A Novel Way to Die

FIFTEEN





IT WAS QUARTER TO EIGHT WHEN, AFTER SWITCHING ON THE television to the pet channel, she left behind a decidedly peeved Hamlet and started in the direction of the Greek restaurant, the modestly named Greek Restaurant. Though darkness had long since fallen, the streetlights and passing traffic served to illuminate her way. That, and plenty of early evening foot traffic—it was Friday night, after all—made the walk one she normally would not have hesitated over. But the fact that an as-yet unsolved murder had occurred only two blocks away kept her looking over her shoulder more than usual during the short walk.

And she was not the only one, she noticed. Word of the murder had traveled quickly around the neighborhood, and she noticed her fellow passersby scuttling along at a faster pace than she was used to seeing. Greek Restaurant, like similar establishments she’d seen in the city, resembled an authentic taverna with a whitewashed exterior and rough wooden benches set beneath window boxes filled with flowers—obviously artificial, given the time of year, Darla thought with a smile.

Barry stood at the head of a small line that had formed outside the wooden doors as the would-be diners waited to get in. Instead of his usual plaster-streaked jeans, tonight he wore brown dress slacks, and his gray hooded sweatshirt had been replaced by a blue and brown tweed sport coat over a beige shirt. At the sight of him, she was glad that under her own lightweight black wool coat she’d opted for a soft, calf-length knit dress in forest green topped by a fringed Spanish shawl in jewel tones, rather than her go-to fall work uniform of slacks and bulky sweater.

“Perfect timing,” he greeted her, his gaze appreciative. “And I really like your hair all pinned up and poufy like that.” Then, with a gesture at the door, he added, “Let’s hope the food is as good as it smells from out here.”

It was. Half an hour later, Darla was blissfully making her way through a salad of red onions, black olives, tomatoes, and cucumbers topped by an herb-encrusted slab of feta. When Barry playfully made as if to steal one of her stuffed grape leaves, she wielded her fork like a tined sword and warned him, “Don’t even think about it.”

The entrée was even better. After some debate, they had decided to share a platter of dolma, spanakopita, souvlaki, broiled scampi, and mousaka. Darla considered saving a shrimp to bring home to Hamlet as a peace offering for leaving him on his own. After a second glass of a soft red wine, however, she decided the heck with it and finished the final piece herself.

Their dinner conversation was deliberately light, with both of them avoiding the subject of Curt and Tera. Darla regaled Barry with the seamy underside of selling books, while he obliged with bloodless horror stories about his previous career in banking. And again, Darla found herself thinking that Barry was what they called “a nice guy,” and that nice was a pleasant change from what she had lived with in the past. It wasn’t until they were walking back toward Darla’s place a couple of hours later that talk turned to the subject of that afternoon’s find.

“So, have you heard anything back from that detective about the phone in my Dumpster?” Barry asked when they paused for a stoplight.

Darla shook her head, the pleasant light-headedness she’d been feeling from the wine wearing off with this turn of conversation. “No, nothing,” she assured him. “Besides, he wouldn’t discuss an active case with me anyhow.”

Not that she hadn’t given Jake a call earlier that evening to see if the older woman would at least give her an idea of what was going on. But Jake had been either legitimately busy or else deliberately avoiding her calls, for both attempts had gone to voice mail.

Barry let the subject drop, and their conversation for the remainder of their walk was of pleasant inconsequentials. But as they reached the stoop leading to Darla’s private entrance, he said, “Just so you know, I’ll be heading out on Sunday morning for Connecticut. Curt’s funeral will be on Monday, and I want to be there beforehand for his mom and sister.”

“I’m sure they’ll be glad of your support. Is there anything I can do for you while you’re gone? Water a plant, feed a fish?” she offered before she realized she had no idea where the man actually lived.

To her relief, he shook his head.

“No plants, no fish,” he replied with a slight smile, “but I appreciate the thought. But let me know if you hear anything about that business with the phone. I’m not counting on your detective friend to keep me in the loop.”

“Sure, but I’ll need your number,” she reminded him.

He smiled and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Sorry, I forgot,” he said and hit a button that caused Darla’s phone to ring a moment later.

She shot him a look of surprise as she pressed the “Talk” button and then shut it off again. “How did you get my cell number? I only ever give out the store number to customers.”

“Oh, that.” He gave her a wry look. “Actually, I got it from Curt a while back . . . you know, just in case. I hope you’re not mad.”

She considered that for a moment. Apparently, the whole time she’d been wondering about him, he’d been thinking about her.

“Hey, at least you didn’t hang some huge ‘Darla Will You Date Me?’ sign on my door. That definitely would have rated stalker.” Smiling back, she slipped her phone into her pocket. “Anyhow, I guess I’ve got your number now.”

“Guess you do,” he answered, and leaned forward to kiss her.

A bit later, as she let herself back into her apartment, she reflected that the kiss—like Barry—had been nice. Not earth-shattering, and not off-putting, but somewhere pleasantly in between. Which was all right for a first date . . . and which boded well for a second.

“Hamlet, I’m home,” she called as she set down her bag and hung her coat on the peg.

