Double Booked for Death (27 page)

BOOK: Double Booked for Death
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He paused and shook his head.
“Two more days, and the countdown will change.
It will be,
My sister died a week ago
.
.
.
my sister died two weeks ago .
.
.
my sister died three weeks ago
.
Then it will change to months, and then it will move on to years.
At what point, Ms.
Pettistone, do you think I’ll finally stop counting?”
“Probably never,” Darla replied, sympathetic tears unexpectedly filling her eyes.
She had done much the same thing as a teenager, when a beloved cousin of hers had died, too young, in a car accident.
For weeks afterward, she had mentally checked off each day on her personal cosmic calendar as one more day without Amanda being there for her to write to or call.
Even now, she sometimes still went through that mental litany, marveling as she did so at just how much time had passed.
She hurried to add, “But after a while, it won’t be every day, and in time it won’t hurt quite as much.”
“Do you think so?”
Smiling a little, he gathered the photos again and slid them back into their envelope, tucking the packet into his messenger bag.
“Please thank your manager for me.
My parents and I will enjoy having these pictures.”
“I’ll gladly tell him, but please don’t feel you must leave right away,” Darla insisted, hoping no desperation had seeped into her tone.
The conversation had wound down far more quickly than she had hoped.
She reminded herself that this should not have surprised her—not if her previous guess that he did, indeed, suffer from social anxiety was correct.
Somehow, though, she needed to keep him there and talking.
“James took a late lunch,” she went on, “but he will be back any minute if you would care to thank him yourself.
And I’ve just made a pot of fresh coffee if you’d like a cup while you browse the shop for a bit.”
Too late, she realized she had forgotten the nearby stack of
Haunted High
books.
She saw the pained look on Morris’s face as he caught a glimpse of the books, and she mentally kicked herself.
So much for browsing.
She threw a helpless look at Jake, who gave a small shrug.
Short of tackling the man and insisting that he indulge in chitchat, there wasn’t much either of them could do.
But before they had to resort to such drastic measures, the bells on the front door jingled.
The door opened to admit a small pigtailed figure wearing round black glasses and a blue plaid school uniform, and carrying a pink backpack.
“Callie!”
Darla exclaimed in pleasure, gesturing the girl in.
“I was hoping you would stop by.
But what are you doing here in the middle of a school day?”
“Today was a half day,” the girl explained with a precise nod, “so my mother let me go shopping with her.
She’s in the bath store down the block.
She let me come in here by myself because I told her you had a book for me.”
“Why yes, I do.”
Darla reached under the register and pulled out one of the autographed copies of
Ghost of a Chance
.
“I saved this one for you, just like I promised.”
“Wow.”
Callie took the book in both hands and stared at it in awe.
“I can’t believe I have a signed copy!”
Shifting the treasured tome so that she hugged it with one arm, she dug with her free hand into her uniform pocket.
“My mom gave me money to pay for it,” she explained and held out two crumpled twenties.
Darla smiled and shook her head.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Morris taking advantage of her distraction to start toward the door.
“Tell your mom that the book is my gift to you for being such a good customer.”
A desperate idea occurred to her.
Gesturing toward Morris, she went on loudly, “And I have another surprise for you, Callie.
This gentleman is Mr.
Morris Vickson.
He’s Valerie Baylor’s twin brother, and he stopped by for a visit.”
The announcement stopped Morris in his tracks, and he glanced at the young girl with polite uncertainty.
Darla pressed her advantage, telling him, “This is Callie.
She’s one of your sister’s biggest fans.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, young lady,” Morris said with a hesitant smile, putting out a hand adorned with the familiar puzzle ring.
Despite her youth, Callie knew the routine, for she smiled and took his hand in return.
Her tone polite, she said, “Nice to meet you, sir.
I’m very sorry about your sister.
She was a wonderful writer.
When I grow up, I want to write books just like her.”
“Well, all good writers start out as good readers,” he assured her.
Then he frowned, his expression considering.
