TWENTY-THREE
MR.
CATS-CAN-BE-VANDALS-TOO WAS BACK IN THE CLASSICS area doing his book snagging thing.
But unlike the previous times, this morning Darla actually had caught the wily feline in the act as she’d slipped in the side door.
Her victory was a hollow one, however, distraught as she had been since the previous night over more important concerns.
Namely, that her very own employee, Lizzie, was in actuality the same Scarf Lady who had masterminded the Lone Protester’s campaign against Valerie Baylor.
She had stared at the incriminating email for a good quarter of an hour before snatching up the phone and calling Jake.
After explaining how she’d managed to uncover the same email address that Janie already had supplied Reese, Darla reminded Jake that Lizzie fancied herself a fair mimic when it came to southern accents.
“It all fits, Jake.
Lizzie has to be the Scarf Lady.
What do we do about it?”
she had asked in true dismay.
The ex-cop had given her swift instructions not to do anything about the message until Reese had been informed.
A bit later, after Darla had closed the shop and numbly made her way back to her apartment, Jake had phoned her back and outlined their plan for this morning.
She’d also revealed something more; that, just that afternoon, someone in the precinct’s IT group with a bit of spare time finally had traced that same email address back to Lizzie.
That had been what Reese’s earlier call to her had been about, Jake had explained.
Darla had considered berating Jake about not telling her right off the day before that the police knew the email belonged to Lizzie, but then thought better of it.
Doubtless Reese had asked Jake to keep the matter confidential, and she’d simply complied.
Darla sighed now as she considered her own responsibilities as Lizzie’s employer.
She didn’t relish what was to come when the woman arrived in another half hour to start her shift.
Cliché as it seemed, it was true that you never truly knew what a person was capable of doing, until they up and did it.
Still, she had never expected that, one day, someone of her acquaintance might turn out to be a cold-blooded killer.
“Might be,” she reminded herself.
“The two things might not even be connected.”
To distract herself, she began picking up the volumes that Hamlet had pulled down from the classics shelves, idly lecturing him when she noticed one of the volumes was one of the more sensational biographies of the Roman emperor Caligula.
“Much too gory reading for a cat, and half the claims aren’t even historically proven,” she declared.
Firmly closing it, she put that book back on the shelf and picked up a second one.
“The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,”
she said and nodded her approval.
Glancing at the page where it was open, she went on, “Here’s a bit of wholesome reading for you.
Huck and Jim are on the run.
And see, this is the chapter where Huck disguises himself like a—”
She looked up from the page she was reading to see the cat in midyawn.
With a frown at him, she snapped the book shut again and stuck it on the shelf.
“I try to give you a little culture, and you act bored.
But you’re right, we don’t have time for this now.
Jake and Reese will be here any minute.”
Barely had she said the words when a knock sounded.
Grabbing up the last of the books from the floor, she left them on the counter by the register and hurried to the front door.
Through the hazy glass, she could see the detective and Jake standing on the stoop.
Since it wasn’t yet ten, the door was still locked and the sign still proclaimed that the store was closed.
“We’ll wait off to the side and out of sight,” Reese said without preamble once she’d opened the door and he and Jake had slipped past her.
As she shut the door after them, he added, “We don’t want to tip our hand until she’s safely inside.
I don’t feel like another sprint, if you know what I mean.”
“Did you call her last night and make sure she was coming in?”
Jake wanted to know as they walked toward the register.
Darla nodded, and glanced at the clock on the far wall.
Nine forty-five.
“I told her exactly what you said.
She promised to be here on time.”
“You don’t have to stick around,” Reese said, taking note of her distress.
“All I want to do is question her at this point.
Even if she was the one who placed the ad that Janie answered, technically she didn’t do anything illegal.
I won’t arrest her unless there’s reason to believe she was the one who pushed your author in front of that van.”
“Thanks, but I’m not going anywhere until I know what her involvement was in all this.”
Darla grabbed up the books she’d set on the counter and marched over to the classics shelf again, needing to channel her nervousness in movement.
Soon enough, she’d know the truth about what happened to Valerie Baylor .
.
.
or, at least, have a better idea of what had set the tragedy into motion.
It was five minutes before the hour when the bells on the front door jingled, the usually pleasant tinkle sounding ominous under the circumstances.
Darla wiped her sweat-dampened hands on her denim skirt and started toward the front.
Reese and Jake had taken up position on the other side of the register, so that they were partially blocked from view.
The deception would need to last only a few moments, just long enough for their suspect to move clear of the doorway.
“Hi, Darla,” Lizzie greeted her, closing the door behind her with another chiming of the bells.
The smile she turned on Darla was bright, if a trifle crooked as a result of her careless application of pink lipstick.
Juggling her usual oversized tote bag with the ever-present manuscript-in-process bulging from its top, she slipped out of her beige cardigan to reveal sensible brown slacks and a pink blouse printed with tutu-wearing brown poodles.
She glanced about the store, her smile brightening as she noticed Jake and Reese.
They had left their posts and quietly circled around back of Lizzie.
