Words With Fiends (6 page)

Darla hesitated. The situation was rapidly leaving woo-woo land and careening straight into Crazyville. But if Brody knew a way to snap Hamlet out of his funk, then off to Crazyville she'd go with him. “So, how do I help Hamlet, uh, atone?”

“I'm not sure, and he wasn't able—or willing—to tell me. That's something you and Hamlet will have to figure out for yourselves. And if that doesn't work . . . well, I've found that the Universe has a way of shaking things up for you when you need shaking up.”

Then, when Darla stared at him, he added, “I always include a free follow-up visit on any consultation, so I'll pop back in sometime in the next week or so to see if there's any progress. And you have my card, so feel free to call me if you need to chat before then.”

With another guileless smile, he made his way to the door, his hand carefully wrapped in his coat as he turned the knob and wandered out into the crisp morning air.

“Well, that was special,” Darla announced to the empty store, unable to contain her disappointment. She wasn't certain what she'd expected to happen from this visit, but what she did know was that she could have left Hamlet to his own devices without benefit of Brody's consultation and accompanying exorbitant fee!

On the other hand, maybe Mr. Feline Behavioral Empath had communicated something of value that would put Hamlet's cat brain in motion and jog him from his apathy.

She repeated the same sentiment to James and Robert a couple of hours later when they arrived for their shifts.

“My main worry,” she finished, while both Robert and James listened intently, “is that he's not eating like he should, and he's not getting any exercise.”

“I hardly think he is going to shrivel up from hunger,” James replied. “Cats do have a strong sense of self-preservation. But perhaps there is something to Mr. Raywinkle's theory about allowing him to perform a service. Suppose that we stage an event that would require Hamlet's intervention?”

“I could, like, pretend to hurt myself so he could run get help,” Robert suggested, and promptly performed a dramatic pratfall worthy of a professional comedian.

Impressed, Darla reached a hand to help him up again. “That would make a great YouTube video,” she conceded, “but Hamlet is too smart to be taken in by something that obvious.”

“Okay, then, what about a shoplifter?” the youth countered with equal enthusiasm as he dusted himself off. “I can get a friend to, you know, pretend to steal a book in front of him. Hamlet can pounce on him and save the day.”

“Not altruistic enough,” Darla declared, while James nodded his agreement. “I hate to say it, but if Brody is right, the only way Hamlet will recover is if he overcomes a situation similar to the one that sent him into this tailspin in the first place.”

Which meant that the doughty cat would have to face down another killer. And not only was that something that Darla would never allow, it wasn't like she had any desire to conjure up a murderer strictly for therapeutic purposes!

Discouraged now, she exchanged looks with Robert and James, who both appeared equally discouraged. Then the latter shook his head.

“I am certain we will find some way to perk him up again. Maybe Jake will have a suggestion.”

But Jake, too, proved of little help when they met that evening at Thai Me Up. After they'd settled in their favorite window spot at the restaurant, Darla gave her friend a blow-by-blow account of her conversation with Brody.

“I really don't know what to do with Hamlet now,” she finished and took a miserable stab at the last curry puff on their appetizer platter. “If Brody is right, and Hamlet really is trying to atone, this might never get resolved. Any brilliant suggestions?”

“'Fraid not, kid. I could use a few brilliant suggestions, myself. I haven't had much luck tracking down Alex's mother.”

“Mrs. Putin,” Darla exclaimed. “Sorry, I forgot about her, worrying about Hamlet all day. What happened?”

“I made the rounds of all her usual places . . . the greengrocer, the beauty parlor, a couple of other places. Heck, I even bit the bullet and got my nails done at her favorite salon,” Jake said, waving one hand to display a French manicure before reaching for her soup spoon. “But either no one knew where she was, or no one was saying.”

“Talk about sacrificing all for your work,” Darla murmured, momentarily distracted by the sight of her friend's white-tipped nails. While Jake had been known to indulge in a dramatic slash of red lipstick when a night out demanded it, Darla had never actually seen the woman sporting fingernail polish before. Then, recalling herself to the subject at hand, she added, “Do you think Mrs. Putin left the city?”

