Authors: Ali Brandon

Double Booked for Death (32 page)

By way of answer, Jake gave her a pitying look.
“Watch and learn, young grasshopper,” she intoned and pressed another buzzer, seemingly at random.

When nothing happened, she chose another.
A woman’s raspy voice made even sharper by the intercom’s distortion asked, “Who’s there?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Yeah?
Me who?”

“Deb.”

“Yeah, well I don’t know no Debs.
Go to hell!”

Jake gave a philosophical shrug at the figurative door slamming in her face and tried another buzzer.
This time, it was a man’s disembodied voice that demanded, “Whaddya want?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Yeah?
Me who?”

“Deb.”

Darla waited for the next round of “Go to hell!”
but instead she heard the distinctive click of the door unlocking.
Jake gave it a quick push open and gestured her inside.
Darla, meanwhile, gave her friend a questioning look.
“Deb?”

“Just playing the odds, kid,” Jake answered with a shrug as she joined her in the darkened foyer.
“Everyone knows five or six Debs.
In a larger building, it’s even easier.
Just punch all the buttons at one time and someone’s bound to buzz you in without all the Q and A.”

Darla nodded, blinking a little as she tried to accustom her eyes to the abrupt change in light.
The inside of the building seemed surprisingly homey.
Honey-colored wood on the floor and walls emitted a faint hint of beeswax and linseed oil, as if someone had polished there within recent memory.
While the treads and risers of the narrow staircase were covered in ancient green linoleum, the trim and railings were painted a contrasting deep cream color for a look straight from a decorating magazine.
Over the double row of brass mailboxes mounted on the far wall, someone had hung a series of flea-market prints featuring nineteenth-century New York City street scenes that completed the urban-vintage vibe.

While Darla was still processing this stark juxtaposition between interior and exterior, the male voice from the intercom demanded from above, “Hey, where the hell’s Deb?”

She and Jake glanced up to see a bald, florid-faced man in his thirties leaning over the third-floor railing.
He was wearing an undersized wife-beater undershirt that displayed his hairy belly and impressive crop of black armpit hair to distinct advantage.
Darla gave a small prayer of thanks that the railing mostly blocked the view of his baggy blue plaid boxers.

Without missing a beat, Jake shoved her sunglasses up on top of her head and opened her eyes wide.
“You mean the blonde?”
she answered in feigned innocence.
“Strange chick .
.
.
she ran off as soon as our friend buzzed us in.”

The man muttered a few obscenities that could have been directed at them, the fictional Deb, or women in general, but to Darla’s relief he contented himself with that before turning from the railing.
A door slammed after him a moment later.

“Nice neighbors your buddy Morris has,” Jake muttered as she checked out the numbers on the two apartment doors across from them.
“Looks like his little slice of this paradise is number 3, on the second floor.”

Darla hurried up first, leaving Jake to make the climb at her own pace.
Number 3 faced the street.
She waited until Jake had joined her in the narrow hall; then, with a nervous look around first to make sure there were no witnesses, she knocked on Morris’s door.
Once again, no one answered.

Jake motioned her aside and tried the knob.
It turned readily enough, but the deadbolt locking the door kept the latter firmly in place.
“Worth a try,” she said with a shrug.
“You never know, people can get sloppy.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a key.
Inserting it into the dead-bolt lock, she jiggled the key a couple of times while Darla recalled the overhyped news stories she’d seen about lock bumping.
Apparently, there was something to the hype, for Jake grinned and tried the knob again.
This time, the door swung inward.

Darla gave another uneasy glance about the hall.
“Uh, isn’t this technically breaking and entering?”

“Technically, yes .
.
.
but only if we get caught.
Don’t worry, I’ll let you be lookout,” she said as she all but shoved Darla through the door and then pulled it closed behind them.

The tiny apartment was a studio, with the living and sleeping space all together.
Instead of a bed, however, a futon sofa lay fully open.
Its crisp white surface was accented with a series of oversized multihued pillows apparently sprung from the earthy loom of some itinerant weaver determined to use every spare color of wool at hand to make those covers.

