A Novel Way to Die (9 page)

Cute
, Darla thought with a flash of a smile, feeling more than a little sympathetic toward
Ms. Witch. Her amusement faded just as swiftly, however, as she debated whether or
not she should stop in to tell Hilda about what had happened to Curt.

She and Hilda were friendly enough, but their acquaintance was strictly a business
one. Breaking this sort of news seemed to require a more personal relationship than
they had. And she hadn’t thought to ask Barry if he planned to break the news to Tera
about her boyfriend. But since Barry was still at the brownstone for the foreseeable
future, who knew when he’d have the chance? If she gave Hilda a heads-up now, the
woman could tell her daughter right away, rather than having Tera learn about it in
some impersonal way. On the other hand, maybe it should be Jake who talked to Hilda.
After all, she was the one who’d been hired to—

“Hello, Darla, how are you?” Hilda’s cultured voice broke in on her musings, the unexpected
greeting making Darla jump.

Guiltily, she tore her gaze from the window display to see Hilda’s neatly coiffed
head poking out from around the shop doorway. The woman smiled apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, but you’ve been standing outside my window
for several minutes now looking dazed. Is something wrong?”

There’s an opening if ever I saw one.
Darla took a deep breath. “Actually, there is,” she said aloud. “Why don’t I come
inside and tell you.”

Hilda gave a gracious nod and held open the door. She was wearing a turquoise Chanel
skirted suit and matching pumps, and Darla couldn’t help but feel dowdy by comparison.
Once over the threshold, however, the faint sound track of New Age music that Hilda
always played—heavy on flute and chimes—made her feel as if she’d stepped into a yoga
studio. Some of her earlier tension dissipated. Unlike those expensive perfumes that
lined the department store counters and assaulted the senses, the fragrances that
filled Hilda’s small shop were subtle and inviting. Each day of the week, Hilda lit
a different handmade soy candle, which either soothed or invigorated, depending on
its scent. So far, Darla had stopped in on gardenia, sandalwood, rose, and honeysuckle
days. This was the first time she’d been there for lavender, and she made a mental
note to come back later to purchase one of those candles to burn in her own shop.

“So tell me, what’s wrong, Darla?” the woman urged in her polite but no-nonsense manner.
“You have lines under your eyes . . . very bad. Here, you should try these all-natural
compresses.”

She lifted a small jar from a nearby shelf, explaining, “They are made with cucumber,
twenty to a jar. Gently squeeze out the liquid and put one compress over each eye
for fifteen minutes. They work wonders, I promise you.”

“Maybe next time,” Darla said, hedging as she glanced about the small shop. A smartly
dressed young Asian woman with a pigtailed toddler in tow was slathering on hand lotion
from one of the sample bottles on the next aisle over, but otherwise the store was
empty of customers. “Is Tera here today?”

“Not yet. She has classes in the mornings, so she never comes into the shop until
after lunch.”

Then Hilda checked at the small gold wristwatch she wore and frowned.

“She should be here by now. That girl, I don’t know what to do with her,” the woman
went on, a hint of Cuban lilt softening those words of maternal rebuke. “She stays
out all night long with that so-called boyfriend of hers when she should be at home
studying. And then, she’s too tired to get up in the morning and skips class. That,
or else she goes home again as soon as class is over and sleeps all afternoon instead
of helping me here in the store.”

Hilda glanced over at her customer, who had dragged her protesting little girl to
the children’s section to look at organic baby shampoo, and then lowered her voice.

“That Curt Benedetto, he’s a bad influence,” she confided with a refined sniff. “Tera
was making straight A’s in her all classes until she took up with him. What she sees
in a man old enough to be her father, I’ll never understand. And that shifty look
in his eyes . . .”

She paused and clicked her tongue. “I just know he’s hiding something. Probably a
wife and five children. I hired your friend Jake to check up on him. If Tera won’t
listen to her own mother, then maybe she’ll believe the evidence in black and white.”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Darla broke in when the woman finally paused for
breath. “I have some bad news about Curt.”

“Humph. The only news I want to hear about him is that he left town.”

“Well, it’s close to that.” Darla hesitated, and then forged on. “I went with Barry
this morning to see the brownstone that he and Curt are remodeling. We found Curt
dead in the basement.”

“Dead?” He artfully made-up eyes widening, Hilda took a step back and traced a quick
sign of the cross. “
Dios mío
, who killed him?”

The woman’s porcelain skin had turned appreciably paler, while her gasped exclamation
was loud enough to draw her customer’s attention. The young mother shot them both
a look of alarm and promptly dragged her child toward the door, ignoring the little
girl’s outstretched hands and plaintive cry of, “Mama, want!”

