Words With Fiends (11 page)

But Mary Ann surprised her by reaching across the counter and giving her hand a comforting pat. “Now, dear, remember that we're in a large metropolitan area, much as we like to think of ourselves as a cozy neighborhood,” she said in a reassuring voice. “And things tend to go in cycles, good and bad. This is just one of those bad cycles. But I think it would be prudent to keep our eyes open and our doors locked until your Officer Reese finds out who killed poor Mr. Tomlinson.”

“Agreed,” Darla said with a vigorous nod.

Because she wasn't sure what would be worse, finding out that the murder was some random, crazy person that Master Tomlinson had never seen before . . . or finding out it was someone that he—and maybe the rest of them—knew.

• • •

“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK, HAMLET? PRETTY SNAZZY, ISN'T IT?”

Darla sat on the floor in front of her horsehair couch waving the feathered cat wand she'd bought earlier that afternoon in what she fancied was an enticing pattern back and forth across the rug. Hamlet, who was stretched in his familiar position along the sofa back, stared down at her from that lofty height like a small furry potentate surveying his subjects.

And it seemed that His Highness was not amused.

Instead, Hamlet watched the proceedings with cool green eyes, with nary a flick of a tail tip to indicate that the bundle of fluttering feathers had stirred his hunter's instincts. Darla, however, was not about to give up. Not when that particular feline plaything had cost her a few months' worth of kitty kibble.

“Oh, come on, this is the toy that all the really cool cats play with,” she coaxed him, shaking the wand so that it danced even more frantically. “Why, I bet that your friend Brody has a whole flock of these things for his favorite clients.”

Hamlet was not swayed by this argument, either. Instead, he stretched out his back legs and yawned, revealing an expanse of soft pink mouth and a formidable set of sharp white teeth. And then, quite deliberately, he closed both eyes.

“Why, you—”

Darla glared at him; then, recalling that she was supposed to be helping him resolve his trauma, she let it go. If the new toy didn't appeal to him, then she wouldn't hold that against him. Maybe he'd play with it later. And if he kept ignoring the toy, she would simply return it along with the rest of the items she and Robert had bought at the pet boutique. Tossing the wand onto the sofa, she got to her feet and headed to the dining table, where she'd left the logo bag filled with Roma's little sweaters and leashes. Shaking her head, she took out the items one by one for another look.

Poor Robert, he'd been so thrilled to pick out all these things.
If the sensei's family had been equally happy to have the little dog back, she—and, likely, Robert—would have accepted their decision with good grace. But it was obvious that Dr. Tomlinson cared only about the possible profit she could make from her late husband's cherished pet. What really bugged Darla, though, was how the woman seemed almost to enjoy Robert's misery at giving up the little dog.

The thought made Darla want to track her down and shame the good doctor into surrendering the small greyhound back to Robert. Not that she'd had any illusions she would have any influence on the supposedly grieving widow. But maybe Reese would. At the very least, the fact that he was a cop vouching for Robert might make the woman more open to negotiation. Darla nodded to herself. If Reese did stop by to question her as he'd promised, she'd take that opportunity to convince him to have a word with the woman.

And if that didn't work?

Darla considered the question for a moment. Maybe Robert would be willing to adopt another dog . . . a rescue, perhaps, who needed a home even more desperately than Roma did. She'd have to get Mary Ann's thoughts on the situation, however, since the old woman had waived the
no pets
rule specifically for Roma. But if she agreed, maybe Darla would suggest it to Robert when he came into work in the morning. In the meantime, she'd hold on to all his purchases awhile longer before returning them to the boutique. Just in case.

The sound of a soft smack from the direction of the sofa abruptly distracted her from thoughts of Robert. She looked in that direction, and then did a literal double take.

In the few moments that she'd been occupied with Roma's things, Hamlet had slid from the back of the sofa onto the seat cushion, captured the abandoned cat wand between his front paws, and was gnawing away on the feathered bundle at its end.

“Ha, I knew it,” Darla muttered with a satisfied smile as he roughhoused with the toy. Maybe later, the finicky cat would even let her play with him.

A sudden buzzing sound made her jump. Hamlet jumped, too, dropping the wand and leaping back upon his sofa perch. Despite their startled reactions, however, they both knew that buzzing meant someone was at her downstairs door.

As always, it took a moment for Darla's heartbeat to get back to normal after hearing that sound . . . and, as always, she vowed to replace that buzzer with a chime. In the meantime, however, someone was waiting on the stoop in the cold for her to ring them up. Jake, perhaps? Except she usually called first. A customer who didn't understand closed meant closed, and was hoping she'd come down and open the store for them?

