Words With Fiends Page 9

  She gave him a friendly wink at that last, but either the Oz reference went over the teen’s head, or else he simply wasn’t prepared to be cheered up yet. Instead, with a sullen nod, he said, “Sure.”

  Turning, he headed with Roma toward the door, Jake following after. The older woman glanced back at Darla and gave her a nod that said, I’ve got this.

  Darla gave a grateful nod back and mouthed, Thanks. Young as Robert was, he still saw the world in black and white, and in his eyes the sensei’s death was nothing less than a betrayal. Jake would know far better how to handle the teen who obviously was succumbing to the anger the ex-cop had just described.

  It was slow for a Sunday afternoon. Between waiting on the handful of customers—browsers, every one—that wandered in, Darla spent the next hour puttering about the store straightening merchandise and trying to forget the ghastly image of Master Tomlinson sagging half-dead against the dressing room wall. She briefly contemplated giving herself the day off, just as she’d done for Robert, but then decided against it. She knew from past experience that the only way to get past a trauma like this was to talk it out, until the narrative became rote. Even better would be talking it out with someone who would understand what she was going through.

  And so, on impulse, she did something she’d been putting off for almost two weeks. She picked up her phone and dialed Reese.

  Her reluctance to call stemmed from the uncomfortable memory of the so-called date with him that she’d impulsively gone on a couple of weeks earlier. She had been of two minds about accepting his invitation in the first place. On the one hand, there had been a feeling of anticipation at possibly taking their relationship to the next level. On the other, she’d had a vague sense of dread over basically forcing a friendship into a romance. And, unfortunately, her forebodings had proved correct.

  While the food had been outstanding, the evening’s conversation had been stilted, and mostly regarding the virtues of said superb meal . . . but there was a definite spark. The problem was, how best to fan it, assuming she wanted to create an actual blaze.

  Personality-wise, Reese was what Darla had begun to categorize as the typical Brooklyn “guy”. . . blunt, sarcastic, and definitely appreciative of the ladies. Like most of the “guys” she’d met thus far in her new city, beneath the tough image he had the stereotypical big heart. Not her usual type, to be sure, but she was open to variety at this point in her life.

  Not that Reese lacked anything in the looks department. He had what Darla always thought of as corn-fed Midwestern good looks, despite an Italian mother who contributed little to his physical gene pool but saddled him with the Christian name of Fiorello, an appellation his fellow cops used at their peril. Tall and blond, he had a bodybuilder’s physique and a broken nose that had never been reset, which kept him from being dismissed as another pretty boy. And he’d proved himself to be both loyal and resourceful, two major traits she required in any potential love interest. His main flaw, to her mind, was that while street-smart and blessed with a cop’s intuition, he wasn’t a book kind of person. Which was something of an issue, given that she owned a bookstore!

  As to what Reese saw in her, Darla wasn’t certain. She was a year, maybe two, older than he, and her Southern outlook on life was a definite one-eighty from his. She’d been unable to figure out what to do during the meal, and the walk back to her apartment had proved equally uncomfortable. Obviously sensing her ambivalence, Reese had stopped short of any overly familiar gesture such as taking her arm, settling instead on the chummier alternate of hand on shoulder that was less an embrace than a steering gesture. But the truly awkward part had come at her front door, when she’d been faced with the ultimate question.

  Handshake? Kiss? Run for the door and avoid either?

  In the end, he’d given her a peck on the cheek and a “let’s do this again sometime” farewell that had left her relieved and vaguely insulted all at the same time.

  And the truth was that Reese and Hamlet shared a love-hate relationship that was decidedly skewed toward hate. Which didn’t bode well.

  But she was willing to move past all that awkwardness in the wake of the day’s events.

  The detective answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Red,” he greeted her with the nickname she detested, but which she’d finally allowed from him. At least it was better than Cherry Top. “I, uh, was wondering if I’d hear from you . . .”

