Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

Jake rose with him and walked Reese out while Darla took the opportunity to snag her third piece of garlic bread.

“So, are we crazy, or what?” she asked when Jake returned.

Jake shook her frizzy head. “Probably what,” was her wryly cheerful assessment. She reached for the uncorked bottle of red that had been breathing on the table. Since Reese had still been on the clock, she and Darla had politely refrained from drinking with their meals. Now, however, Jake refilled their empty water glasses with a healthy pour of wine.

“Grab your glass and let’s sit outside,” she suggested. “Who knows, maybe we can get one of those kids hanging out there by the shrine to channel Valerie for us. That would save us the trouble of grilling her brother tomorrow.”

Remembering her final look at Valerie in her casket, and the fanciful thoughts that had accompanied the viewing, Darla shivered a little even as she managed a laugh.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass on the séance and stick with good old Morris,” she said as she grabbed up her glass and stood. “Besides, I don’t have a choice. Mary Ann will be disappointed if I don’t bring back a dramatic story when I return the cigarette lighter to her.”

“CERTAINLY, IT’S AN INTERESTING PIECE,” MORRIS VICKSON OPINED AS he examined the sterling silver and green enamel cigarette lighter that Darla had handed him. “It has an art deco look to it, don’t you think? I’m no smoker, but I fancy myself something of an expert when it comes to vintage silver.”

“Mary Ann said it dated from the thirties,” she agreed. When the man gave her a questioning look, she hurried to explain, “She and her brother own the antique store next door. I had her take a look at it.”

“Ah,” Morris said with a nod as he handed back the lighter. “I’m not surprised you thought it might belong to Valerie,” he went on, “but I’m afraid I don’t recognize it. She did own a fancy lighter or two that people had given her as gifts, but this wasn’t one of them. Besides, she had a practical streak. For everyday she used those cheap plastic throwaways.”

“Oh dear, then it must have been a customer who left it,” Darla said and tucked the lighter in the drawer beneath the register. “I’ll just hold it here until someone comes looking for it.”

Morris’s arrival had been timed perfectly, Darla thought in satisfaction. With it being Lizzie’s day off, she had only James to contend with. Fortunately, his usual lunch hour coincided with the appointment time Morris had given her, so only she and Jake were in the store with the late author’s brother.

With a glance now at Jake, who was casually thumbing through a bestseller at the counter, she told him, “I’m so sorry I brought you here on a wild-goose chase, Mr. Vickson. But Mary Ann said the lighter might be worth a couple of hundred dollars, so I couldn’t just mail it off to you without knowing for sure it really was your sister’s.”

She felt a sting of guilt at this litany of small lies. No matter what role, if any, Morris had played in his sister’s death, returning here to the store surely had to have been difficult for him. But if he were distressed, he hid it well under a gracious manner.

“I completely understand, Ms. Pettistone, and I hope you find its proper owner. Oh, and I do thank you for the photos. That was thoughtful of you, to make prints as well.”

He gathered up the neat stack by the register. Once Darla had confirmed that Morris would be stopping by that afternoon, she’d put in a second call to James asking him to print out some of the photos he had taken at the autographing and then bring them to work with him.

James had complied. And, being James, he first had cropped and touched up each picture to its best advantage and then printed them on expensive photo paper. He had even included a disk of the files in case Morris cared to upload the pictures to his own computer. Now, as Darla watched, the man thumbed through the copies.

He paused at one that showed Mavis applying a dusting of powder to Valerie’s face. While a candid shot, the scene as James had cropped it had an artistic look to it, with both figures in profile. The resemblance between the two was so obvious now, Darla wondered how she could’ve missed it.

With a sigh, Morris let the pictures slip back to the counter.

“You know,” he said in a thoughtful tone, “this is all still so fresh. Every morning since she died, I go through this strange sort of countdown. I wake up and tell myself, Just a day ago, my sister was still alive . . . just two days ago, my sister was still alive . . . just three days ago, my sister was still alive .”

He paused and shook his head.

“Two more days, and the countdown will change. It will be, My sister died a week ago . . . my sister died two weeks ago . . . my sister died three weeks ago . Then it will change to months, and then it will move on to years. At what point, Ms. Pettistone, do you think I’ll finally stop counting?”

“Probably never,” Darla replied, sympathetic tears unexpectedly filling her eyes.

She had done much the same thing as a teenager, when a beloved cousin of hers had died, too young, in a car accident. For weeks afterward, she had mentally checked off each day on her personal cosmic calendar as one more day without Amanda being there for her to write to or call. Even now, she sometimes still went through that mental litany, marveling as she did so at just how much time had passed.

She hurried to add, “But after a while, it won’t be every day, and in time it won’t hurt quite as much.”

“Do you think so?”

Smiling a little, he gathered the photos again and slid them back into their envelope, tucking the packet into his messenger bag. “Please thank your manager for me. My parents and I will enjoy having these pictures.”

“I’ll gladly tell him, but please don’t feel you must leave right away,” Darla insisted, hoping no desperation had seeped into her tone.

The conversation had wound down far more quickly than she had hoped. She reminded herself that this should not have surprised her—not if her previous guess that he did, indeed, suffer from social anxiety was correct. Somehow, though, she needed to keep him there and talking.

“James took a late lunch,” she went on, “but he will be back any minute if you would care to thank him yourself. And I’ve just made a pot of fresh coffee if you’d like a cup while you browse the shop for a bit.”

Too late, she realized she had forgotten the nearby stack of Haunted High books. She saw the pained look on Morris’s face as he caught a glimpse of the books, and she mentally kicked herself. So much for browsing.

She threw a helpless look at Jake, who gave a small shrug. Short of tackling the man and insisting that he indulge in chitchat, there wasn’t much either of them could do. But before they had to resort to such drastic measures, the bells on the front door jingled. The door opened to admit a small pigtailed figure wearing round black glasses and a blue plaid school uniform, and carrying a pink backpack.

“Callie!” Darla exclaimed in pleasure, gesturing the girl in. “I was hoping you would stop by. But what are you doing here in the middle of a school day?”

“Today was a half day,” the girl explained with a precise nod, “so my mother let me go shopping with her. She’s in the bath store down the block. She let me come in here by myself because I told her you had a book for me.”

“Why yes, I do.”

Darla reached under the register and pulled out one of the autographed copies of Ghost of a Chance . “I saved this one for you, just like I promised.”

“Wow.” Callie took the book in both hands and stared at it in awe. “I can’t believe I have a signed copy!”