Double Booked for Death Page 5

  Part of the problem, she knew, was that while James retained the store manager title, Darla reserved for herself the final word on hiring and firing. And since Lizzie had been a loyal employee for a couple of years prior to Darla’s tenure, and seemed to genuinely enjoy dealing with their customers, Darla was loath to let her go strictly to assuage James’s considerable ego. But that didn’t mean that Lizzie’s drama-llama tendencies didn’t get on her nerves on occasion, too.

  “I’m sorry you had a fright, Lizzie,” she said in a mollifying tone, “but that’s to be expected if you use public transportation. What I’m more concerned about is that girl I asked you about. Was she out there?”

  “Girl?” Lizzie opened her eyes wide and shook her head, sending the bob swinging. “Cross my heart, Darla, I don’t know anything about her. Ooh, customers,” she added as the bells on the door jangled, and a young couple walked in. “Gotta go help them out!”

  “I didn’t ask if you—oh, never mind,” Darla muttered to Lizzie’s departing form and marched toward the front window to take a look for herself.

  The street had been empty of all save the usual Saturday traffic when she’d finally dragged herself out of bed that morning after having stayed up until well after midnight finishing Valerie Baylor’s book. Darla allowed herself a rueful smile. The story had sucked her in, pure and simple, and it had been all she could do not to sneak back down to the store and grab copies of the first two in the series so that she could catch up. Later, after the signing, she promised herself as she warily peered out onto the street.

  She heaved a relieved sigh when she saw no sign of the Lone Protester. Of course, it was only quarter after ten on a Saturday morning. The girl was probably still sleeping, like any normal kid her age. Darla would have slept in even later herself, save that by eight a.m. an unsympathetic Hamlet had reached the caterwauling stage as far as demanding breakfast.

  She turned from the window again and shook her head. Just like Lizzie and her bus-stop guy, she’d be peering over her shoulder the rest of the day lest the Lone Protester or the Lord’s Blessing congregation make a surprise appearance outside her door.

  But over the next few hours, things were busy enough in the store that Darla didn’t have much time for over-shoulder peering. Between finalizing arrangements for the Valerie Baylor appearance and a glut of teen customers all trying to snag a copy of Ghost of a Chance early—“Sorry, no sales until the autographing tomorrow”—she and her staff kept busy well past lunch. Even Hamlet stayed relatively civil toward the shoppers, save for a small incident with a teacup poodle traveling in its Paris-Hilton-wannabee owner’s purse.

  The girl—in her midtwenties, and wearing exaggerated eye makeup and a pink dress that, to use one of Jake’s expressions, barely covered her lady parts—made the unfortunate error of setting down said purse next to a stack of books. Unfortunately, Hamlet had chosen the spot behind that stack for his postlunch nap.

  What happened next was pure Hamlet. The teacup pup had sensed the cat’s presence and promptly let loose with a high-pitched bark of challenge. The obnoxious sound caused the feline to open one baleful green eye. He’d not bothered responding, however . . . at least, not until the poodle barked again. This time, Hamlet emitted a hiss that sounded like a cross between a ticked-off lion and a set of air brakes being released. And he’d accompanied that threatening sound with the swipe of a single oversized black paw from around the stack, hitting the purse square on.

  The bag had already been sitting dangerously close to the counter’s edge. The force of Hamlet’s blow sent it skittering so that it now hung halfway off. It took but a single bound from the frightened pup for the inevitable to happen.

  Darla had seen what was coming, though, and was already in full-swoop mode. She reached the counter in time to catch the handbag in midfall, saving the feisty dog from a tumble.

  “Oh. My. God!” the Paris clone exclaimed in outrage, wheeling about to snatch the purse with its yelping occupant from Darla’s grasp. “Your cat nearly killed my puppy!”

  “He did no such thing,” came Darla’s stern rebuke. She pointed to a standup sign on the counter, right next to where the purse had been sitting, and went on, “And if you’d read our policy, you would have known that any pet brought into the store must be held at all times. That same notice is on our front door, too.”