  “Sorry, I really did mean to call,” she temporized, “but I’ve been kind of busy at the store. And then I’ve been worried about Hamlet. He’s still not the same after everything that happened.”

  Hearing his name, Hamlet lifted his chin from his oversized black paws and stared at her from his lounging spot at the end of the counter. Half an hour earlier, he had wandered his way down to the store to grace her with his company. Fortunately, that had been well after Robert had left with Roma, but the way Hamlet had sniffed about the store told her that he suspected some other animal had set foot in his territory.

  To Reese, she said, “But Hamlet’s not the problem . . . at least, not at the moment. I just need someone to talk to besides Jake. Since today is Sunday, I’ll be closing the store in a couple of hours. Maybe I can meet you somewhere for an early supper?”

  “Hang on.”

  She heard another voice—female?—in the background, and then heard Reese mutter something about residue before he came back on. “Sorry, work’s getting in the way of my afternoon, too. Anyhow, I can do seven. How about the Italian place we went to last time?”

  “Sure. I-I really do need to talk to you.”

  She was dismayed to hear the catch in her voice. Reese must have heard it, as well, for his own tone sharpened.

  “What’s wrong? If it’s an emergency, I’ll see if I can break free in a few.”

  Darn right, it’s an emergency, she wanted to say. Our sensei practically committed suicide in front of me and Robert a couple of hours ago.

  But she didn’t want Reese to feel obligated to come play nursemaid to her during working hours. After all, they technically were just friends. And so, she replied, “No, it’s not like that. I’ll explain when I see you.”

  She rang off, feeling somewhat better knowing that by suppertime she’d be able to dump her concerns on him. That part of it, she didn’t feel guilty about. After all, it had been Reese who had pushed her to seek therapy after that same incident that was responsible for Hamlet’s funk. He had even offered the name of a counselor, and though she’d not yet dialed that number, given today’s events, maybe she’d dig it out. In the meantime, she’d press Hamlet into service as her confidante.

  “Hey, Hammy,” she addressed him. “You weren’t here when Jake stopped in, so you’re not up-to-date on everything that’s happened. You got a minute?”

  While the cat comfortably slumbered, Darla related again the circumstances surrounding finding Master Tomlinson’s all-but-lifeless body. “Robert pretends like he doesn’t care, but that’s just because he’s angry. So we need to help him deal with this. Got any words of advice you want to pass on?”

  By way of answer, the cat gave a small snore and rolled onto his side. He kicked a paperback that had been left on the counter by a previous browser who’d seen the signs asking customers not to reshelf books they’d decided against buying, but to instead bring them to the front. It was a new policy she’d recently instituted after determining that she and her staff spent far too many unproductive hours returning errant books to their proper places after a busy day.

  Not that she didn’t suspect that many of those wayward volumes had been misshelved deliberately. How else to explain the Field Guide to Body Art she’d found squirreled away in the kids’ section, or the copy of 365 Decadent Desserts tucked in among the diet books?

  The book hit the ground with a resounding splat.

  “Don’t bother getting up
, I’ll handle this,” Darla muttered in Hamlet’s direction. She went around the counter to retrieve the fallen volume, the latest release in a popular fantasy series. She scanned the beefy anime-inspired warrior on its cover and then reflexively read the title aloud: “Nothing is What It Seems.”

  Darla frowned in Hamlet’s direction. In the time since Darla had assumed ownership of the bookstore, she’d had more than a couple of odd situations occur, all of which Hamlet had seemingly had some feline insight into. Lacking opposable thumbs—the sole reason, Darla often joked to Jake, that Hamlet was not already dictator of some small country—the wily cat found other ways to communicate. Often it was by means of pulling various book titles from the store’s shelves; “book snagging,” as Darla liked to call it.

  To anyone else not privy to the circumstances, this sort of behavior from a bored cat might be nothing more than mischief. Darla was certain by now, however, that Hamlet’s choices in literature were anything but random. In retrospect, the various snagged titles had had a definite connection to circumstances, and had even yielded valuable clues.