“Tell me, Callie, what did you think when Lani learned the secret of the Janitor’s closet in the second book?”
“You mean how the closet was actually a mysterious portal to h-e-l-l?”
When Morris nodded, the girl gave an exaggerated shiver.
“That was pretty darn scary.
I had to keep the light on all night after I read that.
But that’s okay.
I think it would have been dumb if Lani didn’t check out the closet once she found out about those kids disappearing.”
“And what did you think of the Janitor?”
Morris wanted to know.
Darla had thought that the Janitor—by day a mild old man with a lisp and a kind smile, and by night a malevolent demon with sharp teeth and pupil-less eyes—was one of the creepiest characters she’d ever read.
She, too, was curious to hear Callie’s take on the character.
The girl shrugged.
“I thought he was pretty mean, at first, but later on I decided he was more sad than scary.
I kind of felt sorry for him, even though he tried to kill Lani’s best friend.
And I was kind of mad when the ghost gang destroyed him with a séance at the end of
School Spirit
.”
“Then I think you’ll find the third book quite interesting,” Morris assured her.
“Not that I will reveal any secrets, of course.
You’ll have to read all that for yourself.”
“Ooh, I bet that means the Janitor comes back!”
Callie exclaimed, jumping up and down with excitement.
Then she halted in midhop, and her smile faded.
It was replaced by a look of confusion, and an instant later, by realization.
“Wait,” she declared, taking a step back and staring hard at him.
“I know who you are.”
Her eyes behind her round glasses narrowed.
“You’re one of the ladies who came to the autographing with Ms.
Baylor.”
TWENTY-ONE
FROM THE MOUTH AND SHARP EYES OF BABES
, DARLA thought in astonishment as Callie made this pronouncement.
As for Morris, he stood staring at the girl as if he’d been poleaxed.
Composing herself, Darla guilelessly told her, “Why, Callie, surely you can see that Mr.
Vickson is a gentleman, and not a lady.
I’m afraid you’re mistaken, honey.”
“I’m not.”
Callie’s rosebud lips formed a small stubborn line as she studied Morris even more closely.
“You had on a dress and your hair was long, but it was you.
You were the makeup lady.
I saw you get out of the limo, and then I saw you putting lipstick on Ms.
Baylor while I was waiting in line here in the store.”
Setting her book on the counter, she reached into her backpack.
She fished out her phone and pressed a few buttons.
“See, I even took your picture.
It looks just like you,” she proclaimed and held up the phone so that both he and Darla could see the image there.
Darla glimpsed a thin blonde frozen in midgesture as she wielded a bright red lipstick.
She didn’t require a closer look to know the figure was Mavis.
Morris’s suddenly stricken face was all she needed to see.
His lips moved, but he couldn’t seem to summon a protest beyond a bit of sputtering.
Jake, meanwhile, had set down the book she had been pretending to read and was watching him with cool calculation.
Darla knew she should say something, but what?
Admit she’d already guessed Morris’s secret, or once more feign disbelief?
But while she struggled for the right words, Callie again stepped in.
“Don’t worry, I don’t think you tried to fool me on purpose.
And it’s okay if you like pretending to be a lady sometimes,” the girl reassured him.
“My mom says that so long as people don’t hurt anyone, what they do in private is none of our business.
So I promise I won’t tell anyone that you’re really the makeup lady.”
She returned her phone to her pack and grabbed up her book again.
“I have to go now, but thanks a lot for the book,” she told Darla.
“I’m going to start reading it the minute I get home, and I won’t stop until I’m done, even if it’s after my bedtime.
Boy, I sure hope the Janitor is back!”
Callie paused at the door for a final wave at all of them and then skipped out hugging the hardcover to her chest.
As the bells jingled her exit, Darla and Jake turned as one toward Morris.
The composure had begun to return to his face, and his tone was cool again as he said, “Cute kid, but she was obviously having a little joke at my expense.
Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Jake, however, was not to be dissuaded.
“Anything you’d like to tell us, Morris .