“That's a strong possibility. I've got a couple more leads to follow up on tomorrow. If they don't pan out, I'll rent a heap and head out of town.”

She paused to take a sip of coconut soup, and then added with a grin, “Hey, maybe I can recruit Hamlet to help. He's pretty good at unraveling mysteries. I can stick him in a harness, give him one of Mrs. Putin's old babushkas to sniff, and let him do the bloodhound thing around the city.”

“Cute,” Darla deadpanned. “You supply the harness, and I'll run out and get him a meerschaum pipe and a magnifying glass.”

“Aw, c'mon, kid, I'm just trying to cheer you up.”

“I guess I'd be in a cheerier mood if I knew for sure what was ailing him. I mean, when you think about it, the idea of a cat seeking atonement is pretty crazy.”

“Yeah, well, not as crazy as getting one of those live fish pedicures.”

“What? You don't mean . . .”

Jake gave a rueful nod, and Darla stared at her in horrified amusement. She'd heard about spas that offered exotic services like a foot soak in water teeming with tiny carp whose job was to nibble away at your dead skin. Surely Jake hadn't gone the extra mile in her investigation and had a fish pedicure, too!

“You actually let minnows chew on your feet? But I thought that kind of thing was illegal in New York City.”

“Technically, yes, but people like Mrs. Putin don't care about that. Kind of like Cinderella's stepsisters . . . they'll do anything if someone says it's the latest beauty fad.” She shrugged, her smile broadening. “If you've got the cash and know who to ask, let's just say that you, too, can have baby-smooth tootsies like me.”

“Ugh, I'll live with the calluses. So other than getting your feet munched on, I guess that spa was a bust, too?”

“With a capital B. Those girls who work these salons are tough cookies. Bribes, pleas, threats . . . none of that works on them. This one is going to take good old legwork to solve.”

Darla gave her a commiserating smile. “You'll find her. But whatever you do, don't come back with hennaed hair tomorrow.”

“Not a chance,” the older woman retorted and shook her curly black mane. “But some gal in leopard-print heels slipped me a card for a Botox party at her house. That, I might check out.”

“A Botox party?” Darla echoed. “Now you're really out of my league. What in the heck is that?”

“Pretty much what it sounds like. A bunch of middle-aged women, a lot of wine and cheese, and a doctor—or someone who plays a doctor on television—who drops in to inject everyone's wrinkly foreheads with Botox.”

“No thanks,” Darla said with a shudder. “A woman at my old job invited me to a microdermabrasion party once, but I had a night class and couldn't go. Talk about dodging a bullet. I think the esthetician was slugging down the wine with the rest of them, because my friend came to work the next day looking like hamburger.”

“Hmm, good point on the wine. If I decide to get Botoxed, I'll give the doc a breathalyzer test first. Now, let's get back to Hamlet. Have you thought about getting a kitten for him to buddy up with?”

“A kitten?” Darla gave a doubtful frown. “I'm sure Brody would have suggested that already if he'd thought it would work. And you know Hamlet. It's hard enough to get him to play nice with the customers. I can't see him sharing the place with another cat.”

“Maybe a change of scenery, then. Find a pet-friendly place down the shore. It's off-season, so you could get something cheap for a long weekend.”

“Hey, now that's not a bad idea,” Darla eagerly agreed. “I know that the farthest Hamlet has ever traveled has been to the vet's office. Forget that whole atonement thing. A whiff of salt air might just snap him out of his funk.”

She paused while the waitress served their steaming plates of pad Thai and then added, “I'll talk to Brody about it when he stops in next week for the follow-up visit. If he thinks it's worth a shot, I'll start looking for a weekend rental. And if you find Mrs. Putin in time, maybe you can take off work and come along with us.”

“Sure, it might be fun,” the older woman agreed. “Not that we'll get in any swimming this time of year, but we could do the big-pot-of-clam-chowder and bonfire-on-the-beach thing at night. And during the day, Hamlet can lounge inside on the windowsill and watch the little birdies skittering around on the beach.”

