Twice Told Tail Read online

  “Aha! Sorry, Hammy,” she told him with a smile as she waggled the book at him. “Your whiskers are crossed on this one. Connie thought she saw a dead body at the bridal shop this afternoon, but it turned out it was just a woman who’d fainted. No one’s going to be reading wills and settling estates around here. So, no sleuthing necessary on your part.”

  By way of answer, Hamlet flopped on the floor, green eyes narrowing into slits. Then he flung one hind leg over his shoulder and began licking the base of his tail—his classic “kiss off” gesture when offended.

  Darla’s smile broadened.

  “Back atcha, Hammy,” she said without rancor as she reshelved the book and started back toward the register. But when the cat remained stubbornly in place, so that she had to step around him, she said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made fun of you. Every great detective blows it one time or another, and today was just your turn. Now, come along. It’s time to close shop and head upstairs for some supper.”

  At that last magic word, the cat paused in midlick and then sprang up, his sulk forgotten. Trotting past her, he tossed a look back at Darla as if to say, Get a move on, human, I’m hungry.

  By the time Darla reached the front counter, Hamlet was already sitting at the side door, attention focused on it as if he could open it by sheer force of his will. James, meanwhile, had gathered his things and was headed to the front door.

  “I shall be here at nine tomorrow to open,” he said, reminding her. “And, depending upon how busy we are tomorrow afternoon, I was hoping to finish my shift two hours early.”

  “You mean, leave at four? Sure, if we’re not slammed, you might as well take a little comp time. You’ve definitely earned it.”

  “Thank you. I have a pressing errand that cannot wait.”

  “What, an early night on the town with Martha?” she asked with a smile.

  “In a sense. I am in need of a new light fixture for my dining nook, and she has agreed to help me pick out a suitable replacement.”

  Darla’s smile became a grin. “Uh-oh, shopping for fixtures together. You know that’s the first step down that slippery slope that leads to cohabiting, don’t you?”

  Her store manager gave her a stern look. “I certainly know no such thing. I simply value Martha’s opinion in matters of home décor. Please do not read anything more into our outing than that.”

  “Sorry, I was just kidding.” She swiftly backpedaled. “I guess I’ve got a touch of Connie’s wedding fever on your behalf. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  She and James made their good-byes, and she let him out the front door, pausing for a quick look near the stoop lest an errant flash of black signal that Hamlet’s doppelganger had returned. Seeing no sign of the stray, she shut and locked the door again. It might be cold out, but the weather hadn’t yet turned bitter. If it found a snug corner, the cat with its built-in fur coat should be able to last quite nicely through the night.

  “All right, we’re headed out,” she told the original model. She flipped off all but a single light over the register and then joined him at the side door. After setting the alarm, she slipped out into her hallway with Hamlet and then locked the store door behind her. A single lamp on a side table against the wall provided just enough light for them to make it safely up two flights to Darla’s apartment above.

  But rather than flying up the stairway as usual—and narrowly avoiding tripping Darla—Hamlet instead made a beeline for the windowed door leading out to her private stoop and the street. Rearing up on his hind legs, the cat stretched to his full length so that he was able to peek beneath the lace curtains to the busy street beyond.

  Curious, Darla followed after him.

  “Did the stray come back?” she whispered as she bent next to him and peered beneath the curtain, too.

  The street below was partially lit from a nearby streetlight and the headlamps of passing traffic; still, with the row of brownstones looming on both sides of the street, the sidewalks were already fully shadowed though it was only just nightfall. Darla squinted in the darkness, looking for an even darker shape slinking low to the ground that might indicate the homeless feline’s presence.

  And then, even though she was half expecting it, she caught her breath as she saw a shadow move over the Plinskis’ stoop next door and halt.

  Definitely not a cat.

  That was what had startled her, she realized an instant later . . . the fact that the shadow wasn’t a tiny black flash, but stretched long and was vaguely human-shaped. As for whoever cast it, he was himself hidden by even darker shadows. Not that it was odd for someone to be walking past, she reminded herself, particularly this early in the evening. But what was unsettling was the fact that whoever stood outside their buildings wasn’t moving.