The only other furnishings were an oversized desk of blond wood with matching chair and overstuffed bookshelf, and a six-foot-tall screen that divided off the section of the room nearest the alcove leading to a bathroom.
Constructed of three random doors hinged together, their glass panes now replaced by rice paper, the screen looked as if it had been slapped together in an hour.
Darla guessed, however, that it probably had come from some trendy boutique and had sported a four-figure price tag.

A second alcove led to galley kitchen big enough to turn around in, but not bend over.
A two-burner stove dating from the turn of the twentieth century held a teakettle of the same vintage.
While it was obvious that someone did own the place, it was equally apparent that it wasn’t lived in on a regular basis.

While Darla took up her post alongside the window—the three youths who had catcalled them were now sitting on a stoop across the street shouting insults to a passing Asian couple—Jake poked around the place.
An empty laptop docking station sat on the desk, meaning that Morris carried his computer back and forth with him.
Jake dragged out the stylish wooden trash can from beneath the desk and grimaced.

“I hate compulsive neat fiends,” she remarked as she turned it over to demonstrate the can was empty.
“It’s hard to pry into people’s trash when they don’t have any.”

She pulled open the desk drawers and then glanced at the bookcase, which held mostly reference books and office supplies.
Numerous volumes—hardcover and paperback—of the first two
Haunted High
books filled one long shelf.

“Look at this,” Jake said, sounding impressed as she pointed down the row.
“English, French, Spanish, Russian, Japanese .
.
.
and there’s probably five other languages I have no clue what they are.
And, aha!”

Carefully, she picked up a large black three-ring binder propped next to the printer on the topmost shelf.
She turned it so Darla could see that it was neatly labeled on the front with the words “Last Ghoul Standing.”

“It’s the next
Haunted High
book,” she exclaimed, leafing through the pages.
“I thought you said that Hillary Gables told you there weren’t any more manuscripts.”

“Either she lied, or she didn’t know,” Darla replied, keeping her gaze on the street below lest Morris abruptly exit a taxi.
“I wonder what Morris plans to do with it when it’s finished, now that Valerie’s gone.”

Jake, meanwhile, had put back the binder and wandered over to the divided screen.
She peered behind it and then jumped back as if someone had reached out and grabbed her.

“Holy crap, you’re not going to believe this!”

Darla felt her stomach plummet.
“Please don’t tell me that Morris is lying dead back there,” she said, wincing over the words.
The last thing she wanted to see was another of the Vickson family’s cooling corpses.

Jake shook her head.
“It’s even better than that.
Come over here!”

With another look out the window—two of the three punks were now involved in a one-handed shoving match with each other that was hampered by the ongoing threat of pants on the ground—Darla went.
With the same caution that she’d using peering into a rattlesnake den, she looked around the edge of the screen.

“Holy crap!”
she echoed Jake, adding, “Wow!”

Hidden behind the screen were two freestanding racks filled with women’s eveningwear in various lengths and styles.
Whether of silk, satin, velvet, or lace, the predominant color was black, though a few jewel tones and pastels were mixed among them.
A short wooden shelf stood to one side.
She counted on its shelves ten evening clutches stored individually in neat plastic bins, and twice that many shoe boxes with famous designers’ names imprinted on their sides.
Darla reached reverently for one of the boxes and gently opened the top to reveal a lilac drawstring dust bag.
Unfortunately, the pair of pumps nestled inside appeared far larger than the size 7-½ she wore.

She sighed.
She’d always wanted to try on a pair of Jimmy Choos.

“Any one of those dresses probably costs as much as my whole wardrobe,” Jake observed with a similarly wistful exhale as she longingly fingered a red silk strapless number.
“Damn, he has good taste.”

Letting the fabric whisper back into place, Jake went over to the bath alcove.
“This must be where the magic takes place,” she said, indicating a vintage painted iron-and-glass vanity upon which sat several neatly organized trays of cosmetics.
“And look, here’s Mavis in action.”

