A Novel Way to Die

ELEVEN





“NOTHING TO REPORT FROM LAST NIGHT,” ROBERT ASSURED Darla come Friday morning as he switched the computer screen of the security software from review mode to the multipicture live view. “Not unless, you know, you count all those guys I saw going up to your place.”

“Guys? There weren’t any . . . oh, wait.”

Snatching the mouse from him, Darla pulled up a full-screen view courtesy of the front exterior camera. Sure enough, not only did that camera capture the store’s front door, but now her private stoop as well as the Plinskis’ stoop next door was also visible.

Darla gave the teen a stern look. “Last I saw, the camera covered just the store’s front door and window. Any idea who changed the angle?”

“Sorry,” he replied, ducking his head. “It’s just that the owner of the barbershop down the street came by a couple of days ago when you were at lunch. He said the scrap thieves hit his shop and stole his fancy mailbox. And Professor James was like, all worried about you, so he had me get out the step ladder and move the camera so it recorded your door, too.”

“And no one was going to tell me about this?”

“I guess we figured you’d notice sooner or later.” He pointed to the screen. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious. And with what happened to Mr. Eisen’s friend—”

Robert broke off dramatically with a gesture of hitting his head with an invisible crowbar, and Darla suppressed a sigh.

“Oh, and boss, about the guys . . . that’s all good,” he added, giving her a grin and an exaggerated thumbs-up.

Darla felt herself blush as bright a pink as the sweater set she was wearing over her brown woolen slacks, even as she firmly informed him, “Sorry to break it to you, Robert, but the guys you saw were Detective Reese and Mr. Eisen. We were all just talking about what happened to Mr. Benedetto.”

Reese had left soon after Barry, staying only long enough to gulp down his coffee before heading back out into the night. His parting comments had been to warn her that Curt’s death was now a full-fledged murder investigation.

“I particularly want to talk to Tera Aguilar,” Reese had told her, “so do me a favor and don’t give her any early warnings if you see her before I do. That little hint your boyfriend dropped about a fight between her and Benedetto might turn into a motive.”

“Maybe Jake can help you track her down,” Darla had suggested, nobly eschewing offense that he’d assume she’d make the same mistake twice. “Hilda might be more open to talking about Tera to her than to you.”

“You’re reading my mind, Red. That’s where I’m headed next.”

Continuing her virtuous streak, Darla had bit back another reflexive Don’t call me Red, and also resisted the temptation to keep a surreptitious watch out the window until Reese left Jake’s place so that she could run down and pump her friend for details. Not that she wouldn’t see if she could pry a little bit of gossip out of Jake today, though she suspected that the ex-cop would likely be as closemouthed as Reese on the subject.

For the moment, though, there was an even more important issue that needed to be addressed.

“What about Hamlet? Did you catch him on surveillance?” she asked.

Hamlet looked up from where he was sunbathing on the faded Oriental throw rug in front of the main door and returned Darla’s annoyed look with an innocent green blink. Not that she was taken in by his whole I’d-never-dream-of-sneaking-out act. She knew better.

Darla was pretty sure that he’d gotten out again last night. She had walked through her whole apartment after Reese had left, looking again for possible Hamlet escape tunnels. She hadn’t discovered any likely exits, and Hamlet was once more snoozing atop the horsehair sofa. Feeling confident that the ornery cat was safely contained for the night, she had finished watching her video and then reluctantly tuned in to the local news channel. To her relief, Curt’s murder wasn’t mentioned, and so she’d headed off to bed.

But she woke a few hours later from a ghastly dream of stumbling over Barry dead in his basement to discover Hamlet nowhere to be found in the apartment. Anger had battled with worry. The overnight forecast was for temperatures in the high thirties—not low enough to freeze an AWOL cat, but cold enough that he’d be pretty frosty despite his warm black fur coat.

“You’ll be sorry,” she’d declared as she headed back to her own warm bed. Hamlet was a grown-up cat, she had reassured herself as she pulled up the covers. If he wanted to freeze his fuzzy butt off partying on the streets overnight, then let him. But despite repeating that mantra several times, worry had clung to her even as she drifted off to sleep again.