  So maybe Hamlet was at it again? “Nothing is What It Seems,” Darla repeated as she again studied the garish cover. Given that the character depicted in the artwork was obviously of Asian influence, Hamlet might well be trying to give her a heads up about Master Tomlinson’s suicide.

  Did he know something she didn’t about Master Tomlinson’s death?

  Her frown deepening, she demanded, “All right, Hamlet, spill. Are you trying to tell me that his suicide wasn’t suicide? Should I be talking to Reese about this?”

  Hamlet did not deign to answer but simply let loose another snore before settling into a more comfortable position.

  But how did one inadvertently hang oneself?

  The first explanation that came to mind promptly made her wish she hadn’t decided to explore that train of thought. Hadn’t there been a cult actor known for his martial arts roles who had accidentally strangled himself while engaging in some kinky solitary play? Darla shuddered, hoping Master Tomlinson had not gone down that same path—yet on the other hand, a fatal accident of any sort was marginally less devastating than a death deliberately planned.

  Wishful thinking, kid. Darla could practically hear Jake’s voice in her ear, swiftly dispelling the unlikely scenario she’d been trying to conjure. Even if the sensei had been standing on the bench reinstalling a hook, how could a knotted belt have managed to accidentally wrap around both that hardware and his neck?

  “Try again, Hammy. Reese will laugh in my face if I bring this up,” she muttered as she carried the book back to its proper spot on the shelves. She should accept what happened and move on. After all, sometimes things actually were just what they appeared to be.

  Splat!

  Darla jumped at the unexpected sound. Could that have been another fallen book, courtesy of Hamlet? She glanced back and spied the feline still sprawled on the counter where she’d left him. Surely he couldn’t have jumped down, snagged a book, and leaped back onto the counter to feign sleep so quickly.

  Or could he?

  Shaking her head, Darla marched back in the direction of the register, eyes peeled for a book lying on the floor where it shouldn’t be. Nothing. After a few moments’ searching, however, she found a book in the section of the store that used to be the brownstone’s back parlor. Now, the refurbished room housed the old standbys of her stock . . . history, travel, crafts, biographies, politics. Warily, she picked up the heavy volume from the floor and read the title.

  “Trust Me.”

  The book itself was a recent autobiography of a well-known political commentator. Whether or not the author could indeed be believed, Darla had no idea. But if Hamlet had chosen this title to bolster his previous unspoken commentary, then she likely would do well to keep her eyes and ears open. Because maybe the clever cat was right.

  Maybe nothing really was what it seemed.

  SEVEN

  “OH, MY. I’M REALLY NOT SURE ABOUT THIS, DARLA.”

  Mary Ann Plinski stood behind the counter of her antiques shop with her wrinkled hands clasping and unclasping before her, her pursed lips reflecting her uncertainty. “As I told you before, I’ve never cared much for dogs.”

  Which was just as well, Darla briefly reflected, because a dog let loose in the woman’s shop would have spelled disaster for the merchandise. Bygone Days Antiques specialized in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Americana, though Darla had noticed a steady trend in the past few months to collectibles dating from the early twentieth century, too.

  Budget, Mary Ann had confided to her, explaining that the market for cheaper collectibles was growing, while the demand for true antiques was slipping.

  In fact, according to Mary Ann, her brother had recently sent a good number of their more pricey pieces to a local auction to clear room for the more modern merchandise. Even so, the faintly musty scents of old wooden furniture and vintage clothing and linens made Darla feel at home in the crowded shop, which never looked the same from visit to visit.

  Now, she nodded in understanding of the old woman’s protest.

  “I know you don’t normally allow pets in the apartment, but Roma is very friendly with strangers, and she has perfect manners. And this is an exceptional situation.”

  “Yes, so it seems,” Mary Ann said with a sigh.

