A Novel Way to Die (17 page)

“Illegal?” Darla gave a doubtful look at the debris scattered around the container.
Great, last thing she needed was to be handling toxic waste. “Um, maybe I should rescind
my offer about helping you pick things up.”

“Actually, I’d appreciate the hand. And I swear, the only thing there’s a problem
with is that stack of floor covering.”

He pointed to a small pile of what was arguably the ugliest kitchen linoleum that
Darla had ever seen. “Given its age, there’s a good chance that the backing is made
with asbestos, but we didn’t take the time to test it. But we did handle it real carefully
and cut it up with knives, so there isn’t any dust or fibers.”

When Darla gave him a stern look, he sighed and added, “How about I do it by the book?
I’ll bag up the pieces and pay a guy I know to come get it, okay?”

“Forget the asbestos. My eyes will never be the same again now that I’ve seen this
stuff. It should be stored in one of those secret government warehouses so it never
sees the light of day again,” she replied with another disbelieving glance at the
flooring. Seriously, who in their right minds could have thought that pink and purple
squiggles on a background of grayish-green made for an attractive pattern?

Barry grinned. “Thanks for understanding. I’m all for safety, but sometimes Big Brother
goes a bit overboard, and you get tempted to take a few shortcuts. Now, let me see
if there are some extra gloves lying around that will fit you.”

While he went back inside the brownstone to search, Darla stood on tiptoe and gingerly
peered inside the container, even though Reese had assured her that Tera’s cell phone
was the only thing inside it connected to the girl. The immediate sight of a long
and quite body-shaped form wrapped in heavy black sheeting almost gave her a heart
attack, until she noticed that the plastic had been pulled open to reveal several
more strips of pink insulation. Looking more closely, she could see that Reese apparently
had torn into anything that wasn’t solid, for several other bags and bundles of trash
had spilled their contents, too.

“Find anything else?”

The sound of Barry’s voice unexpectedly behind her made her yelp in surprise; then,
feeling sheepish, she turned to meet his wry gaze.

“Just putting my mind at rest,” she told him as she took the gloves he held out to
her and pulled them on. And then, abruptly, she felt a few tears slip down her cheek.

“Sorry,” she added, swiping away the unexpected moisture from her face. “I didn’t
know Curt all that well, but this whole thing—his death, Tera going missing—has had
a real impact on me. And you probably think I’m just being some sort of drama queen,
since you’re standing there all stoic, and you’re the one who was Curt’s friend.”

To her relief, Barry smiled and shook his head. “Frankly, I’d think a whole lot less
of you if you didn’t care.”

Darla managed a smile back. “I guess I just need to know that whoever killed him will
be punished, and I need Tera to come home safe and sound again. And I’m not sure that’s
going to happen . . . not for either of them.”

She gave an idle kick at the nearest pile of debris. “Here, let’s get this cleaned
up. I left the store in a bit of a hurry. If I’m not back soon, James will be tracking
me
down on my cell.”

Together, they began picking up the scattered construction leftovers. They were making
swift progress loading the trash back into the Dumpster when a flash of pink wedged
in a splintered board caught Darla’s eye and made her pause. Barry didn’t notice she
had stopped, as he was wrestling with a heavy coil of electrical wire that had come
undone and turned into what looked like an oversized spring toy.

Frowning, she extracted what appeared to be a broken piece of pink plastic about the
size of a dime that had been caught in crack in the wood. It was the same bubblegum
shade as Tera’s phone and looked like it had probably come from one of those plastic
snap-on protectors. The piece she held could have broken off when something heavier
landed on the phone. She almost tossed it back into the Dumpster but then shrugged
and tucked it into her pants pocket. It probably wouldn’t do Reese any good, but it
seemed like evidence. She’d hang on to it anyhow and give it to him next time she
saw him.

A few minutes later, they had finished the cleanup and were both sweating despite
the coolness of the late afternoon. Barry tossed a final paint roller into the container
and then whipped off his gloves to swab his gleaming forehead with the back of his
hand. “That’s all of it. Let’s get you back to the store so I can head home for a
shower before we meet tonight.”

Darla pulled off her own gloves and used them to slap at the plaster dust that now
clung to her blue corduroy pants. “I need to clean up a little, too, after our workout,”
she assured him with a smile.

A short time later, she was back at the bookstore. After reconfirming the time for
their date and making her hasty good-byes to Barry, she rushed into the store. “Sorry
for leaving you in the lurch,” she told James, surprised when she glanced at the wall
clock to see that she’d been gone for almost two hours. “I stuck around to help Barry
clean up after Reese tossed a Dumpster’s worth of junk into his yard.”

