Words With Fiends Page 3

  “Okay, you win. I’ll try not to judge,” Darla said with some reluctance, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “You’re old enough to choose your own friends, and Jake’s clients aren’t any of my business.”

  Then, her earlier curiosity returning, she added, “You know, I’ve heard all sorts of rumors about the man, but I’ve never seen him. I’ve always wondered what a real live Russian gangster looks like.”

  “He’s not a gangster,” Robert protested. “But he was wrapping things up with Ms. Jake when I left, so maybe you can see him leaving if you look out the window.”

  Darla needed no further encouragement.

  She rushed to the shop’s front door to peer past the gilded lettering that, seen from the outside, read in neat script, Pettistone’s Fine Books. Her breath on the cold glass momentarily fogged the view of the street, however, so that she had to wipe the window clear again with her sweater sleeve. Now, she had a glimpse of an expensive black wool overcoat as the man wrapped inside it—presumably Alex Putin—stepped into the passenger seat of an oversized midnight blue Mercedes parked illegally at the curb.

  As Darla watched in disappointment, he pulled the door closed after him, the vehicle’s tinted windows effectively blocking any view of the occupant. Feathery exhaust from the vehicle (a sleeker and far newer version of the ten-year-old Mercedes that Darla’s great-aunt had left her) spread in broad white plumes before the car’s driver smoothly pulled into traffic.

  “Darn it all, I missed him.” Curiosity killed the cat, she reminded herself with a glance at Hamlet. As if reading her mind, the feline opened one eye again and flicked an ear in what she fancied was a cautionary gesture. She and Hamlet had both had their share of bad guys lately, so it was probably just as well that she remained in the dark about the man.

  For his part, James merely snorted.

  “I believe the appropriate rejoinder is, better luck next time. Now, excuse us, but Ms. Washington and I are overdue to dinner.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll, like, get to work,” Robert added, giving Hamlet another pat before heading upstairs to the stockroom.

  Darla, meanwhile, sent James an apologetic look. “Sorry for the delay. But remember, you can stay out late tonight since you’ll be coming in late tomorrow. Robert and I will be cutting out early so we can go to the dojo for our Friday night lesson.”

  “Ah, yes, your weekly excuse to physically pummel similarly inclined adults without fear of legal ramification,” was his wry reply, though Darla knew he approved of her self-defense training, so she didn’t take offense. He added, “Fear not, I should be quite refreshed by the time I arrive at noon tomorrow, and more than able to handle working until closing time on my own.”

  “Don’t worry, Darla, I’ll try not to wear him out tonight,” Martha interjected, though the bawdy wink that punctuated that remark was meant strictly for James.

  What Darla could only describe as a dumbfounded look flashed across his face before the former professor sternly countered, “I assure you, I am well able to withstand the rigors of dinner and conversation. Now, shall we be on our way?”

  Darla managed to keep a straight face until the store door had closed behind the pair with a jangle of bells. Then she burst into giggles loud enough to rouse Hamlet from the nap he’d just resumed.

  “Sorry, Hammy,” she told him, doing her best to stifle her humor. “I’m just not used to thinking of anyone wearing out”—she gave the last two words finger quotes—“James. You know what I mean?”

  The feline obviously did, for he shot her a cold green look that bore an uncanny resemblance to her manager’s stern glare. She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, sorry. No more jokes at James’s expense. Satisfied?”

  Apparently, he was. He settled back to sleep, reminding Darla that she still needed to make that phone call to the veterinarian. She’d do that first, during business hours. And then, as soon as she’d closed the store for the night, she was going to pay a casual visit to Jake and—the heck with confidentiality—find out what was up with Jake’s latest client.

  • • •

  “LOOK WHAT I FOUND, A PINT OF VANILLA ICE CREAM,” DARLA DECLARED a couple of hours later as she slipped through Jake’s front door. She shrugged out of the knee-length, bright yellow parka that she’d tossed on—Texas born and bred that she was, she wasn’t enjoying the cold New York weather one bit, even if it was but a thirty-second walk to Jake’s place—and proffered the bag that held said frozen confection. “Know anyone with a spare pumpkin pie?”

