Words With Fiends (12 page)

“Yeah, I know the guy was a karate master,” Reese agreed, “but if the killer was someone he knew, he'd have no reason to suspect anything. His guard would be down; he might even have been working at the table and had his back to the person. The killer could have snuck up on him with the syringe and pumped him full of the toxin before he knew what hit him.”

“And that's what you think happened?”

“That's the doc's theory. As for what it does, the toxin itself will eventually kill you, but most people die a lot faster from the side effects.” He took on a lecturing tone that reminded her of James. “An overdose of Botox weakens your muscles, and can paralyze your throat and chest enough that you can't breathe. And if you already have some sort of respiratory problems, the effects are magnified. You're basically going to suffocate if you don't get treatment ASAP.”

“So that's why he was hanged without a struggle,” Darla murmured, recalling how the sensei had been suffering a head cold that night in class. No doubt that congestion had added to the drug's effects. But who had Botox just sitting around in their medicine chest, to use as a handy murder weapon?

Then realization hit, and she looked at Reese in dismay. “Master Tomlinson's wife . . . she's a doctor. Any idea what kind?”

“Yeah, that's where it gets interesting.” Reese paused for another gulp of coffee; then, absently cradling Tink in both hands, he added, “Our grieving widow just happens to be a plastic surgeon.”

MASTER TOMLINSON'S WIFE WAS A PLASTIC SURGEON!

At Reese's words, Darla felt her stomach clench into a cold little knot. As a plastic surgeon, chances were Dr. Tomlinson had access to as much Botox as she could want. On the other hand, while the Tomlinson family wasn't exactly the Brady Bunch, Darla wasn't aware of any motive for his wife to kill him. Just because the woman was not what one would call warm and cuddly—heck, she made Cruella de Vil look like an animal rights activist—that didn't make her a killer. But on the third hand (she was going to need to borrow Hamlet's paws to finish her mental argument!), according to what Jake and Reese both had explained to her in the past, half of all murder victims were killed by people they knew. And spouses were always high on the initial suspect list.

Which made good old Dr. Tomlinson look like a pretty viable suspect, after all.

But since it was obvious that the petite doctor couldn't have lifted a man the sensei's size, let alone try to hang him from a hook high upon a wall, that would probably mean involving one or both of the twins as well. Somehow, she just couldn't see Master Tomlinson living among such treachery . . . not when he espoused never giving up and fighting injustice.

Then another thought occurred to her that seemed to put the kibosh on Reese's theory.

“Wait, isn't the whole point of Botox treatments that they last awhile?” she pointed out. “Months, even. Dr. Tomlinson would have to know that the Botox would be discovered in his body during the autopsy.”

“I'm not saying it's the missus,” Reese replied, snapping shut his notebook. “But you can bet she and her boys are at the top of my list. Of course, the full tox report won't be in for a while. Who knows what else might turn up?”

Then he gave a quizzical look in the direction of Darla's kitchen. “What in the heck is your cat doing now?”

Surprised by the question, she glanced over to where Hamlet had been sitting on the back of the couch. He was no longer there. Following Reese's gaze, she saw that the wily feline had made his way to her dining area and was perched atop the table amid the dog paraphernalia that Robert had purchased for Roma. More surprising was the fact that he had slipped his head into the stretchy harness, so that it dangled from his neck like a bright red undershirt.

“Hamlet, do you want to go for a walk?” Darla asked with a smile. “Or are you just trying to cheer me up by acting silly?”

Hamlet ignored the question as he pawed at the harness's armhole, seemingly attempting to put on the gear. Reese, meanwhile, was grinning as he watched Hamlet's efforts.

“Hey, Red, you need to take a movie of this with your phone and put it up on YouTube. A cat dressing itself. It'll go viral, I guarantee you. And it would be a great plug for the store.”

“Ignore him, Hamlet,” Darla advised with a brief frown for the detective, and a reassuring look for the cat. Not that Pettistone's couldn't use a million hits of free publicity, but she couldn't do it at the expense of the dignified feline. “Don't worry, I wouldn't embarrass you like that. But if you want your own harness, I'll get you one. Roma's is way too small for you.”

Hamlet apparently agreed, for he quit struggling and shook off the harness. Darla went over to the table and, after giving him a reassuring pat, scooped everything back into the bag.

“I'll be taking the rest of these things back to the pet boutique tomorrow,” she told Reese. “Poor Robert, he was devastated over giving up Roma. I swear that woman took her back just out of spite. You saw that none of them wanted her as a pet. Roma is simply”—Darla paused and gave the shopping bag a shake—“merchandise to them.”

“Yeah, it was a raw deal for the kid, but like I told you, that's their right.”

“Well, just because it's a
right
doesn't make it right.”

With that pronouncement, Darla set the bag down again and gave him a considering look.
Time to cash in on the coffee service.
It was a long shot that he'd be able to do anything, but she owed it to Robert to ask.

“Look, Reese, do you think you could mention something to the family about Roma when you talk to them again? Hank seemed like he was willing to be pretty reasonable about the whole thing. Maybe he could get his mother to see the light. We'll even buy Roma from them, if she'll let Robert do some sort of payment plan. But we can't let her be sold off to a puppy mill.”