“And what of Ms. Aguilar and her phone?”

“Believe it or not, Reese found the phone in all that mess. Thank God he didn’t find
Tera in there, too. But still, I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

James gave a thoughtful nod. “I agree, the situation is not promising. Do you know
if Detective Reese thinks the girl has come to harm?”

“He’s not saying, as usual. The only one he’ll talk to is Jake, and she’s got that
whole code-of-silence thing going on, too.”

Idly, she picked up the graphic novel copy of Poe’s work that she had left on the
counter in her rush. “Hamlet’s the only one besides the killer who might know what
happened, and he’s not talking, either . . . at least, not so I can understand him.
How does this”—she waved the novel in her manager’s direction—“tie in with
The Man in the Iron Mask
?”

James had just assumed the supercilious look of a self-satisfied professor preparing
to launch into another lecture, when the shop door jangled and Mark Poole—he of the
recent book club flounce—strolled back in. “Hi, Darla . . . hi, James,” he called,
“I, er, forgot to pick up that romance novel that my mom wanted. But I can’t remember
the title. Maybe you can help?”

“Ten to one he’s buying it for himself,” Darla murmured to her manager while giving
the customer a friendly wave. Then, in a normal tone, she added, “I’ll go take care
of Mr. Poole. Why don’t you take your break now, James, and I’ll keep an eye on things.
But let me know if you think up any clever theories while you’re at it.”

She tossed the graphic novel back on top of the copy of the Dumas book. Passing by
Hamlet, who was lounging, paws in the air, atop the green beanbag in the kids’ section,
she told him, “Feel free to use the keyboard and just type out a name anytime now.”

Hamlet flipped over onto his side and gave her a cool green look as if to say,
I’ve done my part, clueless human. Now go prove why you’re supposedly the dominant
species.
Which wasn’t much help at all.

Once Darla had rung up her customer and James had returned from his break—minus any
additional literary insights, as he made sure to inform her—they agreed he could finish
out the shift alone. Darla headed back upstairs to her apartment to shower and rest
before her date with Barry later that night.

What she didn’t tell James was that her plans for the evening also included keeping
an eye on the store’s security cameras throughout the night. For it had occurred to
her that afternoon that maybe she’d given over the henhouse to the fox by leaving
Robert in charge of reviewing the previous night’s videos. Much as she hated to suspect
the teen of anything, she couldn’t dismiss the unsettled feeling she had that something
was going on with Robert. She needed to reassure herself that he wasn’t wandering
around her place or the Plinskis’ building in the dark of night looking for scrap
metal to steal.

And part of that reassurance meant that before she called it a day at the store, she
was going to reset the two exterior cameras.

FIFTEEN

IT WAS QUARTER TO EIGHT WHEN, AFTER SWITCHING ON THE
television to the pet channel, she left behind a decidedly peeved Hamlet and started
in the direction of the Greek restaurant, the modestly named Greek Restaurant. Though
darkness had long since fallen, the streetlights and passing traffic served to illuminate
her way. That, and plenty of early evening foot traffic—it was Friday night, after
all—made the walk one she normally would not have hesitated over. But the fact that
an as-yet unsolved murder had occurred only two blocks away kept her looking over
her shoulder more than usual during the short walk.

And she was not the only one, she noticed. Word of the murder had traveled quickly
around the neighborhood, and she noticed her fellow passersby scuttling along at a
faster pace than she was used to seeing. Greek Restaurant,
like similar establishments she’d seen in the city, resembled an authentic taverna
with a whitewashed exterior and rough wooden benches set beneath window boxes filled
with flowers—obviously artificial, given the time of year, Darla thought with a smile.

Barry stood at the head of a small line that had formed outside the wooden doors as
the would-be diners waited to get in. Instead of his usual plaster-streaked jeans,
tonight he wore brown dress slacks, and his gray hooded sweatshirt had been replaced
by a blue and brown tweed sport coat over a beige shirt. At the sight of him, she
was glad that under her own lightweight black wool coat she’d opted for a soft, calf-length
knit dress in forest green topped by a fringed Spanish shawl in jewel tones, rather
than her go-to fall work uniform of slacks and bulky sweater.

“Perfect timing,” he greeted her, his gaze appreciative. “And I really like your hair
all pinned up and poufy like that.” Then, with a gesture at the door, he added, “Let’s
hope the food is as good as it smells from out here.”