“It's a plan,” Darla agreed, feeling far more cheerful now than when she'd first walked into the restaurant. In fact, both she and Hamlet would likely benefit from a little getaway. She hadn't had a vacation since she'd moved up to New York, and life had been more than a little crazy—not to mention terrifying, at times—in the interim.

And if Jake's idea didn't work? Then she'd just have to wait around for the whole shaking Universe thing that Brody had talked about . . . and hope that he didn't mean a literal earthquake.

“YELLOW BELT, HERE I COME,” ROBERT DECLARED,
punctuating those words with a
“hi-yaa”
and a leaping front kick that drew a halfhearted smile from Darla.

She and Robert were on their way to the dojo, gear bags bouncing against their hips as they hurried to make their eleven o'clock appointment. They weren't the only ones out and about. The sun was shining on this crisp Sunday morning, and locals bundled in scarves and light jackets wandered the sidewalks in search of coffee or brunch. Darla was dressed even more casually than the people they passed, having donned a well-worn green velour track suit and a white down vest for the short walk. Normally, she would have opted for something that didn't make her look like a 1980s throwback, but this morning fashion was the least of her worries.

Noting Darla's lack of enthusiasm, the teen slowed and asked, “Are you, like, nervous about the test or something?”

“No, not a bit,” Darla promptly lied.

Robert nodded. “I'm not either,” he agreed, only to confess in the next breath, “Well, maybe, you know, a little.

Darla definitely felt his pain. It wasn't that she didn't know the katas they'd be tested on, she reminded herself. She had those kicking and punching routines down pat. Rather, she was suffering from the same stage fright that, years earlier, had left her frozen on the splintered stage of the Sam Houston elementary school, unable to remember the words to the prelude of
Evangeline
.

Darla grimaced at the decades-old memory. With a proud smile for her teacher, Mrs. Morgan, she had skipped onto the stage that day prepared to recite her poem as her part of the annual grade school talent show. Mindful of her poem's setting, she had dressed in a flowered dress that was her best attempt at evoking nature. Then, as she smoothed her bright red pigtails and squared her shoulders, she had glimpsed the audience seated beyond the blinding spotlight.

That had been her undoing.

She had managed to choke out the opening lines about the forest primeval and its murmuring pines and hemlocks, but then her eight-year-old mind had gone totally blank. She'd never forgotten the snickering from the audience, or the disappointed look on Mrs. Morgan's face. Ever afterward, she'd been dogged by a fear of public performance that even a stint in Toastmasters hadn't totally erased. And how much more public could you get than wearing what basically was white pj's while performing stylized punches and kicks? To be sure, she'd dodged the “public” portion of that bullet today, since it would be just the three of them; still, she couldn't help feeling nervous about her upcoming performance.

Robert, meanwhile, was trying to cheer them both up with a similar rationale. “Hey, at least we won't have the whole class watching today. Just think, when we move up higher in the ranks, we'll have to do this in front of a whole committee of black belts . . . Master Tomlinson, and the Steroid Twins, and probably even that punk Chris.”

“Great,” Darla muttered. “Maybe I'll stick with yellow belt for a while.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Master Tomlinson is fair and stuff, but those other dudes—”

Robert broke off in mid-sentence and halted, his gear bag almost smacking Darla. Reflexively, she brushed aside his swinging bag with the same defensive technique she'd learned at the last class. Then, concerned he was about to talk himself out of the challenge, she gave the teen an encouraging smile.

“Take a deep breath and don't think about that now. Remember, today it's just going to be the sensei who—”

He cut her short and pointed. “Look, over by the door.”

They were less than half a block from the dojo now, close enough to see the pair of red fu dogs that flanked its entry. But today the concrete beasts did not guard the studio alone. Following Robert's gaze, Darla could just make out a small gray and white muzzle poking from behind one of the statues.

“It's Roma!” Robert cried. “What's she doing outside in the cold?”

Together, they sprinted the remaining distance to the dojo, where they were greeted by the tiny hound. Bolting from behind her stone sibling, she gave a sharp bark in Darla and Robert's direction, and then began pawing at the dojo door.

“She must have slipped outside, and Master Tomlinson didn't realize it,” Darla exclaimed as she tried the knob. The dojo entry was unlocked, and she had barely pushed open the door a few inches when Roma dashed in.