Or maybe Robert was ready to talk about what had happened a couple of hours earlier, Darla thought as she punched the intercom button.

“Who is it?”

“Hi, Red. Wanna buzz me on up?”

The voice, though made tinny by the intercom, was still more than familiar. She exchanged looks with Hamlet, whose expression reflected her own pique. Maybe it was some sort of macho male, territorial thing, but Hamlet and Reese had never gotten along well. Sparks—and claws—tended to fly when the two of them got together. Hamlet would have her back if she elected not to let the man in.

“Detective Reese, is this an official police visit?” was her frosty reply.

The tinny voice sharpened.

“Yeah, it's official. But I'd rather do it here than drag you down to the precinct.” A pause, and then he added in a more conciliatory tone, “Look, Darla, I'm sorry if I was short with you earlier, but there's some stuff going on behind the scenes that you don't know about. I really could use your help, and given that you knew the dead guy, I'd think you'd be more than happy to volunteer.”

He was right, of course. Still, she hesitated, floundering for the right combination of snark and dignity. In the end, however, recalling her final, sad view of Master Tomlinson's unresponsive body being bundled into an ambulance, she decided that finding the truth far outweighed her own ego. And she couldn't forget what the sensei always had said:

Run when you can, fight if you must, never give up, and never let injustice go unpunished.

What had happened to the sensei was the greatest injustice she could imagine. She wouldn't let it go unpunished if she could help it.

“Come on up, Reese,” was her resigned response as she hit the buzzer.

BY THE TIME DARLA HAD UNHOOKED THE CHAIN AND
unlocked both the dead bolt and thumb lock on her front door, Reese had already made it up two flights of stairs and was waiting on the landing. And he wasn't even breathing heavily, she noted in some annoyance. Of course, like Jake, he hit the gym daily, which probably had something to do with it. Maybe she
should
add a gym workout to her modest fitness regimen, since even after all these months she still puffed a bit if she took the stairs at any pace faster than a sedate climb.

“Thanks for not holding this afternoon against me,” he said as he peeled off his long wool overcoat—black, like the leather bomber jacket he'd worn when the weather was warmer—and strode past her. He was still dressed for work in dark gray slacks and a tweed sport coat over a surprisingly cheery yellow shirt. He tossed the overcoat on the back of the sofa. Then, pulling a notebook and pen from his jacket, he took a spot on that couch as far from where Hamlet lounged as he could manage.

“I think we might be due for some snow by morning,” he observed as he crossed an ankle atop a knee, and flipped open the notebook. “It's getting cold enough, that's for sure. So, how about a cup of coffee to warm up the old bones?”

As always, his expectation that the women around him didn't mind playing waitress grated; still, Darla knew that refusing a simple request like that would only make her look churlish. And if she was going to take the opportunity to see if he could intervene on Robert's behalf with Dr. Tomlinson, she'd do well to get on his good side.

Plus, she always got her petty revenge by serving his coffee to him in some hideously inappropriate mug.

“Sure, Grandpa. Cuppa joe, coming right up,” she brightly agreed, resisting the temptation to suggest a lap rug to go with the coffee. “You can chat with Hamlet while I'm in the kitchen.”

But when she came back into the living room a couple of minutes later, the coffeemaker primed and beginning its cycle, she immediately saw that both males—human as well as cat—were still studiously ignoring each other. Reese was flipping through his notebook as Hamlet lay atop the couch back, one long furry front leg dangling so that he could idly bat the feathers on the cat wand.

Darla took a seat on a small wingback chair that she'd recently had reupholstered in a whimsical Puss in Boots toile. She didn't mind answering a few questions, but first things first.

“What about Robert?” she wanted to know. “Have you talked to him yet?”

“I knocked on his door first, but I didn't get an answer. Don't worry, he's on my list, since he's the one who found the body . . . er, Mr. Tomlinson.”

“I'm sure he'll be glad to help with the investigation all he can,” Darla assured him, “but last I saw he was still pretty upset over losing Roma. I just wanted to warn you in case he goes all moody on you.”

“Don't worry, Red, I've actually done this questioning thing a time or two,” was Reese's deadpan response. “I think I can handle an unresponsive witness.”

Darla felt herself blush. “You're right, sorry. Go on.”

“If you're sure . . .”

