Words With Fiends (17 page)

And from the protective way that Tomlinson's free hand was splayed atop the obvious baby bump, Darla would almost guarantee that the sensei was the unborn child's father.

“AND SO, I FIGURE IT HAD TO BE GRACE VALENTINE WHO
broke into the sensei's office,” Darla declared to Jake the next afternoon over her half-eaten turkey Reuben. “She must have been trying to find that photo so no one would learn that Master Tomlinson was Chris's father.”

“That, or grab herself a little proof that he was,” Jake mumbled through a mouthful of chips.

Darla and the PI were having lunch at the deli while Robert and James held down the fort at the store, it being Darla's half-day off. She had texted Jake the previous night as soon as she'd gotten home from the dojo, anxious to share her discovery of the incriminating photograph.

And so, to the surrounding rhythm of their fellow diners' conversation, she had spent the past few minutes giving Jake a detailed account of everything that had happened the previous night at the dojo. As backup to her theory that Grace was the culprit, she explained about the smell of cigarette smoke that had lingered in the sensei's office once the intruder had left. Not that Grace was the only smoker to hang out at the dojo. During her short tenure there, Darla had caught any number of parents and adult students, including Mark, sneaking a cigarette between classes. But who else other than Grace would have wanted that picture of her and the sensei?

More important, Darla needed Jake's opinion as to what, if anything, she should tell Reese about what she had found in the file cabinet. Technically, she might be accused of interfering with a police investigation by rummaging through those photos . . . a fact that hadn't occurred to her until the wee hours of the morning when she was still trying to get to sleep. And so she waited anxiously for Jake's take on it all.

As soon as Darla finished, the PI put down her own half-eaten sandwich, settled back in her chair, and sighed. “All right, kid, first things first. Please tell me you left the picture exactly where you found it.”

“I did. I even turned it backwards like it was originally.”

“Good.” Jake shook her curly head and then, leaning forward again, gave Darla a stern look. “Now, not to point out the obvious, but haven't you been hanging out with me and Reese long enough to know not to stick your nose into a police investigation? And don't give me any of that crap about good intentions and all that,” she added when Darla opened her mouth to defend herself. “Reese's job—and he's actually pretty darned good at it—is to figure out who killed the guy. Your job is to stay the hell out of the way so he can do his job. Got it?”

“Got it,” Darla muttered, feeling chastened. Jake was right, of course, but that didn't make the lecture any easier to take. Picking up her cell phone from the table, she asked in a humble tone, “So, should I give him a call now and tell him what an idiot I am?”

“I have a feeling he already knows about the idiot part,” Jake replied, though she tempered the insult with a small smile. “And, yeah, give him a call once we're done here. Just make sure you put on your fireproof undies, first.”

“I was thinking more on the lines of a whole fireproof jumpsuit,” was Darla's ironic reply. “I expect Reese to stop by, anyhow, since Hal said he'd call in to report the break-in. So if you hear any yelling coming from my place later, you'll know why.”

“Yeah, he'll yell a little . . . okay, probably a lot,” Jake corrected herself, her smile broadening, “but between you and me, your buddy Hal probably destroyed more evidence than you did when he went all Bruce Lee on the place. Not that Reese and the boys didn't already take any papers out of that office that they figured were pertinent to the case, but they wouldn't necessarily know the significance of that picture.”

“That's what I figured,” Darla said. Then she added, “So do you think I'm right? Do you think this photo is what Grace was looking for?”

Jake held up a forefinger.

“First, we don't know for sure that she was the one who broke in. You said yourself that you couldn't make out much in the way of description. I don't suppose you stuck around to see if this Valentine woman picked up her kid after class?”

“I couldn't really justify hanging around at that point, so no, I didn't wait around. But I smelled cigarette smoke, and Hank and Hal don't smoke. Grace does.”

“Yeah, and so do about fifty million other people in this country.” Jake flashed a second finger, looking like a Boy Scout making his oath. “Now, second, we don't know that your burglar necessarily broke in to steal something. Maybe he/she/them broke in to
leave
something for someone to find . . . something like that lovely baby bump picture that just happened to prove that your sensei wasn't the fine upstanding guy everyone thought he was.”