It was. Half an hour later, Darla was blissfully making her way through a salad of
red onions, black olives, tomatoes, and cucumbers topped by an herb-encrusted slab
of feta. When Barry playfully made as if to steal one of her stuffed grape leaves,
she wielded her fork like a tined sword and warned him, “Don’t even think about it.”

The entrée was even better. After some debate, they had decided to share a platter
of dolma, spanakopita, souvlaki, broiled scampi, and mousaka. Darla considered saving
a shrimp to bring home to Hamlet as a peace offering for leaving him on his own. After
a second glass of a soft red wine, however, she decided the heck with it and finished
the final piece herself.

Their dinner conversation was deliberately light, with both of them avoiding the subject
of Curt and Tera. Darla regaled Barry with the seamy underside of selling books, while
he obliged with bloodless horror stories about his previous career in banking. And
again, Darla found herself thinking that Barry was what they called “a nice guy,”
and that nice was a pleasant change from what she had lived with in the past. It wasn’t
until they were walking back toward Darla’s place a couple of hours later that talk
turned to the subject of that afternoon’s find.

“So, have you heard anything back from that detective about the phone in my Dumpster?”
Barry asked when they paused for a stoplight.

Darla shook her head, the pleasant light-headedness she’d been feeling from the wine
wearing off with this turn of conversation. “No, nothing,” she assured him. “Besides,
he wouldn’t discuss an active case with me anyhow.”

Not that she hadn’t given Jake a call earlier that evening to see if the older woman
would at least give her an idea of what was going on. But Jake had been either legitimately
busy or else deliberately avoiding her calls, for both attempts had gone to voice
mail.

Barry let the subject drop, and their conversation for the remainder of their walk
was of pleasant inconsequentials. But as they reached the stoop leading to Darla’s
private entrance, he said, “Just so you know, I’ll be heading out on Sunday morning
for Connecticut. Curt’s funeral will be on Monday, and I want to be there beforehand
for his mom and sister.”

“I’m sure they’ll be glad of your support. Is there anything I can do for you while
you’re gone? Water a plant, feed a fish?” she offered before she realized she had
no idea where the man actually lived.

To her relief, he shook his head.

“No plants, no fish,” he replied with a slight smile, “but I appreciate the thought.
But let me know if you hear anything about that business with the phone. I’m not counting
on your detective friend to keep me in the loop.”

“Sure, but I’ll need your number,” she reminded him.

He smiled and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Sorry, I forgot,” he said and hit
a button that caused Darla’s phone to ring a moment later.

She shot him a look of surprise as she pressed the “Talk” button and then shut it
off again. “How did you get my cell number? I only ever give out the store number
to customers.”

“Oh, that.” He gave her a wry look. “Actually, I got it from Curt a while back . . .
you know, just in case. I hope you’re not mad.”

She considered that for a moment. Apparently, the whole time she’d been wondering
about him, he’d been thinking about her.

“Hey, at least you didn’t hang some huge ‘Darla Will You Date Me?’ sign on my door.
That definitely would have rated stalker.” Smiling back, she slipped her phone into
her pocket. “Anyhow, I guess I’ve got your number now.”

“Guess you do,” he answered, and leaned forward to kiss her.

A bit later, as she let herself back into her apartment, she reflected that the kiss—like
Barry—had been nice. Not earth-shattering, and not off-putting, but somewhere pleasantly
in between. Which was all right for a first date . . . and which boded well for a
second.

“Hamlet, I’m home,” she called as she set down her bag and hung her coat on the peg.

Hamlet did not reply, which was par for the course. As she made a quick sweep through
the apartment, she did not find him in any of his usual lounging spots. She realized
with a growing sense of unease that he was not anywhere inside, meaning he had either
slipped downstairs into the store or had once again fled the building completely.

“Glad I didn’t bring you that shrimp,” she said to his absent self as she went into
her bedroom to change. Her blue and gold comforter—the one she’d bought upon moving
in because of its calming vibe—bore no cat-shaped wrinkles. Only a scattering of black
hairs indicated that Hamlet occasionally took a nap there.

“Fine, run away from home just like Tera,” she added as she changed into sweats, “but
don’t expect me to hire Jake to find you. And I’m not leaving the lights on, either.”

The one-sided conversation reminded her to check the security cameras. Maybe now with
the camera angle rearranged, she’d get lucky and spot where the crafty feline was
sneaking out. She glanced at her watch to see that it was almost eleven p.m. Even
if she didn’t spy Hamlet skulking about, at least she could reassure herself that
things in the vicinity of Pettistone’s Fine Books were quiet for the night.

