A Novel Way to Die (6 page)

Curt, however, displayed no embarrassment at being called out.

“Sure, me and Tera, we have a few laughs together, but, hey, I like to play the field,”
he replied, smoothing back his hair in a preening gesture.

The move shifted the open collar of his polo shirt, revealing a glimpse of gold chain
against hairy chest and reminding her of Robert’s Mr. Gold Chain Dude. Darla suppressed
a grimace. What
was
it with these middle-aged guys pursuing girls half their ages? Well, she knew what
it was; she just couldn’t believe that the girls in question fell for it every time.

To Curt, she simply said, “I’d watch my step if I were you. Hilda Aguilar might look
all sugar and spice, but I have a feeling that she could kick the butt of any man
she thought was two-timing her daughter.”

“Hey, who’s to say I didn’t already put the moves on Mama, too?” Curt countered with
a wink. “I like ’em young, I like ’em old.” Then, when Darla shot him a sharp look
of disapproval, he puffed his cheeks in an exaggerated sigh. “What? I was kiddin’.
You women, you got no sense of humor.”

“Guess not,” Darla agreed in a cheerful tone, though she wasn’t smiling. Odd how,
with just a few words, the man could use up his store of goodwill that he’d banked
with her only a few minutes before. “Anyhow, thanks for the warning about the scrap
thieves. We’ll keep our eyes open. Tell Barry I said hi.”

Curt raised his blunt hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I know when I’m not wanted.
Call me when that book comes in, will ya?”

“Sure thing, Curt. Have a nice day, now.”

The door closed behind him, and Darla felt a bit of serenity return. Just for good
measure, though, she spritzed again with the organic gardenia scent. Robert, meanwhile,
poked his head from around the reference shelf again, then, seeing Darla’s “all clear”
nod, he led his customer toward the register. The mom-to-be was busily perusing one
of the short stack of volumes she clutched, seemingly unaware of the unpleasantness
that had just occurred.

Darla stepped aside to let Robert handle things, watching in approval as he zipped
through the transaction like a pro. One of the advantages of his having grown up in
an era when Baby’s First Toy was, more often than not, something electronic, she supposed.
Her own favorite electronic toy took that opportunity to ring. A glance at the caller
ID confirmed her guess that it was Jake on the line.

“Hey, kid, I was in the middle of a client conference call, so I just got your SOS,”
came her friend’s concerned voice before Darla could get out a hello. “Hang tight.
I’m headed up there right now.”

“Don’t worry, the crisis is over,” Darla assured her. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Go ahead and tell me about it now,” Jake replied, her voice in stereo as she stepped
into the store.

Darla gave a wry smile as she hung up her cell. “A day late and a dollar short, as
my dad always says,” she told her friend as Jake strode toward her. Darla glanced
over at Robert, who was bagging up his customer’s purchase, and waited until the woman
had started for the door before saying to him, “I need to chat with Jake for a minute.
Will you be all right alone?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said with an exaggerated nod. “And thanks for, like, sticking
up for me with Bill.”

“No problem. And we can spread out that loan over a few paychecks,” she added, earning
another grateful nod.

“So what was that all about?” Jake asked as they settled into the twin wing chairs
tucked behind the self-help area, the weather being a bit too chilly for sitting outside
in the tiny courtyard for more than a minute or two. “Something to do with your distress
call?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Darla quickly recapped for Jake the unpleasant encounter with Porn Shop Bill, including
his unfinished threat against her and Robert. Jake listened, her expression grim,
though she smiled a little when Darla described Hamlet’s strong-arm—or, rather, strong-paw—tactics
to convince Bill to sign the receipt. But her expression darkened again when Darla
explained how Curt had appeared just as things were getting tense.

“Yeah, that Curt Benedetto gets around, doesn’t he?” the older woman remarked, whipping
out a small notebook and one of those half-sized pens Darla remembered using when
she was in grade school. “Speaking of which, I’m conducting interviews for my investigation
for Hilda Aguilar. Maybe you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?”

What did Curt have to do with Hilda’s case? And what could she possibly know that
had anything to do with it? Curious, Darla shrugged and nodded. “Sure, if you think
I can help.”