Photos ringed the lighted oval mirror that hung over the vanity.
Most of the pictures were of Mavis and her clients.
A few obviously were models, and others apparently actors, including a couple of B-listers whom Darla recognized from television.
Also among the collection were a few shots of Valerie Baylor, including one where she appeared to be standing beside a clone of herself.

“Oh my God, it’s Mavis dressed as Valerie!”
Darla exclaimed, pointing.
“In that black wig, he could totally pass for her, no problem.”

Seeing the photos prompted her to remember her guard duties.
Darla muttered a mild oath and rushed to the door, taking a cautious peek over the railing in case Morris had sneaked in while they were admiring his outfits.
Seeing no one, she slipped back inside and made a beeline for the front window.

“All clear,” she confirmed a bit breathlessly.
“Are we almost finished?”

“Almost,” Jake muttered in an absent tone.
She wandered back over to the desk and peered again at the shelves.
“There’s got to be something here.”

She paused for a look at the pushbutton phone near the empty docking station.
“Let’s see who Morris has been chatting with,” she said and pressed the “Speakerphone” button, opening the line.
“If I can just find the ‘Redial’ button .
.
.”

She found it.
Darla heard the familiar
beep, boop, bop
of tones as the last number that Morris had input now automatically replayed.
Jake put a silencing finger to her lips as the line began to ring, but Darla needed no warning.
She was holding her breath and mentally counting the rings as they sounded .
.
.
One, two, three
.

It was not until the fifth ring that someone picked up.
They heard clattering, as if someone were fumbling with the phone, and then a woman’s sleepy voice answered, “Hillary Gables.”

TWENTY-SIX

“THIS IS HILLARY GABLES.”

Darla’s jaw sagged as she heard the agent repeat her greeting in a sharper tone.
Then came a small gasp, and the speakerphone voice demanded, “Morris, is that you?
Damn it, don’t play games with me.
I’ve got caller ID.
I recognize your number.”

Getting no response, Hillary stormed on, “Don’t think you can threaten me, you son of a bitch!
I’m not afraid of you.
I can take you down with what I know.
So if you want to keep our little secret between us, I suggest you quit the harassment and bring the money to the club tonight like we agreed.”

In the good old days, Darla irrelevantly thought, they would have heard the receiver slam down as Hillary ended the call.
But since the agent was either on a cell phone or a cordless, the conversation ended with a barely audible click as she cut the connection.
Jake hung up the speakerphone with the same one-touch efficiency and then turned to meet Darla’s gaze.

“I guess he really did kill Valerie,” Darla said, “and Hillary knows all about it.
And now she’s blackmailing him.”
She heard the disappointment in her own voice and realized that, despite her suspicions, she really had believed James’s theory about twins being unable to murder their siblings.
But apparently even the esteemed Professor James James could be wrong on occasion, as Hillary’s tirade seemingly had proved.

Jake, however, put up a restraining hand.

“Jump to conclusions much, kid?
While I agree this is all pretty damn interesting, for all we know Hillary found out something else—like our theory that he wrote the books instead of Valerie—and is blackmailing him over that.”

“Maybe.”
But Darla felt the venom in the agent’s words had hinted at something more than a simple case of ghostwriting.
“I guess we need to tell Reese what we found out.”

“And what do you suggest we tell him?
That we broke into Morris’s private office, autodialed Hillary Gables, and heard her say something about money?
Remember what I said about thin?
Well, we’re talking tissue paper here.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to find this club Hillary was talking abou—oh no!”

Darla had glanced at the window in time to see Morris on the sidewalk below, having just exited a cab.
Now, she pointed frantically in that direction.

“He’s here.
Morris is here,” she exclaimed with a panicked look back at Jake.
“What if he catches us in here?”

“He won’t if we get the hell out right now,” Jake replied with a swift look around the apartment.
“Okay, everything looks in order, so let’s head up to the third floor to visit with Mr.
Clean for a bit.
Once Morris is safely in the apartment, we’ll make our escape.”

They slipped out the door, and Jake paused long enough to twist the thumb lock on the inner knob before shutting the door behind them.