  Abruptly, Darla wished she’d thought to turn off the hallway light before taking a peek out the window, lest someone notice her and Hamlet peering out. Though surely the unseen person was doing nothing more sinister than a bit of after-hours window shopping. Didn’t she and Mary Ann both keep their store windows deliberately uncurtained in hopes of tempting any late-night lookers to return during business hours? Darla had never considered the policy much of a risk, since the sills were above head height. Besides, she had installed a security system complete with exterior cameras the year before, after an unsettling incident that had made her wonder if the bookstore was haunted.

  But, for some reason, she couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever now stood outside Bygone Days wasn’t simply curious as to the latest window display. Perhaps it was because the shadow was unwavering, as if the shadow-caster was spying on the building . . . maybe waiting for someone to enter or exit.

  Just as she was contemplating throwing open the door to startle whoever it was into running off, a sudden yellow flame flared in the darkness. The spark was promptly extinguished, replaced now by the tiny red glow of a cigarette ember. Then the shadow moved on past the Plinskis’ building and out of sight.

  Darla managed a self-deprecating laugh.

  “So much for strangers lurking,” she told Hamlet as she stood. “Whoever it was just stopped to light a cigarette. Now, let’s go have our supper.”

  This time, it took a bit longer for the magic word to take effect. Darla was halfway up the first flight before the cat finally left his window post and joined her on the stairs.

  “Nosy boy,” she fondly told him as he trotted on ahead. “If you’re still curious, after you eat, you can try out that new windowsill perch I bought you and watch the front of the building all night long.”

  Sure enough, once he’d finished off his kibble in the kitchen, Hamlet headed to the living room. There, he leaped with silent grace onto the carpeted kitty roost attached to the sill of the window overlooking the street. When Darla finally called it a night around 10 p.m., Hamlet was still crouched there, nose inches from the glass.

  She flipped off the living room light, leaving the cat an inky silhouette against the silvery glow of the window.

  “Still keeping an eye out?” she asked him.

  He silently turned, and in the darkness a pair of yellow-green orbs shined back at her, giving him a distinctly sinister look.

  “Whoa!” she said with a chuckle. “I’m fine with a regular old guard cat. You don’t have to go all hell-kitty on me. How about this? If it’s not too cold in the morning, we’ll take a quick walk up the street and see what’s what. Will that satisfy your curiosity?”

  She caught a faint, momentary gleam of sharp white teeth, courtesy of the kitchen light behind her, before he turned back to the window again.

  Darla smiled a little as she left him there and started down the short hallway to her bedroom. Had that been a sneer, or a grin? No matter, she felt oddly safer knowing that Hamlet, her guardian cat, was on the job while she was busy snoo
zing.

  And when she woke suddenly sometime after midnight from a strange dream of wedding dresses and cigarettes, she sighed and settled comfortably back to sleep to the sound of Hamlet purring softly on the foot of her bed.

  FIVE

  “Oh my Gawd, this place is so freakin’ cute,” Connie exclaimed the next morning with a pop of her chewing gum as she and Darla entered Bygone Days. “It’s like Nana’s attic, only better. Oh, look at that dress form wearing a poodle skirt and tight sweater.”

  While Connie went over to check out the fifties outfit, Darla spared a fond look around the place. This was no snobby antiques emporium stuffed with European antiquities that only the wealthiest could afford. Instead, Bygone Days specialized in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Americana, though more recently they had added a substantial inventory of collectibles from the early 1900s up to the Swinging Sixties. The faintly musty scents of old wooden furniture and vintage clothing and linens always made Darla feel at home in the crowded shop.

