A Novel Way to Die (4 page)

With the reflexes of youth, Robert had shoved back his chair from the table at the
same instant Hamlet came in for his four-point landing. Now, seeing what appeared
to be nothing more innocuous than a rather large black feline sitting there before
him, he grinned.

“Hey, little goth cat bro,” he exclaimed, apparently appreciative of Hamlet’s inky
coat. “Where did you come from?”

Normally, Darla would have given a snarky answer on Hamlet’s behalf—
the bowels of Hell
, for example, or
Satan’s School for Cats
—but with the feline only a paw’s length away from her potential new employee, she
didn’t dare try for humor.

Instead, feeling like she was in one of those nature specials where the host unexpectedly
stumbles into the path of a deadly beast, she said in a soft voice, “Just back away
from the table slowly, Robert, and everything will be fine.”

But barely had the words left her lips than Hamlet raised a large black paw in the
teen’s direction. Darla didn’t have time for a warning. She could only wait for the
carnage she was sure would follow.

Don’t let Robert be like Mr. Gold Chain Dude and want to sue
, was her one frantic thought as she watched the teen reach out a hand in return.
But rather than trying to pet him, he lightly touched knuckles with Hamlet’s raised
front foot.

“Yo, fist bump, little guy,” he said, still grinning.

Darla held her breath and winced. To her astonishment, however, no claws ensued. Instead,
Hamlet gave a quick
meowrmph
and, to her even greater amazement, appeared to return the gesture. Then the feline
turned tail and hopped off the table, padding in the direction of the stairs.

“Epic cat,” Robert said. “Does he hang out here in the store all the time?”

“Y-yes,” Darla choked out, unable to believe what had just happened. Hamlet actually
seemed to
like
someone she was considering hiring? Surely that had to be an indication that she
was making the right choice . . . that, or a sign that the End Times were near.

Robert, meanwhile, was nodding his approval. “I like cats. If I lived in a place where
they were allowed, I’d adopt one. So, what’s the one more thing you were talking about?”

“Actually, that was it. Just let me make sure I have your correct phone number, and
I’ll get back to you as soon as I check your references.”

“I can, you know, start right away.” His tone was neutral, but Darla could see the
excitement in his eyes, and she abruptly hoped that everything
would
be okay. Despite his past rush to judgment about her, he had the makings of a reliable
employee. And the fact that Hamlet seemingly agreed with that assessment was a miracle
that she hadn’t expected.

“Let me walk you back downstairs,” she said with a smile, “and then I’ll get the paperwork
going. Assuming everything checks out okay, you can expect to hear from me tomorrow
sometime.”

She saw in approval that he gathered up his empty candy wrapper and stuffed it in
his backpack before following her down the steps, his earlier sullen attitude long
gone. As he passed the register, he gave James a comradely nod and called out, “Yo,
hoss, see you later,” before heading out the door.

James waited until the door jangled shut behind the youth before turning to Darla.

“Yo, hoss?” he repeated in precise tones, his expression sharp as the crease in his
trousers. “Please do not tell me that this young man will be working here at the store.”

“Actually, he will, assuming he passes the background check,” Darla replied, doing
her best to suppress her amusement. James and Robert would make for an interesting
pairing, indeed . . . though surely, during his career as a college professor, James
must have dealt with more than his share of irreverent young men. In a conciliatory
tone, she added, “But don’t worry, Hamlet actually likes him.”

“Hamlet approves?”

“You bet. He and Hamlet, they’re like bros. They fist bumped and everything.”

James’s peeved expression immediately settled into a look of genteel relief, and he
gave his vest a tug back into place. “Well, then. If Hamlet has given his nod, so
to speak, regarding this youth, I am content with your choice.”

With those words, the manager returned to the special order he was boxing up for one
of their mail-order customers. Darla smiled. The relationship between James and Hamlet
was also quite an interesting pairing. While James had been the one to insist that
Hamlet remain as the bookstore mascot after Darla inherited the place, she rarely
saw the two of them together. It was as if they had a gentleman’s—or gentlecat’s?—agreement
to coexist peacefully without actually crossing paths.

