TEN
DESPITE THE RESTLESS START TO HER NIGHT, DARLA DID not wake until almost nine o’clock Monday morning, well past her usual rising time, even for her day off.
Between her pounding headache and queasy stomach, she felt hungover, despite not touching a single drop of alcohol the night before.
Bleary-eyed, she stumbled to the kitchen, where Hamlet sat beside his empty food bowl.
At her approach, he turned a baleful green gaze upon her, their détente apparently forgotten in the wake of his empty stomach.
“Hold your horses,” she muttered, knowing she’d be useless until she had at least one cup of coffee in her.
She made swift work of filling her small coffeemaker and punched the “On” button with the fervor of an acolyte awaiting divine intercession.
That begun—the coffee-making process, not the blessing—she dragged out the canister of dry cat food from the cabinet.
Hamlet continued his disdainful regard of her until she’d poured the kibble and refilled his crystal bowl with water.
Then, with what had to be a deliberate curl of his lip, he turned his back on her and commenced crunching away at his breakfast.
“And good morning to you, too,” she answered the snub, taking one of Great-Aunt Dee’s antique chintz-patterned teacups from the cabinet.
The smell of brewing coffee revived her somewhat.
It also brought back into sharp focus memories of the previous night’s tragedy, and concern about what this day would bring.
She’d seen at least three news trucks filming the scene in the hours after the accident, but maybe dead authors didn’t rate national coverage.
With any luck, the story had made last night’s eleven o’clock news and was already played out.
She waited until she had a steaming cup of coffee liberally laced with cream in hand, however, before she dared turn on one of the cable news channels to test that theory.
Would Valerie’s death still be an item of interest?
It was.
Remote in hand, Darla winced as she clicked back and forth among the major news channels.
Every minute or so, the ubiquitous headline tickers scrolled an abbreviated account of the fatality across the bottom of the screen, the story sandwiched between the most recent political scandal and a foreign sports triumph.
She breathed a bit easier when she saw that the crawl did not mention her store by name.
She groaned, however, and paused in her channel surfing when she recognized on one of the stations the same blonde who’d interviewed her the afternoon before.
And she almost dropped her chintz cup into her lap when the camera swung away from the reporter, and the familiar gilded words,
Pettistone’s Fine Books
, abruptly filled the television screen, along with the banner proclaiming, “Live Report.”
“Holy crap, Hamlet, they’re right outside,” she shrieked as she rushed to the window and twitched aside the curtain.
Sure enough, the same news van from yesterday was parked on the street right below her apartment, with the same reporter and female camera operator posed on the step outside Darla’s store.
Apparently, the local affiliate station had been tapped to give its take on the dramatic death.
Standing at the window, Darla divided her disbelieving gaze between the live drama below and the broadcast going on there in her living room.
On-screen, the reporter was recounting Valerie’s final minutes, her blond bob quivering with sincerity as she shook her head over the tragedy.
While she continued to speak in voice-over, scenes from the previous night played: a discreet view of a covered figure lying in the street; a close-up of the church van’s front end; a long shot of the crowd of weeping, black-cape-clad teens .
.
.
and all illuminated by the strobing lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles.
The scene looked like something out of an end-time movie.
The voice-over continued, “The driver of the vehicle responsible for this fatal accident has been identified as thirty-two-year-old Marnie Jennings of Dallas, Texas.”
A grainy shot of Marnie, her mouth wide in midshout, flashed on-screen.
“Ms.
Jennings and her fellow members of the Lord’s Blessing Church out of Dallas were on their way to protest the Valerie Baylor autographing when the tragedy occurred,” the reporter continued.
Abruptly, the television screen was filled with footage of a chanting group of picketers all dressed in white choir robes.
“This same church has previously been responsible for protests against what they consider, quote, Satan-based events, unquote, in the Dallas area, but it now appears they are attempting to extend their influence nationwide.
For the moment, however, no charges have been filed against Ms.
Jennings, and unconfirmed eyewitness accounts suggest that an unrelated sidewalk scuffle might have precipitated the accident.”
The newscast switched back to the live feed, and the camera panned right, sliding past the iron railing of Jake’s basement apartment and in the direction of Mary Ann’s brother’s antique shop.
Just beyond that point, at the approximate spot where Valerie and the van had had their fatal encounter, Darla could see that a shrine of sorts had been erected.
She gasped.
Heedless of the news crew below, she shoved up her window and craned her neck for a better look.
From above, the shrine was even more impressive than it appeared on the small screen.
A veritable florist shop’s worth of flowers—a few carnations and daisies, but mostly red roses—interspersed with candles and stuffed animals, lay against the building and covered a large section of sidewalk.
The display rivaled the spontaneous tributes to Lennon and Jackson and other pop culture icons that Darla recalled seeing on TV.
Quickly, lest the reporter catch sight of her and turn the camera in her direction, she slammed her window shut again.
She returned her attention to the television in time to see two more teens walk into the shot and lay another fistful of red roses atop the mound of blossoms.
“Last night, five hundred adoring fans—mostly teenage girls—were lined up on this sidewalk waiting for the chance to see Ms.
Baylor in person,” came the reporter’s words while the camera zoomed in on a single red rose tied with a black ribbon.
“Now, those same fans have been visiting the site of her untimely death over the last few hours to leave flowers, candles, and notes of condolence.”
The camera pulled back, and the reporter maneuvered herself into the shot once again.
