Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

Perhaps there had been genuine love after all. Or maybe Morris’s acting abilities went beyond a talent for female impersonation.

Abruptly, Darla’s thoughts began to take a darker turn. When it came down to it, no one had been fully accounted for during the thirty or so critical minutes before Valerie’s death. Was it possible that Morris might have been the same hooded figure who had struggled with Valerie outside that final time? Could he have been the one present when she’d taken her tumble into traffic . . . perhaps had even pushed her himself?

The notion grabbed hold of her and wouldn’t let go, even as she reminded herself that the incident had not been ruled anything other than an accident. But why would Jake have told her to keep her eyes open, she wondered, if she and Reese didn’t think something was suspicious about the situation?

For it all makes terrible sense , she realized. Hadn’t she read somewhere that when a person was murdered, it was most likely that his killer had been a close acquaintance rather than a stranger? But what would have been Morris’s motive to murder his sister?

Money? But the family was already well-off. Jealousy over her fame? Given his double life, surely fame was the last thing that Morris would want. Or maybe it was something more basic? Had Valerie threatened to expose Mavis as Morris’s alter ego, and he had taken desperate measures to keep his secret safe?

And yet, except for the one lapse during the signing where Mavis had let loose with a rude descriptive, Valerie’s twin had appeared a mild and polite person, even reserved. Somehow, she didn’t see in him the strong emotion it would take to commit such an act.

So caught up was she in her speculations that she almost missed it when Morris himself abruptly rose from his pew. Looking elegant in his well-tailored black suit, he moved with languid grace as he made his way to the lectern.

“He’s such a handsome gentleman,” the old woman next to Darla muttered, apparently forgetting her earlier disapproval with this opportunity for gossip.

She leaned close enough that Darla got a whiff of rose-scented cologne tinged with body odor. “It’s a shame he hasn’t married yet, but then he’s always been so shy, and always so devoted to his sister. Why, he never even moved out of his parents’ home, not even after poor Valerie ran off to a state university, of all things. And she then married that upstart from California. New money, you know,” she added in a stage-whispered aside. “But with his sister gone, maybe now . . .”

She trailed off meaningfully.

Realizing some response was expected of her, Darla managed a noncommittal smile and a little shrug, even as she tried to puzzle out said meaning. Was the woman implying that Morris had had an unhealthy attachment to Valerie, or was she trying to say that Valerie had somehow held her brother back?

Morris’s eulogy turned out to be almost startlingly brief. He bowed his head and stood in silence behind the lectern for several moments, long enough that people began to shift uncomfortably in their seats and glance at one another. Watching him, Darla found herself playing psychiatrist, wondering if he suffered from some sort of social anxiety or phobia. Maybe that was the reason for his Mavis persona, a way that he could hide in plain sight, so to speak. Finally, he lifted his head and spoke.

“As you might guess, this has all been a terrible shock for our family. I think I can safely say that I knew my twin sister better than any one of you, and that I am lost now without her. We spent our first nine months with our arms wrapped around each other, and for the first time in my life, my arms are now empty.”

With that stark yet oddly emotionless proclamation, Morris left the lectern and started back toward the family pew. He stopped to accept hugs from several people who were seated nearby before once more resuming his own place between his parents. Darla noted from her vantage point that he did not actually return any of those physical gestures—nor did he ever look back toward the closed casket that held his twin.

A few minutes later, the service was over. Darla rose with the rest of the mourners to watch as the pallbearers rolled Valerie’s casket toward the door and the hearse that waited outside. The graveside service would be for family only. So how could she contrive to meet with Morris again and see if she could get answers to any of her suspicions? She needed more than just the revelation that Morris and Mavis were one and the same to convince Jake and Reese that she might have stumbled across a viable suspect in Valerie’s death.

Not your job, Nancy Drew , she could almost hear Jake saying. She tried to think of a retort to that argument but came up empty. Fine. She’d tell Jake what she learned and let the woman pass on that info to Reese to do with as he would. Her work here was done.

Besides which, she realized, she didn’t want him to have had anything to do with his sister’s death. She liked Morris . . . and Mavis.

That burden lifted from her, she turned her attention to getting out of there, impatient as she was now to drop the whole thing into Jake’s lap. Valerie’s family was gathered just outside the church to receive condolences. She ran that gauntlet of grief as swiftly as she could without looking rude. Plucking every clichéd phrase she could find from her mental file of appropriate things to say to the bereaved, she shook hands and exchanged air kisses with a dozen people who had no clue who she was but were content to accept her kind words. Finally, she came to Morris.

“A lovely service,” she told him as she clasped his hand. “I’m afraid I knew Valerie just a short time, but she made quite an impression. She will be missed.”

“Yes, Valerie had a talent for making . . . impressions,” he replied with a dry little smile. “I’ve been particularly touched by the outpouring from her fans. We’ve received letters from all over the world from people hoping that she left behind a few more manuscripts.”

“Did she?” Darla asked, genuinely curious.

She knew that most writers were usually well into completing their next manuscript by the time the most recent book hit the shelves. And though Hillary had claimed there wasn’t another one, maybe she simply didn’t know what Valerie had been working on when she died.

Morris, meanwhile, gave a noncommittal shrug. “I suppose we’ll find that out when I sort through her papers.”

“Oh, of course.”

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

“I’m not sure if you know this,” she went on, “but I’m the owner of the bookstore where Valerie held her last signing. All of our employees were devastated by what happened, and we’re hoping to donate some of our profits from her books to a literacy cause in her name.”

Darla had come up with the idea on the spur of the moment, but she found herself liking it. She’d let James handle the details. Emboldened, she continued, “We took several pictures of the event before . . . well, you know. If you give me your email address, I would be happy to send you copies of them.”

“That would be lovely,” he replied and reached inside his jacket.

Pulling out a business card and a pen, he scribbled something on the back and then handed the card to her. “Send the pictures there, if you don’t mind.”

She tucked the card in her purse. With an appropriately subdued nod, she replied, “I’ll be in touch. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vickson. I’m only sorry it was under such tragic circumstances.”

They exchanged a final polite handshake, and then Darla started down the steps. Everest was standing below at the walk, his expression distinctly disapproving as he caught sight of her. She met his gaze and gave an apologetic shrug as she drew even with him.