A Novel Way to Die

TWENTY





“BARRY? I-I THOUGHT YOU WERE IN CONNECTICUT,” SHE exclaimed as she self-consciously brushed the dirt from her pants. Not that he looked any better. His faded jeans were streaked with dirt, as were his well-worn running shoes, while the tattered plaid jacket he wore over an equally dirty T-shirt likely had never seen the inside of a dry cleaner’s. If it weren’t late fall, she would have guessed from his appearance that he’d been gardening.

Barry, meanwhile, was observing her with a look of surprise that seemed tinged with something very close to anger.

“Darla? What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Hamlet. The little wretch ran off again, and I was afraid he’d sneaked back into your basement.” She gave him a quizzical look of her own. “What happened to Curt’s funeral?”

Barry shook his head in disgust.

“There was a problem with the family,” he said with a dismissive wave of his heavy work gloves. “They couldn’t decide whether to bury Curt or have him cremated. He didn’t leave any instructions behind—hell, who expects to die at our age?—and it was turning into this whole family feud between his sister and their mother. I called this morning, and all the plans were still up in the air, so I figured I’d get some work done today and head out tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. There’s nothing worse than when a death touches off a war within a family.”

“You’re telling me.” His expression hadn’t lightened any. “So, about Hamlet . . .” He trailed off questioningly, and Darla realized that, for all intents and purposes, she was trespassing on the man’s property.

“Sorry,” she said, feeling unaccountably guilty. “I don’t normally go around looking in people’s windows, but he’s been missing for almost a day now. We’ve looked everywhere else for him, so your place is kind of my last hope. Cats are creatures of habit. I thought there was a good chance he’d be here.”

Barry shook his head. “I was just down there putting a part on the boiler, and I didn’t see hide or whisker of him. But I’ll be glad to call you if he turns up.”

“Oh.” Darla didn’t bother to hide the disappointment in her voice. “Listen, would you mind very much if I took a look inside to satisfy myself? If he’s there, he might be afraid to come out if it’s just you.”

The man hesitated. Finally, he nodded, though she heard a note of reluctance in his tone as he replied, “I don’t mind if you take a look in the main house, but I really wish you wouldn’t go in the basement.”

“But that’s probably where Hamlet is, if he’s here!”

“Darla, I told you I didn’t see any sign of him down there, and I’ve been working in the basement for a couple hours now.”

He paused and spread his gloved hands in a helpless gesture. “I’ve got the boiler taken apart, and I had to move a few things, so it’s not easy walking around. Beside, with that whole Curt situation, I don’t like the idea of anyone going down there anymore. In fact, I’m thinking really seriously about plastering over that door.”

Then, when Darla stared at him, he added with a deprecating smile, “I know it sounds superstitious, but I don’t think I can keep working here in the house otherwise.”

“Sure, I understand,” Darla said with a sympathetic nod. “I’ll just take a look around the main floors and call for him for a few minutes, and then I’ll let you get back to work.”

He nodded and stepped aside so she could enter in front of him. Darla wrinkled her nose. It was obvious that no one had been there for the past few days. The place had taken on a stale and faintly unpleasant smell, as if the rats had had a field day in Barry’s absence. Opening the windows wasn’t an option, since all but those of the upper floors were boarded up.

“I have to say, I sure was relieved to see it was you on the porch,” she told him to break what once again had become an awkward silence between them. “While I was out looking for Hamlet, I ran into my employee Robert’s old boss, a guy named Bill Ferguson, who knew Curt, too. He owns an adult bookstore a few blocks from here. Maybe you know him?”

Then, when Barry gave her a surprised look, she realized how that must have sounded. “I didn’t mean to imply that you hang out at adult bookstores,” she hurriedly corrected herself. “I just thought that since Curt knew him, you might have run into him before.”

“Can’t say I have.” Then, with a frown, he added, “But what would this guy be doing at my place?”

“Maybe following me?”

The likelihood of such a scenario sounded pretty weak now that she said it aloud; still, considering how neatly Hamlet’s clues pointed to the porn shop owner, she forged on. “The last time Curt was in my store was when Bill came by to harass Robert. He didn’t hide the fact that he and Curt had some bad blood between them, which I mentioned to the police. So if Bill picked up on the fact that I think he might have been involved in Curt’s death, he could be gunning for me, so to speak.”

“Really?” His expression sharpened, and he gave her a quizzical look. “But I heard on the news that they arrested Hilda Aguilar for murder . . . not that your cop friend bothered to mention that little fact to me.”