  “Well, I didn’t see it.” The young woman gave her head a careless toss and slipped her purse strap over her shoulder, so that the pup was now tucked under her arm. “I think I’d better leave now, before that beast of yours attacks again. You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue for pain and suffering.”

  “Pain and suffering, my butt,” Darla muttered as the girl stalked her way to the front door. The only one in pain and suffering was the poor dog that was being carted around like an accessory. Why, she had half a mind to—

  “Wait!” Lizzie called, trotting past the girl and beating her to the door. Smile bright, she went on, “With all the excitement, you must have forgotten that lovely blue fountain pen you picked up. I know you’ll enjoy using it. It’s such an elegant writing instrument.”

  Then, when the girl made no response, Lizzie added, “Cash or charge?” and held out an expectant hand.

  The girl hesitated; then, a blush mottling her powdered cheeks, she reached down the neckline of her dress and plucked out a flat, red-velvet-covered case. Thrusting it at Lizzie, she sputtered, “I forgot to grab a shopping bag and had to put it somewhere while I was looking around. But I’ve changed my mind. Here,” she finished, and then pushed past Lizzie and rushed out the door.

  Her smile triumphant now, Lizzie sashayed her way back to the counter while Darla stared at her, openmouthed. “How—how did you know she was shoplifting?” she asked as Lizzie laid the expensive pen upon the counter.

  The other woman shrugged. “She didn’t look at the back cover of a single book, so I knew right off she wasn’t a reader. Then, when I went by the pen display, I saw that one of them was missing. Really, Darla, you need to get a lock for that, no matter what Ms. Pettistone said,” she scolded.

  Darla nodded her agreement. Great-Aunt Dee had been big on the whole touchy-feely concept for her customers, figuring they were more inclined to purchase a high-end item if they didn’t have to track down someone to unlock a case. But given that the pens in question retailed from one hundred dollars on the low end—with the almost-stolen blue one worth more than twice that—Darla had to agree with Lizzie on this one.

  “And the dog was part of it, too,” the other woman went on with a wise nod. “Even if Hamlet hadn’t smacked the purse, she’d put it so close to the edge of the counter that the puppy was bound to make it fall. She was already planning to use it as an excuse to leave, and figured we’d be so upset about the dog that we’d let her go without paying much attention. It’s an old shoplifter’s trick.”

  “Wow, good job,” Darla told her, most sincerely. “The only shoplifters I ever came across when I worked at the chain were ten-year-old boys sticking comics down the backs of their pants. I guess I’ll have to start being a little less trusting.”

  “Yeah, well.” Lizzie shrugged, her smile slipping. “You never know who’s going to steal something from you until they do. And then you can’t always prove it.”

  With those cryptic words, she grabbed up the pen once more and headed off to return it to its rightful spot. Darla didn’t have time to puzzle over her meaning, for the door jangled again, and another gaggle of teen girls entered, determined looks in their overly made-up eyes. She did, however, discuss the afternoon’s events with Jake that night after she’d closed the store and sent her employees home with strict instructions to rest up for tomorrow night.

  “Lizzie’s right, you never know who might be a shoplifter,” Jake agreed as she sipped a diet soda—she told Darla that she never drank the night before a job—rather than her usual glass of red. “That was pretty sharp-eyed of her, catching the woman like that.”


  They were in Jake’s garden apartment, sitting at the 1950s-era chrome kitchen table in her combination living and dining room. That piece of furniture would have looked out of place, except that Jake’s entire apartment was decorated with a distinct mid-twentieth-century vibe that reminded Darla of old television sitcoms. From what Jake had told her, the previous tenant had left behind a mishmash of furniture dating from that era. Rather than hauling it all to the curb, however, she’d embraced the style and tied everything together with finds from various thrift shops. From the starburst wall clock to the mod floor-to-ceiling lamp with its three shades that looked like melted red plastic bowls, the décor had a funky kitschy look that usually made Darla smile.

