A Novel Way to Die (3 page)

James—
You may call me Professor James, or you may address me by my Christian name, James.
You may not, however, ever call me by my surname sans any honorific. And trust me,
I will know the difference
—had taken early retirement from the academic world ten years previously. He had been
working full-time at the bookstore ever since, both to supplement his pension and,
as he put it, to keep him off the streets. While his area of expertise was nineteenth-century
American literature, he also was an expert in rare volumes in general. In that capacity,
he brought in a nice revenue stream for the store by catering to collectors—one more
reason that Darla tolerated his often supercilious air.

The other reason was that she actually quite liked the man. Besides, he and Hamlet,
while not exactly bosom chums, got along well together. This alone was worth the price
of his salary.

“Ah, the prodigal returns,” was his wry greeting as Darla stepped into the shop and
headed in his direction. With a deliberate glance at his watch, he added, “I was beginning
to fear that you and Ms. Martelli had been abducted by aliens—or, even worse, by one
of those Russian gangs I have been reading about in the newspapers.”

“One of the perks of being the owner,” Darla cheerfully replied. “I can drag my butt
in a few minutes late, and no one can fire me.”

“That may well be, but such disregard for scheduled break times does set a poor example
for the other employees.”

Since James was, for the moment, her only employee, Darla shrugged off the criticism.
Instead, she asked, “Were you able to work out the price with Mr. Sanderson on that
signed Hemingway while I was gone?”

“A thousand here, a thousand there, and we finally came to an agreement,” he replied
with a casual wave, going on to name a dollar amount that made her gulp. While she
mentally tallied their profit, James added, “As soon as we have confirmation of his
bank transfer, I will have the book couriered to him.”

Darla nodded. Book lover though she was, she still could never see paying five figures
for a volume to stick on the shelf, no matter that it was rare or that it had been
autographed by a long-deceased popular author. And it took every bit of effort she
could muster to put up a similar cash outlay on speculative rare book purchases, even
knowing that James had never failed to resell any such purchase for a respectable
profit. But in a down economy, Darla felt it her duty to take advantage of those wealthier
sorts who weren’t feeling the pinch like the rest of the common folk, and wouldn’t
let a thing like pesky double-digit unemployment hold them back from making luxury
purchases.

“Good work,” she said sincerely, adding with a rueful smile, “At least we won’t have
to sell the china to pay the electric bill this month. What else did I miss?”

“Your one-thirty interview arrived a bit early. I took the liberty of sending the
young man upstairs to fill out the application and told him to stay put until his
appointed time.”

“You left him upstairs? Alone?” Faint tingles of alarm began racing up her spine.
“What about Hamlet?”

“I saw no sign of him in the lounge, or down here, for that matter. Besides, you assured
me before you left that he was safely secured in your apartment.”

“I did, and he was,” Darla replied, grabbing up the folder that held resumes and her
notes on the various candidates. “But you know Hamlet. I’m coming to believe that
he has all sorts of secret little cat passages throughout the building that let him
sneak around wherever he wants to go.”

Leaving James to hold down the fort downstairs, Darla rushed up the steps to the second
floor, keeping in mind another of Hamlet’s tricks: flying up the stairs and zipping
between some unwitting climber’s feet—usually, Darla’s. Agile as he was, and lucky
as Darla apparently was, he’d never yet tripped her; still, she was waiting for the
day when his impeccable feline timing was off a second or two. The result would not
be pretty.

But her greater concern at the moment was that Mr. Fur-covered Land Shark might have
decided to seek out yet another hapless would-be employee to terrorize. No way could
she let this happen. She’d had enough cat mayhem for one day.

Panting slightly, she reached the top step and discovered to her relief that the lounge
area was free of marauding felines. At the round table that usually held a pile of
advance reader copies for employee perusal, a young man was bent over a clipboard,
scribbling away at an awkward angle. An empty candy wrapper lay on the table in front
of him; obviously, filling out forms was hunger-inducing work.

From what she could see of the youth, huddled as he was over his paperwork, he couldn’t
be much older than eighteen or nineteen. Younger than she’d hoped to find, but at
that age he’d be more likely to accept the salary she could offer. Besides, it would
be useful to have a strong young man to haul boxes around the store. James was nearing
retirement age, and she felt guilty every time he wrestled cartons on delivery days.
Heck, her own back had developed a twinge or two in recent weeks.

Crossing mental fingers that the boy was as good as the resume that he’d emailed her,
and that Hamlet might find him acceptable, Darla headed in his direction.