“Reese did arrest her,” she agreed, relieved that Barry knew that much, so that she wouldn’t have to break her word to Reese about keeping her mouth shut. “I’m sure he planned let you know. But Hilda is out on bail now.” Darla paused and shook her head in dismay. “I don’t know what sort of evidence the police think they have, but I just can’t see Hilda murdering anyone.”

“Yeah, upstanding citizen and all that. The problem is, you never know about people, do you?”

His tone held a note of bitterness now, though she couldn’t really blame him. He’d just lost a friend that he’d known for almost a lifetime, and the person arrested for the crime was someone he knew, at least peripherally. Which, she assumed, must be almost worse than a random killing by a stranger. Feeling again like an intruder, although Barry had invited her in, she decided to get on with looking for her lost cat and then get the heck out of there.

“Hamlet, here kitty!” she called, poking her head into each of the downstairs rooms for a look. In between shouts, she listened, hoping for the sound of an imperious meow. Each time, she heard nothing.

She tried the next floor as well, carefully skirting the holes in the subfloor that were still to be repaired. Her search there and on the third floor yielded no results. Discouraged, she made her cautious way back downstairs to where Barry waited for her.

“No cat?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nope, no cat. I just don’t know where he could have taken himself off to.”

“Maybe you should call the humane society in the morning. Animal control might have picked him up.”

Privately, Darla doubted that any animal control officer would be able to snare the wily feline, but she nodded. “If he’s not back by morning, that’s what I’ll do.”

“All right, then.”

The words hung awkwardly between them, and Darla realized that he was looking for a polite way to tell her to go. So she would be polite and not make him say it out loud. “I’ve taken up too much of your time. I guess I should head back to the store now.”

“Probably. Sorry, I didn’t mean that like it sounded,” he added with an apologetic smile, looking more like the old Barry she knew as he pulled off his gloves and stuffed them in the back of his belt. “Normally, I’d be thrilled to have your company, but I’ve got things I need to finish before tomorrow, since I’ll be gone for a few days.”

“And daylight is burnin’, like my dad always says,” she answered with a smile of her own. “Don’t worry, I understand.”

Before she could wish him a good trip for yet a second time, however, her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket gave a quick look at the caller ID.

“It’s James. Maybe he’s calling to say that Hamlet is home.” Pressing the “Talk” button, she eagerly answered, “Hello, James. I’m still here at Barry’s place. Did you find Hamlet yet?”

“No, I am afraid he is still missing. But that is not why I am calling.”

“James, hold on a minute. Barry,” she said to the man before her, “James says that Hamlet’s still not back yet. Do me a favor and keep an eye out for him, just in case he does head in your direction, okay?”

“Darla?”

James’s voice was soft in her ear, his tone suddenly urgent. “I’m going to ask you a question. Don’t answer anything besides yes or no. Do you understand?”

I’m going to ask you a question. Don’t answer anything besides yes or no.

Darla abruptly frowned. For the first time since she’d know him, Professor James T. James was speaking in—dare she say it?—contractions. Something serious had to be going on, indeed.

“Yes,” she replied, turning a little so that she wasn’t facing Barry.

James’s voice was still soft but direct as he asked, “You said you’re at Barry Eisen’s place. Is he by chance standing there with you?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Darla, I want you to listen very carefully. Pretend I’m talking to you about the store, and step away from him as if you need a little privacy. We can’t afford for him to overhear anything. And whatever you do, don’t react.”

“Yes?” she answered, feeling her heart rate beginning to increase as she gave Barry an apologetic shrug—Sorry, it’s business—and walked a few feet from him. Obviously, this was something very, very bad.

“Do you recall before you left the store that I found the German-English dictionary lying on the ground?”

“Yes.”

“I suspect that Hamlet must have pulled it down before he ran off. And I am embarrassed to say that I didn’t make the connection until just now, while Robert and I were looking at the other two books of Hamlet’s.”

“Yes?” she persisted, impatience and concern warring within her. Would the man just get to the point!

“The one word connecting all of Hamlet’s clues is ‘iron.’ The Man in the Iron Mask, Murders in the Rue Morgue, or rather, the song of the same name as sung by Iron Maiden. Do you know what the German word for ‘iron’ is, Darla?”

“No.”

“Eisen. The German word for iron is Eisen. Darla, I think Hamlet is trying to tell us that Barry Eisen murdered Mr. Benedetto.”

Barry a murderer!?

Darla’s grip on her cell tightened as she struggled not to physically react to the fact that her store manager had just informed her that she was standing within arm’s length of a cold-blooded killer. Assuming, of course, that James was correctly interpreting Hamlet’s clues, she faintly reminded herself. For even if Barry had killed his friend, the question remained . . . why?

“Darla, did you hear me? Darla?” came James’s voice in her ear, sounding oddly distant.