Of course, there was that one time when neither of them knew she was watching that
she’d actually seen James petting the ornery feline. Both had seemed to enjoy the
interaction, though she suspected each would deny it should she mention the incident.

Then her smiled faded. From what she’d observed, Hamlet was indeed a capable judge
of human character. But no way could she make a hiring decision based solely on the
feline’s instincts. The only way to go these days was with a battery of references
and drug-screening tests and Google searches . . . heck, even a look at a potential
employee’s Facebook page was now considered de rigueur. Because when it came to an
employee’s character, she’d already learned a valuable lesson as store owner: one
never knew what lurked in a person’s past.

And, even more important, one never knew when that past might rear its ugly head and
bite an unsuspecting bystander in the hindquarters. Which was why she intended to
trot said hindquarters down to Jake’s place that minute and hire the newly minted
private investigator to put Hamlet’s new buddy under a microscope.

*   *   *

JAKE HAD BEEN BUSY SINCE LUNCH, IT SEEMED. THE PROMISED SIGN
for “Martelli Private Investigations” was now hung on the wrought iron railing outside
the garden apartment. A discrete arrow pointed downward to Jake’s door, where a similar
sign minus the arrow had been screwed on beneath the peephole. Feeling rather like
a character in one of the thriller novels that she sold, Darla hurried down the steps
and gave a quick knock.

“Come in,” came Jake’s shout in return.

Darla entered. The apartment had an open floor plan similar to Darla’s on the third
floor, with a single large space serving as a combination living room, dining room,
and galley kitchen . . . and now, apparently, as Jake’s detective agency office. She
nodded approvingly as she found her friend seated at a rectangular 1950s-style chrome
dinette table, a gleaming new laptop and a neat stack of paperwork before her.

Since Darla’s last visit, Jake had rearranged the furniture so that a folding screen
blocked the kitchen from view, while what had been her dining table now was flanked
by a file cabinet and bookshelf. The table’s matching set of chrome-framed, red vinyl-cushioned
chairs had been replaced by the sort of oversized office chair that Mickey Spillane
might have used, with two small tweed wing chairs for client seating. The laptop looked
more out of place than the vintage furnishings, since Jake’s entire apartment was
decorated with a distinct mid-twentieth-century vibe.

Some of the pieces, like the table, had come from the previous tenant; the rest, Jake
had scrounged from various thrift shops and flea markets. Darla’s favorite of Jake’s
finds was the mod floor-to-ceiling lamp with its three shades that looked like melted
red plastic bowls, though the trio of gaudy plaster mermaids swimming across Jake’s
bathroom wall came in a close second.

Darla settled in one of the wingbacks and gave her friend a mock-stern look. “I can’t
believe you, of all people, would let someone waltz into your place like I just did.
What if I’d been a mad killer or something?”

“Eh, I saw you through the window coming down the stairs. And don’t forget, I’m operating
a business here. Can’t leave the clients standing out in the street.” Jake shook her
curly head in amused dismay. “Besides, you’re the only one I know who does that old
shave-and-a-haircut knock. Seriously, kid, you need to update your image.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my image,” Darla shot back, only slightly offended. Sure,
she might dress a tad on the conservative side, but that didn’t mean she didn’t at
least have a passing knowledge of the latest trends. With a meaningful look at her
friend’s décor, she added, “Talk about being behind the times.”

“I’m retro, not old-fashioned. There’s a difference.”

“Well, maybe I can get a few pointers from my new employee,” Darla replied with a
triumphant smile. Setting the folder on the table, she went on, “I’ll be your first
client. I need a background check run on a Robert Gilmore, age eighteen. Lives in
walking distance of the store. Last place of employment, Bill’s Books and Stuff.”

“The porn shop?” Before Darla could ask how Jake happened to know what Bill actually
peddled, the ex-cop went on, “That was pretty quick. An hour ago you thought you’d
never find anyone who wouldn’t end up as kibble for Hamlet.”

“He and Hamlet are officially BFFs,” Darla replied, glad for the chance to show off
that she at least knew the texting term that meant
best friends forever
. “Besides, Mary Ann next door gave him a letter of recommendation.”