Darla had reached for her sandwich again and taken another bite. As the import of Jake's last words occurred to her, however, she almost choked. She chased that bite down her throat with several gulps of ice water and then managed, “Wait, you're saying Grace—or whoever—might have
wanted
the police to find the picture?”

“Makes sense,” was Jake's response as she tackled her meal again. “I kinda doubt your Master Tomlinson would keep an incriminating photo like that in his file drawer for anyone to stumble across. Besides,” she added, “it was pretty convenient that it just happened to be turned backwards and on end in the pile, so that someone would be bound to turn it over for a look.”

“You're right. There were so many pictures that I might have flipped right past it if it hadn't been put in there wrong. Do you think that's why someone murdered him, because he knocked up Grace Valentine sixteen years ago?”

Darla frowned. Her first impulse was to chalk it up to Grace's husband . . . though, come to think of it, she really didn't know for sure if the woman was actually married, or if she ever had been. Maybe there wasn't any Mr. Valentine out there who'd suddenly learned the truth about his supposed son Chris's parentage and then wanted revenge. On the other hand, maybe Chris himself had discovered the truth and had gone to confront his father, and then things got out of hand. Where the Botox came in, however, she couldn't guess.

Jake, meanwhile, gave her a considering look and then shrugged.

“That's as good a motive as any. Or maybe someone is just taking advantage of the situation to do a little postmortem blackmailing. Or maybe your sensei's killer is trying to pin the murder on someone else, like this Valentine woman.” Jake paused and shook her head. “I mean, seriously, if this whole secret baby thing was hush-hush for what, fifteen or sixteen years, then it's kind of odd that it becomes a big deal right this minute.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right.”

Yet even as Darla agreed with her friend, her own disappointment in the sensei abruptly hit her like a roundhouse kick to the head. No matter how good a teacher he was, what it boiled down to was that Master Tomlinson had not only cheated on his wife, but had gotten a teenaged girl pregnant. On top of that, he'd betrayed his own stepsons, as well as the boy he had fathered. It was a hard offense to understand, let alone forgive, particularly when the man had spent years preaching to impressionable youths about core values like staying out of trouble and defending others.

Jake, meanwhile, pushed back from the table and stood. “Sorry to run, but I've got to go pack a bag and take a little trip out to Atlantic City this afternoon.”

“The Russian Bombshell?”

“Got it in one,” Jake said with a grin as she gathered up her plate and glass. “My client is getting impatient, and I've exhausted all my leads here, so I'm going with my gut. I'll be gone for a couple of days, probably, so do me a favor and grab the mail and water my African violet if it starts looking puny?”

Darla managed a smile at that last as she, too, rose.

“Sure. And if you're home by Saturday, come see me compete in the big martial arts tournament. Hal gave me and Robert our yellow belts last night, and he wanted me to compete in beginners forms, so I signed up.”

“Congratulations, kid. I'll do my best to make it. And who knows,” she added with a wink, “I might even bring a date.”

Jake wouldn't elaborate further on that last comment, however, despite Darla's good-natured badgering on the chilly walk home again. Once back at the brownstone, they said their good-byes, and then Darla hurried upstairs to change from sloppy gray sweats to brown wool slacks and a mint green sweater set that contrasted nicely with her neatly French braided auburn hair. She'd almost forgotten that the rescue people were supposed to stop by that afternoon to collect little Roma. She wanted to be there for moral support for Robert when they did, and also to serve as a character witness, if needed.

But the scene when she finally made her way down to the store was not the bucolic farewell gathering for the little hound that she had anticipated. She'd given Robert permission to bring Roma to work with him, as long as he kept her in the small pet kennel that James had brought in, or else kept her on a lead the whole time. Unfortunately, Darla had neglected to inform Hamlet of same. Now, as she made her way from her private hallway into the shop, she could hear the feline vocally protesting this intrusion into his personal domain.

“James, Robert, what in the heck is going on here?” she exclaimed over the sound of Hamlet's hissing and Roma's excited yapping. “It sounds like World War Three, animal version. James, any customers in the vicinity?” Darla asked.