  Darla nodded again. She’d stopped by the Plinskis’ shop the night before to explain to Mary Ann what had happened at the dojo, confiding as well how deeply Robert had been affected by the tragedy. Mary Ann had agreed that, under the circumstances, the dog could stay the night. But she had politely dug in her heels at the prospect of adding Roma to the lease.

  “It’s not just me, you know,” the old woman had explained. “Brother is frail, and he’s sensitive to unpleasant noises like barking and howling.”

  Brother, of course, being Mary Ann’s older sibling who owned the building and store with her. Darla still had yet to meet the elderly gentleman in person, although she’d seen him in passing—and not long ago, had witnessed him being loaded into an ambulance following a heart attack scare. She understood why Mary Ann was so protective of her brother but she also knew how much Roma meant to Robert, particularly at this moment.

  Now, she gave Mary Ann an encouraging smile and gestured to Robert, who’d been huddling with the tiny dog near the shop’s front door. “Robert, why don’t you introduce Roma to Ms. Plinski?”

  Darla had stopped in to see Robert first thing that morning, to check on his welfare. She’d had a text from Jake the previous night, saying that the teen was coping as well as could be expected but needed a little alone time to process everything that had happened. Darla was sure that having the little hound at his side would no doubt make things easier for him.

  Whether it had been the heart-to-heart with Jake or simply the resiliency of youth, Robert had seemed pretty much back to normal that morning . . . that was, normal for a kid who favored all black in his wardrobe and wore rings and studs in various appendages. Now, Robert gave Mary Ann a tentative smile and set Roma on the ground at his feet, careful to keep hold of the purple lead. Roma, looking uncharacteristically subdued, quivered slightly where she stood, her ears tightly folded back against her narrow head and her long whip of a tail tucked between her legs. Mary Ann walked around the counter, halting a prudent distance away and giving the little dog a doubtful look.

  “Well, she is very pretty, I will admit, and much tinier than I’d expected. Is she a miniature greyhound?”

  “No, ma’am, she’s an Italian greyhound. That’s a whole different breed. But Iggies—that’s what people who own them call them—are sighthounds just like regular greyhounds. That means they, you know, hunt by sight instead of scent,” he explained with an expert air.

  Darla suppressed a smile. No doubt Robert had spent the prior evening on his smart phon
e searching the Internet for information about the breed.

  As Mary Ann leaned forward for a closer look, the teen went on, “Iggies have been around for almost two thousand years, but they were especially popular during the Renaissance in Italy. That’s why, you know, they’re called Italian greyhounds. If you look at old paintings, you’ll see them hunting or lying around on pillows. And they always wore those big fancy collars with lots of jewels and stuff.”

  “That’s very interesting, Robert,” the old woman agreed. “Why, the Borgias or Machiavelli or even Leonardo da Vinci might have owned one of these dogs.”

  “Right. And they’re smart, too. Watch this.”

  Unsnapping Roma’s collar, Robert took a few steps away from her and then gave a swift hand signal. “Roma, sit.”

  The dog promptly planted her thin haunches on the floor. With another series of signals that Darla recalled seeing Master Tomlinson use with her, Robert said, “Roma, shake. Roma, lie down. Roma, roll over.”

  The small hound quickly performed each trick in sequence and then returned to her seated position. Her pink tongue lolled from her mouth in a wide doggie grin, matching Robert’s proud smile. “All right, this is, like, the best trick of all. Roma, up,” he commanded and clapped his hands.

  Just as she’d done with Master Tomlinson, the little dog gave a gazelle-like leap and landed in Robert’s open arms.

  Now, it was Mary Ann who was clapping. “My, how clever she is,” the old woman exclaimed. Taking a tentative step forward, she added, “Do you think I might pet her?”

  “Sure,” Robert agreed, offering up the dog now snuggly settled in his arms.

  Mary Ann reached a wrinkled hand toward Roma’s narrow brow and gave her a gentle stroke. “Why, she feels just like velvet,” she marveled, smiling when Roma gave her fingers a quick lick of approval.