Returning to the living room and the rolltop desk where she kept her laptop, Darla
turned on her computer and pulled up the security program.
So far, so good
, she thought with a look at the live camera shots. She’d take a quick look at what
had been recorded so far and then check periodically through the night on the live
action.

But the two glasses of wine from dinner combined with the stress of the past few days
began to take a toll on her. She found herself nodding off as she stared at an unchanging
screen. She had reached the point of dragging herself off her chair for a dozen jumping
jacks every few minutes just to keep herself awake, when an image flashed on the courtyard
camera that abruptly brought her to full wakefulness.

Swiftly, she backed through the video and played it again, this time at half speed
so that she wouldn’t miss anything. The first indication anything was amiss was when
a dark figure scaled the courtyard gate. He shifted something on his shoulder—a backpack!—and
then swiftly moved to one side, as if he knew the camera would catch his movements
should he walk straight ahead. But what the intruder didn’t know was that the cameras
were no longer at the same angle they’d covered the previous night.

Which also meant that Robert had no idea he’d been caught on video unrolling his sleeping
bag and heading toward a corner spot right outside the shop’s courtyard door.

Heart pounding, Darla hurriedly switched the courtyard camera back to live mode. She
had finally replaced the burned-out lightbulb in the exterior fixture, which she routinely
left on overnight, so that a dim glow illuminated much of the bricked patio within
those walls. Now, the courtyard appeared empty. But she knew that even though she
had repositioned the camera earlier that day, small blind spots still existed to either
side of the door. And she’d seen Robert, sleeping bag in hand, heading toward one
of those corners.

The question was, was he still there, hidden now from camera view?

She flipped the view to the playback and swiftly checked the date stamp. Sure enough,
the digital time stamp on the video showed that Robert had climbed over the gate but
a few minutes before she and Barry had parted company at her front stoop. With the
store long since closed for the day, he had no legitimate reason to have returned . . .
certainly, no legitimate reason to climb over a locked gate and prowl about her courtyard!

If she hurried downstairs, Darla thought in outrage, she might still catch the teen
in the act of whatever it was that he was doing. She stuck her keys in her pocket
and then grabbed her cell phone, ready for confrontation.

Abruptly, the image of Curt lying dead in the basement flashed through her mind. He
had been unarmed when he had encountered someone—perhaps Robert?—on his property in
the middle of the night. If Curt, who had been a good six inches taller and eighty
pounds heavier than Darla, had not been able to defend himself, then what were the
chances she could?

“So call Jake for backup,” she told herself and quickly dialed.

Once again, however, the call went directly to the ex-cop’s voice mail. “It’s me,
Darla,” she said in a rush. “I think Robert is downstairs in the courtyard, maybe
trying to find something he can sell for scrap. I’m going down there now.”

And if things go badly
, she grimly told herself,
at least Jake will have a record of my last minutes without having to rely on Hamlet
for clues.
Darla glanced around the living room and spied the clublike rain stick that Great-Aunt
Dee had brought back from Chile still propped in the corner. Once before, she’d grabbed
it up, prepared to defend herself when she thought an intruder had broken into her
apartment. It might not be as effective a weapon as a crowbar, but it was better than
nothing.

A few moments later she had let herself into the store via the hall entry door, quickly
shutting off the alarm. As always, the shop was dark save for a single light she kept
on over the register. Silently as possible—though surely no one in the courtyard could
hear her footsteps—she made her way to the back door, debating as she did so the best
way to handle the situation. She could shut off the alarm and stealthily crack open
the door for a cautious look . . . or she could fling open the door and use the element
of surprise to her advantage. So what would Jake do in that situation?

Element of surprise
, she decided.

Setting down the rain stick next to the door, she turned on her phone and punched
in three numbers. That accomplished, she picked up the stick again and tucked it under
one arm before gently turning the dead bolt. The lock made a quiet metallic click
as it released, and she winced, certain the sound could be heard in the courtyard.
She waited a moment, hand on knob, for the scramble of feet beyond; then, when all
remained silent, she took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

“I’ve dialed 9-1-1, Robert,” she called out, holding up her cell in one hand and clutching
her makeshift club in the other. “You’ve got one second to tell me what you’re doing
here.”

“Mmmph?” came a groggy answer from the shadows, followed by, “Hey, Ms. Pettistone,
please don’t call the cops! I can explain.”