“Our friend Mr. Benedetto has been a customer at your store for about a month now.
Can you tell me what you know about him . . . I mean, outside the fact that he’s a
class-A jerk?”

Which had been what Curt had called Porn Shop Bill, Darla thought with a flash of
amusement. Maybe Jake should be told about that situation. But first, she gave her
friend the rundown as she knew it, including Curt’s admission that he played the field
while dating Tera Aguilar. And, unable to resist temptation, she also recounted the
man’s question regarding Jake’s own relationship status.

Jake snorted, and her bland expression sharpened just a little.

“Man lives in a dreamworld,” she retorted, lips curling as if she’d accidentally taken
a bite of seafood past its prime. Then, in what sounded to Darla like an exaggeratedly
casual tone, she asked, “I don’t suppose Curt ever mentioned if he was married, did
he? Or maybe talk about any ex-wives?”

Now it was Darla’s turn to snort, even as she eyed Jake in surprise. “He never mentioned
anything about being married. Though I could pretty well guarantee that if he ever
was, there’s at least one bitter ex-wife wandering around.”

“What about kids? Legitimate or not?”

“None that he’s ever talked about. Sorry, we just haven’t gotten that personal in
our conversations, thank goodness.”

By now, Darla’s curiosity had bypassed overdrive and shot straight into redline, though
it wasn’t hard to put together the puzzle pieces. If Hilda was Jake’s client, and
Jake was asking questions about Curt, then it stood to reason that Hilda was worried
about the man’s relationship with her daughter. But hiring a private detective? It
did seem like overkill. Then again, for helicopter parents like Hilda, such coddling
was pretty much the norm these days.

“There’s something else you probably should know,” she added. “I told you how Curt
happened by just as Porn Shop Bill was threatening us. Well, it seems like there’s
some sort of feud going between those two. They almost came to blows right here in
the store.”

“Do tell,” Jake murmured, scribbling notes. “Any clue what this feud is about?”

“Bill just called it unfinished business, and later on Curt told me that the man holds
a grudge. They didn’t part friends, but at least there wasn’t any blood spilled.”

“Yeah, well, the two of them deserve each other,” Jake replied and snapped her notebook
shut. “You’ve been a big help, kid. You think of anything else, you let me know. And
I’ll mention to Reese about the threats. If it happens again, don’t wait on me. Call
him.”

But the mention of Reese reminded Darla of her other conversation with Curt about
the scrap thieves.

“Curt actually did have a good reason for stopping by,” she told Jake. “He wanted
to warn me that the same people who’ve been stealing copper and aluminum are back
in the neighborhood. He had a whole roll of copper pipe stolen out of his building.”

“Well, I guess it sucks to be Curt, doesn’t it?” was Jake’s glib reply.

Darla nodded. “Maybe, but he was nice enough to point out that they’re stealing stuff
from occupied buildings, too. He was concerned because of those antique brass fixtures
I bought from the Plinskis’ store last week.” A bit defensively, she added, “And it’s
not just Curt taking the hit. It’s Barry, too.”

Jake’s expression brightened. “Yeah, what’s up with you and geeky Mr. Chrome Dome?
He seems like a nice enough guy, even though his partner is a jerk. You two hooking
up yet?”

“Jake!” Darla protested in embarrassment, glancing around to make sure Robert wasn’t
suddenly in earshot. Lowering her voice, she went on, “Really, I hardly know the man.
But I can tell you he’s not a geek. He and Curt both were jocks in high school . . .
Curt was a running back on the varsity team, and Barry ran track and pitched two years
for their school’s baseball team. And he’s not bald; he simply has a receding hairline.”

When her friend grinned knowingly at her instinctive defense of the man, Darla blushed
and conceded, “All right, I admit it, I like him, but—”

“Like?” her friend cut her short with a shake of her curly head. “What, are you two
in junior high? Next thing, you’ll be asking me to call him up and ask him if he likes
you, too. Quit playing coy, kid. If he won’t make the first move, you do it. Ask him
out on a date already. You’ve got his phone number, don’t you?”