  The shop was blessedly toasty inside; still, she blew on her hands to warm them. Since she’d simply run from her front stoop next door to the antiques shop, she hadn’t bothered with a coat. Rust-colored corduroys topped by a forest-green-and-white ski sweater and worn with ankle-high brown leather boots warded off the worst of the cold. In fact, the only other casualty besides her hands were her ears, since she had braided her hair into a single auburn plait that hung over one shoulder, exposing her lobes to the elements.

  But she forgot that momentary discomfort as she started browsing about the place, which never looked quite the same any time she stopped in for a visit. Now that it was verging on Thanksgiving, the Plinskis has switched out their previous Halloween display for something more autumnal. Their front display counter now held items ranging from harvest memorabilia to Pilgrim-themed collectibles. A mid-century covered pie dish in the shape of a pumpkin caught her eye.

  Perfect for my upcoming Thanksgiving dinner, she told herself, noting with satisfaction that it even had a pumpkin pie recipe printed right on the plate. Double-checking the price, which was surprisingly reasonable, she did the obligatory inner debate and then picked it up.

  Sold!

  “Mr. Plinski,” Darla called, peeking down the nearest aisle as she remembered that Mary Ann had said she’d be gone until after lunch. Seeing no sign of the shop owner, she tried again. “It’s me, Darla. My friend Connie and I are just going to look around for a bit. If you have any brilliant ideas for something old for a bride to carry at her wedding, let us know.”

  She heard no response, but wasn’t surprised. Despite his protestations to the contrary, the elderly man was half deaf. If he was in the back room unpacking new inventory, chances were he hadn’t heard them come in.

  Still clutching her pie dish, Darla went over to join Connie, who’d doffed her leopard-print coat.

  The woman had done Darla one better in the après-ski look, Darla had to admit. Instead of sensible corduroy and knit, Connie wore tight black ski pants topped by an open-weave, hip-hugging yellow sweater, with a creamy lace camisole plainly visible beneath. Unlike Darla’s practical short boots, Connie’s were spike-heeled, black suede versions into which her ski pants were tucked, giving her that vaguely superhero-costume look.

  The poodle skirt already forgotten, Connie had moved on to vintage millinery. Now she was busy trying on a Jackie Kennedy–style baby blue pillbox hat over her teased black hair.

  “Whaddaya think?” she demanded, preening at her reflection in the miniature cheval mirror on the display counter. “Cute, huh? I could wear it when I change for the reception.”

  “Ooh,” she added before Darla could answer. “I have a great idea! You could buy it, instead, but I could borrow it to wear for the wedding. So we got old, blue, and borrowed . . . you know, one-stop shopping,” she finished with a nasal laugh at her own cleverness.

  “Well, why don’t we look around a bit more,” Darla suggested, trying not to roll her eyes at Connie’s attempt to cheap out with the traditional wedding rhyme. “The pillbox hat is pretty clever, but I did a little checking online this morning. Things like old lace hankies that you can tuck into your bra or sew into the lining of your gown are good for ‘old.’ And some brides take vintage brooches and pin them to the ribbons of their bouquets.”

  Connie shrugged. “I don’t know. That all sounds pretty boring, know what I mean? I want something different.”

  “Okay, then, how about this? You can find a nice bit of antique lace and sew a cute bow onto your garter.”

  “Oh, yeah, the garter,” Connie replied with a sly smile. “Forget the white lace. I bought a sexy one made with black and red lace and silk . . . you know, like a burlesque queen would wear. Fi is gonna love it.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Darla agreed, trying not to wince at the mental image of Connie parading around on her wedding night in nothing but the garter.

  Clutching the pie holder more tightly, she added, “Anyhow, there are lots of things you can choose for something old. It doesn’t even have to be something you wear. Maybe a nice silver cake knife to use for cutting the wedding cake. Or a pretty candleholder for the head table. So why don’t you start down that first aisle, and I’ll start at the far side? If you see anything promising, just yell.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  With seeming reluctance, Connie removed the pillbox hat and returned it to its stand. Then, following Darla’s suggestion, she started down that row again, while Darla went to the far side of the shop to begin her browsing.