Hilda didn’t seem to notice that she’d lost a customer. As for Darla, she hesitated.
Why had Hilda immediately assumed that Curt had been murdered? The more obvious possibility
was that he’d succumbed to a fatal heart attack or else had an accident. It sent alarm
bells jangling in Darla’s head. Could Hilda possess some knowledge of what had actually
happened to the man?

Carefully skirting a direct answer, Darla replied, “The police made us leave the building,
so I really don’t know any more. But I didn’t want Tera to hear this kind of news
on the radio or read it online.”

“That’s good of you, Darla.” Sounding distracted now, Hilda reached into her jacket
and pulled out a slim white cell phone. “I’d better call Tera right now and tell her.
You know how young people are . . . they take things so personally. She shouldn’t
find this out from anyone but her mother.”

Realizing she had been dismissed, Darla took the hint. “Sorry to be the bearer of
bad news,” she said as she headed toward the door. “And I’ll think about those compresses.”

Hilda nodded, but her attention was on her phone as she dialed. Before she stepped
outside, Darla heard Hilda genteelly shout her daughter’s name—“Maria Teresa Aguilar!”—followed
by a flurry of Spanish that Darla roughly translated with her minimal knowledge of
the language to mean, “It’s your mother. Get your lazy butt out of bed and pick up
the phone!”

Darla let the door close behind her on that little drama, her concern more over Hilda’s
earlier reaction than what Tera might say or do. While Reese hadn’t specifically told
her not to speak to Hilda, she suspected that he might consider it interference in
police business. But as she started down the street toward her own store, another
concern was on her mind: Hamlet. Some wily animal had been in the brownstone’s basement
during the early morning hours. For her own peace of mind, she needed to know if Hamlet
was the creature in question. She had an idea how to prove that that he’d been present—or
else how to eliminate him as a four-legged suspect—but it would take Jake’s help.

She pulled out her cell phone and pressed the speed dial for Jake. The ex-cop picked
up on the first ring, as if she’d been waiting for Darla’s call. “Hey, kid, I heard
via the blue grapevine that there was some trouble over at your friend Barry’s place.”

“You can say that again. Curt’s dead—probably murdered, according to Reese—and Barry
and I were unlucky enough to find him.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard. A shame,” Jake replied, sounding like she meant it. “Are
you back at the store yet?”

“I’m a block away. Can I meet you at your place in about fifteen minutes, once I make
sure everything is okay in the store? I need your help with something related to this
whole awful business.”

“Sure, what’s the problem?” Jake wanted to know.

Darla took a deep breath. “If you talk to Reese before I see you, tell him he’d better
take a crash course in Meow 101. You see, I think I have a witness to Curt’s murder.”

NINE

“MR. BENEDETTO IS DEAD?” JAMES ECHOED IN WELL-BRED
disbelief once Darla had broken the news back in the shop. “Are you quite certain?”

“Yeah, it was pretty obvious from that whole stiff-as-a-board-not-breathing thing
he had going on.”

James shot her a long-suffering look. “I am not questioning your diagnosis of death,
Darla, only your identification of the decedent.”

She gave a weary sigh. “Sorry. Yes, we’re absolutely certain it was Curt. He was still,
um, identifiable.”

“And how fortunate that Officer Reese is the one handling the case,” her manager went
on. “Do we know the official cause of death?”

“For the moment, the police are treating Curt’s death as a homicide until the medical
examiner says otherwise. But I’m pretty sure Reese thinks he was murdered. Barry thought
at first that he’d fallen, but there was a crowbar lying on top of Curt, and he had
a crowbar-shaped dent in his head. So it’s a logical leap that someone whacked him
with it.”

“I would assume so,” her manager agreed. “Even if the man had been holding the crowbar
when he fell down the steps, what are the chances that he could hit himself in the
head with it
and
manage to fall so that it landed on top of him?”

“I knew someone who, you know, did that,” Robert interjected, setting down the carton
of paperbacks he was unloading and walking over to join them at the register.

When she and James both turned to stare at him, he shrugged, or rather, tried to.
With Hamlet slung around his neck like an inky fur stole, the cat’s forepaws and back
paws draping over either shoulder, it was not an easy gesture to make.

Darla shook her head. She wasn’t sure who had come up with this sartorial idea, Robert
or Hamlet, but the latter was staring at her with gleaming green eyes that seemed
to say,
No way would I let
you
get away with carting me around like this.
She shot him a sour look in return. She’d deal with Mr. Furry Witness for the Prosecution
later.

“It wasn’t a crowbar, though,” Robert clarified. “The dude, he was on a skateboard
and tried to, like, skate down the handrail. He fell off, and the skateboard hit him
in the head in midair. And then when he landed, it was, you know, on top of him. I
can show you on YouTube if you want to see it.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass,” Darla said. “But until we know what really happened to Curt,
the new rule is that no one works alone in the evenings, and the doors all stay locked
and the alarm stays set before and after business hours, no exceptions.”