“It’s obvious that this tragedy has struck a large segment of the reading public to the heart,” she went on.
“Valerie Baylor’s previous
Haunted High
books have sold more than ten million copies to date.
For now, her fans are contenting themselves with buying up Valerie’s final novel while the authorities continue to investigate.”
The reporter allowed herself a final dramatic pause and stared straight into the camera.
“Reporting live from the scene of Valerie Baylor’s untimely death, this is Juanita Hillburn, Channel Twelve News.
Back to you, David.”
Barely had Darla let the curtain drop than her phone began to ring.
Her first frantic thought was that the media had tracked her down and that someone wanted a statement from her.
A glance at the caller ID, however, showed it was Jake on the other end.
“Any chance you were watching television just now, or looking out the window?”
the other woman asked before Darla could manage a hello.
“Both.”
Darla muted the television and sank onto the couch, clutching the phone in one hand and holding her head with the other.
“My God, they even showed the front door of the store.
And that mountain of flowers is unbelievable.”
“Yeah, I heard people tromping past my place all night long.”
Jake’s raspy voice held more than a note of weariness.
“I’m waiting for the swarm of honeybees next.”
“It’s not the flowers that worry me, it’s the media,” Darla replied.
Summoning a hopeful tone, she added, “Do you think this was it as far as news reports?”
“Not a chance, kid.
You just missed the folks from the Spanish-language station.
The other major networks have already come and gone, and the smaller cable channels are circling the block now like vultures.
Famous author plus grisly death equals news.
If I were you, I’d stay inside until tomorrow.”
“Great,” Darla answered forlornly.
“Listen, I’m going back to bed, kid.
Didn’t get much sleep last night, you know?
But I’ll yell if Reese calls with any updates.”
Darla hung up and shut off the television, and then peered out the window again.
By now, two more news trucks had stopped in the curbside lane and were blocking traffic as they scrambled for some quick shots of the scene.
The passing drivers either responded with a blare of a horn and rude gestures, or else slowed to gawk at the floral tribute, further snarling traffic.
A few more fans had gathered now, joining hands in what appeared to be a gothic ring-around-the-rosy.
Jake has the right idea
, she thought with a groan, abandoning the window as she contemplated heading right back to bed, too.
Since the store was closed today anyhow, she had nowhere to be for the rest of the day.
Camping out under the covers seemed the best plan.
Darla contemplated that bit of self-indulgence for a few more minutes and then shook her head.
The apartment needed a good vacuuming, laundry needed washing, and a stack of store paperwork awaited her.
Mundane tasks to be sure, but unless the good fairies paid her an unexpected visit, none of it would get done unless she did it.
Giving the bed a final longing look, she dragged herself to the shower.
Thirty minutes later, her auburn hair was freshly braided and she was wearing her official lounge-around-the-house uniform of sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Since the apartment held a bit of a chill, she also pulled on an oversized black sweater to complete her less-than-stunning ensemble and then headed back to the kitchen for more coffee and a yogurt.
Hamlet had long since finished his own breakfast and lay stretched out full length on the back of the horsehair couch, watching her from the living room.
He contented himself with a protracted baleful green stare in her direction, until she finished off the last bite of lemon-cream yogurt.
Then he rose in an elegant move and gave a single sharp meow.
“What?”
Darla demanded in a grumpy voice.
Hamlet did not waste his delicate lungs on a repeat but merely hopped off the couch and strolled to the front door.
There, he planted his furry butt and stared in fierce concentration at that section of heavy wood paneling that led to the great outdoors.
He was still seated there a few moments later after Darla had washed her spoon and coffee cup.
She shot him a baleful look of her own and then sighed.
“Fine, we’ll head down to the store first,” she agreed, grabbing up her keys.
“I need to review a whole pile of invoices.
But you’d better mind your manners.
And no going outside into the courtyard.”
Hamlet took the lead, his long black tail held aloft as he negotiated the steps in a series of graceful bounds, rather than padding properly one riser at a time.
By the time Darla reached the lower landing, he was already at the door leading from hall to shop, standing on his hind legs with both front paws wrapped around the cut-glass knob.
“Sorry, buddy, you can’t open the door without a key,” she reminded him as she unlocked the door and stepped inside the shop.
While she shut off the alarm system, Hamlet flew past her, his momentum leaving a fleeting feline hurricane in his wake.
Darla followed more slowly, flipping on only a couple of necessary lights lest the store appear open for business.
It was cool inside without the heat turned on, but not unpleasantly so.
Otherwise, the place was just as she’d left it, the moveable shelves still pushed to either side of the main room to form a broad aisle down the center.
The red and black draped table was still piled with neat stacks of brand-new books and looked eerily abandoned behind the empty maze where Valerie’s fans had waited with such anticipation.
From the easel near the table, Valerie’s dramatic image continued to hold court, her carefully composed features seeming to stare out from her publicity poster with more than a bit of malice.
Suppressing a shiver, Darla hurried over to the easel and pulled down the poster.
Great-Aunt Dee had kept similar promotional posters of famous authors hanging in the upstairs loft and storeroom as reminders of past events.
But the last thing Darla wanted was the late
Haunted High
author hanging around her store—even in the figurative sense—laying a guilt trip on her every time she happened to glance at the photo.
She’d tuck away the poster behind the counter for now and let James haul it off tomorrow.
Chances were he could get a tidy bit of cash for it on one of his online auctions.