Words With Fiends Page 2

  He broke off as he reached the bottom of the stairs; then, turning to the woman behind him, he mimed the universal jerking-upward-on-a-rope gesture to indicate hanging. And then, in case no one had gotten the message, he punctuated that bit of pantomime by letting his tongue loll from his mouth.

  The woman who was the recipient of these amateur theatrics was Martha Washington, the book club’s president and equally ardent participant in the group. A slender, mixed-race woman in her late thirties—No relation to the late president’s wife, she always assured people upon first meeting—she wore her multihued hair in dreads that dangled past her shoulders.

  Today, the cacophony of red, blond, and black locks seemed to fairly bristle with indignation. Her tone, however, was as cool as Hamlet’s gaze as she countered in precise British tones, “Mark, I’m telling you this in the nicest way possible . . . you are a bloody idiot.”

  Darla suppressed a smile at the overheard exchange, reflecting how even the snarkiest comment sounded sophisticated when spoken in a clipped English accent. The woman’s enunciation, however, was no affectation. Martha had previously explained to Darla that her father was a career military man from Georgia who had been stationed for a time in Great Britain, where he had met and married Martha’s English mother. So while Martha’s everyday accent was straight out of a Masterpiece Theatre special, she could occasionally turn on a Good-Ol’-Girl Deep South accent—a honeyed drawl far thicker than Darla’s native East Texas twang—when the situation warranted.

  But this particular lecture on English literature apparently required the BBC-esque approach. While Mark sputtered, Martha continued, “As a man, you have little understanding of the societal pressures levied upon women throughout the ages. A woman of Tess’s class lived in a virtual prison . . . bound by the law, the Church, and society as a whole. Nobly accepting one’s fate rather than flailing against it can sometimes seem the better choice, no matter the ultimate outcome.”

  “Yeah, well, but—”

  Martha held up a hand, cutting short whatever argument he had, and then pleasantly asked, “May I finish? Of course, Tess had been wronged most terribly from the very beginning of the story: first by her lover, Alec, and then by her husband, Angel. Remember that at the end, though, she also committed the ultimate crime—she murdered a man in cold blood. Her personal code of honor required that she accept responsibility for her actions and, ultimately, accept punishment. That’s where the nobility comes in. Now, you were saying?”

  “I was saying, I disagree.” Mark used a forefinger to shove his slipping glasses higher on his nose. As he reached the counter, he turned his attention to Darla. As usual, a whiff of stale cigarette smoke clung to his clothing. “You’re on my side, aren’t you, Darla?” he whined, his pale blue eyes so magnified by the lenses of his glasses that he resembled an anime character. “You don’t just sit there and take it. You fight back. You know, like what Master Tomlinson always says.”

  Master Tom Tomlinson was the martial arts instructor who owned a nearby dojo where Darla had been taking lessons a couple of times a week over the past few months. Founder of a fighting style that blended elements of both judo and karate, Tomlinson had won numerous championships in his multi-decade career and had been a contemporary of Bruce Lee. Now pushing seventy, he’d long since left behind professional fighting to nurture new generations in his small gym. His students ran the gamut from grade schoolers to burly college-aged black belts to people like her . . . adults hoping to gain basic self-defense skills in addition to a physical fitness regimen.

  And, unfortunately, they also included Mark.

  Now, as Mark stared at her expectantly, Darla obediently echoed the mantra chorused by all of Master Tomlinson’s students at the start of every class. “Run when you can, fight if you must, never give up, and never let injustice go unpunished,” she said with a smile. “And that’s pretty good advice. But I’m not sure that it applies to Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Besides, since I’m not a member of your book club, I’ll let you and Martha duke this one out yourselves.”

  “Fine, take her side,” was Mark’s aggrieved retort as he deliberately overlooked her attempt at neutrality. “You women are all alike, ganging up on men just to do some sort of female solidarity thing. You won’t even admit I might possibly be right.”