When she’d awakened again at the usual time, she had made a beeline for the kitchen, where she’d been relieved to find Hamlet waiting for his breakfast. Rather than haranguing her with his usual demanding meow, however, he had sat patiently next to his dish, head tilted and green eyes wide as if to say, Look at the good kitty . . . I’ve been inside the whole time.

“Yeah, like I believe that,” she had groused. Not only was his fur still cold to the touch, but a few spots of dirt clung to him. The sly little beast had definitely been out on the town.

Now, Robert shook his head. “If he snuck out, it wasn’t any place that the cameras could see. But if you want, I can poke around outside later and see if I find any Hamlet-sized escape holes.”

“That would be great. Bad enough the neighborhood is being taken over by murderers and thieves. We don’t need Hamlet on the loose to boot!” Then, glancing at the clock, she added, “Oops, opening time. Robert, go ahead and unlock the front door.”

While the teen complied, Darla powered up the register and wondered again if Reese had learned anything from Jake about Tera Aguilar. Maybe she should see if Jake could join her for lunch today. Even if her friend claimed client confidentiality, they’d be walking past Great Scentsations on their way to the deli. She could peek in and see if Tera was working, and at least satisfy herself that the girl hadn’t turned fugitive. As far as Barry . . .

She shook her head. No doubt Reese’s little stunt last night hadn’t earned her any points with the man, though she suspected he was too polite to admit any aggravation. And since she still hadn’t gotten around to getting his phone number—the whole finding-Curt’s-lifeless-body thing had caused that detail to slip her mind—she would have to wait for him to call or stop by again before she could learn where she stood. The realization left her feeling oddly regretful. Though he wasn’t her boyfriend—despite what Reese said—and they hadn’t even technically gone out on a date yet, Darla could see developing a more personal friendship with him. Besides, under the circumstances, she suspected he could use a friendly shoulder to lean on.

“Hey, Ms. Pettistone, look who’s here!”

Robert’s enthusiastic tone and the sound of the front door chiming roused her from her reverie. She looked up to see a smiling Mary Ann making her way around Hamlet, who as usual was refusing to relinquish his official sunning spot to any incoming customers. Mary Ann’s long, navy blue corduroy shirtdress brushed him, and he put out a sheathed paw in an obligatory “back off” gesture, but Darla knew he wasn’t serious. The old woman was on his permanent BFF list.

“Hello, Darla . . . and Hamlet. And good morning, Robert,” Mary Ann greeted the teen, who surprised Darla by giving the septuagenarian a gentle if enthusiastic hug. “I must say, I do like this new look of yours, all dressed up like a successful businessman.”

Darla suppressed a smile. Robert wasn’t exactly Brooks Brothers material, wearing his usual black shirt and jeans topped with another James-inspired vest—this one, in shades of red, blue, and yellow in a distinctly southwestern pattern—but he looked neat and professional.

“Thanks again for, you know, lending me the statue, Ms. Plinski,” he told her. “Ms. Pettistone really liked my window display.”

“I just saw it, and I think you did a marvelous job! It’s—how do you young people call it?—really rad. In fact, I may come back later to buy both books.”

“We sold half a dozen copies yesterday afternoon alone,” Darla told her, noting in amusement Robert’s expression of teenaged horror over an adult using sadly dated slang. “That’s as many as we sold in two weeks, and all thanks to Robert’s creative work. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if we sell most of the remaining stock this weekend.”

“I’m so glad. And, I must confess, Robert is the reason I’m stopping by,” she explained, joining Darla at the register. “You see, Brother hurt his arm yesterday. Oh, he’ll be all right,” she added as Darla made a sound of concern, “but we received a delivery this morning, and I can’t carry the boxes by myself. I was hoping to borrow Robert for a few minutes.”

“Sure, no problem,” the teen exclaimed, and then gave Darla an apologetic look. “Uh, that is, if it’s okay with Ms. Pettistone.”