“Well, no. He hasn’t offered it, and I’d feel kind of weird asking for it.” Of course,
she did happen to have Curt’s number, since he was the one who usually picked up their
special orders from the store.

Jake, meanwhile, was giving her a pitying look. “You could tell him you’re updating
the bookstore mailing list and you want his contact info. Or you could just say you’re
thinking of asking him out and need a way to get hold of him.”

“How about I compromise and offer to spring for lunch at the deli the next time he
stops by, instead?”

“Perfect. And then spill the gory details to me afterward.”

“Only if you promise to spill about Hilda’s case.”

Which would never happen. No way would Jake breach client confidentiality, not even
for the prospect of good gossip. Darla allowed herself a smug grin, knowing she’d
won this particular skirmish.

Jake must have agreed, for she gave Darla a rueful smile in return.

“Fair point. But I warn you, don’t run back asking me for advice when you’ve got old
Barry on the line and can’t close the deal,” she declared, mixing metaphors in a manner
that would have given James fits. “When it comes to your love life, you’re on your
own, kid.”

SIX

“TELL CURT I’M SORRY IT TOOK ANOTHER WEEK FOR HIS
book to finally show up,” Darla said with an apologetic smile, handing over the long-awaited
book on historically accurate woodwork and trim. “I swear, I sometimes think they
send those special orders by mule train.”

“No problem. This book is worth the wait.”

Brown eyes alight, Barry Eisen flipped through the pages and then stabbed an enthusiastic
finger at one of the full-color photos. A faint cloud of plaster dust wafted from
the sleeve of his gray hooded sweatshirt and onto the page. “Take a look. We’re not
talking about your basic home improvement store wainscoting here.”

Darla smiled but took a prudent step back to avoid a similar dusting. Apparently,
Barry had worn this garment on the job site recently. The flannel shirt in shades
of black and yellow under it, however, appeared freshly laundered, and his jeans were
crisp enough that they probably had come starched from the dry cleaner’s the day before.
Obviously he hadn’t been by the brownstone yet that morning.

“This is pretty close to what Curt and I had in mind for the first floor,” he went
on, “and it’s authentic to the brownstone’s original décor. Sure, the wood itself
might be oak, but you’ve got your classic hand-carved egg-and-dart panel moldings,
and those inlays are mahogany. I’m not sure I like the wreath design for the inlays,
though. Maybe a nice rosette motif instead.”

Then he flipped back a few pages to another photo. “But this works, too. See, the
raised panels are simple, but that’s okay. The denticulated chair rail along the top
really classes it up, and it won’t overwhelm the other architectural detail in the
rooms.”

“Either one would be beautiful,” Darla assured him, wondering if she should brush
up on her interior design vocabulary if she was going to hang around the man.

While she’d learned a little about typical brownstone styles simply by living in a
prime example of same, Darla couldn’t describe most of its features beyond basic color
and texture. But the fact that Barry and Curt intended to replicate the period-style
paneling and other woodwork and plaster, themselves, impressed her almost as much
as Barry’s easy familiarity with such terms as “denticulated.”

“We’ve still got a little more time to decide,” he replied with careless shrug, shaking
off a bit more dust. “We’re starting the plastering tomorrow, and that will take us
a while.”

Then, closing the oversized volume with an almost reverential gentleness, he gave
Darla a hopeful smile and added, “If you can spare an hour or so, why don’t you come
back to the brownstone with me so you can get a final ‘before’ look at the place,
and then we can grab some lunch at the deli?”

A date! He’d beat her to it! Smiling a little, she began, “I’d like to, but—”

She paused for a look at Robert, who was busy straightening stock near the back of
the store. The youth had been working part-time for a little more than a week now
and was already proficient in the store’s main protocols. Even better, despite the
first “yo, hoss” incident, Robert had managed to ingratiate himself with the eternally
stodgy James. The crowning touch had come yesterday, when the teen had engaged the
former professor in debate on some theory Robert had developed regarding Charles Dickens
and what he’d decided was the metaphorical use of orphans in his writing. James had
vigorously argued a counterpoint, but Darla had heard the pleasure in his voice at
discussing his specialty with someone equally as interested in that time period.