“I concur with your plan,” James said. “Better to be overly cautious than overly confident
in this sort of situation. Between the Russian gangs and the scrap thieves, we could
be dealing with some very dangerous customers, indeed. Perhaps we should review the
schedule to make certain that our shifts will overlap accordingly?”

“Yeah, and I can look at the security videos in the mornings for you if, you know,
you want me to,” Robert added. “See if anyone is prowling around outside.”

Darla nodded as she pulled up the weekly schedule on the computer. “Good idea, Robert.
That can be your job every morning from now on. I’ll show you how to play back the
recordings. James, see what you think if I switch around your hours a bit on these
days.”

She made some quick adjustments to the schedule and got James’s blessing, then printed
off a few copies. “Robert,” she said, “can you stay on the clock a little longer?
I need to run down to Jake’s place for a bit. I’ll show you the security system routine
as soon as I get back.”

“Okay. Hey, are you gonna look at the window display I made?”

He sounded so eager that she smiled. She’d forgotten that she had given him free rein
to do something with the two political autobiographies that had been gathering dust
for a week. So distracted had she been by thoughts of Curt that she’d walked right
past the window without even looking at it. She glanced over at James, who merely
nodded. She wasn’t sure if the gesture indicated a positive review of the teen’s artistic
abilities or not. But if his skills were good enough for Bill’s Books and Stuff . . .

“You should look at it from the outside,” he added. “I’ll go with you, if you want.”

“Sure,” she agreed, “but leave Hamlet in the store. He’s not allowed out of the building.”

The feline in question gave her a peeved look as Robert obediently dislodged him onto
the register counter. “Sorry, bro,” he explained as Hamlet stalked to the counter’s
far edge and sat with his back deliberately to them, “but Ms. Pettistone is, like,
the boss.”

Darla could almost hear the she’s-not-the-boss-of-me vibes emanating from the disgruntled
cat. But whether or not Hamlet liked it, she was on a campaign to keep him safely
indoors, particularly in light of recent incidents.

With Robert trailing her, she left James to deal with Hamlet’s mood and headed outside.
Unlike Hilda’s shop, which was at ground level, the windows of Darla’s bookstore were
almost head high—one reason she’d been lax in doing much more than putting out the
occasional “Big Sale” sign behind the glass. Almost any halfway competent display
would thus be an improvement. She only hoped that Robert’s efforts were not so amateurish
that she’d have to find some excuse to redo his work that wouldn’t hurt his feelings.

“So, uh, what do you think?” he asked as she dismounted the final step and turned
for a look at what he’d done.

Darla stared in surprise. The end result was as professional as any window display
that Hilda had ever created. She recognized the two table runners—one blue, one red—that
had been tucked on a shelf in the storeroom ever since she’d taken over the shop.
Robert had arranged the fabric on the broad inner sill so that the two pieces met
in the middle of the display, each half of the display space lined now in its own
color. The two authors were of different political persuasions, and she saw that he
had put their respective books on the appropriate color for their particular affiliation.
Even better, both covers featured three-quarter photos of their authors, so the two
politicians appeared to be facing each other in point-counterpoint style. In between
the figuratively dueling politicos, Robert had built a pedestal combining both of
the books, which he’d topped with a Statue of Liberty figure he must’ve found somewhere.

As a final touch, he had strung a length of red, white, and blue twinkle lights left
over from a July Fourth display like bunting from the window’s top edge. Red letters
spelling out “Hot Seller” ran along the bottom edge.

“If you don’t, you know, like it, I can change it,” Robert said in a diffident tone
when a few moments had passed and Darla still had made no comment.

Smiling, she turned toward him. “You did a wonderful job, Robert. I was simply admiring
your work. But wherever did you find Lady Liberty?”

“I remembered seeing it in Mr. Plinski’s store, and Ms. Plinski said I could borrow
it.”

“Very clever. I think I’ll make you our official window dresser from here on out.
That is, if you don’t mind taking on an extra duty.”

“Yeah, I could do that. And maybe some stuff inside, too. No offense, but the Halloween
decorations inside are kinda lame.”

Once again, the tone was offhanded, though she could see the pleased color in his
cheeks. Darla’s smile broadened. Really, Robert was a good kid despite a few annoying
quirks. She’d have to ask James if he’d noted the vest homage thing.

Then, recalling her errand, Darla’s smile faded. “Finish up the stocking with James,
and I’ll be back in a few minutes. Oh, and see if you can keep Hamlet somewhere readily
accessible. I might need him.”

“You’ve got it, boss.”