  But she found herself doing a little overdue soul-searching instead. She’d been in an emotional funk ever since the Fourth of July block party, when violence had struck the neighborhood. She had almost fallen victim to the same killer herself, and only Hamlet’s timely intervention had saved her. But rather than being grateful that she’d dodged that metaphorical bullet, she had found herself swamped by the occasional wave of hopeless fear that made it hard to get out of bed in the morning.

  Survivor’s guilt, combined with PTSD, both Jake and Reese had diagnosed, urging her to speak to a counselor. When an equally concerned James had chimed in with the same suggestion, she’d finally broken down and visited a psychologist who’d given her a combination of sympathy and tough love, but mostly allowed her to talk. After a few sessions over the summer, she’d pretty well come to terms with what had happened, and the fearful thoughts had soon diminished. But what lingered was a certain emptiness that even her store and her friends couldn’t fill.

  At the end of the day, she wondered, just what was she missing from her life?

  She’d finally asked that question of Jake, who’d had a blunt reply.

  You’ve got the career thing covered. What you need right now is a guy, she’d decreed. Then, as Darla began a sputtering protest, the PI had clarified, I don’t mean for the old “you complete me” BS. I’m talking, you need a decent guy you can go out to dinner with, run off for the weekend with, maybe even do the dirty with. I’m not saying you have to go get married or anything. You just need to have a little grown-up fun for a change.

  And then, when Darla had testily countered that Jake didn’t seem to be following her own advice, her friend had grinned and winked. Hey, kid, let’s just say I’m not a blabbermouth who goes around telling her friends every personal detail.

  After sputtering over it a bit longer, Darla had agreed that Jake had a point. The problem was, the one so-called nice guy she’d found had turned out to be not so nice, after all. And dating Reese hadn’t worked out much better. Although there had been a definite spark between them—okay, maybe it had been a definite glow of a possible spark—after a couple of uncomfortable evenings out, they had come to the mutual decision that they were better friends than romantic partners.

  Even so, she’d been a bit stunned by the unexpected announcement of his and Connie’s engagement. And w
hile the rational part of her brain agreed that Connie was far more suitable a fiancée to Reese than she could ever be, the emotional side had still felt a silly if undeniable twinge of jealousy. But by the time Darla had worked through her other issues, she had finally come to realize that the emotion she was feeling regarding Reese and Connie was nothing more than hurt vanity.

  Darla paused as she spied an old chalkware wedding cake topper inside a glass case. It was uncannily appropriate, with a dark-haired bride and blond groom atop an ivy-wrapped platform. The tiny couple stood beneath a bower of white silk flowers—now slightly tan with age—from which hung a tiny porcelain bell. Of course, given its condition the topper couldn’t go on the cake, but it would be adorable on the same table alongside it. Darla squinted to read the tag. It was circa the nineteen-forties, she saw, which more than qualified for something old, and the price was less than the pillbox hat.

  Putting the cake topper on her mental list to tell Connie about—since she and Connie were apparently the only customers for the moment, she didn’t worry about losing it to another shopper—Darla moved to the next aisle. But the image of the tiny bride and groom stuck with her, and she found herself picturing another cake topper, this one with a chestnut-haired groom and an auburn-haired bride.

  She grimaced at the memory. They’d had to special-order the topper so that the bride’s hair would be the right color. He had insisted on it, just as he’d insisted on new matching towels in the bathroom. And just as he’d insisted on buying a brand-new bedroom suite to replace her well-loved furniture that she’d bought one piece at a time at auctions and consignment stores.

  Too bad you didn’t make sure your mistress matched your wife, she sourly thought. If he had done so, Darla’s coworker in accounting might never have realized that the woman—the blonde—that she had seen her married boss kissing in a darkened nightclub wasn’t his wife, who happened to be Darla.

  And Darla wouldn’t now be mentally rehashing any of these unpleasant memories in the middle of Bygone Days if her slimeball ex-husband hadn’t chosen this morning of all mornings to send her an email out of the blue.