Hamlet did not reply, which was par for the course. As she made a quick sweep through the apartment, she did not find him in any of his usual lounging spots. She realized with a growing sense of unease that he was not anywhere inside, meaning he had either slipped downstairs into the store or had once again fled the building completely.

“Glad I didn’t bring you that shrimp,” she said to his absent self as she went into her bedroom to change. Her blue and gold comforter—the one she’d bought upon moving in because of its calming vibe—bore no cat-shaped wrinkles. Only a scattering of black hairs indicated that Hamlet occasionally took a nap there.

“Fine, run away from home just like Tera,” she added as she changed into sweats, “but don’t expect me to hire Jake to find you. And I’m not leaving the lights on, either.”

The one-sided conversation reminded her to check the security cameras. Maybe now with the camera angle rearranged, she’d get lucky and spot where the crafty feline was sneaking out. She glanced at her watch to see that it was almost eleven p.m. Even if she didn’t spy Hamlet skulking about, at least she could reassure herself that things in the vicinity of Pettistone’s Fine Books were quiet for the night.

Returning to the living room and the rolltop desk where she kept her laptop, Darla turned on her computer and pulled up the security program. So far, so good, she thought with a look at the live camera shots. She’d take a quick look at what had been recorded so far and then check periodically through the night on the live action.

But the two glasses of wine from dinner combined with the stress of the past few days began to take a toll on her. She found herself nodding off as she stared at an unchanging screen. She had reached the point of dragging herself off her chair for a dozen jumping jacks every few minutes just to keep herself awake, when an image flashed on the courtyard camera that abruptly brought her to full wakefulness.

Swiftly, she backed through the video and played it again, this time at half speed so that she wouldn’t miss anything. The first indication anything was amiss was when a dark figure scaled the courtyard gate. He shifted something on his shoulder—a backpack!—and then swiftly moved to one side, as if he knew the camera would catch his movements should he walk straight ahead. But what the intruder didn’t know was that the cameras were no longer at the same angle they’d covered the previous night.

Which also meant that Robert had no idea he’d been caught on video unrolling his sleeping bag and heading toward a corner spot right outside the shop’s courtyard door.

Heart pounding, Darla hurriedly switched the courtyard camera back to live mode. She had finally replaced the burned-out lightbulb in the exterior fixture, which she routinely left on overnight, so that a dim glow illuminated much of the bricked patio within those walls. Now, the courtyard appeared empty. But she knew that even though she had repositioned the camera earlier that day, small blind spots still existed to either side of the door. And she’d seen Robert, sleeping bag in hand, heading toward one of those corners.

The question was, was he still there, hidden now from camera view?

She flipped the view to the playback and swiftly checked the date stamp. Sure enough, the digital time stamp on the video showed that Robert had climbed over the gate but a few minutes before she and Barry had parted company at her front stoop. With the store long since closed for the day, he had no legitimate reason to have returned . . . certainly, no legitimate reason to climb over a locked gate and prowl about her courtyard!

If she hurried downstairs, Darla thought in outrage, she might still catch the teen in the act of whatever it was that he was doing. She stuck her keys in her pocket and then grabbed her cell phone, ready for confrontation.

Abruptly, the image of Curt lying dead in the basement flashed through her mind. He had been unarmed when he had encountered someone—perhaps Robert?—on his property in the middle of the night. If Curt, who had been a good six inches taller and eighty pounds heavier than Darla, had not been able to defend himself, then what were the chances she could?

“So call Jake for backup,” she told herself and quickly dialed.

Once again, however, the call went directly to the ex-cop’s voice mail. “It’s me, Darla,” she said in a rush. “I think Robert is downstairs in the courtyard, maybe trying to find something he can sell for scrap. I’m going down there now.”

And if things go badly, she grimly told herself, at least Jake will have a record of my last minutes without having to rely on Hamlet for clues. Darla glanced around the living room and spied the clublike rain stick that Great-Aunt Dee had brought back from Chile still propped in the corner. Once before, she’d grabbed it up, prepared to defend herself when she thought an intruder had broken into her apartment. It might not be as effective a weapon as a crowbar, but it was better than nothing.

A few moments later she had let herself into the store via the hall entry door, quickly shutting off the alarm. As always, the shop was dark save for a single light she kept on over the register. Silently as possible—though surely no one in the courtyard could hear her footsteps—she made her way to the back door, debating as she did so the best way to handle the situation. She could shut off the alarm and stealthily crack open the door for a cautious look . . . or she could fling open the door and use the element of surprise to her advantage. So what would Jake do in that situation?

Element of surprise, she decided.

Setting down the rain stick next to the door, she turned on her phone and punched in three numbers. That accomplished, she picked up the stick again and tucked it under one arm before gently turning the dead bolt. The lock made a quiet metallic click as it released, and she winced, certain the sound could be heard in the courtyard. She waited a moment, hand on knob, for the scramble of feet beyond; then, when all remained silent, she took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

“I’ve dialed 9-1-1, Robert,” she called out, holding up her cell in one hand and clutching her makeshift club in the other. “You’ve got one second to tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Mmmph?” came a groggy answer from the shadows, followed by, “Hey, Ms. Pettistone, please don’t call the cops! I can explain.”