A Novel Way to Die Page 2

  Before Darla could warn her, the girl hurried over to the cat. She put out one French-manicured hand in his direction, as if to pet him. “What a cute—”

  “No!” Darla shrieked, seeing a glimmer of emerald as Hamlet opened one eye a slit. Rushing to the shelf, she all but bodychecked the girl, and just in time. Barely was Madison out of claws’ reach than Hamlet sprang to his feet and swiped.

  Darla dodged the claws but managed to step on the girl’s foot in the process. Madison, who had just caught her breath after being elbowed, gave a little cry of pain. Grabbing at her crushed toes and hopping on one foot, she dropped her iPad, which gave a couple of bounces of its own.

  “Well, really,” she huffed once she’d regained her balance. Bending to retrieve the fallen tablet, she added in a peeved tone, “If you didn’t want me to pet the darned cat, you could have said—”

  She broke off with a gasp as she found herself nose-to-nose with Hamlet, who had lapsed into ninja-cat mode and slipped unnoticed off the shelf. Suddenly he was on the floor, standing between the girl and her property. Green eyes cold and unblinking, the throaty meowrmph that emanated from him dared her to make a grab for the bright pink case.

  “Don’t do it,” Darla hastily warned as the girl huffed again and made as if to reach around him. “Let’s walk back to the cash register and give him a chance to leave, and then we can come back for it.”

  “And let a cat get the better of me?”

  Madison planted her fists on her hips and shot the feline an evil look of her own, earning a bit of admiration from Darla. She’d dismissed the girl as a cream puff—particularly after her Mr. Cuddles reference—but it seemed she was made of sterner stuff. Darla allowed herself a small flicker of hope. Maybe this was a test, and all Hamlet was looking for in an employee was someone who would stand up to him.

  Or not.

  Hamlet had defeated far more formidable foes than blondes with liberal arts degrees, and it appeared he wasn’t about to let a challenge go unanswered. He walked over to the pink case and plopped atop it, front paws tucked neatly under his chest. Despite her irritation with the feline, Darla found herself smothering a grin. If this had been a chess game, then this had been Hamlet’s official “check.”

  Madison’s glare dissolved into a look of pleading. “This isn’t funny. Please make him move, Ms. Pettistone.”

  “Hamlet, give it up.”

  The cat blinked but remained firmly settled on his prize. Cautiously, Darla edged a foot in his direction, intent on nudging him off. He raised a warning paw, claws fully extended, and she prudently pulled her foot back out of reach again. She’d seen those claws go through shoe leather before. Check, again.

  “Hang on, Madison,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “I’ll get the squirt gun.”

  She’d bought the toy a couple of weeks into her tenure at the bookstore as a last-ditch cat disciplinary tool . . . say, for times that he stole gizmos worth six hundred dollars plus from would-be employees. The cat version of water boarding never failed to work. The problem was that Hamlet always exacted his own revenge for such tactics—last time, she’d found her store keys buried in his cat box—so she employed this method of persuasion only when she had no other choice.

  She headed to the register and returned with the plastic gun firmly clutched in hand. She checked the water level and gave the gun a quick pump. “Last chance,” she warned him, then pulled the trigger.

  The instant the first drop of water hit his sleek black fur, Hamlet gave a vertical leap that would have done an Olympic athlete proud. Then, with a hiss that sounded like a combination of a cobra on steroids and a semitruck’s air brakes, he made a beeline for the next aisle, leaving the iPad behind.

  Darla bent and scooped it up. “Here you go,” she told the girl and handed over the tablet.

  Madison hugged the pink case like a prodigal child returned and managed a smile. “I guess he doesn’t like me much, does he?”

  “Maybe he just had a bad day,” Darla assured her. “Should I put you down on the list for a second interview?”

  “Well, I—”

  She broke off with a look of horror, staring at something beyond Darla. Darla swung about to see that Hamlet had returned, green eyes narrowed to slits as he stood behind her.