Jake flipped through the folder before nodding and tossing it on top of her stack.
“I’ll have this back to you this afternoon. But sorry to disappoint you, kid. You’re
not my first client. Hilda Aguilar is.”

“Hilda?”

“Right after we got back from lunch, she called and said she wanted to hire me. She
must have seen the business cards I left on the bulletin board at the deli.” Jake
glanced at her watch. “She’ll be here in about half an hour to discuss her case.”

“What could she want with a private detective?”

“Beats me, but I’ll find out soon enough . . . not that I’m going to tell you anything
once I do,” she added when Darla gave her an eager look. “Client confidentiality,
and all that.”

“Yeah, right, I understand.” And she did; still, she was a bit disappointed to lose
this hot source of gossip.

Jake paused and looked at her watch again. “Sorry, but I’d better kick you out. I
need to print up some forms and contracts before Hilda gets here. I’ll bring you the
results on your hire in a few hours.”

“Perfect,” Darla said as she rose. “Just try not to find out anything bad about him,
okay? I really need a new part-timer, and so far our boy Robert is my best shot.”

FOUR

IT WAS ALMOST CLOSING TIME WHEN JAKE STROLLED INTO
the bookstore, folder in hand. “Good news, kid,” she announced. “Your boy Robert is
clean. Hire away.”

“Fantastic! I’ll give him a call and make him a formal offer.”

Darla took back her folder plus a second neatly bound sheaf of papers—the background
check—from Jake, glancing as she did so at an invoice clipped to its front. She frowned
as she saw the total.

“Jake, that’s way too cheap,” she declared, pointing to the dollar figure. “It would
have cost me more for one of those online services, and I trust you a heck of a lot
more.”

“Eh, just call it the introductory friend rate. I haven’t done backgrounds in a while,
so this was good practice for me.”

Still, Darla felt a bit guilty as she unlocked the company checkbook from a drawer
beneath the counter and paid the bill. As the owner of her own small business, she
knew how hard it was to earn every penny. Which reminded her . . .

“How did it go with Hilda? No, no, don’t worry,” she hurried to add as Jake gave her
a look that would have made Hamlet proud. “I’m not going to try to make you break
your confidentiality vows, or whatever they’re called. I just want to know if everything
is all right with her.”

“Strictly routine,” Jake assured her, grinning a little as she got a look at the check
Darla had handed her.

Tired of the boring banker’s green that Great-Aunt Dee had always used, Darla had
splurged when it came time to order new checks. Now, in addition to the store name
and address, a faint trail of black paw prints ran across every check in homage to
Hamlet.

Jake tucked the check into her shirt pocket and gave a satisfied nod.

“Feels good to be earning an honest living again, kid,” she declared, and Darla realized
just how frustrating the past couple of years of forced inaction must have been for
the other woman. “So, you want to stop by my place for a little celebratory toast
after you close up? I’m going to ask Reese and Mary Ann and James to stop in, too.”

“I’d love to. Give me about thirty minutes.”

Though, actually, it was closer to an hour by the time she had closed up the place
and, having first sent James on his way to the impromptu party, made her call to Robert.
Even though she was the one doing the hiring, she found her fingers shaking a bit
as she dialed the number. What if he didn’t want the job, after all? Would she ever
find anyone else qualified who could win over Hamlet the way Robert seemingly had?

To her relief, the youth seemed just as eager to accept her offer as she was to hire
him. “Sure, I can, you know, be there as soon as you open tomorrow . . . or earlier,
if you want.”

Smiling a little at his enthusiasm, she suggested that he hold off until ten a.m.
when she unlocked the doors. Then, recalling his affinity for the goth lifestyle,
she added, “And the all-black wardrobe is fine for work, but don’t put on any facial
jewelry or eyeliner, okay? Our clientele is a bit on the conservative side.”

She heard what might have been a snicker through the receiver before he replied. “No
problem, boss. That’s, like, why I cut my lock. I figured I’d get stuck working for
the man, so I wanted to be, you know, mainstream.”