When she shook her head, he flashed a grin; then, lapsing back into formal detective mode, he sobered and said, “All right, here's the scoop. We cops have what we call the twenty-four-hour rule . . . if we don't have a viable suspect within the first twenty-four hours after the crime, there's a good chance we may not solve it. So that's why we have as many people as we can working the case getting witness statements and talking to people who knew the victim. Since you and Robert were both first on the scene, plus you have knowledge of the victim and some of the people who knew him, your input is pretty critical.”

Darla nodded. She understood how critical it was to narrow the suspect field right away. But having Reese spell it out like this brought it home to her in a way she hadn't considered it before.

“I'll tell you what I can,” she assured him. “Just ask.”

“Then let's take it from the top. You already know from Jake that we suspect Mr. Tomlinson didn't kill himself. Luckily, the ME found a few things that should help narrow down our list of persons who might have taken him out. But my problem is that the officer on the scene—”

“Officer Wing?”

“—didn't shut things down right away like I would have yesterday,” he continued, acknowledging her interruption with a small nod. “So your sensei's family managed to wander around inside the dojo for a while this morning before we taped it off. You and Robert showed up right around the time we were hustling them out of there before they contaminated every potential bit of evidence in the place. And I have a bad feeling that they got rid of some stuff before we put a halt to it. We found what looked to be some newly shredded papers in the wastebasket.”

“I don't understand. What could they be getting rid of?”

“Computer printouts, canceled checks, love letters, enemies list, whatever.” Reese shrugged. “You'd be surprised what sort of incriminating paperwork people leave around.”

“Right, but Master Tomlinson ran a dojo, not a law office or an investment firm.”

“Some of the slickest illegal operations I've ever run across took place in pretty mundane storefronts. My favorite was the money laundering outfit that worked out of a literal laundry. Some of these guys have really bent senses of humor, know what I mean?”

“Not Master Tomlinson,” she stoutly defended the dead man. “He was the kind of guy that my dad would say was honest as the day is long. Why, before every class, he had us repeat this mantra thing about never giving up and fighting injustice.”

“Yeah, and that tower sniper guy down in Texas was an eagle scout. Don't worry, Red, I'm not saying that your guy was involved in anything bad. But he may have known someone who was. This wasn't some impulse killing. Someone walked in there with a plan.”

Darla shuddered to think that she and Robert could just as easily have walked in on that plan, themselves. Once before, she'd battled for her life against an attacker; in fact, that was the whole reason she had begun her self-defense training. The idea that she might have wandered unknowingly into another such situation was enough to make her want to huddle inside the bookstore with Hamlet and never venture out again!

“Speaking of plans,” Reese added while she tried not to let that last thought consume her, “I planned to have a cup of coffee. Any idea what happened to that?”

His question was enough to drag her back to the present. Suppressing the urge to tell him what he could do with his plan, Darla rose.

“Let me check on that.” She plastered a smile on her face as she headed again to the kitchen. Her smile grew genuine, however, when she remembered the Tinker Bell coffee mug her nephews had sent Auntie Darla as a souvenir from their recent trip to the land of the Mouse.

Perfect.

A couple of minutes later, she handed Reese a steaming mug of black coffee. Embroiled again in his notes, he gave her a cursory thank-you and took a tentative sip before setting the drink on the coffee table to cool. It was only then that he apparently got a good look at the mug itself. He shot her a look that said
what the heck?
—a look she answered with innocent raised brows that said
what, is something wrong?
—before he obviously decided it wasn't a battle worth fighting.

Darla took her seat again, glancing over at Hamlet as she did so. He was still on his side of the sofa back, tail end deliberately facing the detective. But then the green eyes flicked Darla's way before taking in the Tinker Bell mug, and Darla could have sworn that the cat winked. Heartened, she settled back to wait on Reese's questions.

Taking another sip from the girlie cup, the detective flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “All right, let's take this from the top, starting with what Mr. Tomlinson said to you and Robert about meeting him at the dojo.”

For the next several minutes, Reese took her painstakingly through each detail, from that final class until the sensei's unresponsive body was loaded into the ambulance. Darla answered as best she could, struggling to remain businesslike about the whole situation even as the occasional tear threatened.

“Let's get back to your original statement to Officer Wing,” the detective said once they'd seemingly exhausted the time line. “You told him that Mr. Tomlinson told you to come on a Sunday morning, a time that the dojo normally wasn't open, because he was going to be there, anyway. Are you sure he didn't say anything about why he was going to be there? As in, was he meeting someone else prior to eleven o'clock?”

“All he said was that he had to be there. I figured he was getting ready for the tournament.”