  “Uh, maybe I’d better go,” the girl declared, taking one step back. Hamlet took a step forward. She took another step back, and Hamlet moved forward again. Slowly, she backed up, with Hamlet smoothly pacing her step for step. She froze . . . and he did, too.

  That was enough for Madison. With a squeal of horror, she turned and ran. Darla heard the discordant jangle of bells as the front door flew open, and winced as it slammed shut with a glass-rattling thud.

  Darla turned to glare at Hamlet. He sat calmly in the middle of the aisle, unconcernedly licking his paw and swabbing it over one black velvet ear.

  “Great, another one bites the dust,” she told him. “I hope you’re proud.”

  Hamlet looked up from his toilette and gave an innocent blink. Then, with a flick of his whiskers as if to say, My work here is done, he turned and calmly padded toward the children’s section.

  “Great,” Darla repeated, this time adding a Madison-esque huff.

  Still, she did have one more interview after lunch. Maybe this candidate would appeal to Hamlet, since the ornery feline obviously hadn’t cared for Madison. Of course, he hadn’t cared for any of the other previous and equally qualified candidates, either. All of them—the grandmotherly retired teacher; the middle-aged gay writer; the fortyish female former editor—had suffered one variation or another on the treatment that Madison had just received.

  The bells jangled again, and Darla hurried toward the front to see if Madison had perhaps decided to come back for another round. But instead it was her neighbor, Mary Ann Plinski, stepping through the doorway.

  The sprightly septuagenarian and her brother, Mr. Plinski (Darla had yet to learn the elderly gentleman’s first name) owned the matching brownstone next door. Like Darla’s building, theirs had long since been converted to apartments above and retail space below. In their case, the shop was Bygone Days Antiques, specializing in nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century fixtures and furnishings, along with period jewelry, clothing, and other collectibles.

  “Hi, Mary Ann,” Darla called to her and waved her in. “I’ve been meaning to stop by. What was with the moving van in front of your place yesterday?”

  “Hello, Darla. I’m afraid that was our garden apartment tenant, Mrs. Gallagher. She was a snowbird”—Darla knew that fanciful term referred to a northerner who lived in the South during the winter months—“and she finally got tired of shuttling back and forth between two homes. She decided she wanted to live in Florida permanently, so off she went.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry to hear that. I only met her a time or two in passing, but she seemed a pleasant enough lady.”

  “Actually, she was an obnoxious old biddy,” Mary Ann replied with a polite sniff, “but she paid her rent on time and kept to herself mostly. What’s upsetting is that we have to find a new tenant now. The whole interview process is so taxing!”

  “Tell me about it,” Darla said with a wry grin. “But don’t worry, I’ll be glad to keep my eyes open for someone who’s looking for a place.”

  “Thank you, dear. But that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to tell you that I think I saw Hamlet outside of the building last night.”

  “Hamlet was outside? I never let him out.”

  “I know, but these buildings are old. He must have found a way to sneak out.”

  “The little devil,” Darla fumed. “Why couldn’t Great-Aunt Dee have had a nice little orange tabby, the kind that would sit on your lap and purr contentedly?”

  “Well, to be fair, I did see Hamlet sitting on Dee’s lap many a time, and he’s cuddled on my lap a time or two.”

  “He’s never sat on mine yet,” Darla replied, wondering why she felt offended by t
he slight. “But this slipping-outside thing has me worried. Especially with Halloween coming. You know how the animal shelters always warn people to keep their black cats inside around the holiday in case some weirdo is out looking for a live decoration or something.”

  “Maybe he found a spot somewhere in Jake’s place to sneak out,” the old woman suggested, referring to Darla’s own garden apartment tenant.

  Darla nodded. “That makes sense. I’m meeting Jake for lunch in a little bit. I’ll be sure to ask her to keep an eye out for any AWOL cats wandering through her place. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Mary Ann smiled. “My pleasure, dear. Oh, and good luck with your interviews for the part-time position. I believe that I may know one of your candidates.”