She gave herself a mental shake. Don’t go to pieces . . . not with Barry standing right there.

“Yes, James, I heard you,” she managed, assuming the tone of a serious shopkeeper who had learned that something was amiss at her store. “I’ll head back to the shop right away.

“You’re sure you can leave without his suspecting anything?” James persisted.

She glanced at the front door. The path to it was clear, and though the hinges stuck a little, she could manage it. All she needed to do was walk right out, just as she had been in process of doing.

She nodded, though of course James could not see her through the phone. “I was just telling Barry good-bye, anyhow. Try to keep everyone there happy, and I’ll be back soon.”

“I shall be timing you,” he warned, returning to his usual precise tones, “and if you are not here in a reasonable few minutes, we shall come looking for you. In the meantime, I shall notify Jake so that she can contact Detective Reese regarding the situation.”

“Sounds good, James. Bye.”

She hung up the phone and stuck it back in her coat pocket; then, with an effort, she looked up to meet Barry’s politely questioning gaze. No way he was a killer, she told herself. She’d gone out on a date with the man, had even kissed him!

Darla took a steadying breath. James—and Hamlet—had to be wrong. After all, she’d been with Barry when they’d discovered Curt’s body, and she’d seen his stunned expression at the sight of his dead friend. No one could be that good of an actor. Could they?

Guess you’ve never been to the movies, kid, she could hear Jake telling her the first time Barry’s name had come up in connection with Curt’s murder. They give out awards for that kind of thing.

Fearing she’d need to give an award-winning performance right this moment, she managed a smile. “Sorry, a little disaster at the store, gotta go,” she said in a rush. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Sure thing. I’ll walk you to the door.”

Darla did her best not to flinch as he lightly caught her arm and escorted her. She hadn’t realized before how strong his grip was. She remembered, too, how he’d talked about playing baseball in high school, and later in college. It occurred to her now that there couldn’t be much difference between swinging a bat and swinging a crowbar.

Quit thinking about it, and just get the hell out of here, she told herself.

Once she was out the door and out of his sight, she’d do the high-school-athlete thing herself and break a few cross-country records on her way back to the store. Anything after that was Reese’s problem. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief as Barry reached for the doorknob, and the familiar earsplitting shriek of rusted hinges rang out.

Except that he hadn’t yet turned the knob, and the shriek wasn’t from the hinges.

“Hamlet!” she cried, abruptly forgetting that she was trying to make good an escape. “That was my cat. He’s in here somewhere, and he sounds like he’s hurt. Hamlet!”

Had she tried to describe the sound, it would be the piercing cry of a screaming baby overlaid by the nerve-tingling scrape of chalk on a board. It sounded angry . . . and frightened. Pulling away from Barry’s grasp, she ran to where the foyer and narrow hall met, frantically listening for another feline screech. “Hamlet, where are you?”

“Me-ooooooooow!”

“There,” she cried, pointing to the closed basement door. “He’s down there.”

“Darla, no! Don’t go down there!”

His expression anxious, Barry raced toward her, but she had already jerked open the door and was rushing down the steps. The faint light from the corner was enough to guide her down and bright enough to show her that Barry had left his big flashlight on and sitting on the bottom step. She grabbed it, shouting, “Hamlet, where are you?”

“Me-ooooooooow!”

The sound was coming from the boiler area. She moved forward, swiftly picking her way through a path of disassembled boiler parts, and shined the light in that direction, aware of Barry’s heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs after her. Hamlet screeched again, sounding this time more demanding than frightened, as if he’d been waiting impatiently for her to find him.

“Hamlet, I’m coming! What’s wrong?” she called as she reached the unlit boiler and shined her light behind it.

Her beam illuminated a pair of golden green eyes that seemed to be floating well above the height of an average cat. Moving closer, she saw in relief the familiar silhouette of Hamlet, apparently unharmed. He’d stopped his unearthly crying, but as Darla watched he began pawing at something beneath him. She aimed the flashlight beam lower and then bit back a scream at what she saw.

Hamlet stood balanced atop what appeared at first glance to be a roll of black sheeting, rather like the plastic she’d seen outside in the roll-away container. But this bundle had been tied at intervals, giving it an unsettlingly familiar shape. As her beam swept farther out, Darla could see where someone had pried up the century-old brick flooring next to it and had been digging in the damp soil. A shovel had been thrust into the small pile of dirt that had already accumulated, as if the digger had stopped in his task but intended to return.

And then she noticed something else. At the spot where Hamlet had been pawing, what appeared to be a hank of long blond hair snaked out from the end of the bundle.

Oh my God, Darla thought. I’ve found Tera!