“But that doesn't mean he
wasn't
expecting someone,” Reese countered, making yet another note. “So how about we put together a list of people. Anyone—students, teachers, parents—who you know from the dojo, just start naming names.”

The instructors were easy enough, given that the dojo's staff consisted only of the sensei and his two stepsons. Many of the students in her class Darla knew only by sight, while others she knew only by first name . . . not to mention that at least half were teenagers and, in her opinion, not very likely suspects. Still, she gave it her best effort, listing off as many as she could while Reese took notes.

“Oh, and there's Mark Poole,” she added. “He's in the upper rank class, but he's also one of my customers. I found out about the dojo from him in the first place.”

Reese scribbled a bit more and then asked, “Any of these people seem to have a beef with Mr. Tomlinson?”

“Well, the Steroid Twins—I mean, Hank and Hal, his stepsons—sure seemed to be at odds with him.”

“What do you mean?”

Darla shook her head. “It wasn't anything specific, just their attitudes. But I did hear Master Tomlinson pretty much tell Hank that he didn't know how to act in a dojo. Oh, and I almost forgot,” she exclaimed. “Chris's mom—her name is Grace Valentine—was pretty ticked off at Sensei for banning Chris from the tournament this Saturday, the one that Hank mentioned to you.”

Reese grinned a little. “Yeah, those sports moms are pretty brutal, no matter what game it is. You shoulda seen my ma on the sidelines when I was playing high school football.” Then, reaching for his Tink mug and finding it now empty, he held it out to her, saying, “We're not quite done yet, so I've got time for a refill.”

Darla rolled her eyes but carted the mug off to the kitchen again. As she poured the coffee, she called from the kitchen to him, “Okay, Reese, you've been asking all the questions. Now I have one.”

“Yeah? Shoot,” came his absent reply.

Mug refilled, she set the pot down again and pulled a tea towel from a drawer to mop up a couple of spilled drops. “All right, here it is. A little while ago, you said something about it not being an impulse murder. But the door to the dojo was unlocked when Robert and I got there. Anyone could have walked in on him. I know you're a detective and all, but how can you be so sure Master Tomlinson wasn't murdered by someone off the street?”

“Because I've never seen your run-of-the-mill street punk wandering around town with a vial of Botox stuck in the pocket of his baggy pants.”

By now, Darla was carrying the mug back into the living room. Reese's reply made her halt in mid-step so abruptly that she sloshed a bit of the steaming beverage.

“Ouch! Hot! What do you mean, Botox?” she shot back in quick succession, blowing on her burnt hand in between exclamations.

Reese dropped the notebook to hop up from the sofa and take the cup from her. Then he headed into the kitchen, returning a moment later with the tea towel she'd been using wrapped around a few cubes of ice.

“Botox,” he repeated as he handed her the makeshift icepack. “You know, the stuff all the rich people get injected into their faces to make themselves look younger, but all that really happens is that their foreheads freeze up.”

“I know
what
Botox is,” she retorted, sighing a little in relief as she applied the chilly bundle to her reddened flesh and sat down again. “But what does that have to do with how he died? If someone strangled him before they tried to make it look like he killed himself . . .”

She trailed off momentarily at the noncommittal expression on his face.

“Now I'm really confused,” she finally went on. “Jake was talking about marks on necks and bloodshot eyes being signs that what looks like a suicide isn't. You're talking about wrinkle treatments. Are you trying to say he died of Botox?”

“Let's just say that Jake didn't have her psychic hat on when she started her Monday morning quarterbacking about the case.”

Darla stared at him a moment, ignoring the damp stain on her leg from the melting icepack. Then she shook her head. “That's crazy. How can you die of Botox, anyhow?”

“Easy. Remember that the full name for that stuff is
Botulinum Toxin Type A
.” The words rolled off his tongue so smoothly that Darla knew he must have practiced. “Bottom line, it's poison. You know how you can get botulism and die from eating bad canned food? Well, Botox is the same toxin, except it's injected instead of swallowed.”

Then, as Darla listened in growing dismay, he said, “According to our ME, it's not just used for cosmetic purposes. There are other medical applications—migraines, muscle spasms, overactive sweat glands—but all of them require only a minuscule amount of the toxin. In the hands of a doctor who knows what he's doing, the stuff is safe enough even for kids. But if someone, say, injects a whole syringe of Botox into your neck, that's a whole other ballgame.”

Darla shuddered. “That's a horrible way to go. But I can't believe someone could just walk up and inject him with the stuff. He might have been old, but I bet he could have taken you in a fight.”