But James would not arrive for his shift until after lunch, and Darla still felt uneasy
leaving Robert to mind the store alone after the confrontation with Porn Shop Bill
the week before. So far as she knew, the issue between Robert and Bill was settled,
but on the off chance that the man returned, she didn’t want to leave the teen alone
to deal with such a volatile situation. Then again, Jake was just a cell call away
downstairs. After all, what could happen in an hour or so on a Thursday?

“—but next meal is on me,” she finished, making the quick decision that the teen had
the smarts to work on his own for a bit.

“Robert,” she called, “I’m going to step out for an early lunch. Do you feel comfortable
handling things alone until James gets here?”

Not that he’d be totally alone, she reminded herself. He’d have Hamlet for company.

Or would he? Darla looked around. The cat had spent most of the last hour stretched
across one end of the counter, recovering from a strenuous morning of watching her
and Robert unpack shipping cartons. Apparently, however, he had regained his strength
in the few minutes she’d been chatting with Barry, for he was nowhere to be seen now.

Robert, however, did not seem to share her concerns. “Take all the time you need,
boss. I’m, like, good,” he replied and gave an exaggerated “okay” sign in case she
didn’t believe him.

He wore his usual black jeans and black shirt, but today he’d topped the outfit with
a black knit vest in apparent emulation of James’s personal uniform. She wasn’t quite
sure if the fashion statement was genuine or simply a subtle bit of tongue-in-cheek
ribbing at the older man’s expense. She rather suspected the latter explanation, but
if James was offended, he was perfectly capable of taking the youth down a peg or
two.

“All right, then,” she told him. “Hold down the fort until I get back. If you have
an emergency, call me on my cell, or else call Jake. The numbers are taped to the
register.”

Robert gave her a snappy salute in return, and she sighed. Apparently, she’d forgotten
what it was like to be that young and impulse-control challenged, for the cheeky gesture
wasn’t as amusing as Robert surely thought it was. “Quick, let’s get out of here before
I change my mind,” she told Barry and grabbed her phone and familiar olive sweater
from underneath the counter.

The air outside had a distinct nip to it despite the fact it was already after eleven
o’clock. She hurriedly pulled on the sweater, feeling a small tingle of pleasure when
Barry helped adjust its collar. It had been a while since she’d had a man pay her
that sort of small courtesy. Maybe Jake had had a point about her hooking up with
him.

Darla glanced over at Barry, who was now expounding on plastering techniques. At five-ten
and with even features, and minus the beer gut many men pushing fifty sported, he
was more than acceptable in the looks department. True, he wasn’t the muscle-bound,
young blond hunk like Jake’s cop buddy, Reese . . . but then, most men weren’t.

She smiled a little as she pictured the burly police detective. She had briefly—as
in, for about ten minutes—considered exploring a possible relationship with him after
their first meeting, and had even sensed a few vibes that indicated he might be open
to said exploration. Then common sense had kicked in, and she had decided they were
better suited as friends. Besides, Darla had learned the hard way that good looks
alone weren’t a strong enough basis for a lasting romance. Sighing just a little,
she turned her attention back to Barry and listened to his plastering homily.

They reached the brownstone a few minutes later. “What happened?” was Darla’s first
comment as she took in the scene before her. Then, realizing that might sound critical,
she hurriedly amended, “I mean, uh . . . that is . . .”

In its glory days, the building would have been a prime example of what Barry had
told her on her first visit was Greek Revival style. Not technically a brownstone,
the three-story house was red brick and fronted with what he had explained was called
a “Grecian doorway”: fluted columns atop a short stoop supporting a flat porch roof.
And typical of the style, the simple windowsills and lintels—the “eyebrows” of the
windows—barely protruded from the surrounding brick, giving the place a sleeker look
than its neighbors. Those architectural touches were enhanced, quite appropriately,
by Greek key designs worked into the stone.

But what gave the property its greatest value was the fact that it was set back slightly
from the street and had a tiny slip of what once had been green lawn, though the grass
had since been trampled into the dirt. A tree pit to one side of the yard held what
appeared to Darla’s untrained eye to be some sort of large oak whose leaves had turned
a mottled yellow and orange for the season. But with some decent landscaping and an
updated facade, the men would be able to turn an enviable profit on their investment
even with only the most basic remodeling being done to the interior.