“Certainly,” Darla agreed. “Now’s the perfect time, before the customers start coming in.”

“I knew I could count on you both,” Mary Ann said cheerily. “And I made some lovely pumpkin and cranberry bread last night. Why don’t I send him back with a few slices for you and him and James?”

“Yum,” Robert replied.

“It’s a deal,” Darla agreed with a smile that promptly faded as she recalled that the old woman probably had not heard about Curt Benedetto’s murder yet. “Mary Ann, before you go, there’s something I’d better tell you so you can let Mr. Plinski know, too.”

Darla filled her in, and when she had finished, the old woman clasped her age-blotched hands together and gave a despairing look. “Oh my gracious, Darla, what is this world coming to? Brother will be so distressed when I tell him. Do the police have any idea who killed the poor man?”

“Not yet. Detective Reese is the one handling the case, though, and I know he’s busy questioning people.”

“Oh, yes, Detective Reese. Such a nice man,” she added in a confidential aside to Robert, “even though he did almost arrest me that one time for breaking and entering.”

While the teen stared at her in surprise at that comment, she returned her attention to Darla. “Well, we’ll just have to trust him to solve the case. But I do wish there was something we could do to take back our neighborhood from these miscreants.”

“I’m with you on that, Mary Ann. Maybe we should talk to Reese about setting up a neighborhood watch.”

“You mean, one of those things where they, you know, wear red beanies and patrol with walkie-talkies and baseball bats?” Robert interjected in an eager voice. “That would be, like, totally cool. I’m in.”

“Oh, my gracious,” Mary Ann replied with a small smile. “Though, come to think of it, I do have a baseball bat that I keep by my bed. If Brother didn’t object, perhaps Robert and I could patrol together. Do you suppose I could wear a red ski cap instead of a beanie?”

“Sure, ski caps are way better,” he agreed. “And you know how Ms. Pettistone sometimes wears those fancy chopstick things in her hair? Those would make, like, really sick weapons, just like in the movies. Hi-yaah!” he finished, mimicking whipping out a pair of hair sticks from an updo and wielding them like twin foils.

“Wait!” Darla gave the pair of would-be crime fighters a look of mild alarm. She’d been thinking more along the lines of handing out fliers to the local homes and businesses, maybe coordinating a lookout post on each block. These two, on the other hand, were prepared to launch their own mini D-Day assault.

“Robert, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but if you want to organize a group like that, your job would be to call the police if there’s trouble and then get the heck out of there. No vigilante heroics where someone—maybe the wrong person—winds up getting hurt. It’s happened before, and I don’t want to be bailing you out on a murder charge one day.”

“Don’t worry, boss, I get it. I read the news online,” he soberly agreed, dropping the imaginary weapons and sticking his hands back in his vest pockets. Mary Ann, meanwhile, shook her head in agreement. “Darla is right. Patrolling a neighborhood is a serious responsibility. Maybe that nice Detective Reese can give us some pointers. But we really should get the lead out and organize this before anyone else in the neighborhood is murdered.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll ask Reese to talk to you two about it as soon as I see him again. Now, why don’t you take Robert and get those boxes moved?”

The two of them headed out, sidestepping a snoozing Hamlet, who appeared to have no interest in joining any sort of citizens’ brigade. His green eyes remained tightly shut, even when two customers almost tripped over him a few minutes later. He still hadn’t stirred even after Robert, bearing the promised cranberry and pumpkin bread, returned from helping Mary Ann.

“Mary Ann’s a better crime fighter than you,” Darla commented in the cat’s direction while heading for the foreign language section to answer a phone customer’s question.

That accomplished, she tried ringing Jake’s cell, but her call went straight to voice mail. She left a quick message—Hey, how about lunch at the deli later?—and then got to work paying invoices and going through the latest publishers’ catalogues in between assisting customers. Robert kept equally busy stocking shelves and jumping in to help ring up sales. Every time the bells on the front door jangled, Darla looked up to see if perhaps Barry had decided to stop by, only to be vaguely disappointed each time that it was not him.