  This night, however, any smile was forced as she contemplated how the Valerie Baylor autographing might play out. In her fantasies, it would be a triumph of execution, with La Baylor begging to return to her store with every new book published. But in her nightmares, the dual threats that were the Lone Protester and the Lord’s Blessing congregation shut down the event before it even started, reducing Pettistone’s Fine Books to pariah status in the eyes of readers and authors alike.

  “Don’t sweat it, kid,” Jake reassured her after she’d voiced those last concerns aloud. “Even if those church people do manage to make their way to Brooklyn, there are plenty of laws saying how they can and can’t conduct their protests. We’ll handle it for you. Besides, Valerie has probably seen her share of wackaloons claiming that she’s written the second coming of The Satanic Verses. Like they say, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

  Yeah, tell that to the theater owner these particular wackaloons shut down, was Darla’s first reflexive thought. But those defeatist words were crowded out by an image that flashed in her mind of Great-Aunt Dee as she’d last seen her almost twenty years ago: short-cropped hair dyed an impossible shade of red that verged on purple, and wrinkled features so heavily powdered that her ruddy complexion looked almost white. Her blue eyes had still been clear as a summer sky in Texas, however, and they’d snapped with intelligent impatience anytime something—or someone—stood in her way. How else had she managed to snag and outlive three wealthy husbands?

  Darla hesitated a moment as she contemplated WWDD: What Would Dee Do? For sure, the old woman wouldn’t sit around dwelling on a bunch of what-ifs and maybes. She’d forge ahead with her own plans and steamroll right over anyone who tried to throw a monkey wrench into the works. Darla could almost hear the woman’s unmistakable twang echoing in her mind.

  Hell, girl, are you gonna let folks like them tell you how to run this here store of ours?

  Feeling abruptly cheered, Darla shook her head. Not just no, but, hell no!

  “You’re right,” she told Jake with a grin and a toast of her diet soda. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. So let’s hear it for the Lone Protester and the Lord’s Blessing Church.”

  “To wackaloons,” Jake agreed with a clink of her glass. Then she gave Darla a wry smile. “And don’t forget the five hundred teenagers who are going to start lining up outside your store at the crack of dawn. Mix them all together, and something tells me that tomorrow’s going to be a long, long day.”

  FOUR

  “SOMETHING TELLS ME THAT TODAY IS GOING TO BE A long, long day.”

  The curt words came from James as he hung up the phone, which had been ringing almost nonstop all morning. The majority of the calls had been from teenage girls wanting to know a) how long the line was already, and b) would Valerie sign more than two books for her since she was Valerie’s Biggest Fan Ever. The clipped answers James gave to these questions were a) very and b) no.

  “I know it’s a pain, James, but just keep being polite,” Darla told him, feeling more than a bit harried herself.

  It was barely noon, and already yesterday’s positive thoughts were drifting perilously back toward negative territory. Was the payoff for this night’s event going to be worth the agony they all already were feeling? The first fans had already been in line at seven a.m. when Darla’s alarm clock went off. Girlish squeals had reached all the way to the third floor, sending her rushing to the window to see close to twenty black-caped girls of indeterminate age already queued up at the bottom step.

  Fortunately, Valerie’s fans had been the only ones lined up. Darla had resigned herself to finding a busload of Bible-carrying activists milling about, so she’d been pleasantly surprised to find the sidewalk free of both Mrs. Bobby Jennings’s (a.k.a. Marnie’s) fellow congregation members and the presumably unaffiliated but equally unwelcome Lone Protester.

  By ten o’clock, when the barricade guy finally showed up, the line of fans had reached the end of the block. Now, with the official barrier in place to keep the crowd in check, Jake had started handing out the coveted wristbands guaranteeing access to the signing that evening.

  But though the fans may have been physically contained behind the barricades, their exuberance was not. The sound of laughing and shouting teenage girls was audible inside the store, drowning out the New Age soundtrack Darla had playing. Which meant the actual noise level outside must be getting up there in decibels. Adding to the ruckus were the occasional honks from passing vehicles—traffic control wasn’t due for a few more hours—with the inevitable shouted question, “Early for Halloween, aren’t you?” The occasional answering middle finger from one of the black-draped girls brought a few pithy comments in return, but none worse than Darla normally heard on a walk through the neighborhood.