“Poor thing, she must have been freezing out there,” Darla added as she and Robert entered, too. Then, smiling a little as she closed the door after them, she added, “Listen to her still barking. She's telling her daddy he'd better never let that happen again.”

Their footsteps echoed as they made their way through the shadowed vestibule area, its gallery of darkened photos reminding Darla of some ill-lit museum. In contrast, fluorescent light streamed from the training area, where in the next few minutes she and Robert would be showing their martial arts mettle. They made their way around the divider to see a long table that held stacks of paper, no doubt registrations for the upcoming tournament.

“Master Tomlinson!” Darla called as they reached the mat. “It's Darla and Robert, here for our belt test.”

She expected the man to step out from the dressing area, for Roma was barking and bounding before those doors like a hound on springs. No one answered her greeting, and she exchanged an uncertain look with Robert. “I don't understand. He knew we were coming, and the front door was unlocked. Where did he go?”

“He must be out looking for Roma,” the teen exclaimed. Dropping to one knee, he set down his gym bag and clapped his hands, trying to entice the dog to him. “He must have, you know, figured that she snuck out, and he doesn't know she's back.”

“You're right, that makes sense. He's probably worried sick about her.”

Roma, meanwhile, had rushed over to Robert and was anxiously pawing him with one delicate foot. He reached out to scoop her in his arms, but she wriggled away and began barking again. Watching the hound's antics, Darla shook her head.

“Hush, Roma, bad girl,” she lightly scolded the pup. To Robert, she added, “Why don't you go ahead and get changed into your gi. I'm going to take a look outside for Master Tomlinson. With any luck, he's somewhere right here on the block, and I can let him know that Roma's just fine.”

“Okay, sure,” Robert agreed, getting to his feet again, and grabbing his bag. “Roma, c'mon with me.”

Roma bounded after him. Darla dropped her bag at the mat's edge and headed back toward the reception area. Having once lost Hamlet, she could readily imagine the man's concern. It was obvious to anyone who'd ever seen man and dog together how much he doted on the little canine. With luck, he was searching in the immediate neighborhood; and, even better, perhaps he'd realize that the wayward hound had made her way back to the dojo.

Passing by the front reception desk, she saw posted on the wall a list of cell phone numbers, two of which belonged to Hank and Hal. If Master Tomlinson didn't return soon, maybe she should try to call—

A shriek from the vicinity of the training area momentarily froze Darla in her tracks.

“Robert! Is that you?” she shouted back, forgetting her errand and rushing back toward the main studio. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Hurry! Help!” came a frantic, sobbing scream that she barely recognized as belonging to the teen.

Darla rushed across the mat. The door to the dressing room was closed, but she could hear Robert's wordless shouts within, as well as Roma's frantic barking. She yanked open the door . . . and then gave a reflexive scream of her own, unable to believe what she was seeing.

Her first impression was of a large man in a bulky white gi sagging in a seated position against the dressing room wall. She didn't recognize him at first, for his face was suffused with blood. But the swollen feet with their crooked toes were unmistakable. The black belt that hung in a loose loop around his neck was less so, as it lacked the five red stripes and the tiny red embroidered dragon. But even without that identification, she knew with a sinking heart just who it was.
Master Tomlinson!

“Quick, he's still alive!” Robert sobbed out, trying to lift the man's bulk. “But he's too heavy. I can't get him out of here on my own!”

Heart attack?
The thought flashed through Darla's mind as she promptly wrapped her arms around the sensei's legs.

“Hurry, bring him out onto the mat,” she cried.

Even as she struggled to lift him, however, she noticed something odd. Not only was a black belt draped around the sensei's neck, but a heavy iron hook that was partially embedded into a broken chunk of particleboard lay beside him. She glanced up above to where two rows of iron coat hooks were installed on the back wall. One of those hooks was missing, as was a section of wall the same size as the piece attached to the hook at the fallen man's side.