  Jake straightened in her oversized leather chair, the same sort of office chair that some fictional Golden-era detective might have used. Closing her laptop, she shoved back from the 1950s chrome dinette table that served as her work desk and gestured Darla inside the apartment.

  “Sorry, I’ve been putting in a little OT,” she said, indicating the pile of documents and photos that surrounded her computer. “I guess it’s time to call it a day.”

  Rising from the chair, she yawned and shrugged the kinks out of her shoulders. Today, the ex-cop wore a robin’s-egg blue turtleneck over black jeans, while her mop of curly black hair was pulled back into a fashionably messy bun through which she’d shoved a No. 2 yellow pencil. Darla had noticed too late that her own green sweater, combined with her yellow coat, made her look like something out of a John Deere catalog—but on the bright side, she’d likely be spared a comment from Jake in that vein, since she suspected that her New Jersey-born friend had never seen one of the iconic green-and-yellow-painted tractors.

  Not that Jake’s look wasn’t worthy of a little tweak, Darla thought with an inner grin. Between the bun and the reading glasses, and surrounded as she was by paperwork, Jake resembled nothing so much as a middle-aged schoolteacher. The resemblance, however, was superficial. Darla knew that should the PI whip off the glasses, let down the bun, and toss on her familiar black leather duster, Jake was capable of a kick-butt Diana-Prince-to-Wonder-Woman transformation.

  Eyeing Darla’s bag with interest, Jake added with a tired smile, “Pumpkin pie, eh? You’re either psychic, or you’ve been talking to Robert.”

  “The latter. Feel like indulging?”

  “I’m considering it. I haven’t eaten dinner yet. You?”

  Darla shook her head and reached into the sack, pulling out a trifolded piece of paper. “Nope, but I’ve got a coupon for that new tapas place up the street. How about I order us in a few appetizers, and then we dig into the pie and ice cream for our entrée?”

  “Sounds like a plan. You call, and I’ll put the pie in the oven to warm up.”

  “Sure,” Darla agreed as she pulled her phone from her pocket. “And then—”

  Her reply was interrupted by a series of electronic tones that sounded like a small xylophone. Jake, who had started toward the kitchen, paused and looked back at her. “Cute. New ring tone?”

  “No, just means it’s my turn to play. Hang on.”

  Squinting at the screen of her smart phone, Darla thought a moment and then swiped a few letters across the screen. Satisfied, and with a little mental fist pump—fifty-one points!—she hit “yes.” Another xylophone sound played, and then she frowned. “Crud, now I’ve got all vowels, except for a stupid L.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Jake said with a wry grin. “You’re playing that word game, the one like Scrabble that got that Baldwin actor thrown off an airplane.”

  “No—maybe—okay, so I am. But don’t worry, I’m not hooked. I can quit anytime.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure that’s what he said, too.” Jake’s grin broadened. “But I have to say, I don’t get it. Making words sounds like a pretty boring way to kill time.”

  Darla shook her head.

  “If you’re just playing one game, then maybe, but not the way most people play. You can have multiple games going simultaneously, so it’s always your turn somewh
ere. And you can accept random invitations from people you don’t know, which can be interesting, because you can chat at the same time you’re playing.” She paused and smiled. “I might even be playing with Mr. Baldwin, himself, and not know it, since you can use a fake name. But the best part is that since it’s all one-on-one, if you have a bad round with one person, you can still be kicking butt with someone else.”

  “I don’t know, it sounds like you’re hooked to me,” Jake replied. Then, assuming a “Mother Confessor” attitude with folded hands and pious tone, she went on, “So, my child, just how many different friends are you playing with right now?”

