Words With Fiends Read online

  Darla smiled, too. “So, what do you think, Mary Ann? Maybe we could try it for a week, just until other arrangements can be made?”

  Not that Darla expected that any other arrangements were going to be made. She hadn’t heard from Officer Wing since he’d called her yesterday to confirm Master Tomlinson’s death. And while the cop had turned a blind eye at Robert taking Roma away, he surely would have tracked him down if someone had been looking for the little dog. But Darla suspected from the sensei’s stepsons’ attitudes that Roma was not high on the priority list for the man’s surviving family, even though the tiny hound had been his beloved pet. Since no one had tried to locate her by now, chances were that no one would.

  Mary Ann, meanwhile, was nodding.

  “Robert, she can stay in your apartment temporarily so long as you promise she won’t chew up the furniture or disturb Brother. And I expect you to walk her regularly and pick up after her, and make sure she always has fresh food and water. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” he exclaimed, happily hugging the dog to him. “Thanks, Ms. P. You’re, like, the best!” Then, to Darla, he added, “Uh, Ms. Pettistone, could I maybe have an advance on my next check? With it getting so cold out, I want to buy Roma sweaters and stuff to wear.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Darla replied. “There’s a pet boutique a few blocks away. Since we’re closed today, how about after lunch we head over there to go shopping? I’ll charge it on my card, and you can pay me back a little at a time.”

  “Sick! You’re the best, too, Ms. Pettistone.”

  “Well, I was planning on going anyway. I’m thinking I should buy Hamlet one of those fancy interactive toys and see if that perks him up a little.”

  “Speaking of perking him up,” Mary Ann ventured, “why don’t you introduce him to Roma?”

  Hamlet and Roma?

  Darla stared at her elderly friend in horror, visions of a howling dog and long, bloody claw marks crisscrossing velvet fur flashing through her mind. “I really don’t think—”

  “Yeah, that’s a great idea,” Robert broke in. “That’ll, you know, shake Hammy up a little.”

  “I said perk, not shake,” Darla reminded him, even as she recalled what Brody the cat guy had told her . . . something about the Universe shaking up things when you least expect it? Though she suspected Roma the Italian greyhound didn’t exactly fall into the category of Universe shaker.

  “You know how Hamlet is,” she continued. “He’s always been an only cat. Once, a woman came into the store with a puppy zipped inside one of those dog carrier purses. She put the purse on the counter, and Hamlet deliberately knocked the poor thing right off.”

  Darla shuddered at the memory, grateful that she’d been within arm’s length of the tumbling puppy on that particular day and had caught the purse before any harm was done.

  Robert shrugged. “Well, I still think it’s a good idea. Besides, Roma is a tough karate hound. She can take care of herself.”

  “Maybe, but let’s not put that to the test just yet. Let me get a few things done at home, and I’ll meet you outside the store at one o’clock, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Pausing to give Mary Ann a peck on the cheek, the youth tucked Roma’s muzzle under his vest against the cold and hurried out the front door of the shop. Darla stared fondly after him before turning the same pleased look on the elderly woman.

  “Thanks, Mary Ann. That was kind of you to let him keep Roma. Poor kid, having a dog to love really means a lot to him.”

  She didn’t have to explain to Mary Ann that Robert had no family of his own to speak of. The old woman already knew from Darla that the youth’s parents were long divorced, with his mother living in California and his father having kicked Robert out of the house when the latter had turned eighteen. While Robert had plenty of friends his own age, Darla, James, Jake, and the Plinskis had pretty well become his surrogate family.

  “I suppose it’s true, that every boy should have a dog,” Mary Ann declared. Then, tapping a finger to her chin, she added, “You know, I think I have something here in the store that he might appreciate. I’ll surprise him with it this afternoon.”

  With a final promise to help Robert with the dog should he need assistance, Darla made her good-byes to the old woman and headed back to her apartment. More than anything, she wanted to spend a little quality time with Hamlet. If Brody the cat whisperer—scratch that, the feline behavioral empath—was right about Hamlet feeling the need to atone, the least she could do was hang out with him and give him a chance to do so.