“Maybe he’ll think he locked the wrong lock last time,” she whispered as the sound of the front door opening drifted up to them.
She jabbed a finger in the direction of the third floor, and Darla made a swift if silent beeline for the stairs.
Over the frantic beating of her heart, she could hear the faint sounds of metal on metal from the lobby, and she guessed Morris was checking his mail, giving them a few extra seconds.

As they reached the third-floor landing, they heard him starting up the steps.
Darla shrank back against the far wall and reflexively counted the footfalls, holding her breath when they stopped.
Then she heard a key scrape in the lock, followed by a pause, and the sound of a knob jiggling.
She could almost hear the question mark in his thoughts as he apparently found the dead bolt open and the twist lock on the knob locked instead.
Did he suspect anything other than his own memory?

“Hey!
Hey, there!”

The raspy female voice made both her and Jake jump.
Darla gazed wildly about for its source and then recognized the voice as belonging to the first woman whom they’d randomly buzzed while trying to get in.
As the woman continued to speak, she realized in relief that the sound was coming from the second floor.

“—was real sorry to hear about your other sister,” the unseen woman was saying, the words obviously directed at Morris.
“I’d of made up a casserole to send around, except I didn’t know where to bring it.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs.
Gleason,” she heard Morris reply.
“Kind thoughts are as filling as food in such situations.”

“Well, you just let me know if you need anything, Morrie,” Mrs.
Gleason said with a comforting click of her tongue.
“Oh, and I haven’t forgotten about coming around to see that play you told me about.
You think maybe Mavis can get me backstage?
I’d love to meet that actor fellow who plays Othello.
I just love him on that cop show on Tuesday nights.”

“I’m sure she can arrange it.
Not tonight, but maybe for next Sunday’s performance.”

“That would be great.
I’m going to go call for a ticket right now.”

A door closed, and then a second one opened and closed.
Mrs.
Gleason and Morris both were safely in their apartments, Darla assumed.
But Jake gave a warning shake of her head and leaned carefully over the railing to take another look.

Sure enough, a door on the second floor opened again, and Darla heard the sound of shuffling footsteps.
“Hey, Morrie,” Mrs.
Gleason yelled, “which one, three o’clock show or eight o’clock show?”

“Eight o’clock, Mrs.
Gleason,” Morris patiently called through his closed door.
“The understudy will be playing Othello at the three o’clock performance.”

“Eight o’clock it is.”

The woman shuffled back into her apartment, the door slamming behind her again.
Jake peered over the railing for a few more moments and then gestured to Darla, murmuring, “Come on, kid, let’s get out of here.”

They made their way down the two flights in silent haste, fortunately not encountering either Mrs.
Gleason or Morris on the way.
But Darla didn’t breathe easy again until they’d made it out onto the street and were a good two blocks back in the direction of Crawford Avenue.

“I’m too old for this sort of thing,” she declared with a sigh.

Jake shook her frizzy head and laughed.
“Come on, kid, don’t be such a cliché.
A little bit of adrenaline rush is good for the heart.”

“Well, then my heart is good for the next twenty years or so,” Darla replied, though this time with a grudging smile.
The smile faded, however, as she asked, “So what are we going to do about Morris and Hillary?”

“I was thinking we track them down tonight and see about witnessing this little exchange they’ve got planned.
Now that I know what’s going on, no way am I going to let Hillary face off against Morris by herself.
It might only be blackmail over a writing credit, but you never know how these things might go down.”

Jake’s amused expression evaporated as she spoke, and her fixed gaze momentarily reminded Darla of the look she had turned on the three young thugs.
As for the unsaid sentiment it reflected, she knew it was
Not again, not on my watch
.

“I see where you’re coming from,” Darla ventured, “but how do we figure out what club Hillary was talking about?”

“We can do it the hard way”—Jake slanted a look at her over her sunglasses—“which would be to tail her or Morris all day and hope we don’t get spotted before we figure out where they’re headed.
Or, we can do it the easy way.”

