Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. If it was just me, I’d let you right in, but I have orders from the family to stick to the list. I hope you understand.”

“How about if I wait here in case Hillary notices I’m not inside and comes looking for me?” Darla persisted, biting back the few choice words for the agent that threatened. How could Hillary let her come all the way out here from Brooklyn, only to forget to put her on the list? And how was she supposed to do the look-and-listen routine that Jake had assigned her if she couldn’t even get past the door?

The bodyguard glanced at the Rolex on one beefy wrist and then nodded. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you stood here for a few minutes, at least until the service starts. But I do ask that you step aside so that the other guests can pass by.”

“Sure.”

Darla stepped aside and pretended she had come out of the church for a breath of fresh air. If not for the circumstances, she might have enjoyed the wait. The afternoon breeze coming off the Atlantic Ocean was just cool enough to offset the sun, and she was in the center of more greenery than she’d seen since she moved to Brooklyn. A veritable meadow stretched before her, the meticulously manicured lawn as carefully maintained as any golf course. Across the distant street, she could see where all the valet cars were parked. They appeared arranged in order of retail value, with the Rollses up front, and the other cars behind.

As for the guests, their numbers at the door had increased dramatically. Darla recognized a couple of B-list film stars and even one controversial radio personality among them, as well as several faces from the publishing industry that she had seen in various trade magazines. She glanced at her non-Rolex and saw it was but a couple of minutes to two. Was one always fashionably late, even to a funeral, in the world of the rich?

As unobtrusively as she could, she pulled out her phone and texted Jake. Not on list, Security won’t let me in. What 2 do?

A reply popped up almost immediately: Sneak in with someone else?

Can’t, she typed back. Hat’s 2 big.

Lose it!!!!!

Darla glanced around. The crowd at the door was growing, so that it looked more like the line outside a popular club than a gathering of mourners. John and Everest were busy going over their lists, and someone had finally propped open the immense arched doors to better accommodate the flow. She looked around one last time for Hillary but didn’t see her. It’s now or never , she told herself.

As casually as she could, she reached up hands that suddenly were trembling and unpinned her hat. Tucking the lavish headwear beneath her arm, she pulled up her shawl like a mantilla. Now, it covered her red hair and draped over her shoulders, concealing the hat as well. The result harkened back to the old-school Catholic-lady look she remembered from her childhood, but it would serve to disguise her, at least until she got inside the church. What she needed to do was find someone—preferably male, older, and very nearsighted—who’d already been checked off the list. Then she could latch onto him and slip past the door right under Everest’s nose.

With a bit of genteel shoving, she made her way into the center of the crowd. Directly ahead of her was a man who, at least from the back, looked like a perfect candidate to serve as her shield. He was tall and thin and dressed in the requisite black, so that his shock of white hair appeared even whiter. Best of all, he appeared to be alone.

She pressed in closer behind him, keeping her head tilted downward so that the shawl concealed her face from either side. Not satisfied with that, she hunched her shoulders and sank into herself a little, hoping to present a more convincing silhouette that might pass for the old fellow’s wife. He had reached the front of the line now, and she could feel her heart pounding with nervous anticipation as she crowded closer still to him.

Despite herself, she jumped as she heard Everest’s familiar rumble. “My apologies, sir, you shouldn’t have stood in line out here. Please, step right in.”

She took this as her cue and reached forward to grasp the man by one thin but surprisingly sinewy arm. “Let’s go inside, dear,” she said before he could protest. Using him as a veritable human screen in front of her, she hustled the unresisting man past the bodyguard and into the church’s dim foyer.

She expected to feel Everest’s beefy hand closing over her shoulder at any instant, but a glance back showed that he was already distracted by the next person in line. Her subterfuge had worked! Now, all that was left to do was unload the old geezer and find a seat for herself in the main sanctuary.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” she began, letting go of his sleeve so she could put her hat back on and resettle her shawl back on her shoulders where it belonged. “I’ve been waiting for Hillary Gables and she seems to have been delayed, so I’m afraid I took advantage and slipped past security with you.”

“I quite understand. Ms. Gables is not the most . . . dependable of people.”

The voice was far younger than she’d expected, and she glanced up in surprise. He had turned now to look at her, and she saw that he was not an old man after all. He was gauntly handsome and likely no older than she. It was the hair that had fooled her, hair that was preternaturally white-blond. But more odd was the fact that something about him—perhaps it was his pale blue eyes—seemed vaguely familiar.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” she asked, putting out her hand. “I’m Darla Pettistone. I knew Valerie, uh, professionally. Were you a friend of hers?”

He gave her a faint smile, and the first thing that struck her was that his smooth forehead did not reflect that change in expression. The second thing she noticed as he lightly clasped her hand was that he wore a heavy gold puzzle ring on one long finger.

“I’m Morris Vickson,” she heard him say. “Valerie’s brother. Her twin brother.”

Darla stared at him for a long moment through her veil, even as she murmured the appropriate words of sympathy. All the while, however, one thought was swirling through her mind, a realization at once unbelievable and patently obvious. There was no question about it—Valerie’s brother Morris was, in reality . . . Mavis!

NINETEEN

IF THIS PARTICULAR MEMORIAL SERVICE HAD BEEN A scene in one of Valerie Baylor’s books, the woman in the coffin would have suddenly opened her dead blue eyes wide as Darla stared down at her. No one else in the church would have noticed, of course, nor would they have seen the woman grasp her wrist in unrelenting cold fingers or heard the words meant only for Darla’s ears.

We fooled you all, Mavis and I, didn’t we?

Darla abruptly drew back from the casket, that fleeting lapse into imagination a bit too real for comfort. But Valerie’s eyes with their dusting of taupe shadow remained closed, and her slim hands remained demurely crossed just above her waist. What appeared to be the same red fountain pen as in her poster was tucked between her fingers, as if she’d drifted to sleep while dashing off a page of her latest manuscript. Minus the scorn, and with coral lipstick rather than the typical slash of red, she looked softer and far more pensive in death than Darla remembered her.

Indeed, for the first time, she actually felt more than the obligatory polite regret for the woman’s passing.

She hadn’t intended to go up to the front for the ritual up-close-and-personal look. In fact, she was surprised to even see the open casket in church, since James had told her that it wasn’t a typical practice for this denomination. Besides, she’d already seen Valerie lying dead in the street, and that image would be with her for some time. But Morris had politely insisted on walking her up to the line of mourners who were paying their respects at the open casket, so she’d not had a choice in the matter.