.
.
or should I say, Mavis?”
she asked, subtly positioning herself so that she stood between him and the door.
He blinked.
“ And who are you?
I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“That’s Jake Martelli,” Darla broke in.
“She’s a friend of mine, and she happens to be in charge of security here.
You probably saw her at the autographing.
She’s an ex-cop.”
“Ah .
.
.
‘ex’ being the germane word here,” Morris replied, seemingly in control once more.
“That being the case, you no doubt realize that you have no right to question me, Ms.
Martelli.
And you certainly have no authority to detain me, so please step aside.”
“There’s something you might not know regarding your sister’s death,” Jake countered, holding her ground.
“We found an odd note here in the store that apparently was written during the event.
We think that message might have been used to lure Valerie Baylor outside the store that night.
Funny, though, that the note was written in lipstick the same color as what Mavis was using on Valerie.
Even more interesting, the handwriting on it appears identical to the sample we have of your writing from the business card you gave to Darla.”
Morris gave a hollow little laugh.
“Oh, come on.
You can’t expect to compare lipstick with ink and claim a match.”
“Maybe not,” Darla interjected, “but what about your puzzle ring?
Mavis had on the identical ring the night of the autographing, even down to wearing it on the same finger as you wear yours.”
“Coincidence.”
His tone took on a hard edge, while his normally emotionless face hinted at anger.
“Not that I owe either of you an explanation,” he clipped out, “but the puzzle ring was a gift from my sister.
Perhaps she gave both of us the same ring.”
He paused and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slim cell phone.
“Now, do I need to call my attorney and tell him that I’m being harassed, or will you let me leave?”
Jake exchanged another glance with Darla and then took a step to the side.
“Of course, Mr.
Vickson.
Our apologies for holding you up.”
Darla, meanwhile, frantically searched her mind for something clever to keep Morris there a few minutes longer.
But nothing brilliant came to her, and she realized in resignation that they had blown whatever chance they’d had to gain a confession from the man.
Hamlet, however, apparently had a few ideas of his own.
Darla had left him peacefully sleeping upstairs.
Yet now, a sharp meow abruptly announced the feline’s presence in the shop.
As Darla watched, he leaped up onto the counter and ran its length, and then sprang off again like an Olympic gymnast performing a vault.
With execution worthy of a perfect ten, he made a graceful four-point landing on the floor right in front of Morris.
Darla gasped, fearing a sudden swipe of paws or gnashing of fangs that would shred clothes and flesh alike.
That definitely would rate a call from Morris to his attorney, she thought in dread.
But to her surprise, Hamlet pulled a trick she had never before seen.
Rearing up on his haunches, he stood with his paws neatly tucked against his chest and his green eyes wide, looking like a begging pup.
Then, just to underscore this scene of extreme cuteliness, he cocked his head and gave a series of soft little chirps designed to melt the heart of even the staunchest cat hater.
Morris did not fall into that category.
In fact, Darla recalled Valerie announcing how Mavis adored cats .
.
.
which meant, by extension, that Morris must be an ailurophile as well.
So she wasn’t surprised when this endearing feline tableau drew a genuine smile from the man.
“You must be Hamlet,” Morris said, pausing to reach down and scratch the cat behind one ear.
“What a clever boy.
You certainly are the handsome fellow, aren’t you?”
“He certainly is,” Darla agreed with a small triumphant smile.
“But if you’ve never been in my shop before, how did you know that the cat’s name is Hamlet?”
Morris straightened and stared from Hamlet to Darla and back again, and then gave a helpless shrug.
“I-I’m sure someone told me,” he managed and started for the door again.
Jake called after him, “I doubt Hamlet’s name came up during the memorial service, but Mavis knew it.”
Morris didn’t look back.
Jake went on, “Mavis heard all about Darla’s cat from Valerie.
So why don’t you come clean, Morris?
Just because your sister’s death was ruled an accident doesn’t mean the investigation can’t be reopened if some new evidence shows up.
