowed again.

“What is it, fellow?”

Frowning, Darla tossed the sandwich into the fridge and made her own way to the window. In the short time that they’d shared space together, she had never seen Hamlet demonstrate interest in the activity on the street below. He preferred things up close and personal, be it in the store or underneath her feet. A glance outside at the mountain of flowers showed little change from the scene she’d left only a little while earlier. A new group of mourners was busy paying their respects, a few dressed much like Robert and Sunny, and the rest in the classic teen uniform of jeans, tops, and jackets.

“Just your typical Haunted High fans,” she muttered. So what was it that had attracted the cat’s attention? She shrugged and started to turn away, when abruptly she found herself staring just like Hamlet.

One of the jean-clad teens stood slightly apart from the rest, holding what appeared from Darla’s vantage point to be an oversized card. Her black hair was well below shoulder length, and so straight that Darla guessed that she must use one of those ceramic flat irons on it. Something about her posture, the way she tilted her head, looked oddly familiar. Darla squinted, her own nose a bare inch from the glass, trying for a better look as she struggled to recall where she might have seen the girl before.

As she watched, the girl bent and propped her card on a pile of black carnations alongside a lit red pillar candle. The action sent the shawl-like black scarf she wore sliding forward, momentarily hooding her features. The sight sparked an even stronger sense of familiarity, and Darla frowned.

And then it came to her.

“Oh my God, it’s the Lone Protester!”

TWELVE

“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT, DARLA. YOU CHASED A strange girl because your cat gave her a funny look?”

Reese was giving her a funny look of his own, and Darla bit back a frustrated groan. She knew her instincts had been right. The problem would be convincing Reese.

The detective had shown up on her stoop not long after she had dragged herself, sweating and gasping for breath, back to the store after a fruitless sprint down Crawford Avenue. Her quarry had looked up from the wall of flowers just in time to see a determined Darla advancing on her.

Either the girl had recognized her, or else she’d seen the purpose in Darla’s expression. Either way, she had promptly fled the scene with Darla in hot pursuit, but had managed to put sufficient distance between them long enough to catch one of the borough’s few cabs and make good her escape.