  She left on that cryptic note, but Darla let the comment fly past her. She was more concerned with her warning about Hamlet’s nocturnal wanderings. Of course, it was always possible that the old woman had seen another black cat on the street, but Darla doubted it. Prior to becoming a cat owner, she’d always believed that all black cats looked alike. Since taking custody of Hamlet, however, she had discovered that aside from their fur color, the difference between one black feline and the other was as great as . . . well, day and night. If Mary Ann thought she’d seen Hamlet, it was likely that she had.

  Darla shook her head. Bad enough that the feline was playing havoc with her hiring attempts. The last thing she needed was Mr. Hell on Paws loose on the streets. She’d have to put a stop to this, and soon. Otherwise, who knew what sort of mayhem the cantankerous cat might cause?

  TWO

  “HE TOOK OUT ANOTHER ONE?”

  Jake Martelli put down her half-eaten turkey Reuben and leaned forward in her chair, her expression incredulous. Lowering her voice, as if she were worried that someone else in the crowded deli might overhear her, she went on, “How did he do it this time?”

  “iPad kidnapping, followed by a full-frontal fake out. I swear the little so-and-so is back at the store laughing up his cat sleeve at his cleverness.”

  Darla took an angry bite of her own sandwich, chewing miserably. Even the mile-high stack of juicy white turkey breast piled on pumpernickel and topped with sauerkraut, Swiss, and dressing wasn’t enough to restore her to something resembling a good mood.

  Jake nodded sagely and reached for her own sandwich. Through a mouthful big enough to choke a linebacker, she mumbled something that sounded like, “Any blood?”

  “Not this time. But the screams were pretty darned awful.”

  “Look, kid, why don’t you just stick Hamlet in a carrier or something while you’re interviewing?” Jake suggested in a reasonable tone. “Keep the applicants out of claws’ reach, at least until after they’ve filled out the paperwork and you’ve asked all your questions. Once you’ve hired someone, well, it’s survival of the fittest.”

  Darla considered the notion a moment and then shook her head.

  “Unfortunately, I know who’s going to come out on top in that battle. And I don’t have time to train a series of people. It’s mid-October, which means the holiday buying season is only a month away. I need someone I can depend on to help me and James, and I need them trained before the big rush starts.”

  Darla took another bite.

  “I’ve got another applicant coming in after lunch,” she told her friend. “Maybe I’ll luck out with him. Of course, with the job market like it is, it’s not like Hamlet will run out of potential hires to torment anytime soon.”

  “Well, speaking of the job market . . .” Jake swallowed the last of her sandwich and reached into the pocket of her brown corduroy jacket to withdraw a business card. Tossing it onto the table in front of Darla, she gave a casual shake of her curly black mop and said, “Check it out.”

  “Does this mean what I think it does?”

  Jake nodded, her strong features glowing with a proud smile. Darla hurriedly wiped a bit of errant dressing from her fingers and snatched up the card to read it aloud.

  “Martelli Private Investigations, Inc., Jacqueline ‘Jake’ Martelli, President. Oh, and you even have a website!” Darla’s smile matched her friend’s as she added, “I can’t believe you finally did it. Congratulations!”

  “Well, I figured sitting on my butt for two years was enough,” Jake replied. “Those occasional security jobs along with the disability settlement might pay the rent, but I can only watch so much cable television when I’m not hanging out in your store. I missed being in the thick of things.”

  “Once a cop, always a cop, right?

  “Pretty much. Besides, fifty is too damn young to retire.”

  “So is forty-nine,” Darla said, knowing that her friend wouldn’t actually be turning fifty until January, when she’d officially start collecting her retirement. This still gave Darla a couple of months to plan the surprise birthday party she intended to throw. And since Darla’s own next major milestone birthday wouldn’t be for almost five years, when she hit forty, she was pretty confident that she was safe from any similar birthday revenge for a long time.

  Aloud, she merely said, “Actually, as soon as you started talking about going into business, I checked into the zoning laws here. There’s no issue if you want to go ahead and run your office out of your apartment.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that, since I already ordered the signs to hang on the fence and doors,” Jake confessed, her grin now a bit sheepish.

