Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

At his nod, she went over to her desk and pulled it from the top drawer. She handed it over and gave a quick explanation of Marnie’s tenuous connection to her sister, though emphasizing she herself had never before met the woman. After asking a few clarifying questions, Reese studied the envelope a moment before carefully extracting out the single sheet and reading it in silence.

“It’s a bit over-the-top,” was his assessment a few moments later, “but as far as threats go, it’s pretty tame. And it was directed at you, not Ms. Baylor. Even so, I’d like to hang on to this for a while if you don’t mind.”

“It’s all yours.” Then, with a pointed look at her watch, she said, “I appreciate the personal apartment sweep and all, but I’d better throw you out now so I can get a few things done before I go to bed.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been thrown out of worse places.”

He was grinning, however, as he trotted out the cliché. Darla grinned back and decided that, even if he’d been a jerk about trying to make her look like a suspect earlier, she really did like the guy.

Just not in that way.

And where did that come from? she wondered in embarrassment, hoping he hadn’t noticed the sudden blush that warmed her cheeks. Deliberately, she shoved aside the thought. Unfortunately, said thought sneaked right back in after she’d walked him back down the two flights of stairs to the main door, and he paused there with one broad shoulder propping it open. Faint alarm bells went off in her brain.

“You know, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you all day,” he announced with an intent look at her, causing the bells to ring more loudly.

She nodded uncertainly, praying he wasn’t about to ask her for a date or make some other unwanted declaration. Dealing with that situation would be too uncomfortable, especially considering he was a good friend of Jake. Damn it, where was Hamlet when she needed him?

The detective paused for a moment, as if weighing his options, and Darla felt herself tense. Finally, just as she was prepared to give him the literal heave-ho onto the stoop, good manners be damned, he blurted, “Who in the hell gives a sweet Mercedes a name like Maybelle?”

SIXTEEN

“AS OF EIGHT FORTY-FIVE THIS MORNING, THE BIDDING WAS at eight hundred seventy-nine dollars for my first autographed Valerie Baylor book.”

His tone satisfied, James gave a brisk nod and straightened his vest. “I suspect the bids have reached one thousand dollars by now,” he went on. “I have made this a twenty-four-hour auction to heighten the interest. I shall post another book at the end of the week to take advantage of those who missed out on the first offering and are regretting their timidity in bidding. I predict that second auction will be even more profitable.”

Darla shot him a wry look. “Well, good for your retirement fund. I have to admit, we did pretty well here yesterday, especially since we were technically closed. Maybe I should have jacked up our prices, too.”

She gave him a quick rundown of yesterday’s impromptu sales. “I felt like I was running a speakeasy,” she added with a sigh. “Let’s just hope that we don’t see a backlash today, with everyone staying away in droves.”

So saying, Darla flipped the sign to “Open” and unlocked the front door of the shop. Much to her surprise, she had managed a full night’s sleep last night, with her dreams undisturbed by authors, poltergeists, or cops. She didn’t wake until almost seven, when Hamlet commenced with his usual hurry-up-and-feed-the-poor-starving-kitty routine.

Feeling masochistic, she had flipped on the television news for a Valerie update while she pulled on the day’s work outfit of a pale green sweater set and a knee-length denim skirt. The author’s untimely death still rated a periodic ten-second crawl along the bottom of the screen, but other more pressing world events had knocked it off the main broadcast rotation. A look out her front window had shown the Valerie shrine still intact, but seeming to have reached maturity. All but a few of the largest candles had long since sputtered into misshapen wax puddles, and the bloom was definitely off the blossoms.

Now, she took another look. The tribute remained an impressive if faded sight. A few hardcore Valerie fans had already returned to set up mute vigil on the sidewalk in defiance of truancy laws . . . and, hopefully, not as a precursor to Sunny and Robert’s proposed boycott. And, on the bright side, the television news crews had seemingly lost interest in the story, for she’d not seen any more reporters stopping off to shoot a bit of video.

She glanced down to see that a fresh bundle of the local free paper lay on the stoop, and she carried the stack inside to set by the register. At least this newspaper didn’t have headlines about Valerie Baylor’s death, she thought in relief. But she was pretty sure the story would be different when the distributor brought this week’s allocation of news and gossip magazines. Chances were those publications would have pages dedicated to the story. She only hoped that she and the store could continue to stay out of the limelight. She’d managed so far to avoid the press, but her luck wouldn’t hold forever.

While James worked the most recent rare-book orders, Darla reconciled a few invoices while glancing occasionally toward the door. The bell remained disconcertingly silent, however. When it finally jingled around noon, both she and James gazed up with anticipation, only to let loose with a collective sigh of disappointment.

“Uh, hey, Jake,” Darla managed.

James gave a formal nod and echoed, “Ms. Martelli.”

“Wow, back down on that enthusiastic greeting,” the woman replied with a tired grin. Glancing around the otherwise empty shop, she added in commiseration, “Slow day, huh.”

“Yeah, they’re beating down the doors not to get in,” Darla replied. “We got the hard-core Valerie fans yesterday, so I figured today it would be the regulars and probably a few ghouls who’d want to see the store where she did her last signing. But, nada . . . zip.”

“Maybe they thought you’d be closed for the day,” Jake suggested, plopping down on her favorite beanbag chair in the children’s section. “Don’t worry, kid, I’m sure business will pick up tomorrow. So, anyone feel like having lunch delivered ?”

James called out for soup and salads, and they made a small party of it in the tiny courtyard outside, leaving the door open so Darla could listen for the front bell. While they ate, the retired professor regaled Jake and Darla with stories of deceased authors from the past two centuries whose books appreciated significantly after their unexpected demise.

The fact they were holding this conversation in one of the spots where Valerie Baylor had spent some of her final moments was not lost on any of them.

“And then, as far as twentieth-century writers go, you have Hunter S. Thompson,” James said once he’d exhausted writers of the 1800s. “And, more recently, you might recall an interest in Michael Crichton, though the value was sentimental rather than literary. Of course, there is always Salinger. He never signed many books to begin with, and so the pool for collectors has always been limited. The occasional tome turning up with his reputed signature always brings a frenzy of interest among serious bidders.”

While Jake nodded in interest—genuine or feigned, Darla was not sure—he continued, “With Ms. Baylor, she had just begun her tour for this book, and so had signed only a few copies to this point. Once again, we are talking scarcity. For the books I am auctioning, I am providing a framed print of the photographs that I took, as well as our store certificate signed by me, to guarantee authenticity. Of course, since Ms. Baylor is not a literary figure in the classic sense, the value for her signed works will drop appreciably once the grief factor dissipates. But until then, I will take my profit where I can.”