  “Mark, you know that great literature—like beauty—is in the eye of the beholder,” Darla countered in as mild a tone as she could muster. “I’m not about to tell either of you that you’re wrong. Now, do you want to pay for your copy of To Kill a Mockingbird before you go, so you can get a jump on the next meeting, or will you come back for it this weekend?”

  “I’ll pay now.”

  His thin lips twisted in a sulky line, he snatched one of the copies of Mockingbird that Darla had special-ordered for the book club and slapped down a credit card on the counter. Darla took it and swiped it, even as she exchanged glances with Martha. The woman gave her a sympathetic look in return but made no comment beyond a barely audible tsking.

  “Here you go,” Darla said as she finished the transaction and slipped both book and receipt into the reusable bag Mark proffered. Then, trying to bring back a bit of customer service serenity to the situation, she asked, “So, have you read this one before, or are you coming to it fresh for the book club?”

  “I, uh, always meant to read it, but I never seemed to have the time before now,” he confessed. His accompanying guilty look was the same she’d seen on numerous customers’ faces as they admitted to never having cracked open the cover of a particular classic.

  Darla gave him a sympathetic nod.

  “I know exactly what you mean. There are so many books out there I know I should have read years ago but didn’t, that I always feel a bit guilty coming clean when someone asks. That’s why I think it’s so great that the Thursday Afternoon Book Club is doing this whole retro thing with reading the classics. And I have a feeling you’ll like this one for the very reasons you didn’t appreciate our friend Tess.”

  “Yeah, maybe so,” he agreed, brightening a bit as he tucked that maligned paperback into the bag with his brand-new purchase. “Anyhow, see you at the dojo tomorrow night. You and Robert should stay late and watch my sparring class.” Robert was Robert Gilmore, an eighteen-year-old goth kid with a love for books who’d been working at the store for the past few months. He and Darla had signed up for the beginner’s martial arts class together. Mark was at a more advanced level.

  “I’ll think about it. You know, just for fun, I think I’m going to reread Tess myself and see how it compares to when I read it in school.”

  She gave Mark a polite smile and then turned to ring up Martha, who had taken her own copy of Harper Lee’s novel from the stack and stood with credit card in hand.

  Glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Mark was headed toward the door, Martha remarked in a wry tone, “Brava, Darla. You handled our resident complainer like a champ. One minute he’s foaming at the mouth, and the next he’s wagging his tail like a little puppy. You’re not really going to reread Tess of the d’Urbervilles, are you?”

  “Actually, I might,” Darla replied with a grin, taking one of the last copies off the counter and sticking it beneath the register next to her purse. “And as far as diplomacy, I guess James is rubbing off on me. A few months ago, I might have smacked Mark over the head with the darned book.”

  As Martha chuckled, Darla added, “But you’re pretty darned diplomatic, too. We could hear Mark spouting off all the way down here a while ago. I keep wondering why the rest of you book club members just don’t tell him to take a hike.”

  “Ah, we’re used to him. In fact, I think the other members are always secretly disappointed if a meeting goes by without Mark launching into one of his silly tirades. It’s always so entertaining to watch . . . though I suppose that’s very bad of us to enjoy his little temper fits. And the way he ac
ts sometimes does worry me a bit, like he’s off his meds or something.”

  Then, before Darla could query her as to whether she was being literal about medications, Martha added, “Where did James get off to? As soon as his shift is over, we’re supposed to meet for an early supper over at Thai Me Up.”

  Darla stared at her in pleased surprise. “Meet for supper? You mean, as in a date?”

  She knew that Martha was unattached. In the few months that she’d known James, she had never heard him mention any sort of personal relationship and so assumed there was no woman currently in his life. To be sure, the ex-professor had to be almost thirty years Martha’s senior; still, Darla had no trouble picturing the pair as a couple.

  James, however, apparently had overheard her and Martha’s exchange and came forward, determined to set the record straight. Stepping out from behind a nearby bookshelf and accompanied by two elderly female book club members who trailed him like groupies, the ex-professor paused at the counter.

