A Novel Way to Die Page 3

  Which meant said nasty white stuff would come up only to Jake’s thigh, Darla thought with an inner snort. Her friend was a good six inches taller than Darla’s own five-foot-four-inch height, and in the stacked Doc Marten boots that were part of her personal uniform, Jake easily topped six feet.

  Halfway down the block from the corner deli, they both halted before the lace-curtained windows of one of Crawford Avenue’s many brownstones. This building, like Darla’s elegant, three-story Federal and several other brownstones on the surrounding blocks, had been converted to retail on its ground floor and apartments above.

  The shop in question was a bath-and-body boutique that had become a favorite guilty pleasure of theirs. Aptly named Great Scentsations, the store was designed for indulgence, offering custom perfume, handmade soaps, and organic makeup, among other alluring merchandise.

  “Wanna do a little retail therapy?” Jake suggested, her expression one of longing as she gazed at a genie-bottle-shaped vial of body lotion displayed amid a tiny desert oasis scene.

  Darla gave her head a reluctant shake, even as she moved to the next window.

  “I really need to get back to the bookstore. But Hilda is so talented with her window designs that I always like to take mental notes every time she puts up a new display.”

  “Hilda” was Hilda Aguilar, the impeccably coiffed and dressed owner of the boutique. The petite Cuban woman was in her fifties, and bore a faint resemblance to the late Princess Grace of Monaco. She exuded an air of class and good taste that, to Darla’s mind, one had to be born with, though Hilda constantly asserted that she used no beauty products other than what could be found at Great Scentsations. Which gave her customers hope that they could attain similar class and good taste simply by shopping there.

  “Not that I can ever come up with anything half as clever,” Darla added on a note of admiring regret. “I thought I was doing pretty good hanging my store with black crepe and jack-o’-lanterns. But next to Hilda, I’m a rank amateur. Isn’t that cute how she made that little Halloween graveyard with soaps for tombstones and those net poufs for ghosts?”

  “Yeah, cute,” Jake agreed with a quick look at the phantom scrubbies, though her gaze quickly returned to the genie bottle. Then, with a sigh, she added, “I really shouldn’t be spending anything until I pull in a client or two. But once I cash my first check, a-shopping I will go.”

  “All right, but in the meantime, let’s get you out of temptation’s way.” Grabbing her friend by the arm, Darla dragged her back to their brownstone.

  They arrived at the bookstore a few minutes later. While Jake headed down to her apartment, Darla trotted up half a dozen balustraded concrete steps to her shop’s door.

  She paused as she reached the top to glance over at a second, smaller set of steps that lay to the right of the bookstore’s stairway. At the top of those steps was a modest glass door. This was Darla’s private entrance to a hallway where a long flight of stairs led up to her third-floor apartment. It was a handy arrangement. She didn’t need to cut through the store to go home; instead, an inner door connected that hallway to the shop, which meant she could travel from home to store at any time of day or night without ever leaving her building. She had a feeling that, come winter’s snowy weather, she’d be doubly grateful for this convenience.

  For the moment, though, she was looking for cat-sized exits and entrances. She saw no gaps in the bricks, however, which meant Hamlet must be pulling his Houdini trick around the back of the building. Sparing a few choice words for the little beast, she reached for the doorknob. Gilded letters on the door’s wavery glass above it proclaimed “Pettistone’s Fine Books.” As always, the sight gave Darla a small thrill.

  Once inside, she headed straight for the counter. Sections of the parlor’s original mahogany wainscoting had been cleverly repurposed to build a narrow, U-shaped counter near the front window where the register was located. Darla fondly regarded this area as her control center, her personal literary cockpit. For the moment, however, her store manager had assumed command and was planted there behind the register.

  Dressed in his usual cable-knit vest, handmade Oxford shirt, and sharp-creased wool trousers, James looked more like a model for an upscale gentlemen’s emporium than a clerk in a neighborhood bookstore. A former English professor at one of the area’s more prestigious universities, Professor James T. James was, to put it mildly, terminally stuffy.