Roma had prudently cowered in one corner of the tiny area during all this. Now, she rushed out onto the mat and began barking again while, between them, Darla and Robert began dragging the man through the narrow doorway. The teen's breath was coming from him in panting sobs as they struggled with the man's bulk. Darla was gasping, too, pulling with all her might, even as she realized that Tomlinson's hairy flesh beneath her sweating palms felt unnaturally cool. She'd stumbled across a dead man once, and she had a terrible feeling she had just found another. Or was it simply her frantic imagination working overtime?

“I'll call 9-1-1,” she gasped out, as soon as they had tugged the sensei out of the dressing room and well out onto the heavy red mat. Now the man sprawled on his back like a fighter who had not been able to avoid his opponent's final winning punch. The black belt hung loosely from around his neck, like an oversized bow tie gone askew. He still wasn't moving . . . and Darla could see no rise and fall of the pale hairy chest exposed by the gaping lapels of his gi jacket.

As she dug in her gear bag for her phone, Robert cried, “Shouldn't we do mouth-to-mouth or something?”

Darla paused and stared over at the still form on the mat, trying to tamp down a rising sense of horror. “Robert,” she began in a halting voice, “I don't think—” She broke off at the despairing look on the teen's face, not wanting to shatter any last hope he had. “That is, I don't think they do mouth-to-mouth anymore,” she hurriedly improvised, “just chest compressions. Why don't you try that while I call?”

“Yeah, okay, they taught us that in gym class.”

He gave a vigorous nod and dropped to his knees beside the man. Darla finally found her phone and, moving a few feet farther away from Robert, she placed the call.

“Yes, it's an emergency!” was her swift if somewhat tremulous reply once the dispatcher came on the line. She gave a quick rundown of the patient and the situation, and then waited while her call was transferred yet again.

“The ambulance is on its way,” she assured Robert a few moments later. The teen grunted his acknowledgment, his attention fixed on the still form before him. He was performing the resuscitation routine like a pro, Darla thought, impressed. The gym class instruction had obviously taken.

Roma, meanwhile, had settled nervously alongside her master's feet, uttering little howls that sounded unsettlingly like a child's cries. Realizing that the tiny hound would be in the way once the paramedics arrived, Darla rushed again toward the front of the building. Roma's leash would likely be in Tomlinson's office. Best to make certain that the pup wouldn't be able to slip from the building again in the midst of the commotion . . . though now she found herself suddenly wondering just how Roma had gotten outside the first time, after all.

Darla didn't have time to follow that train of thought, however. She grabbed Roma's bright purple lead from atop Master Tomlinson's desk, alongside his key ring, then hurried back to snap it onto the dog's matching collar. She touched Robert on the shoulder.

“The ambulance should be here any moment,” she told him. “Why don't you let me do this for a minute, while you hang on to Roma. I took a class once, too. I remember how to do it.”

“I'm fine,” he gasped out, though she could see drops of sweat—or maybe they were tears—slipping down his check and spattering onto the sensei's white jacket. He was clearly avoiding looking directly at the man's slack face lest he have to admit that his efforts were making no difference, that Master Tomlinson likely was past saving. Darla didn't bother arguing. She could hear the faint scream of sirens; soon the paramedics would be taking over.

“Okay, you stay here. I'll grab Roma and go let the emergency people in.” Darla scooped up the tiny greyhound, who obediently submitted to her grasp. By the time she reached the dojo's front door again, the sirens' pulsing cries were almost deafening.

The next few moments were a blur of action. Not only had the ambulance service responded, but the police and fire department, as well. The studio entry was overwhelmed now with large uniformed men hauling all manner of rescue gear, a gurney clattering as they rushed behind Darla through the maze-like path to the training area. While the responders gathered around the collapsed man, a shaken Darla pulled Robert a safe distance back to give them room.

The teen was manfully trying to hold it together, though Darla caught him rubbing his eyes with one sleeve. Roma whined, and Darla promptly handed the dog over to Robert.

“Here,” she said softly, managing a tremulous smile as the little dog burrowed into Robert's arms. “She needs her friend right now.”

It seemed Robert needed the little dog even more, for he promptly settled cross-legged on the floor and buried his face in the velvet softness of her small body, his shoulders silently shaking.