  “Darla, what I proposed to Ms. Washington was simply a few hours of fellowship between two people with a mutual interest in Asian cuisine and fine literature. Of course, since I put forth the invitation, etiquette dictates that our meal be on my dime, so to speak.”

  “Uh, huh,” was Darla’s unconvinced reply while Martha, standing to one side of him now, shook her head and mouthed, Yeah, right.

  James gave Darla the same quelling look that he had likely turned upon any number of impertinent undergraduates over the years; then, with an apologetic look for the restless ladies queued up behind him, he addressed Martha.

  “My shift here ends in another fourteen minutes. If you care to wait, I will be happy to escort you to the restaurant, unless you prefer to meet me there?”

  “Oh, I’ll wait,” was Martha’s swift reply.

  James responded with a regal nod and then gestured for his entourage to follow him toward the new releases table. Darla exchanged another glance with Martha, who gave her a sly grin and said, “Take my word, it’s a date.”

  Darla chuckled and finished ringing up the woman’s purchase. She was already looking forward to the book club’s next meeting in two weeks, when she fully intended to pump Martha for a few juicy details. She only hoped that Martha would be a willing participant in the figurative kiss-and-tell. She could guarantee that James wouldn’t breathe a word about the evening out, no matter how well—or how poorly—things went.

  Exactly fourteen minutes later, James had rung up the remaining book club members’ purchases, retrieved his overcoat from the storeroom upstairs, and was looking at his watch.

  “My shift is over,” he pointed out unnecessarily, “and Robert is not yet here.”

  Which was a bit unusual, since Robert lived in the garden apartment of the brownstone next door. The place was owned by the Plinskis, an elderly brother and sister who also ran Bygone Days Antiques out of the same building. Darla was surprised and more than a little concerned when James pointed out that the usually dependable youth had not yet arrived for his late afternoon shift. Just as with Hamlet, she and Robert had initially gotten off on the wrong foot, but once hired—and minus his various piercings and goth makeup—Robert had proved himself a dedicated if unconventional employee.

  “Go on, James,” she told him. “I can handle things myself for a while. And if Robert isn’t here in a few minutes, I’ll go hunt him down.”

  “If you are quite certain,” James agreed, frowning slightly, “though I am sure Martha will understand if we have to delay our dinner until he shows up.”

  Darla glanced in the direction of the book club president, who had settled in one of the small armchairs scattered throughout the store and was touching up her lipstick in preparation for the non-date. Then she shook her head. “I can handle things alone, I promise. Besides, you deserve a fun evening out.”

  “Very well, if you insist. But telephone me if our young employee does not arrive within a reasonable period of—”

  The jangle of bells at the store’s front door abruptly interrupted James’s words and heralded the arrival of the tardy Robert. Since he lived a mere twenty steps away, the youth never bothered with a coat or gloves, no matter how cold it was out. Slapping his palms together to warm them, he made his usual beeline to Hamlet.

  The feline roused himself momentarily—he and Robert had bonded on their first meeting—and lifted a halfhearted paw to do their ritual fist-bump greeting. Robert lightly touched his knuckles to the cat’s oversized paw while giving him a concerned look.

  “Not feeling good, little buddy?” he asked in a soft tone, adding a gentle chin rub for good measure. He, too, had noticed the change in Hamlet’s demeanor over the past few days and had voiced his concern to Darla on several occasions.

  Then, noticing two adults staring at him in disapproval, Robert turned his attention to his boss.

  “Sorry I’m, like, late, but I was at Ms. Jake’s place,” he explained in a rush. Eyes wide, he added with a grin, “You’re not gonna believe who just hired her as a private investigator!”

  TWO

  “WHOEVER JAKE IS WORKING FOR ISN’T IMPORTANT,” DARLA replied, shaking her head in dismay. “The question is, what were you doing in her apartment? You know better than to hang out there during business hours.”