  Darla had inherited Jake as her garden apartment tenant—Darla always had to correct herself from calling it a basement—in much the same way she’d ended up with Hamlet and the bookstore. The aforementioned fence was a sturdy, wrought iron barrier to the short series of steps that led down to the apartment, which was partially below sidewalk level. Jake had moved into Dee’s brownstone soon after the on-duty shooting that had left her with a permanent limp and hastened her retirement from her police detective career. Viewing Jake as her personal on-site security force, Darla’s great-aunt had in return offered Jake a rent well below the going rate.

  Darla had also inherited the subsidized lease, but she agreed with Dee that it was rather cool to have her own personal cop—or rather, ex-cop—keeping an eye on things. Besides, she and Jake had become fast friends.

  Now, Darla laughed. “Actually, I think there’s a certain cachet to having a private investigator in the same building as an independent bookstore. Maybe I need to expand my mystery section, take advantage of the atmosphere.”

  “Don’t go wild until I see if things really take off or not. I’m hoping for walk-in business, to start . . . you know, the old word-of-mouth thing. God knows how many PIs in town I’m competing against. I figure if I keep it in the neighborhood, I’ll have an advantage.”

  “So, you going to be skulking around with a camera taking pictures of cheating spouses?”

  Jake snorted. “Not if I can help it. I’ve got plenty of corporate contacts, so I’m looking at narrowing the field. Corporate espionage, insurance fraud, surveillance—”

  “Mystery shopping,” Darla supplied with a grin, earning an eye roll from her friend. “Let me know if you need any help with that. I can spend other people’s money with the best of them.”

  “Maybe I’ll hire Hamlet. He proved himself a pretty good little sleuth with that whole Valerie Baylor business.”

  Jake’s tone was rueful, but Darla had to concede that she was right. Valerie Baylor, the YA author famous for her Haunted High series, had made a well-publicized stop at Darla’s store—drawing hundreds of fervent fans, and one pitiless murderer. In the aftermath, Hamlet had demonstrated an uncanny knack for what Darla began to call “book snagging”: knocking seemingly random books off the store shelves, books that had proved, in retrospect, to have bearing on Valerie’s murder and the killer’s true identity. And though Hamlet didn’t get any credit, the feline had definitely had a paw in solving the crime.

  Then her frown deepened. “Actually, I should hire you to tail the little beggar. It’s bad eno
ugh that he’s got some secret cat tunnel where he can go back and forth between the shop and the apartment. Now I think he’s found a way to sneak out of the building at night.”

  “What makes you say that? Did you see him out on the sidewalk or something?”

  Darla shook her head. “He’s too smart to tip his hand—er, paw—like that. But Mary Ann said she saw him outside last night. And, come to think of it, the other morning when I went to feed him, I saw what looked like grease or oil on his fur, like he’d crawled under a car. I’m afraid he’s out prowling the neighborhood looking for trouble.”

  “Not good,” Jake agreed.

  Darla took another determined bite of sandwich. “Mary Ann thinks he might be getting out through your place, so keep an eye out, okay? And let me know if you stumble across a cat-sized GPS we can stick around his neck.” Then, with a glance at her watch, Darla added, “Time to get back to the shop. James will be waiting, and I’ve got a few things to do before the next interview.”

  They gathered their now-empty plates and dropped them off in the overflowing dish bin before heading for the door. Jake paused by the community bulletin board near the exit long enough to pin up a few of her new business cards.

  “Half the neighborhood eats here,” she reminded Darla. “You never know who might need a private investigator.”

  Darla pulled her olive-colored hip-length sweater more tightly around her as they made the two-block walk back to her store. The temperature was barely above fifty. It made for a perfect day for New Yorkers, but was pretty darn cold for a Texas girl used to battling summertime weather this time of year. She definitely wasn’t looking forward to winter in New York.

  Jake must have seen her reflexive shiver, for she laughed. “Toughen up, kid. In another month or two you’ll be wading through snow up to your waist.”