The move reminded Darla of one of those
National Geographic
specials, where the lions cut a weak gazelle from the rest of the herd.
Except in this case, the gazelle was a plump middle-aged woman who was unknowingly turning a friendly look on her lions.
“Oh!
Hi, Jake, Detective Reese.
I didn’t expect to find you here again,” she said, not sounding particularly guilty of anything .
.
.
at least, not to Darla’s ears.
“I saw that big pile of flowers was still out on the sidewalk.
I guess you’re here to keep an eye on things, with all those kids and those crazy protesters coming around, right?”
“Actually, Ms.
Cavanaugh,” Reese replied, “I’m here to ask you a few questions about one of those protesters.
Maybe you’d like to take a seat.”
He gestured her toward one of the chairs reserved for browsing customers.
Lizzie glanced from him to the chair, and then back to him again.
Her expression tightened, while a faint air of defensiveness emanated from her as she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Questions?”
she echoed.
“I can answer them standing up.
What do you want to know?”
“It’s about that protester with the sign who was hanging around the Valerie Baylor autographing .
.
.
except, she wasn’t protesting because she believed in a cause.
It seems someone paid the girl to stand there and hold her sign.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded page.
“She claims she answered an ad on TheEverythingList—you know, one of those online classified services.
We checked it out and found the ad in question.
I’ve printed it out.”
He paused and held out the paper.
“Would you mind taking a look and telling me if you recognize the email address on it?”
Lizzie reached out a reluctant hand, as if he were proffering a rattlesnake instead of a single sheet of twenty-pound bond.
She took a look, barely long enough to read the few lines, and then thrust it back at him, her manner one of defiance now.
“No, no, I don’t recognize it.”
“You might want to rethink that answer, ma’am.
Your employer”—he glanced at Darla—“says that she sent a message to that same email address, and you replied.
And my department traced it back to your home address.”
The belligerence seeped from the woman like a bicycle tire going flat.
She let her bag and sweater drop to the floor while she turned a pleading look on Darla.
“I tried to tell you before what Val did to me.
Back in college, she stole my first manuscript—the one about the girl who goes to the police academy and then arrests her ex-fiancé—and she published it as hers.”
“The Lady Cop and the Collar,”
Jake exclaimed with a snap of her fingers, causing Darla and Reese to stare at her in surprise.
“I read that one.
You mean to say it was really
your
book and not Valerie Baylor’s?”
Lizzie nodded, seemingly intent on reviving her previous air of bravado.
“She stole it .
.
.
I mean, literally stole my manuscript out of my bag one night after class,” she explained, sniffling.
“I had it packed up in a Bloomingdale’s box, ready to mail it out the next day.
Valerie suggested we all stop for a drink after class to celebrate, but she left before I did.
I didn’t even know the manuscript was gone until I went to pay my tab.
Everyone told me it must have been someone in the club who thought there was something valuable in the Bloomie’s box, but I knew the truth.
I should have been the famous author, not that—that thief.
So I called her on it.
What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong,” Jake went on in a firm yet sympathetic tone, “is that Valerie Baylor is dead, and we have what might be video evidence showing someone shoved her off the sidewalk and into the van’s path.
And, unfortunately, you had the motive and the opportunity to do it.”
“But I didn’t!”
Lizzie wailed, bravado forgotten as tears pooled in her brown eyes.
“I wouldn’t murder anyone.
What about that girl I paid?
How do you know she didn’t push Valerie just because?”
“Reese has spoken to her already, and he has cab company records and statements from witnesses that put her away from the scene before the accident.”
“But I was inside the store the whole time during the autographing.
Darla, you saw me helping James.
Tell them I was here in the store when Valerie was killed!
Tell them I wouldn’t have shoved her,” she pleaded.
Darla didn’t hesitate.
“Of course you couldn’t kill anyone, Lizzie.
I don’t believe that for a moment.”
And she didn’t.
True, she’d known Lizzie for only a few months and had often found her prone to melodrama, but she had never seen any indication of malice in the woman.
But could she say with any certainty that Lizzie had never left the store?
Now, she did pause.
She herself had been in and out several times during the event, and with the glut of black capes it had been difficult to distinguish anyone.
And during the time that Valerie had vanished on her supposed smoke break, she had noticed that a few other people had been missing as well.
Had Lizzie been one of them?
She simply couldn’t recall.
“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” she finally answered, feeling equally as deflated as her employee, “but if I had to testify in a court of law, I couldn’t say with one hundred percent certainty that you were inside when Valerie Baylor was hit.”
The other woman’s features crumpled, and she bent her head, shoulders shaking.
Silent tears trickled down her cheeks, catching in the gently swaying edges of her sleek brown bob.
Staring at her, Darla felt like weeping, too.
She turned to Reese.
“Are you going to arrest her?”
she asked, choking a little over the words.
“I’d like to take her down to the station for questioning.
Ms.
Cavanaugh, will you come with me?”
Lizzie gave a soft wail by way of response but nodded.
Darla hurried over to the counter and pulled a business card out from her Rolodex, and then rushed back to where Lizzie stood.