TWENTY-NINE
SINCE IT WAS MONDAY, PETTISTONE’S FINE BOOKS WAS closed as usual that next day, but around lunchtime Darla went down to the shop to do a bit of work.
The news of Valerie Baylor’s murder at the hands of her agent currently filled the television broadcasts, though that story was almost topped by the revelation that her twin brother, Morris, was the true brains behind the
Haunted High
franchise, which would now continue.
Darla had a feeling that sales of all the
Haunted High
books would skyrocket come Tuesday morning when she reopened.
She intended to have a huge new display ready to go in anticipation.
Hamlet had elected to join her downstairs and supervise from his spot near the register.
“You know, we should have toasted you last night, too,” Darla told him as she unboxed another carton.
“All those books you snagged were pretty much on track.
I bet if you’d had a little more time, you could have solved this entire case by yourself.”
She grinned as Hamlet gave her a cool green look that dared her to call him a clever kitty.
So of course she did, earning a hiss in return.
Her grin broadened and then abruptly faded as she glanced at the book she held and noticed something that she hadn’t before.
The author photo on the back cover of
Ghost of a Chance
was similar to the one of Valerie that had been on the promotional poster, and likely had been taken during the same photo session.
It was the same sweep of long black hair partially obscuring the cameo features, the same broad forehead and slash of crimson lipstick.
But this time, rather than clutching the scarlet fountain pen, her pale hands were folded together in an almost prayerful attitude as she gazed demurely downward.
And on one long finger, the author wore a heavy ring made of twisted metal strands that formed what appeared to be a Celtic knot.
A sharp rap on the door glass made her jump.
“Not another of Valerie’s fans,” she said with a groan as she set down the book and headed for the door.
“Well, this time, they’re going to have to wait for regular store hours, no matter how hard they beg.”
And once she’d shooed off the person at the door, she’d make a quick call to Jake and let her know that Morris seemingly had taken his rightful credit as author of the book, after all.
But it was no fan girl standing out on the stoop.
Darla flipped back the curtain to find herself staring through the glass at Mrs.
Bobby Jennings, aka Marnie.
The woman smiled and called through the windowpane, “Please open up, Darla, I need to talk to you.”
Darla stifled another groan.
Though she’d hoped that the woman had already left town days before, it would have been an even bigger surprise—more likely, a miracle—if the repairs to the van had been completed that quickly.
So finding Marnie on her stoop wasn’t quite the shock it could have been.
Not that she ever wanted to see the woman again, but if she didn’t face her now, Marnie likely would continue to dog her until she’d said her piece.
Best to get it over with.
“Hello, Marnie,” she said in a cool tone as she opened the door.
“Actually, the store is closed today, and I’m pretty busy right now.
Is there something I can help you with?”
“Well, I think you would do better to be closed on the Lord’s day, instead,” Marnie replied, the smile tightening as she gestured to the sign on the door with the shop’s hours, “but I suppose that’s how they do business in this sinful city.”
“I suppose it is,” Darla agreed, her smile equally forced.
“Speaking of which, shouldn’t you and your friends be headed back to Dallas by now?
Or is the van still in the shop?”
“Why, that’s what I came to tell you.
May I step inside for a moment?”
She didn’t wait for Darla’s invitation but stepped past her.
Once again, she was wearing the pink suit, jacket buttoned all the way up, and looking like a confection with her teased crown of blond hair.
Heels clicking on the wood floor, she made a quick perusal of the shop, halting when she saw the shelves devoted to religious readings.
“All is not lost if you feature the Lord’s word among these other heathen writings,” she declared, nodding her approval before returning to where Darla waited.
“And speaking of heathens,” she went on, “I saw the news last night about Valerie Baylor.
It was appalling.
Why, that agent of hers used me to commit murder!
I may never recover from this.”
Darla was tempted to point out that Valerie Baylor definitely would not recover, but once again she saw genuine pain in the woman’s eyes.
Self-righteous as Marnie might be, she was suffering under the burden of being responsible for another person’s death; and guilty as Darla felt given her own peripheral involvement, no way would she be cruel enough to kick Marnie when she was down.
Instead, she said, “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Marnie.
I’ve spoken to Valerie Baylor’s brother, and the family blames no one but Hillary Gables for her death.”
“Why, thank you for that, Darla.
In fact, that’s what I came to tell you.”
Marnie reached down the front of her jacket and proceeded to pull out a wad of cash large enough, as James would put it, to choke the proverbial equine.
Cinching the bills was one of those thick red rubber bands from a head of fresh broccoli, a money-handling technique that was a supposed trademark of a certain well-known crime organization.
The Barbie version of a made man
, Darla thought in amazement, wondering if Marnie had seen that trick on an episode of
The Sopranos
.
Not likely, though, given that the TV program was certainly banned by her church.
“It’s five thousand dollars,” the woman declared, slipping off the band and fanning the bills so Darla could see she spoke the truth.
“I swear, it was like a Christmas miracle.”
She went on to explain how a local television reporter had located her soon after the news had broken about Valerie’s murder, hoping to get a statement from her.
Marnie had obliged, venting her outrage that she had been made, in her words, “the Devil’s unwitting tool.”
She’d also told the reporter that she and her fellow church members were stranded in the city waiting for their van to be repaired and that they had been forced to borrow the money for that work.
“So what do you think happened this morning?”
she exclaimed.
“First, I got a call that our van was ready, after I’d already been told it would be a few days more.
The shop said the repairs had already been paid for by an anonymous donor and that I didn’t even have to come get it .
.
.
their driver would be dropping it off within the hour.
Then, while I was saying a prayer of thanks, a courier showed up at the house where we’ve been staying.
He had a big envelope for me, and when I opened it, I found all this cash inside it.
I fell to my knees right there on the doorstep and thanked the Lord.”
“Sounds pretty miraculous to me,” Darla agreed.
“Any idea who sent the money to you?”
“A note inside said that it was a donation to the Lord’s Blessing Church from the Valerie Baylor Memorial Foundation so that we might continue our good works.”
Marnie smiled.
“It seems that, in death, Valerie Baylor has finally renounced Satan and found the Lord instead!”
Darla suspected that Morris, and not Valerie or the Lord, had done the donating, but she merely said, “Well, congratulations, Marnie.
I’m sure your congregation will put the money to good use.
And in the meantime, you can all go home.”
“Not yet,” she declared, giving Darla a momentary heart attack before she added, “not until after I give you back your money.”
With the expertise of a casino cashier, the woman counted out ten hundred-dollar bills.
Handing them over to Darla, she said, “Our work here is done.
I’ll say hi to your sister for you when I get home.”
“You do that.
Have a safe trip now.”
She hustled Marnie to the door and waved her down the steps to the curb, where the church van was double-parked, and then hastily closed the door after her.
The satisfying click of the lock turning served as a final punctuation to the end of this particular acquaintanceship.
“Look, Hamlet,” Darla said with a grin, waving the money at him as he leaped from the counter to saunter her way.
“The loan’s repaid, so I can keep you in kibble for a while longer.
And, even better, we’ll never have to hear from Marnie again.”
With a little celebratory whoop, she tossed the cash skyward and let it cascade back down on her.
Then, just because, she allowed herself a little victory dance.
Hamlet had paused and was watching this frivolous human display with the greatest of feline disdain.
The dance, however, was apparently the last straw.
He gave his black whiskers a flick; then with another scornful look, he flopped onto the floor and flung one hind leg over his shoulder to give the base of his tail a quick lick.