  James—You may call me Professor James, or you may address me by my Christian name, James. You may not, however, ever call me by my surname sans any honorific. And trust me, I will know the difference—had taken early retirement from the academic world ten years previously. He had been working full-time at the bookstore ever since, both to supplement his pension and, as he put it, to keep him off the streets. While his area of expertise was nineteenth-century American literature, he also was an expert in rare volumes in general. In that capacity, he brought in a nice revenue stream for the store by catering to collectors—one more reason that Darla tolerated his often supercilious air.

  The other reason was that she actually quite liked the man. Besides, he and Hamlet, while not exactly bosom chums, got along well together. This alone was worth the price of his salary.

  “Ah, the prodigal returns,” was his wry greeting as Darla stepped into the shop and headed in his direction. With a deliberate glance at his watch, he added, “I was beginning to fear that you and Ms. Martelli had been abducted by aliens—or, even worse, by one of those Russian gangs I have been reading about in the newspapers.”

  “One of the perks of being the owner,” Darla cheerfully replied. “I can drag my butt in a few minutes late, and no one can fire me.”

  “That may well be, but such disregard for scheduled break times does set a poor example for the other employees.”

  Since James was, for the moment, her only employee, Darla shrugged off the criticism. Instead, she asked, “Were you able to work out the price with Mr. Sanderson on that signed Hemingway while I was gone?”

  “A thousand here, a thousand there, and we finally came to an agreement,” he replied with a casual wave, going on to name a dollar amount that made her gulp. While she mentally tallied their profit, James added, “As soon as we have confirmation of his bank transfer, I will have the book couriered to him.”

  Darla nodded. Book lover though she was, she still could never see paying five figures for a volume to stick on the shelf, no matter that it was rare or that it had been autographed by a long-deceased popular author. And it took every bit of effort she could muster to put up a similar cash outlay on speculative rare book purchases, even knowing that James had never failed to resell any such purchase for a respectable profit. But in a down economy, Darla felt it her duty to take advantage of those wealthier sorts who weren’t feeling the pinch like the rest of the common folk, and wouldn’t let a thing like pesky double-digit unemployment hold them back from making luxury purchases.

  “Good work,” she said sincerely, adding with a rueful smile, “At least we won’t have to sell the china to pay the electric bill this month. What else did I miss?”

  “Your one-thirty interview arrived a bit early. I took the liberty of sending the young man upstairs to fill out the application and told him to stay put until his appointed time.”

  “You left him upstairs? Alone?” Faint tingles of alarm began racing up her spine. “What about Hamlet?”

  “I saw no sign of him in the lounge, or down here, for that matter. Besides, you assured me before you left that he was safely secured in your apartment.”

  “I did, and he was,” Darla replied, grabbing up the folder that held resumes and her notes on the various candidates. “But you know Hamlet. I’m coming to believe that he has all sorts of secret little cat passages throughout the building that let him sneak around wherever he wants to go.”

  Leaving James to hold down the fort downstairs, Darla rushed up the steps to the second floor, keeping in mind anothe
r of Hamlet’s tricks: flying up the stairs and zipping between some unwitting climber’s feet—usually, Darla’s. Agile as he was, and lucky as Darla apparently was, he’d never yet tripped her; still, she was waiting for the day when his impeccable feline timing was off a second or two. The result would not be pretty.

  But her greater concern at the moment was that Mr. Fur-covered Land Shark might have decided to seek out yet another hapless would-be employee to terrorize. No way could she let this happen. She’d had enough cat mayhem for one day.

  Panting slightly, she reached the top step and discovered to her relief that the lounge area was free of marauding felines. At the round table that usually held a pile of advance reader copies for employee perusal, a young man was bent over a clipboard, scribbling away at an awkward angle. An empty candy wrapper lay on the table in front of him; obviously, filling out forms was hunger-inducing work.