  The cat was where she’d left him earlier that morning, lounging on the back of the horsehair couch. “Hey, Hammy, how’s tricks?” she greeted him in a breezy tone. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

  Hamlet opened one emerald eye just long enough for her to pick up on the definite you lookin’ at me? vibe coming off him. Then, flexing one front paw, so that his claws made a brief but unmistakable appearance, he shut his eye again.

  So much for the atonement theory, Darla told herself with a small grimace. Brody must have gotten some wires crossed somewhere.

  “Fine, be that way,” she told the cat and plopped onto the far end of the couch. “But you’re stuck with my company for a while . . . at least until I meet up with your buddy Robert after lunch.”

  At the mention of Robert’s name, Hamlet opened the other eye. This time, she sensed slightly less disdain on his part. “You know that Robert is pretty upset about what happened yesterday. So when he comes in to work tomorrow, be extra nice to him, okay?”

  Hamlet closed his eye again and settled himself more comfortably on his perch. Marginally encouraged, Darla continued, “I know I act like I’m always in control, but finding Master Tomlinson like that was pretty darn awful. Every time I think about it, I feel sick to my stomach. He was such a nice man, and he really cared about us students. I know I told Robert that we shouldn’t judge, that he must have felt overwhelmed by life to do such a thing, but that’s just talk. It’s really hard not to be angry on top of being so sad.”

  She paused and brushed away a tear that threatened. Hamlet, meanwhile, opened both eyes now and stared at her.

  “I know Jake understands,” she said, “but she’s seen a whole lot worse, so I hate to dump on her with my problems. That’s why I called Reese. He’s the one who told me last time that you have to talk about this kind of thing, and not keep it all in. And he’s right.”

  For Reese had served as a literal shoulder for her to cry on. Thinking back on the previous night at the restaurant, Darla was torn between embarrassment and gratitude. In between courses, he’d let her rant, rave, and basically carry on like a five-year-old, all the while assuring her that everything she was feeling was what anyone in her place would feel.

  Smiling a little, she went on, “I really do feel a little better today. You know, if he ever decided to quit being a cop, I think Reese would make a great priest. Uh, minus that whole celibacy thing, of course.”

  She gave Hamlet an encouraging look, waiting for the feline version of an eye roll at her small attempt at humor. Instead, and much to her surprise, Hamlet stretched out a paw again. This time, however, his claws were sheathed, and he momentarily touched her shoulder in a gesture that, had it been made by a human, would have been the equivalent of a there, there.

  “Thanks, Hamlet,” she told him, genuinely touched. Then, with a shake of her head, she said, “I really do need to do a few chores before I head out. I hope the vacuum won’t bother you too much.”

  Hamlet blinked once and shut his eyes again, which Darla took to mean she was free to proceed. She spent the next couple of hours giving the place an overdue cleaning, stopping only when her cell rang.

  “Hey, kid,” Jake’s sharp New Jersey tones greeted her. “I could use a little feedback from a divorced woman. You want to come do
wn to share some leftover ziti for lunch and let me pick your brain?”

  “Sure, so long as I’m out by one. Robert and I have a date for the pet store.”

  “Cradle robber,” Jake promptly shot back, though her tone indicated that she knew full well what Darla meant. “Okay, see you in five.”

  Darla hung up and collected her purse, and then pulled on a coat and scarf for the brief walk down to Jake’s apartment. Not that she’d freeze to death in the thirty seconds it would take to go from door to door, but she’d need some warm outer clothing for the walk later.

  “Hey, Hammy, any requests?” she asked the feline, pausing with her hand on the front knob. “I’m going to grab a bite with Jake, and then Robert and I are off to the pet shop.”

  Hamlet gave her a slanted look but made no reply. And thank goodness for that, Darla told herself with a grin. If he started actually talking to her, she’d be asking Brody for a refund . . . that was, once she awakened from her faint!