“Hi, I’m Darla Pettistone, store owner,” she said with a bright smile, holding out
her hand. With a quick glance at the paperwork in her other hand, she added, “You
must be Robert Gilmore.”

He looked up and unfolded himself from the overstuffed chair, and then grunted what
she took to be an affirmation. The handshake he gave her in return was unenthusiastic,
at best. Darla, who had taken her share of motivational workshops in the past, reminded
herself:
Not always a negative trait, particularly in teenagers
. Still, her own enthusiasm flagged as she took swift stock of him.

Up close, Robert looked vaguely familiar. Her fleeting confusion faded, however, when
she realized he simply resembled any number of young men his age that she’d seen about
the neighborhood. The one difference was that, while he was dressed all in black,
his shirt was tucked in and his pants did not sag unduly.

Neatly groomed
. For that, she mentally gave him credit points; this despite the fact that his posture
needed work. If he stood up straight, he’d be almost as tall as Jake. Unfortunately,
his slouch and his unsmiling visage lent him an air of teen surliness that even the
undeniable spark of intelligence in his bright blue eyes couldn’t quite counteract.

Definite problems in the customer service area
, she predicted, picturing him interacting with the portion of her customer base that
was Social Security age. Still, he’d made the effort to send a resume and come in
for an interview. The least she could do was hold up her end of the deal and grill
him over his qualifications.

“All right, let’s talk about your work experience,” she began, determined to give
it the old college try. “It says here you’ve done the fast-food thing summers and
weekends, you graduated high school back in June, and up until last week you worked
at Bill’s Books and Stuff.”

But barely had Darla gestured him back to his chair and taken a seat opposite him
than she knew why he’d appeared familiar to her.

“Robert!” she exclaimed, her red brows knitting into a thunderous frown. “You’ve got
a girlfriend named Sunny, right?”

Not waiting for his reply, she shoved back in her chair and stood. “You’ve chopped
off that silly lock of hair and gotten rid of your piercings, but I know who you are.
You’re that kid who accused me of murder!”

THREE

DARLA STARED ACCUSINGLY AT THE YOUNG MAN SLOUCHED
in the chair in front of her. No doubt about it, this was the same sullen teenager
who, along with his girlfriend, had issued some not-so-veiled threats against her
following Valerie Baylor’s death. Then, he’d sported all manner of piercings and chains,
while his dyed black hair had been limited to a single luxuriant lock that hung in
his face. Now, while still favoring the same hue of shoe-polish black, he’d removed
the hardware and cut off the dangling tail of hair while letting the rest grow back
in. It had been an effective disguise-in-reverse, she conceded. It might even have
worked if he’d managed to lose the ’tude along with the metal bits and the rest.

She slapped the paperwork onto the table in disgust, the sound making the youth jump.

��So why are you really here?” she demanded. Robert stared at Darla in what appeared
to be genuine alarm. “Were you planning some weird sort of undercover espionage while
you pretended to work? Or were you and Sunny going to start up that whole online protest
thing again?”

“Uh, me and Sunny, we’re not dating anymore. And, I-I wasn’t planning anything,” he
managed. “We knew what happened that night wasn’t your fault. We were all just bummed
about Valerie dying like that. It was, like, a real trauma.”

His words held a note of honesty that dialed down Darla’s stereotypical redheaded
temper just a notch. To be fair, the original online protest against Pettistone’s
Fine Books had never really gotten off the virtual ground . . . still, it was the
principle of the thing! And now, the kid had the nerve to show up in her store as
a potential employee? If she were smart, she’d show him the door now and be done with
it.

Her intention must have been obvious, for Robert dropped his gaze to his fingernails,
which had been bitten to their quicks. “I’m, like, sorry we took it out on you. Honest,
I came here about the job. I even have a letter of recommendation from Ms. Plinski.”

Ms. Plinski?
Darla raised her brows in surprise. Robert was the candidate Mary Ann had said she’d
known?

Darla did know that the older woman had a soft spot for customers of the goth and
steampunk persuasion. Robert and his girlfriend had fit into the former category and,
according to Mary Ann, were among her regulars. But she hadn’t realized that Mary
Ann apparently had an acquaintanceship with the youth beyond that of buyer and seller.

Before she could comment, Robert reached into the backpack at his feet and withdrew
a heavy, cream-colored envelope. Gingerly, he slid it across the small table toward
her. Darla suppressed a sigh as, with an unwilling sense of obligation, she picked
up the letter.