  Jake was Jacqueline Martelli, ex-cop and now private investigator who rented the garden apartment below the bookstore. Darla had inherited Jake as a tenant from her great-aunt, much like she’d inherited Hamlet. Except Jake paid rent, if at the greatly reduced rate that had been locked in with Great Aunt Dee long ago. But the newly minted PI also served as unofficial security for the building, so Darla considered it a fair trade-off. Besides, she and Jake had become fast friends these past few months.

  Robert, meanwhile, assumed a defensive tone.

  “Hey, it wasn’t my fault. I was about to come to work, and then Ms. Plinski called me. She said she just baked a pumpkin pie and wanted me to take it to Ms. Jake. I was just going to, you know, hand it to her and then head up to the store, but she invited me inside.” He brightened and added, “And that’s when I saw who her client was.”

  “Do you intend to reveal that person’s identity to the rest of us?” James inquired with a stern look, helping Martha with her coat as she joined them at the register before slipping into his. “Or will you leave us to wildly speculate for the remainder of the evening?”

  Robert grinned again, not at all cowed by the man’s severe demeanor. Darla found herself suppressing an answering smile as she surveyed her two employees. Despite their many differences—irreverent, teenaged white goth kid versus staid, retirement-aged black former professor—the pair got along surprisingly well.

  Not that Robert wasn’t above yanking James’s chain every so often. The most egregious yank, in Darla’s opinion, was Robert’s tongue-in-cheek homage to James’s unofficial personal uniform. Since James favored sober sweater-vests that hearkened back to his college teaching days, Robert had taken to wearing a vest, too, though his flamboyant choices were less the product of academia and more the spawn of thrift stores. Today’s offering had a distinctly mod vibe, with its screaming pattern of oversized paisley that, in most fashion circles, would evoke cries of horror. But worn over Robert’s own personal uniform of black jeans and black T-shirts, the vest seemed right at home.

  “Any guesses? He’s someone you’ve heard about,” Robert offered, still grinning.

  Darla gave him another disapproving look, though she had to admit that Robert’s deliberate air of mystery had tweaked her own curiosity.

  “You know Jake can’t reveal her clients’ business to anyone else. You really shouldn’t be sharing confidential information.”

  “Yeah, but telling you his name isn’t, you know, confidential. He saw me there. Heck, he even talked to me. That’s why I’m late.”

  Which technically voided
the whole confidentiality issue, at least as far as his identity, Darla conceded. Feeling vaguely guilty at her interest, she tried to think of people recently in the local news who might have some reason to hire a private investigator. “Okay, I’ll bite. What about that local councilman whose father got into a fistfight with him on the street the other day?”

  “Nope.”

  “The newswoman who did the pill mill exposé last week?”

  “Nope. I told you, it was a man. Try again.”

  But when James raised a genteelly menacing brow, Robert threw up his hands in mock surrender and exclaimed, “Fine, you dragged it out of me. Ms. Jake’s new client is Alex Putin.”

  “Alex Putin?”

  Darla’s curiosity promptly evaporated, replaced by concern. “You mean the Alex Putin? As in the czar-father of local construction? The same crook you used to do odd jobs for?”

  “Hey, Alex isn’t a crook. He’s a good guy,” the youth protested. “He wanted to know how I was doing. He said if I needed, you know, money or anything, he’d be happy to give me a loan.”

  “Most likely at a usurious rate of interest,” was James’s quelling response, earning a nod of agreement from Martha.

  Darla couldn’t help but agree. She was aware that Robert sometimes made a little extra money by doing grunt labor on various construction sites run by Putin, and she’d always worried that the youth might unwittingly find trouble that way. To be fair, however, all she knew about the Russian immigrant’s supposed doings—shady deals, bribery, cutting corners on construction safety—was what was whispered about in the neighborhood. Even so, what was Jake, an ex-cop, thinking, working for someone like that?

  Robert, however, continued to defend the man. “Hey, he’s an independent businessperson, just like you, Ms. Pettistone. And he keeps lots of people working. He’s even helping sponsor that martial arts tournament that Master Tomlinson is putting on next weekend. You know, giving back to the community, and all that.”