And all these various handwriting samples floating around are adding up to something interesting.
If you don’t talk to me and Darla now, you’ll just have to talk to the police later.”
“Then I’ll talk to the police.
Good day,” he exclaimed and walked out the door.
Jake waited until the sound of jingling bells faded before turning again to Darla.
“That went well,” she observed with a snort of disgust.
“Hell, Hamlet was the only one who had a handle on things.
I have to admit, that was some clever work on his part.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
Darla agreed, beaming down in approval at the cat.
He had abandoned the balancing act and now lay flopped with careless abandon on one side.
Hearing Darla’s words directed at him, he promptly rolled into a sitting position and flung one leg over his shoulder in his patented kiss-mine position.
For once, though, Darla didn’t mind the insult.
The fact he’d vindicated her theory was enough for her.
Then she sighed.
“I guess I was hoping he’d confess to something, but all we’ve done is tick him off.
I don’t think we’re going to get any more information out of Morris, are we?”
Her friend gave a grudging shake of her head.
“Even with the ring and the cat and the pictures, you’ve pretty much got bupkes.”
Then she stopped short and slapped her forehead with her palm.
“The pictures!
If Callie was taking pictures here in the store during the autographing, maybe she got something useful.
Where did she say she was meeting her mom?”
“Probably Great Scentsations,” Darla replied.
“You’ve seen it.
It’s that new bath and body-lotion place down the block that just opened a couple of weeks ago where the old grocery used to be.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
“James.
I can’t just run off and leave the store until he comes back.”
Fortunately, James chose that moment to walk in, juggling a Cobb salad and an offsetting chocolate shake.
He gave a crisp nod and greeted them.
“Ladies.”
“Thank goodness you’re back!
We’ve got to leave for a few minutes,” Darla exclaimed as Jake grabbed her arm and dragged her to the front door.
“Keep an eye on things, would you?”
Leaving an astonished James to stare after them, they rushed outside and down the steps.
“What are you going to do if we find Callie there?”
Darla asked as they race-walked their way toward the bath shop.
“You can’t just commandeer her cell phone, you know.”
“Hey, I’m leaving that part up to you, kid.
You’re the queen of customer service.
You can charm the mom and get permission for me.”
A glorious waft of floral perfume—gardenia, Darla decided—gently assailed them as they entered Great Scent-sations.
Another time, she would have enjoyed the chance to wander the aisles with all manner of soaps and lotions and candles displayed with a lacy Victorian flair.
She’d met the owners—a stylish middle-aged woman and her twenty-something daughter—in passing, but this was her first chance to visit their store.
Unfortunately, now was not the time, either.
Her only concern at the moment was for a different mother-daughter team.
“Look, Mom, it’s the lady from the bookstore,” Callie piped up.
The girl and her mother stood beside a tiny pink-velvet-draped table where colorfully boxed soaps were arranged on end in a spiral pattern, much like dominoes set to topple.
In fact, the first few boxes lay facedown, as if the display had begun its tumble.
Darla fleetingly wondered how many times a mischievous customer had succumbed to temptation and jostled the first of the remaining standing soaps just to see the resulting chain reaction.
From the way Callie stood with hands deliberately clenched behind her back, it was apparent that she was trying to resist that very temptation.
Making a mental note to try a cute display like that back in her own shop, Darla zeroed in on the pair, Jake on her heels.
“Hi, Callie and Mrs., um, Callie’s mom,” she said with a bright smile, extending her hand.
“We’ve never formally met, but I’m Darla Pettistone from the bookstore.
And this is my friend, Jake Martelli.”
“Sure, sure,” Callie’s mom replied with a small smile, pushing up her sliding glasses with one hand and shaking with the other.
“That was real nice of you, giving Callie the book.
She loves that Valerie Baylor.”
“That’s why I’m here.
We’re planning a, um, memorial display at the store,” Darla improvised.
“I know Callie had some pictures from the event, and I thought maybe she could share a few of them.”

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