  She walked into Jake’s apartment to find that the usual paperwork had been shoved aside to restore the chrome table that served as her desk to its original dining function. Two places had been set atop woven kitchen towels doubling as placemats on its bright red Formica top. A partially filled glass casserole dish rested upon a pair of ceramic trivets, the spicy aroma of tomato, meat, and cheese filling the room. Darla’s stomach immediately began to growl in anticipation.

  “Grab a plate and dig in,” came Jake’s voice from the kitchen alcove. All that was visible of her, however, was a pair of tight black jeans. The rest of her was hidden within the vintage fridge, from whose depths she emerged a moment later, bearing two chilled bottles of sparkling water.

  “Too early for wine or beer,” she explained with a grin as she set the bottles down on the table and gestured for Darla to sit. “If you’re a good girl and eat all your lunch, there might be a bit of tiramisu left over from my bakery run the other day.”

  “I swear, I don’t know how you stay so fit,” Darla good-naturedly complained as she took her seat and served herself a sizeable portion of the pasta. “The way you eat, you should be at least three hundred pounds, but you look great.”

  “Daily visits to the gym, kid. You should try it.”

  Since Darla’s previous attempts at gym membership had ended badly—she’d never forgotten the time she’d been bodily moved from a territorial woman’s self-declared permanent spot in Pilates class—Darla concentrated on the food, instead. Besides, between her martial arts classes and all the hoofing around town she’d done since she had moved to Brooklyn, she figured she got her share of exercise.

  Instead, she asked, “You said you needed some feedback. Does this have anything to do with the Russian Bombshell case?”

  “Yeah, I’m still trying to track her down, and I think Alex is way off base with this whole ‘younger man’ thing,” Jake mumbled through her own mouthful of ziti. Washing it down with a sip of bottled water, she added in a clearer voice, “I mean, if you just got out of a lousy marriage, would you hook up with a new guy right away . . . assuming you and the guy weren’t already doing the horizontal mambo beforehand?”

  “Not a chance!” Darla set down her fork with a clank and vigorously shook her head. Once her own divorce had been finalized, her initial emotions had been a combination of relief, elation, and a bit of trepidation over what she would do going forward. There’d even been some sorrow over the fact that she and the man she’d once sworn to love forever now barely tolerated each other’s existence. Horniness, however, had not entered into the equation . . . at least, not for some time.

  “Not a chance,” she repeated more calmly. “The night my divorce was final, I went to a couple of clubs with some friends to celebrate. After that, I took in a foreign film at the midnight movie—the kind my ex always hated, with subtitles. Then I drove to the lake and sat there watching the stars until the sun started to come up. The finale was going to one of those twenty-four-hour places to eat chocolate chip pancakes and drink a strawberry milkshake . . . extra large.”

  She grinned a little at the memory and grabbed up her fork again. “But don’t worry, I paid for my sins. I went home and slept the rest of the day, and I woke up that night with a sugar hangover you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I’ve had those before. Almost as bad as the real kind,” Jake agreed with a matching grin. “So your prime motivation wasn’t finding a new squeeze, huh? Kind of what I figured. I don’t think she’s gone underground with some man, but I do need to figure out where she’s living now.”

  “You said she had money. Do you think she left town, maybe went on a cruise?”

  “That’s a possibility, especially if she doesn’t want Alex to find her. No way she can keep her whereabouts a secret if she sticks around the Russian immigrant community. The question is, what did she do with all the stuff Alex said she took with her?”

  “Maybe she rented a storage locker to stash it?” Darla suggested.

  Jake shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe she found a cheap apartment in the suburbs to stash herself. Except I’m not finding any record of new utilities in her name. And I haven’t found cell phone service for her, either. Either she’s smart enough to keep her name out of the public records, or she’s been so sheltered she doesn’t know how to do the basics on her own.”