  “Eleven,” Darla mumbled, realizing she’d momentarily gone into zealot mode over defending the game, and now feeling like she’d just stood up at a twelve-step meeting to confess. Then, rallying, she added, “But that’s nothing. Heck, Martha told me she usually has twenty games going at a time. Besides, it’s educational, unlike that little jewel game that some people play,” she finished with a triumphant glance at her friend.

  Jake dropped the abbess routine and shot her a mock-offended look.

  “I’ll have you know that my little jewel game promotes hand-eye coordination, which is important for someone of my advanced age. And it also helps distract me from smoking, so no apologies here. Now, why don’t you see if you can tear yourself away from your game long enough to order us some food.”

  Half an hour later, the laptop and paperwork had been shoved aside in favor of several small side dishes ranging from calamari to chorizo, all neatly arranged in their to-go containers atop the chrome table. Darla had claimed one of the two small tweed wing chairs that Jake reserved for client seating. In just a few minutes, the pair made significant headway into their impromptu meal, complemented by two frosty mugs of light ale Jake had scavenged from her usually empty refrigerator.

  “Ice cream is one thing, but I’m not much on cold beer in the winter,” Darla said between sips. “But I have to say I can’t think of anything better to wash this all down with.”

  Then, figuring that this was as good a time as any to pump her friend for info, Darla licked a bit of pepper sauce from her thumb and casually added, “So, I hear that Alex Putin is your latest client.”

  “That new employee of yours sure has a big yap on him,” Jake declared through a bite of paella, though she tempered the criticism with a smile. Darla knew Jake had a soft spot for the goth teen. “Yes, Mr. Putin gave me a retainer. And, no, I can’t tell you about the case.”

  “Are you sure you can’t be bribed?” Darla snatched up the last calamari ring and waved it enticingly before her friend.

  Jake shook her head. “You know the rules, kid. Confidentiality is the cornerstone of my business.”

  “Nice saying. Sounds like something you should stick on your business card.”

  “Actually, it’s written on the banner on my website,” the older woman replied, her expression pious.

  Darla rolled her eyes and popped the would-be bribe into her own mouth. Not that she didn’t agree with Jake in principle; it was just frustrating not to be able to tap into that source of gossip. Then she sobered.

  “Jake, I understand the whole discretion thing, but I can’t help but be worried, all the same. I know it’s none of my business, but do you think someone like you—I mean, an ex-police officer—should be associating with a crook like Alex Putin?”

  “You’re right, kid . . . it’s none of your business,” Jake shot back, her tone sharp enough that Darla blinked.

  Then, apparently realizing that her reaction had been over the top, the PI sat back in her leather chair and sighed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I was second-guessing the situation, myself, the whole time I was talking to him. Believe me, I don’t want to become one of those cliché private eyes who takes on anyone as a client so long as they can write a check that doesn’t bounce. But business has been a little slow the past few weeks, and I’ve got bills to pay,” she said with a meaningful gesture around the apartment.

  Darla nodded, glad to brush aside her own momentarily bruised feelings to focus on concern for her friend. “Don’t worry, I understand. And if you ever need an extension on the rent, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thanks, kid, but I’ll scrape by. Bottom line, though, I’m not about to turn down any halfway decent clients.”

  She paused and held up a warning hand. “And before you start lecturing again, remember what Reese told you the last time the guy’s name came up.”

  Reese was Detective Fiorello Reese, a former colleague of Jake whose acquaintance Darla had first made when he’d worked security at an afterhours autographing event at her store the previous year. He remained Jake’s good friend, though his relationship with Darla was one she was still trying to figure out. It didn’t help that Jake subtly continued trying to throw the two of them together, no matter that they weren’t exactly a Match.com made in heaven . . . at least, not in Darla’s opinion.

  “Calling Alex a crook is going too far,” Jake went on. “As far as the police are concerned, he’s a legitimate businessman. His name may have been mentioned a time or two regarding some questionable deals, but he’s never been arrested for anything, let alone been convicted. Bottom line, I don’t have any problem letting him hire me.”

  “Alex?” Darla raised a brow in her best James imitation. “A bit informal, aren’t we?”