It was almost noon when Jake called back on the store phone.

“Hey, kid, I got your message. Sorry, I can’t break for lunch. Things are popping.”

“That’s okay, I understand,” Darla told her. “I don’t suppose what’s popping has anything to do with Tera or Hilda Aguilar, does it?”

She heard a small sigh from the other end before Jake responded, “Remember what I said about client confidentiality? Oops, someone else is trying to ring through. Let me get that, and I’ll stop by the store later, all right?”

Jake hung up before Darla could even reply. Frowning, Darla hung up the receiver.

She considered calling Reese to find out if he’d located Tera, but then thought better of it. He’d just tell her it wasn’t any of her business. She decided to send him a text instead, asking about the neighborhood watch, and let him reply at his convenience. And maybe at the same time he’d give her an update on the Curt situation.

She waited until Robert finished ringing up the soccer mom he’d been helping. She was pleased to see that the woman had bought one of the books featured in Robert’s window display in addition to a DIY book on plumbing and, strangely, a copy of Robinson Crusoe. But then, she’d gotten used to customers’ eclectic tastes in reading matter.

“Hey, it’s lunchtime,” she reminded the teen. “I feel like a turkey Reuben special from the deli. How about I buy, you fly?”

“Yeah, sure.” He gave her an enthusiastic grin. “Is it okay if I get, you know, one of those big chocolate chip cookies, too?”

“Sure. Consider it a bonus for your good work on the window display. Tell them to put it all on my account.”

“Yes!” He gave a little fist pump and reached under the counter for his jacket. “Back in a minute.”

She smiled as he tore out of the store like Hamlet on catnip. All in all, Robert was working out quite well, she decided. Once he’d had a little more time and training, she might even manage an extra day off on occasion, with him to take up the slack.

Since this was their usual prelunch lull, Darla headed upstairs to the storeroom. She returned downstairs with a lamb’s-wool duster in one hand and an ostrich-feather duster in the other. Picking up where she’d left off a couple of days earlier, she got to work cleaning the inventory, allowing herself the occasional unavoidable sneeze in the process.

She’d been amazed when she’d first taken over the shop to learn how quickly dust accumulated on books. While the regular stock was treated to the standard duster routine, James had a special HEPA vacuum he used on the collectibles and first editions. He’d also explained how, to avoid damage, it was better to clean on a regular basis, rather than making it an hours-long project on occasion. And so Darla tried to tackle the place with her collection of cloths and dusters whenever she had a slow period during the week.

She had barely gotten started on the first shelf, however, when she heard the distinctive thud of a book hitting the wood floor.

“Hamlet?”

Darla peered around the corner of the shelf to see the cat still stretched out on his rug near the door. Hearing his name, he yawned, showing sharp white teeth and a bubblegum pink tongue, and then settled his chin back on his paws to sleep.

Frowning, she set down her dusters and headed in the direction from where the sound had come. Sure enough, in the classics section she found a single paperback book lying on the floor. Her frown deepened. The last time that Hamlet had pulled books off the store’s shelves, he’d been trying to communicate a murderer’s identity. Maybe he was at it again. But could the touchy feline have rushed over, snagged the book, and flown back to his sleeping spot that quickly?

Curious, she picked up the volume and flipped it over. “The Man in the Iron Mask,” she read aloud, followed by a thoughtful, “Hmmm.”

Of course, Hamlet might have had nothing to do with the book at all. Maybe the customer who’d picked up the copy of Defoe’s classic Robinson Crusoe had accidentally dislodged this Alexandre Dumas book from its spot on the D shelf, with gravity eventually doing the rest of the work. But how often did she have to pick up fallen books after a customer left the store?

Not too often. Darla pursed her lips and nodded. For the moment, she would assume that it had been Hamlet who had pulled down the book as a clue—no matter that he was being even vaguer than previously in his hints.

“How about sometime you give me a book title that’s an actual name?” she told Hamlet as she carried the book to the counter. “You know, like Anna Karenina or David Copperfield or Jonathan Livingston Seagull. That would really help narrow down the suspect list, you know?”