To Whom It May Concern
, the letter began, written on matching cream-colored stationery in the old woman’s
spidery yet elegant hand.
I have known Robert Gilmore for approximately three years and have found him to be
of exemplary character. He has provided seasonal help at my establishment, Bygone
Days Antiques, performing such tasks as packing and unpacking furniture, running errands,
and tidying the store. He has always been honest and polite in his dealings, and I
wholeheartedly recommend him to any employer.

Darla studied the signature an extra moment, just to make sure it was indeed Mary
Ann’s; then, folding the letter back into its envelope, she handed it back to the
youth.

“It seems Ms. Plinski thinks quite highly of you,” she conceded. “But your resume
doesn’t say anything about your having ever worked for her.”

“I helped out the last couple of Christmases, and the time Mr. Plinski broke his leg.
Mostly, I did it for free, so I didn’t put it on my resume,” he added, answering her
unspoken question.

His gaze flickered toward Darla again, the sullen expression brightening. “It was
pretty easy, hauling things around and making some deliveries. And Mr. Plinski showed
me things like, you know, how to tell a fake antique. Him and Ms. Plinski, they’re
pretty sick for being so old.”

Which expression, Darla knew from some of her teen customers, meant the elderly brother
and sister were what she would have called “cool.”

She suppressed a reflexive smile, as her earlier irritation began to fade. Maybe the
kid had potential after all. Moreover, she was impressed that he’d actually dealt
with the reclusive Mr. Plinski in person. Even though he lived and worked next door,
Darla had caught only glimpses of the old man and had never actually spoken to him
herself. In fact, at one point she had even theorized to Jake that perhaps “Mr.” Plinski
was actually Mary Ann dressing up like a male and pretending to be her own brother!

“Fine, let’s start over. You’ve got stocking and delivery experience. So tell me what
you did at Bill’s Books and Stuff,” she urged him, returning her attention to his
resume. “Is this a full-fledged bookstore, or do they sell gifts, too?”

“It’s, um, not exactly a regular bookstore. It’s more like magazines and videos and,
well, you know, stuff.”

“Stuff,” Darla echoed, confused now. “What kind of stuff?”

“You know, stuff.”

To Darla’s surprise, the boy’s cheeks reddened, making him look even younger than
his eighteen years. His gaze dropping to his chewed fingers again, and he mumbled,
“Like, X-rated stuff.”

“You worked in an adult bookstore?” Darla squeaked, dropping his resume as if it were
contaminated with porn-shop cooties by association.

Robert gave a defiant nod, though he still wouldn’t look her in the eye.

“It paid good, and the hours were after school if I decided to take some classes.
It’s not like I did anything, you know, kinky. I just ran the register and stocked
the shelves and helped the customers.”

“So, why did you quit?”

“I didn’t exactly quit. I kind of, you know, got fired.”

This time, he met her gaze squarely. Darla stared back at him in surprise. How in
the heck did someone get fired from a place like that? Too much time spent perusing
the stock, maybe? But something in his expression kept her from speaking that snarky
thought aloud. Instead, in as neutral a tone as she could muster, she asked, “Why
don’t you tell me what happened.”

“It was a few days ago. This customer came into the store around midnight. You know
the type . . . sunglasses at night, wearing gold chains, that kinda thing.”

He paused and snorted. “He was old—at least, like, thirty—and he had this underage
girl with him. A lot of the girls that hang with guys like that dress like kids on
purpose, but I recognized her. She was one of Sunny’s friends. Fifteen, sixteen, tops.”

He hesitated again, but this time his expression hardened, making him look more adult
than teen. “So I’m like, bro, she’s a minor, you’ve got to leave. And he was like,
pal, mind your business. Then he grabbed her arm and dragged her back toward where
the video booths are.”

Darla flinched. Not that she’d ever been inside a porn shop before, but she was pretty
sure she knew what went on in those booths. It wasn’t politely watching classic movies.

Robert, meanwhile, was continuing, “Anyhow, I went down one of the side aisles and,
you know, jumped out to block the way. And I’m like, bro, I already told you she’s
not allowed in the store. And he goes, yeah, well she’s my daughter, so F-you, pal.
I knew he was lying, but we’re not supposed to argue with the customers. So I was
going to let them go, but then the girl—her name is Fancy—did one of those things
you see in the movies. You know, while he was busy being all tough guy with me, she
mouthed the words,
help me
.”

“What did you do?” Darla asked, drawn into this drama despite herself.

The youth shrugged.

“I stood there and told him he had to get the hell out, but that Fancy was staying
with me. He starts poking me in the chest”—Robert pantomimed fingers stabbing at an
invisible sternum—“and cussing me out, and Fancy starts crying, like she’s real scared
now. So I knock his hand away and tell him if he doesn’t leave, I’m going to make
a call. And then he’s all, go ahead and call the cops, and I’ll tell them you assaulted
me. And I’m like, I’m not going to call the cops. I’m going to call my friend, Alex
Putin.”