“I’ll put in my vote for the easy way.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

She refused to elaborate, however, until they arrived back at the brownstone.

Once back in the store, Jake picked up one of the free newspapers that Hamlet had kicked aside earlier, and thumbed through it while Darla went to wait on the customer who had followed them into the store as she was unlocking the door.
Once assured that her assistance wasn’t needed, she casually sidled over to Jake and addressed her in a low tone.

“Okay, spill it.
What’s the easy way of figuring out which of a few hundred clubs around town is the one where Morris and Hillary will be?”

By way of answer, Jake folded back the paper so that a single large notice was visible.
“My money’s on this one,” she said and tapped her finger on the banner headline.

Eyes wide, Darla began reading the advertisement aloud.
“The Club Theater Presents
Othello
by William Shakespeare, Starring DeWayne Jones and Harry Delacourt.”

Jake nodded.
“As soon as good old Mrs.
Gleason mentioned her cop show, I remembered seeing this same ad in last week’s throwaway.
DeWayne Jones is the hunky guy who stars in that show.”

“And Hillary said she was going to meet Morris at the club .
.
.
which must be the Club Theater,” Darla finished for her.

Jake gave a small, satisfied smile.
“We have a winner.
So, what do you say, kid, you want to take in an off-Broadway show tonight?”

AS SHE STRUGGLED TO KEEP UP WITH JAKE’S LONG STRIDES DOWN THE sidewalk, Darla—her own feet pinching uncomfortably in the same heels she’d worn to Valerie’s funeral—reflected on all the ground they’d traversed the past few days.
At least this time, they’d taken the subway part of the way.
Even so, she wondered how Jake’s bum leg was holding out after their twenty-block walk to Morris’s place and back that morning.

That question was partially answered as the ex-cop strode ahead of her, and she saw peeking out from beneath the woman’s full-length black leather duster a pair of calf-high, patent leather Doc Martens in canary yellow.
Jake glanced over in time to catch her bemused look, and grinned.
“Remember how I told you that sitting on your ass is one of the first things they teach you at the academy?
Well, so is always wearing a pair of shoes you can run in without falling over and breaking an ankle.”

“I’ll remember that next time,” came Darla’s rueful reply as she skipped a little to keep up with her longer-legged and more sensibly shod friend.

Reaching their destination, they stepped through the main double glass doors and into a small lobby already swarming with playgoers.
Despite the seriousness of their mission, Darla couldn’t help a feeling of excitement at the prospect of seeing live theater.
This would be the first theatrical production that she’d attended in New York City.
Of course, when various touring companies came through Dallas she had managed to take in a few major musicals—
Cats
,
The Phantom of the Opera
,
Les Miserables
—and she was a devoted Shakespeare in the Park fan, but the remainder of her experience with plays had been limited to a brief stint in her high school drama club.

Knowing this, James had once felt the need to enlighten her on the seemingly confusing difference between Broadway and Off-Broadway shows.

“It is not so much where the theater itself is located,” he had explained, “as it is the size of the house.
Anything under five hundred seats but more than one hundred falls into the Off-Broadway category, but the primary qualifier is whether or not the shows are mounted by companies working under an Equity contract.”

This place was definitely Off-Broadway.
The Club Theater was a notorious former 1980s nightspot that had started life as a warehouse, and whose latest incarnation was as a trendy three-hundred-forty-seat venue.
The new owners apparently had left much of the club’s original—and now cringe-worthy—décor intact.
The old aluminum-and-mirror bar had literally been divided in two, with half now peddling drinks to customers on one side of the lobby, and the rest serving as a box office on the other.
A lighted alcove near the ticket booth led to another pair of doors, both of which were marked “Private.”

The “Let’s Get Physical” vibe continued with the lobby’s shiny black walls, mirrored columns, and large-can track lighting that zipped along the ceiling.
A pair of sculptures, each consisting of three giant aluminum cubes piled haphazardly atop one another, flanked the double doors leading into the main theater.

“All that’s missing is the disco ball,” Jake observed as she shed her long black leather coat and took a look around.

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