  From what she could see of the youth, huddled as he was over his paperwork, he couldn’t be much older than eighteen or nineteen. Younger than she’d hoped to find, but at that age he’d be more likely to accept the salary she could offer. Besides, it would be useful to have a strong young man to haul boxes around the store. James was nearing retirement age, and she felt guilty every time he wrestled cartons on delivery days. Heck, her own back had developed a twinge or two in recent weeks.

  Crossing mental fingers that the boy was as good as the resume that he’d emailed her, and that Hamlet might find him acceptable, Darla headed in his direction.

  “Hi, I’m Darla Pettistone, store owner,” she said with a bright smile, holding out her hand. With a quick glance at the paperwork in her other hand, she added, “You must be Robert Gilmore.”

  He looked up and unfolded himself from the overstuffed chair, and then grunted what she took to be an affirmation. The handshake he gave her in return was unenthusiastic, at best. Darla, who had taken her share of motivational workshops in the past, reminded herself: Not always a negative trait, particularly in teenagers. Still, her own enthusiasm flagged as she took swift stock of him.

  Up close, Robert looked vaguely familiar. Her fleeting confusion faded, however, when she realized he simply resembled any number of young men his age that she’d seen about the neighborhood. The one difference was that, while he was dressed all in black, his shirt was tucked in and his pants did not sag unduly.

  Neatly groomed. For that, she mentally gave him credit points; this despite the fact that his posture needed work. If he stood up straight, he’d be almost as tall as Jake. Unfortunately, his slouch and his unsmiling visage lent him an air of teen surliness that even the undeniable spark of intelligence in his bright blue eyes couldn’t quite counteract.

  Definite problems in the customer service area, she predicted, picturing him interacting with the portion of her customer base that was Social Security age. Still, he’d made the effort to send a resume and come in for an interview. The least she could do was hold up her end of the deal and grill him over his qualifications.

  “All right, let’s talk about your work experience,” she began, determined to give it the old college try. “It says here you’ve done the fast-food thing summers and weekends, you graduated high school back in June, and up until last week you worked at Bill’s Books and Stuff.”

  But barely had Darla gestured him back to his chair and taken a seat opposite him than she knew why he’d appeared familiar to her.

  “Robert!” she exclaimed, her red brows knitting into a thunderous frown. “You’ve got a girlfriend named Sunny, right?”

  Not waiting for his reply, she shoved back in her chair and stood. “You’ve chopped off that silly lock of hair and gotten rid of your piercings, but I know who you are. You’re that kid who accused me of murder!”

  THREE

  DARLA STARED ACCUSINGLY AT THE YOUNG MAN SLOUCHED in the chair in front of her. No doubt about it, this was the same sullen teenager who, along with his girlfriend, had issued some not-so-veiled threats against her following Valerie Baylor’s death. Then, he’d sported all manner of piercings and chains, while his dyed black hair had been limited to a single luxuriant lock that hung in his face. Now, while still favoring the same hue of shoe-polish black, he’d removed the hardware and cut off the dangling tail of hair while letting the rest grow back in. It had been an effective disguise-in-reverse, she conceded. It might even have worked if he’d managed to lose the ’tude along with the metal bits and the rest.

  She slapped the paperwork onto the table in disgust, the sound making the youth jump.

  ��So why are you really here?” she demanded. Robert stared at Darla in what appeared to be genuine alarm. “Were you planning some weird sort of undercover espionage while you pretended to work? Or were you and Sunny going to start up that whole online protest thing again?”

  “Uh, me and Sunny, we’re not dating anymore. And, I-I wasn’t planning anything,” he managed. “We knew what happened that night wasn’t your fault. We were all just bummed about Valerie dying like that. It was, like, a real trauma.”

  His words held a note of honesty that dialed down Darla’s stereotypical redheaded temper just a notch. To be fair, the original online protest against Pettistone’s Fine Books had never really gotten off the virtual ground . . . still, it was the principle of the thing! And now, the kid had the nerve to show up in her store as a potential employee? If she were smart, she’d show him the door now and be done with it.