Hamlet did not deign to reply.

“Fine, so I’ll play twenty questions by my lonesome,” she told him. “You speak up if I get it right.”

Dragging out a pen and sheet of paper, she scribbled Man in Iron Mask at the top of the page. Then she halted, momentarily stumped. She hadn’t read the book since high school, and even then she’d skimmed it. For better or worse, she’d seen the movie version—which likely bore only a nominal resemblance to the original novel—but that had been quite a while ago. Her memory of the characters’ names and the plot was hazy.

“Let’s take it a face value and assume that the killer is male . . . as in, Man,” she said and underlined that word on her page. “Help me out, Hamlet. How about D’Artagnan or Aramis or Porthos or Athos? Any of those ring a bell?”

Once more, the feline remained provokingly silent. “Okay, maybe I need to back up. Since the author is Alexandre Dumas, let’s try Alexander for the killer.”

Darla wrote down that name, followed by a large question mark. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know any Alexanders, but maybe Curt had. Or maybe he knew an Al or Alec or an—

“Alex,” she exclaimed with a triumphant smile, writing that name in large letters and circling it. “Robert’s buddy Alex Putin, the Russian mafia guy. He’s in construction, and he’s probably killed a bunch of people before.”

Not that she had firsthand knowledge of this—either the Russian mafia connections or any actual killings—but his name was as good a place as any to start.

She added Alex Putin to her budding list as a second possibility; then, with a snort, she crossed out that name and glanced toward the cat.

“Too easy. If the killer was Alex Putin, you’d have snagged something from Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn or else a Vladimir Putin bio, wouldn’t you? Besides, there’s no reason to believe that Curt has ever even met the man, just because they’re both in construction.”

Then she frowned. The more obvious candidate was Porn Shop Bill, though how he could possibly be tied to Dumas’s work, she couldn’t guess. Maybe there was a “William” somewhere in the story? She turned to her keyboard and did a quick online search.

“Well, close,” she decided a moment later as, scrolling through a popular movie database, she saw that the director of an older film version of The Man in the Iron Mask had the first name of William. A bit too much of a reach? She shook her head even as she wrote down Bill. What she needed was a list of characters from the novel. Unfortunately, the publisher had neglected to supply that little convenience in the copy that she held. But she did find a story summary as part of a preface. Swiftly, she began to read bits of it aloud.

“Story opens in the Bastille . . . Aramis was a Musketeer, is now a priest . . . listening to a prisoner’s confession . . . he claims he’s the twin brother of King Louis XIV.”

She paused long enough to scribble down the words Louis and king, and then went on, “Blah, blah, Aramis decides to free this prisoner . . . will swap him for his brother. Meanwhile, things aren’t going well at court. King Louis sulking, blah, blah . . . can’t decide between his mistress and his wife, Maria Theresa—”

She broke off abruptly and stared at Hamlet. “Maria Theresa,” she slowly repeated as she recalled the overheard phone conversation at Hilda’s shop the day before. “Maria Teresa is Tera’s full name. But surely she couldn’t . . .”

Darla trailed off as her previous mental image of Hilda wielding a crowbar was replaced by the mental picture she’d been trying to hold at bay ever since she’d first heard that Tera was missing: that of the petite girl doing her version of “batter’s up” on Curt’s skull. After all, hadn’t Barry said he’d overheard the pair fighting the day before they found Curt’s body? But surely a run-of-the-mill lovers’ quarrel couldn’t be enough to drive the hot-tempered Tera to murder. Or could it?

Reluctantly, she added Tera to her list; then, for good measure, she added Hilda’s name, too. Better that she not decide this early in the game that Curt’s killer was male, despite Hamlet’s choice of book titles. After all, a crowbar was as deadly a weapon in a female’s hand as it was in a man’s.

Even as she mulled over that unsettling possibility, the bells on the shop door jangled, and in rushed a woman whom she didn’t recognize.

At least, not at first.