Mainstream is something I doubt Robert will ever be
, Darla thought with a smile as she hung up a few moments later and then headed upstairs
for a final check of the upper level. Still, it would probably do both her and James
good to be shaken up a little. Things had been pretty quiet of late, with the only
excitement being Hamlet’s recent midnight escape. With that in mind, she paused for
a glance through the wavy glass of the uncurtained window, which overlooked Crawford
Avenue below. Though the busy daytime traffic slowed considerably in the evenings,
enough vehicles prowled the streets in the wee hours to pose a real hazard to any
bookshop cat who decided to take in the nightlife. Maybe Robert could help her look
for whatever cat escape hatch Hamlet had apparently uncovered.

Darla turned to head back downstairs again, only to almost stumble over the feline
in question. Hamlet was sitting silently at attention, his green eyes narrowed in
seeming disapproval as he stared up at her. Biting back a couple of bad words over
her near fall, she met his glare with an equally stern look.

“Eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves,” she warned him, “not that
anyone was talking about you. That was your new BFF on the phone. He starts working
here at the store tomorrow.”

Hamlet’s emerald eyes widened, and he gave a small
meowrmph
. Darla laughed. “Oh, so you approve? Maybe you’ll listen to him, then, if
he
tells you that it’s dangerous for cats to be out after dark.”

Hamlet had no comment on that last. Instead, he rose and turned tail, spilling down
the stairway like a small oil slick. Darla shook her head. With trouble like Hamlet
roaming the store, she suspected that Robert joining their ranks could only be a good
thing.

*   *   *

AS PROMISED, ROBERT SHOWED UP RIGHT ON TIME THE NEXT MORNING.
Darla quickly got him settled in and put him to work. To her pleased relief, he picked
up on the routine immediately, and by the end of his shift had even waited on a couple
of customers. Things were progressing so smoothly, in fact, that she should have known
it was only a matter of time before something went wrong. And so Darla was distressed
but not unduly surprised when, a couple of days later, something did.

“I got a beef with you,” a belligerent voice rasped, the harsh sound an unpleasant
counterpoint to the pleasant tinkling of bells that always announced someone entering
the bookstore. Startled, Darla glanced up to see an unknown man heading toward the
counter where she was busy reconciling the morning’s paperwork.

Fell off the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down
, was her first reflexive thought.

He was squat rather than simply short. His bullet-shaped head jutted well past his
rounded shoulders, giving him the familiar Neanderthal hunch common to men who’d long
since forgotten their mothers’ admonitions to stand up straight. Oversized hands that
dangled from longer-than-normal arms contributed to his cavemanlike bearing. The man’s
wardrobe didn’t help matters. He was dressed in a faded blue-striped T-shirt emblazoned
with the FCC’s favorite four-letter word, while his baggy jeans were less a deliberate
fashion statement than a case of belly out-sizing butt.

Had his pale blue eyes been filled with friendliness rather than disdain, his physical
features might have appeared less unsavory. As it was, from his doughy, pockmarked
face only slightly camouflaged by a patchy red-gray goatee, to the stringy tonsure
of matching hair, he exuded an angry, unkempt air that made her want to break out
the hand sanitizer. She’d never met the man before; that much was certain. So what
possible beef, as he’d put it, could he have with her?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” she replied, deliberately assuming her most polite
shopkeeper manner in an attempt to stave him off.

He bared small, tobacco-stained teeth, but the gesture fell far short of a smile.

“Name’s Bill. You stole my best employee from me.”

“You’re Porn Shop Bill?” she blurted before she could catch herself.

Remembering Robert’s nickname for the man—“the Not-So-Great Ape”—she was surprised
it had taken her as long as it had to connect those dots. The man
did
bear more than a passing resemblance to the orangutan from those old Clint Eastwood
movies. Though she doubted that the simian in question had ever viewed his surroundings
with as much jaded malevolence as this man did, surveying her store.

Now, he snapped the bullet head back around to look at her, and the pale blue eyes
narrowed. “Hey, lady, don’t get all high and mighty. You and me, we’re in the same
business. My customers just happen to be a bit more freethinking in their choice of”—he
paused and assumed a deliberately effete accent—“literature.”

“Literature, my . . . foot.” She’d almost ended that retort with another body part,
but the thought of possibly being overheard by the pregnant stay-at-home mom in the
reference section made her purposely temper her word choice.