  Her intention must have been obvious, for Robert dropped his gaze to his fingernails, which had been bitten to their quicks. “I’m, like, sorry we took it out on you. Honest, I came here about the job. I even have a letter of recommendation from Ms. Plinski.”

  Ms. Plinski? Darla raised her brows in surprise. Robert was the candidate Mary Ann had said she’d known?

  Darla did know that the older woman had a soft spot for customers of the goth and steampunk persuasion. Robert and his girlfriend had fit into the former category and, according to Mary Ann, were among her regulars. But she hadn’t realized that Mary Ann apparently had an acquaintanceship with the youth beyond that of buyer and seller.

  Before she could comment, Robert reached into the backpack at his feet and withdrew a heavy, cream-colored envelope. Gingerly, he slid it across the small table toward her. Darla suppressed a sigh as, with an unwilling sense of obligation, she picked up the letter.

  To Whom It May Concern, the letter began, written on matching cream-colored stationery in the old woman’s spidery yet elegant hand. I have known Robert Gilmore for approximately three years and have found him to be of exemplary character. He has provided seasonal help at my establishment, Bygone Days Antiques, performing such tasks as packing and unpacking furniture, running errands, and tidying the store. He has always been honest and polite in his dealings, and I wholeheartedly recommend him to any employer.

  Darla studied the signature an extra moment, just to make sure it was indeed Mary Ann’s; then, folding the letter back into its envelope, she handed it back to the youth.

  “It seems Ms. Plinski thinks quite highly of you,” she conceded. “But your resume doesn’t say anything about your having ever worked for her.”

  “I helped out the last couple of Christmases, and the time Mr. Plinski broke his leg. Mostly, I did it for free, so I didn’t put it on my resume,” he added, answering her unspoken question.

  His gaze flickered toward Darla again, the sullen expression brightening. “It was pretty easy, hauling things around and making some deliveries. And Mr. Plinski showed me things like, you know, how to tell a fake antique. Him and Ms. Plinski, they’re pretty sick for being so old.”

  Which expression, Darla knew from some of her teen customers, meant the elderly brother and sister were what she would have called “cool.”

  She suppressed a reflexive smile, as her earlier irritation began to fade. Maybe the kid had potential after all. Moreover, she was impressed that he’d actually dealt with the reclusive Mr. Plinski in person. Even tho
ugh he lived and worked next door, Darla had caught only glimpses of the old man and had never actually spoken to him herself. In fact, at one point she had even theorized to Jake that perhaps “Mr.” Plinski was actually Mary Ann dressing up like a male and pretending to be her own brother!

  “Fine, let’s start over. You’ve got stocking and delivery experience. So tell me what you did at Bill’s Books and Stuff,” she urged him, returning her attention to his resume. “Is this a full-fledged bookstore, or do they sell gifts, too?”

  “It’s, um, not exactly a regular bookstore. It’s more like magazines and videos and, well, you know, stuff.”

  “Stuff,” Darla echoed, confused now. “What kind of stuff?”

  “You know, stuff.”

  To Darla’s surprise, the boy’s cheeks reddened, making him look even younger than his eighteen years. His gaze dropping to his chewed fingers again, and he mumbled, “Like, X-rated stuff.”

  “You worked in an adult bookstore?” Darla squeaked, dropping his resume as if it were contaminated with porn-shop cooties by association.

  Robert gave a defiant nod, though he still wouldn’t look her in the eye.

  “It paid good, and the hours were after school if I decided to take some classes. It’s not like I did anything, you know, kinky. I just ran the register and stocked the shelves and helped the customers.”

  “So, why did you quit?”

  “I didn’t exactly quit. I kind of, you know, got fired.”

  This time, he met her gaze squarely. Darla stared back at him in surprise. How in the heck did someone get fired from a place like that? Too much time spent perusing the stock, maybe? But something in his expression kept her from speaking that snarky thought aloud. Instead, in as neutral a tone as she could muster, she asked, “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  “It was a few days ago. This customer came into the store around midnight. You know the type . . . sunglasses at night, wearing gold chains, that kinda thing.”