He took the stairs in two oversized hops and went back inside while she made her way
more conventionally down the few steps to Jake’s place. With luck, her friend wouldn’t
think what she was about to suggest crossed some sort of crazy-woman line.

“Hey, kid,” Jake greeted her as Darla gave a perfunctory knock and stepped inside.
Gesturing Darla to join her at the kitchen table turned desk, she asked, “How are
you holding up?”

“It’s still a bit of a shock,” Darla admitted as she sank onto one of the chrome chairs.
“I mean, Curt was a royal pain in the butt, and I didn’t much like him, but no way
did I want to see him dead, especially like that.”

“Don’t worry, you’re allowed to be upset. In fact, I’d be concerned if you weren’t.
I was a cop for twenty years, and I still wanted to puke every time I had to call
in another stiff.” She paused and gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, they claim you get
used to it after a while, but if you’re halfway human, you never really do. The kids,
they’re the hardest . . .”

She trailed off, and Darla saw a fleeting expression of remembered pain in the older
woman’s eyes before she focused back on Darla again.

“But what was all that you said on the phone about meows and witnesses?” Then, as
Darla opened her mouth to reply, Jake shook her curly mane and put out a restraining
hand. “Wait. If this involves a certain black cat, you’d better start from the very
beginning and tell me what happened from the time you arrived at the brownstone until
the police showed up.”

Darla complied, starting with Barry’s concern that the door had not been properly
locked and ending when she had left Reese and Barry at the scene—omitting, of course,
the whole “tick, tock” conversation. Jake listened intently and then flatly stated,
“Okay, so you saw cat paw prints near Curt’s body. Why would you think they belong
to Hamlet? There’s got to be two dozen feral cats in the neighborhood.”

“Yes, but remember I told you last week how I found what looked like grease on his
fur, and that I thought he was getting out of the apartment somehow? Well, the same
day that Porn Shop Bill came by to harass Robert, Curt told me that he’d seen a cat
he was sure was Hamlet running out of his building that very morning. And the prints
I saw next to Curt’s body today were pretty darned big. The feral cats I’ve seen around
the neighborhood are all scrawny things.”

Jake sighed. “All right, so maybe it
was
the little hell-raiser who was down in the dead guy’s basement. But it’s not like
Reese can drag his furry butt down to the precinct and question him about what he
saw. So why does it matter?”

“Curt’s death might still have been accidental,” Darla explained. “If it was, I-I
need to know if it was Hamlet’s fault that it happened. You’ve seen that game he plays,
running between people’s legs on the stairs. If that had something to do with Curt
falling, then I’d rather live with knowing my cat is guilty of—”

“Involuntary cat-slaughter?” Jake interjected with a hint of a smile.

Darla shot her a sour look but let that last good-natured jibe go unchallenged, knowing
there was more to come. “—of causing a fatal accident, than always wondering about
it. If you know what I mean.”

Darla took a deep breath before continuing. What she was about to say would doubtless
make her sound like a crazy cat lady despite the fact that (a) she wasn’t crazy and
(b) she wasn’t that much of a cat lover. Wincing a little, she forged on. “If Curt
was
murdered, and we can prove that Hamlet was a witness, maybe he can help identify the
killer.”

Jake’s lips twisted in what was an obvious effort to hold back a laugh, but to her
credit she merely said, “Okay, okay. What do you want me to do here?”

“Thanks, Jake,” Darla replied with genuine gratitude. “I figured maybe you could do
one of those CSI things like you see on television and test Hamlet’s paws for blood.”

“Jeeze, they ought to outlaw those shows,” Jake said with a shake of her head. “You
civilians watch that stuff and come away thinking every crime can be solved in under
sixty minutes, counting commercials, just so long as you have a full lab at your disposal.
Well, that ain’t the way it works, kid.”

“I know that, but isn’t there some sort of home test you can do?”

“Like a home pregnancy test?” Jake asked with a grin. “Yeah, actually, there is. Let
me see what I have in my bag of tricks. Wait right here.”

She headed off in the direction of her bedroom while Darla waited at the table, virtuously
resisting the temptation to do a little upside-down reading of the open file on the
table. She could see the preprinted tab on the folder with its big “A” and assumed
this was Hilda’s file. So much for Jake’s first official case.

“Here you go,” Jake said, returning to the room with a smaller version of the tackle
box the crime scene investigators had carried. “Ye olde evidence-collecting kit,”
she explained, “aka my bag of tricks.”

Popping it open, she pulled out a screw-top cylinder that resembled a skinny plastic
vitamin bottle. “We can swab Hamlet’s paws with these test strips and see if they
detect any blood residue,” she went on. “They won’t distinguish between animal or
human blood, but for some quick and dirty results, they’ll do the job.”