“And I don’t steal employees,” she went on in the same deliberately calm voice. “They
apply, they meet my requirements, I hire. So unless you want to buy a book that has
an actual plot, why don’t you leave before I call security?”

His reply was a variation of his T-shirt slogan. Darla’s temper flared, and she snatched
her cell phone from under the counter, hitting the speed dial for Jake.

“You. Out. Now,” she demanded in a voice that trembled only a little, pointing at
the door while she listened to Jake’s phone ringing.

Pick up, pick up, pick up
, she silently urged her friend, and then bit her lip in dismay when she heard Jake’s
voice-mail message kick in. James wouldn’t be in for another hour, so it was just
Robert and the pregnant lady for backup. She’d have to handle Porn Shop Bill on her
own.

“Hey, Jake, it’s Darla,” she told Jake’s mailbox, doing her best to sound as if she
was talking to the real thing. “No, not so good. We have a situation up here. Can
you come up right away? Great.”

Hanging up, she said to the man before her, “Security will be here in a minute. If
you’re not already gone by then, I’ll see that you’re arrested for trespassing.”

“Yeah? Well I’ll slap you with a civil suit for unfair business practices,” the porn
shop owner threatened right back, stabbing a bony, nicotine-stained finger in her
direction. “Tell ya what. Let me talk to the kid a minute, and I’ll be on my way.
No harm, no foul.”

Before Darla could whip out another bluff, she heard Robert call from behind the stacks,
“Hey boss, can you, like, tell me where to find—”

The teen’s question broke off abruptly as he poked his head around the edge of the
reference section and caught sight of his old employer. Bill, meanwhile, had swiveled
in the direction of Robert’s voice. Spying the youth, he bared his teeth again.

“You, kid, c’mon out. You and me, we gotta talk.”

“Robert, you can go right back to helping your customer,” Darla countered. “This . . .
gentleman . . . was on his way out the door.”

“It’s okay,” Robert said, looking equal parts frightened and defiant as he started
toward them. “I’ll talk to him.”

“If you’re sure,” she reluctantly agreed, phone tightly clutched in one hand and ready
to step between the two if the situation warranted it. “But I’m staying right here.
If things get out of hand, I’m dialing 9-1-1.”

The teen shot her a grateful look before turning to his former employer. His voice
small, he asked, “How did you find out I was working here?”

“Them teenage girls, they gossip about everything. I stopped one of your little friends
outside the shop, and she told me.” Now, the bony finger was thrust in Robert’s direction.
“So where you been the past week? I’ve been shorthanded for three nights running.
I should fire your butt.”

“Don’t you remember? You, like, already fired me a few days ago.”

Bill gave a rusty chuckle, though Darla spied no matching humor in the pale eyes.
“Naw, I was just in a bad mood. I didn’t expect you to off and take another job. C’mon
back to the shop, and we’ll forget all that nonsense.”

Robert shook his head, his confidence seemingly returning. “No way, dude. I work for
Ms. Pettistone now.”

“Yeah, well I need someone tonight. So have your butt at the store seven thirty sharp,”
the man told him. “Besides, I paid you for two days you didn’t work. You owe me.”

“I figured that was severance,” the teen replied, and then turned an uncertain look
on Darla. “I wouldn’t have taken it if I didn’t think he wanted me to have it. I’d
give it back, but I already spent it. Do I really have to go work for him again?”

“Certainly not,” Darla declared before Bill could reply. To the porn shop owner, she
said, “If you overpaid Robert in error, I’ll advance him the money to repay you so
you two can call it even. How much are we talking?”

“Give or take a few cents, a hundred bucks.”

Darla looked over at Robert, who nodded. Slipping her phone into her pants pocket,
she punched in the code to open the register and then withdrew five twenty-dollar
bills, which she handed over to the teen.

“There you go, Robert, an advance on your first check. Go ahead and repay the man . . .
and be sure you count it out so there’s no question later.”

While Robert obediently laid out the money on the counter one bill at a time, Darla
pulled out a receipt book from beneath the register drawer. Swiftly, she filled out
the top copy and handed the pad to the teen. “I suggest you have Bill sign a statement
that he received the money from you, and that it repays him in full.”

“I’m not signing nothing. Now give me my—”