  Thank God, no one is complaining . . . yet, she thought, mentally crossing her fingers that her fellow shop owners would continue to take the situation in stride.

  She’d forewarned her neighbors of the event so they could make their own preparations for the expected crush. Some were fans of Valerie Baylor’s and were thrilled to have her in the proximity; others simply saw the influx of hundreds of people, plus the inevitable press that would be covering the event, as a positive. The few who were not with the program simply gritted their teeth and chose to close early rather than weather the fan-girl storm.

  “Wow, check this out!”

  Lizzie, wearing her official Haunted High black cape over a sensible smocked blouse and a pair of mom jeans, held up her phone to display its small screen. A self-proclaimed middle-aged techno geek, she’d had her phone out most of the morning, checking the various social networks to see if word of Valerie’s appearance was making the rounds. Hers was one of those high-end models that surfed the Internet, served as a GPS, took photos and videos . . . and occasionally even was used to make calls.

  “Darla, you should be proud. As of now, Pettistone’s Fine Books is one of the top trends on Twitter, and we’re showing as a hot topic on Alexa,” she confirmed. “Oh, and we’ve had the same number of hits on our website in just the past two hours as we usually get in a month. And that Facebook page for the store that I set up last week already has almost a thousand fans now.”

  “Well, let’s just hope some of that momentum keeps up after Valerie has come and gone,” Darla muttered as she rang up the latest celebrity diet book for a bleached blond matron dressed two decades too young for her likely true age. “We could use an infusion of new customers. Not that we don’t love all our regular folks,” she clarified with a smile for the woman before her.

  The customer rolled her heavily made-up eyes. “These teenage girls, what’s with them and their ghosts and vampires and wizards? They should try reading something more wholesome like we did when we were kids. Like Nancy Drew.”

  “So long as they’re reading, I’m happy,” Darla replied. That catchphrase had become her mantra and kept her from succumbing to James-like snobbery anytime a customer hauled the latest blockbuster movie novelization to the register.

  The woman sniffed again in disapproval; then, catching a glimpse of Hamlet lounging behind the counter, her demeanor promptly changed.

  “Oh, how cute,” she squealed, drawing a cold green squint from the feline i
n question. “Kitty gets to go to work with Mommy. I bet she’s a hard worker, too. What’s her name?”

  “His name is Hamlet,” Darla replied, managing not to laugh at the gender confusion and the presumed cuddly relationship between the two of them.

  The woman looked suitably impressed. “Oh, is he named after those cats at the Algonquin Hotel?”

  Darla had heard this question before. Her customer was referring to the successive feline mascots that had been a tradition for several decades at the New York City landmark hotel. Most of those cats had been named Hamlet, too—though the most recent female holder of that post had broken tradition by being dubbed Matilda. Darla recalled reading of the famous Algonquin cats as a child, but she had forgotten about that quaint tradition until she moved to New York.

  Now, she shook her head. “Nope, no relation,” she said with a smile. “Our Hamlet came by his name on his own.”

  The story James had told her was that Hamlet, then a scrawny little kitten, had simply shown up in the store one day. Somehow, without anyone noticing him, he’d managed to pull a volume of Shakespeare down from one of the shelves and made himself a little bed. He was fast asleep on it when Great-Aunt Dee found him, his little paws pointing to the word “Hamlet” on the cover. So, Hamlet he became.

  Darla finished checking out the woman, whose Hamlet sighting had seemingly blunted her pique over Valerie Baylor’s black-clad fans. Then she excused herself to sign for a UPS package. Lizzie, meanwhile, tucked her cell back into her pocket and began ringing up the next person. James had abandoned his post at the main phone—I refuse to speak with another crazed sixteen-year-old, he’d said—and was helping the handful of noncrazed customers who were actually shopping.

  Returning from the stockroom after dropping off the package, Darla glanced at her watch again to see that time was doing a pretty fair semblance of freezing. The words “a long, long day” echoed in her mind. Sometimes it was the anticipation and not the actual event that was the killer, she thought with an inner grimace.