While she struggled for something encouraging to say about the building’s current
state, however, Barry laughed. “Yeah, it looks kinda rough right now, but I promise
we’re making progress.”

“Rough,” Darla privately thought, was putting a charitable spin on the situation.
Indeed, rough was the shape the place had been the last time she’d seen it. The first-floor
windows had been partially boarded up, and net-style orange barrier fencing had taken
the place of the wrought iron fencing with a Greek key design that had surrounded
the handkerchief-sized yard.

Now, the place appeared more demolition than renovation. A construction Dumpster had
been squeezed into a narrow gap between that building and the one beside it, while
a pile of brick surrounded by more of the orange netting spilled alongside the barred
windows of the basement. One of the porch columns had been removed and replaced by
several sturdy wooden posts, while the pieces of the missing column were propped against
the building’s corner like an afterthought.

“I guess I should have brought my hard hat,” she replied. “I’m sure it looks better
on the inside.”

“Ha, not by much,” a man’s unfamiliar nasal voice behind them proclaimed with a sniggering
laugh.

Startled, Darla swung around to see a tall, thin man about Barry’s age standing on
the sidewalk clutching a clipboard. He was dressed in baggy brown trousers and a white
buttoned shirt topped by a bomber-style cloth jacket with a fake shearling collar.
The jacket hung open, and Darla spied what appeared to be an official photo ID hanging
from a lanyard around his neck. A city worker of some sort?

From Barry’s expression, Darla guessed that he knew the man, and that he was not terribly
pleased to see him. “What are you doing here, Toby?” he demanded, his usual affable
tone sharp now with irritation.

Toby waved his clipboard, the untidy sheaf of multipart forms fastened to it flapping
like a paper hen. “We got a little inspection business here to take care of, pal.
Or did you forget?”

“I didn’t forget anything. You’re not supposed to be here until next week.” Barry
took a few steps toward the man, his stance challenging. “You’d better not have been
wandering on my property without my permission.”

“Relax, I just got here. But I need to move up the schedule, know what I mean?”

“I’ve got someone with me right now. It’s not a good time. Understand?”

Darla glanced from an obviously ticked-off Barry to the glib newcomer, who bore an
uncanny likeness to one of those artist renditions of an alien. His small, pinched
features appeared to have slid south toward his receding chin, leaving a broad expanse
of forehead to fend for itself. The lopsided effect was enhanced by the way he’d scraped
back his collar-length, surfer-blond hair—a home-bleach job if Darla had ever seen
one—into a single frizzy tail that looked more porcupine than equine. As for his personality,
Darla had known him for less than a minute and already found his company distasteful.

Unfortunately, if the man was indeed a city inspector, then Barry likely had to put
up with his rudeness in order to keep his job site running.

“Tell you what, pal,” came Toby’s nasal reply. “I’ll give you until Monday. Fair enough?”

“Monday,” Barry agreed, his expression stiff. “Until then, stay the hell off my property.”

“That’s what I get for being a pushover,” the man complained with a grin, giving Darla
a wink. “You’d think I’d get a thank-you every so often, but no . . .”

Tucking his clipboard under his armpit, the man sauntered his way to a battered white
two-door parked quite illegally and on the wrong side of the road. He climbed inside;
then, with mocking wave, he pulled out into traffic accompanied by the blare of horns
from those drivers he’d just cut off.

“And I thought retail was a tough business,” Darla observed in an ironic tone that,
per her intent, earned a reluctant smile from her companion.

“Yeah, dealing with the city is always a good time. But if we want a certificate of
occupancy, we’re stuck with him.” Then, in an obvious effort to recapture the earlier
bantering mood, he added, “But don’t let Toby scare you off about taking the nickel
tour inside.”

He gestured Darla up the steps. After fiddling with his key in the knob, Barry pried
open the front door and, to the accompaniment of squealing hinges, ushered her inside.
Darla halted a few steps past the threshold and gazed about her in bemused disbelief.