  “Yeah, well, even when you know how to do it, it’s still a lot of work setting up house somewhere new,” Darla reminded her, vividly recalling the hassles she’d recently gone through several months earlier when taking over her great-aunt’s property. There was no such thing as a free lunch . . . or a free bookstore.

  “So maybe Mrs. Putin found a place that paid utilities for her,” she suggested, “and maybe she uses one of those prepaid phones.”

  Jake gave her a pleased look. “Sharp thinking, kid. You must be taking sleuth lessons from Hamlet. So now what?”

  After a couple more bites of ziti, Jake answered her own question.

  “Call it a hunch, but I’m still liking the Atlantic City idea. All our bombshell would have to do is hop one of those gambling shuttles, and she’s there. She’s got the cash to find herself a nice hotel there and hole up. Even if she already found herself an apartment around here, it would be a smart move. You know, let her new place sit unoccupied for a while, just to make sure her devoted son doesn’t track her to it. Then, when things cool down, or sonny agrees to back off, she can go home.”

  “I’ve always heard that a tourist town is the best place to hide,” Darla agreed, dabbing at some stray tomato sauce on her chin. “And no one will think twice about her accent and the fact she doesn’t speak much English.”

  “So, you feel like leaving the store to James’s tender mercies and taking a little field trip to the big AC?” Jake asked, shoving aside her now-empty plate with a satisfied sigh.

  Darla finished off the last bite of her own meal and gave her head a regretful shake.

  “I’d like to, but with the whole Hamlet situation and Master Tomlinson’s death, and now Robert hiding out with the dog, things are kind of unsettled here. I’d better stick around here until everything is worked out.”

  “Yeah, I forgot. Since you’re a prime witness, the cops are probably going to need to question you again, so you might as well make it easy on them and not go gallivanting off,” Jake told her, slicing two generous slabs of the promised tiramisu.

  “But Robert and I already told Officer Wing what we knew,” Darla reminded her after absently accepting her portion and taking an automatic bite. The term prime witness was more than a little disconcerting. “Why would he need to talk to us again?”

  “You mean Reese didn’t say anything last night?”

  “About what?”

  Jake waved a forkful of her tiramisu in a “never mind” gesture. “Forget it, drop the subject. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Y
ou haven’t said anything, that’s the problem. What happened that Reese didn’t bother to mention?”

  For a moment, Darla thought Jake would refuse to answer. Instead, the PI finished off the bite of dessert and then settled back in her chair with a frown.

  “You’ll know soon enough, so I guess there’s no harm in giving you a heads-up. Reese told me he heard that the attending physician in the emergency room had some suspicions about the cause of your sensei’s death. Nothing’s formal until the ME finishes up, but talk is that it wasn’t a suicide.”

  “You mean his death was an accident, after all?” Darla demanded.

  “No, not an accident.”

  Darla stared at her friend in dismay, not wanting to put her thoughts into words, but knowing she had no other choice. “If Master Tomlinson didn’t kill himself, and his death wasn’t an accident, then that means . . .”

  “Yeah, kid, that means he was murdered.”

  EIGHT

  MURDERED?

  Of course, that was the only logical scenario left. Even so, Darla caught her breath at the word and dropped a forkful of tiramisu back onto her plate. Jake, meanwhile, was saying, “From what I hear, it was a pretty poor attempt to stage a suicide scene. Whoever did it didn’t stop to think that the man weighed too much for that hook to hold him. Besides, there’s an obvious difference in the marks you find on the neck of a hanging victim versus someone who’s been strangled. And there are other signs, too. Someone wraps a rope around someone else’s neck, you get burst capillaries in the eyes, skin under the fingernails where they struggled—”

  At Darla’s gasp of horror, Jake broke off and added, “Sorry, kid, didn’t mean to get graphic there. But it’s Forensics 101. Even the greenest street cop knows what to look for in these situations.”

  Jake, who was well-versed in that sort of unsavory business, returned her attention to her dessert plate. Darla, however, had lost her appetite. But why would someone kill Master Tomlinson . . . and, more important, who?