Alex Putin?
The name rang a faint bell, but Darla wasn’t sure where she’d heard it before. Maybe
Jake or Reese had mentioned the man in passing. Whatever the source, however, she
found herself recalling James’s comment about Russian gangs.

She didn’t have time to pursue that line of thought, however, for Robert was saying,
“So the dude, he was all, no way a kid like you knows Alex Putin. And I go, yeah,
I know him, and I also know Alex’s got a couple of daughters Fancy’s age. You should
have seen Mr. Gold Chain Dude’s face when I said that. I thought he was going to puke
right there.

“Anyhow, I grab my cell and start punching in numbers. He doesn’t stick around to
find out if I’m telling the truth or not, he just runs out of the store. So I call
Sunny, and she and some of her friends come to the store and take Fancy home to her
parents. Fancy acted like I was some kind of hero, but I just told her I’d kick her
butt if I ever saw her hanging with some old guy like that again.”

“Wow, some story,” Darla said, deliberately overlooking the fact that, in Robert’s
world, she also fell into the
old
category. “But how did you end up getting fired?”

Robert’s smile faded.

“I guess Mr. Gold Chain Dude got a little braver since, you know, Alex didn’t stop
by his house or anything. So he comes back to the store that next night before I get
there and yells at Bill. He tells Bill that I cussed him out and hit him for no reason,
and that he’s thinking of suing. So by the time I got to work later, he was boiling
mad. He didn’t want to hear my side of the story or even look at the security tape.”

The youth glanced down at his hands again.

“Bill was always kind of a jerk to us guys who worked at the store, and he kinda looks
like that big monkey in those dumb Clint Eastwood movies I watched when I was a kid.
So when he wasn’t around, I started calling him the
Not-So-Great Ape.” He paused and looked up at Darla, trying for a grin. “Get it?”

When Darla nodded that she did, indeed, get it, he went on, “Anyhow, Frankie—he’s
one of the guys—told me I’d better not make fun of him, because Bill once attacked
a guy with a hammer for making wisecracks like that. So I learned to keep my mouth
shut. But this whole thing with the gold chain dude, it wasn’t, you know, fair. I
tried to tell him that.”

“So what happened?” Darla urged him on.

Robert shrugged. “Not much. He just yelled at me that the customer is always right,
and paid me out of the cash register for the week before, and that was it. No more
job.”

“Wow,” Darla repeated, frowning as the youth subsided into silence again. Then, with
another look at his resume, she told him, “That whole thing about the customer always
being right? Well, it’s not true. But what is true is that they always
think
that they’re right. So no matter your personal opinion, you have to suck it up and
pretend you agree. It’s the first law of retail. I can’t hire someone who doesn’t
understand that.”

Robert gave a glum nod and had just started to rise when Darla put out a restraining
hand.

“But, on the other hand, I can’t hire someone who won’t stand up for what’s morally
right. I’d rather lose a sale any day than compromise my principles—or someone else’s
safety—for a few dollars. And it sounds like you’re on that same page with me.”

“So, like, maybe you’ll consider giving me the job?” he asked, a look of hope momentarily
lighting his features as he sat back down again. “I really would like to work here.”

“It’s only part-time,” she reminded him. She gave him a quick rundown of the expected
duties and then told him the hourly rate. “Over the holidays, you might be able to
go full-time for a while, but no guarantees that would be permanent.”

“Hey, it’s all good. I also do a little construction work on the side for Alex, er,
Mr. Putin, so that’ll make up the difference. And I’d get an employee discount on
books, right?”

“Twenty percent,” Darla confirmed with a nod, “but I thought all you kids preferred
the electronic readers to the real thing.”

“No way,” he replied. “I mean, those things are sick and all, but a real book’s got,
you know, a soul. It’s not the same, reading a bunch of electrons. Anyone knows that.”

“Hey, real books are what keep us in business,” she agreed, pleased to find a kindred
spirit in that matter. “Of course, I have to do a background check first, but so long
as you pass it . . .”

She trailed off, feeling her smile falter as she recalled the final requirement for
employment at Pettistone’s Fine Books. “One more thing, Robert. Anyone who works here
has to be able to get along with—
Hamlet!
”

That last word morphed into a shriek as Darla spied a large black furry shape racing
in their direction. Before she could turn exclamation into action, the beast in question
made a single graceful leap and landed on silent paws upon the table.