  “Don’t push it, kid.”

  “Okay, okay, but at least tell me why he needs a private detective. Is his wife cheating on him? Or maybe someone’s blackmailing him, and he’s afraid to go to the police? Or—”

  “Enough. You can guess all you like, but I’m not telling you squat. So behave yourself if you want some of Mary Ann’s pie. Speaking of which,” she added as a small ding sounded from the kitchen, “I think it’s ready!”

  Leaving behind the subject of Jake’s new client, they spent another companionable hour eating Mary Ann’s tasty creation and speculating instead on how James and Martha’s date-that-wasn’t might have turned out.

  “She’s a little young for him—well, a lot young for him—but I’ve quit worrying about the whole older man–younger woman thing,” Darla magnanimously declared. “If it works, it works, and the age difference shouldn’t matter. And I think she’ll be good for him. I hate to think of him going home to an empty apartment every night.”

  “Believe me, his apartment is empty only if he wants it that way,” Jake assured her.

  When Darla gave her a questioning look, she explained, “Besides his work at the bookstore, James is involved in all sorts of organizations. Last I heard, he was part of some sort of wine experts’ forum, a ‘friends of the orchid’ society kind of thing, and I think he sponsors a local animal rescue group. Oh, and he’s still a board member on that city arts council. If he wanted female company, he’d have found it. I even went out with him once.”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” Darla admitted. “Another one of those non-dates, right? Though I have to say, it would have been fun if you two had gotten together.”

  “Fun? It would have been a disaster,” Jake said as she cut herself another slice of pie and dolloped on a scoop of melting ice cream. “We’re fine as friends, but we have zero in common except for liking Thai food. Martha’s more his type with all the reading she does, and that classy accent of hers. That’s what he goes for, know what I mean?”

  “Actually, I don’t.” Darla picked a crumb off her now otherwise empty pie plate. “I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t really know all that much about James. Except for the board member thing, I didn’t know about any of those other extracurricular activities. That’s pretty bad, isn’t it? I mean, he’s worked for me for almost a year. I should know those things.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, kid. You don’t learn everything about a person in the first five minutes y
ou meet them. You and I’ve been hanging out together ever since you moved in, and there’s lots I don’t know about you yet.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, what made you finally dump your—what do you always call him?—slimeball ex-husband?”

  As Darla reflexively curled her lip at the thought—no way was she telling Jake that particular bit of unpleasantness!—her friend gave a satisfied nod. “See, you proved my point. You’re no different from anyone else. Not to sound like Forrest Gump, but people are like onions. They’ve got all sorts of layers to them.”

  “Yeah, and when you start peeling those layers away, you’d better get ready for some tears,” Darla finished for her. “All right, point made. And now I don’t feel so bad about not knowing all of James’s secrets.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes you don’t want to know those things,” Jake said. “No, I’m not talking about James, in particular,” she added when Darla gave her a surprised look. “But if you want to toss around a few more clichés, what was it that Oscar Wilde said about the pure and simple truth rarely being pure and never being simple? You pry around too much into someone’s past looking for all the facts, and you’re almost guaranteed to dig up something unpleasant. Which works fine if you’re a cop, but pretty well stinks if you’re not.”

  “No arguments here,” Darla assured her, recalling some of the unpleasant secrets she’d been privy to of late. Then, reaching for the ice cream scoop and waggling it, she added, “This is the only kind of digging I intend to do from here on out.”

  THREE

  “I TALKED TO DR. BIRMINGHAM YESTERDAY,” DARLA TOLD James the next afternoon when he arrived for his shift. “She recommended a guy to do that whole cat whisperer thing with Hamlet. Apparently, he’s the real deal. Of course, he costs a fortune, but he gives a decent discount to her patients.”

  She glanced again at the note she’d scribbled earlier. “I lucked out in that he has a free slot tomorrow morning. He’s supposed to be here about thirty minutes before the store opens for a preliminary consultation.”