The man shook his head. “Actually, I fear that the most recent vocal altercation ran off everyone who was still here.”

“Great.”

“Hamlet and Roma do not appear to be getting along well,” the manager explained unnecessarily, looking more frazzled than Darla could ever recall seeing him. “We tried separating them into different rooms, but Hamlet persists in finding her and then looming over the carrier to hiss at her in a most threatening manner. And that, in turn, causes the dog to bark.”

“Yeah, I don't know what to do,” Robert chimed in, looking equally distraught. “I thought the other day they were, you know, gonna be friends, but Hamlet is all mad and stuff. And I hate to leave her alone in the apartment if she's going away in a couple of hours.”

“Well, we need to do something,” Darla insisted, already feeling a bit frazzled by the situation, herself. “I'd take Hamlet up to the apartment—assuming he'd let me pick him up in this state—but he'd probably march right back downstairs again. If you and James think it's safe, why don't you let Roma out of the kennel, and let the two of them duke it out? Put her coat on her so she doesn't get scratched if Hamlet takes a swipe at her, and let's see how it goes.”

Robert shot a glance at James, who gave a helpless shrug. “Okay, if you're sure,” the youth replied, his tone doubtful as he dug under the counter for her gear.

Pulling out the mauve sweater, he hurried over to the kennel that, for the moment, was tucked away beside the restrooms. Hamlet, sprawled atop the plastic and wire cage, gave him the evil green eye as he approached.

Robert caught the look and stopped in his tracks.

“Whoa, he seems pretty p.o.'d,” he exclaimed. “C'mon, little bro. Let me let Roma out for a minute.”

Darla feared, at first, that Hamlet wasn't going to relinquish his post. But to her relief, the feline slid down the kennel's side and stalked a short distance away, where he dropped to the ground and flung a hind leg over one shoulder to lick his hindquarters in what was his official cat version of flipping the bird.

“Yep, p.o.'d,” Darla agreed as Robert knelt beside the carrier and opened the door. Taking the wriggling little dog into his lap, he slipped the sweater over her and pulled the hood up over her ear tips. A moment later, Roma was fully protected against flailing cat claws everywhere but paws and tail and long narrow snout.

“Let's get this experiment over with, then, before those two put us out of business. Robert,” she addressed the youth, “go ahead and let Roma go, but be ready to grab her if things get out of hand.”

“Right, boss.”

Gingerly, he let the little greyhound loose, and then got to his feet. As the three of them anxiously watched, Roma gave herself a big shake. Then, making her little play bow, she pranced in the direction where Hamlet still studiously groomed himself, her tiny nails clicking against the wooden floor.

Hamlet flicked a black ear in her direction and halted in mid-lick. Then, in a single fluid move, he untangled himself so that he was standing on all four paws again facing her, green eyes watchful.

This, apparently, was encouragement to the little dog. Roma gave a tiny, commanding bark and waved a paw in his direction. When Hamlet made no move, she pranced forward a few more steps, until cat and dog were almost nose-to-nose.

“Hamlet, be nice to the puppy,” Darla said in an encouraging tone, wincing a little as Roma gave another yap right in the cat's face.

Hamlet's green eyes widened, and he hissed like a cobra on steroids. Darla tensed, ready to fling herself into the fray if needed. And then, to her astonishment, Hamlet gave a small
meowrmph
before turning and casually trotting back toward the register.

Roma gave another little yip and pranced after him, keeping a polite distance between them. As Hamlet reached the counter, he gave a graceful bound and landed near the register. There he stretched and then, kicking aside the karate tournament fliers Darla had piled there, settled into a neat inky ball. Roma reached the counter and sat, her long nose pointing curiously at the cat above her. Apparently satisfied, she stood again and spun in a few quick circles. Then she plopped into a similar neat mauve huddle on the floor, directly beneath where Hamlet lay, and proceeded to go to sleep.

“Epic,” Robert decreed, all smiles now. “Maybe Hamlet, you know, just didn't like seeing her in the kennel.”