“Darla, you know better than that.” The detective stood and reached for his overcoat. “I feel for the kid, just like you do, but in case you forgot, I'm in the middle of a murder investigation. The last thing I need is for the victim's family to accuse me of official repression. And that goes double since they're all on my suspect list.”

She had expected as much; still, she couldn't help feeling discouraged that this avenue to rescue Roma was being shut down before they could even travel it.

“I suppose you're right. And I can see how it would look bad if you said anything. But I'm not going to give up. I'll try talking to Hank and Hal as soon as you let them open up the dojo for business again.”

“You'll have a chance to do that first thing tomorrow,” Reese assured her. He paused, his coat half on now, and then added, “I don't suppose that you and Robert are registered for that martial arts competition the dojo is putting on, are you?”

“Robert is. I don't know if he's still planning to go, but if he does, I thought I'd go cheer him on if I can get James to hold down the fort alone for a few hours. Why?”

“Just asking. See you later, Red.”

Before she could press him for more, or even say good-bye, he was out the door again. A moment later, she heard the front door downstairs close behind him.

“Well, Hamlet,” she addressed the feline still sitting on the dining table, “on the bright side, at least you and I aren't on the suspect list.”

Darla wandered over to the coffee table and picked up the empty Tink mug, giving the green-garbed fairy a gloomy look. “And on the not-so-bright side, this whole situation just keeps on getting more convoluted. Poor Master Tomlinson. He didn't deserve for things to end like this.”

The tears she'd managed to hold back earlier began to sting her eyes. Angry all at once, she swiped them away.
Never let injustice go unpunished,
the sensei had drilled into them. And injustice was exactly what had happened there. For she was sure that, no matter what sort of trouble he'd landed in—even if accidentally—Master Tomlinson had been an honorable man to his final breath. And for him to have left this world in such an ignominious manner . . .

“Meow!”

The demanding cry momentarily distracted her from darker thoughts. Hamlet, still on the table, was pawing in the bag that Darla had repacked, seemingly in search of something.

“Hamlet, what is it? What are you doing?”

She rushed back to the table and grabbed the bag away from him. “You're acting like there's a mouse or something in there,” she lightly scolded him, dumping the bag's contents back out again.

The same familiar items spilled onto the table, but this time a bright red half sheet of paper she hadn't noticed before slid from the bag's interior. Hamlet reached out a paw and batted the small paper so that it landed face up on the pile.

“What's this, a cat food ad?” she asked with a smile as she picked it up for a closer look.

It was an ad, all right, but not quite what she'd expected. In bold letters, it read,
Don't Leave Your Dog out in the Cold
. Beneath that headline was a second, far smaller line that said,
Bring This Ad in for 50% off Selected Dog Coats
. But what kept Darla from tossing the ad back into the bag was the accompanying illustration . . . a stylized rendering of an Italian greyhound.

“Hamlet, what are you trying to say?” she demanded, only to realize that the feline in question had slipped away while she was distracted. She glimpsed the tip of a sleek black tail sliding around the corner leading back to her bedroom. Obviously, what he was trying to say was,
my work here is done.

Or was it more? Maybe Hamlet was urging her and Robert to fight harder for Roma . . . not that the cagey feline had ever even met the dog in question. Darla shook her head in amusement. Surely she was giving Hamlet a bit too much credit. He was smart, but last she knew he didn't have a 1-800 psychic hotline. Still, it did seem that he was showing more interest in life this past day than he had in a while, which could only be a positive. Maybe he was finally starting to pull out of that funk he'd been mired in. She could only hope that Robert would be equally resilient when it came to dealing with the loss of both the sensei and little Roma.

She reached for her phone and started to dial the teen's number, only to change her mind before she pressed the last digit.

“He's not a child, and you're not his mommy,” she reminded herself, setting down the phone again. At almost nineteen, the youth was surely old enough to deal with heartache. After all, he'd survived being kicked out of his father's house and, showing great enterprise, had managed to keep employed most of that time, even if he'd not always had a roof over his head. Definitely a tough young man. And no matter how distraught he was, he'd likely resent being treated like a little kid, particularly by his boss.

But it never hurts to have a shoulder to cry on.

With that in mind, she thought for a moment and then settled on a quick if non-threatening text—
hope ur doing ok
—and then went to clean up in the kitchen for a few minutes. When she finished there and then checked her phone again, she was disappointed but not surprised to see that no return message had popped up.

Let him deal in his own way, kid,
was the advice she knew Jake would give her, so she didn't bother to check in with her friend. Besides, she knew Jake must be busy with her Russian Bombshell investigation. She contemplated phoning James, but didn't want to interrupt him on his day off; besides, she suspected he'd likely tell her the same thing Jake would. But that reminded her to give James a heads-up when he came in the next morning, so that the manager would be prepared to handle the youth should there be any sort of crisis.

Darla decided that the best thing she could do was let Robert have some time to himself to regroup from what had been an undeniably traumatic weekend. Then she brightened. Maybe this was what Hamlet had meant by the ad that he'd made sure she had noticed. Was supporting Robert the task he'd chosen to redeem himself? It might be a humble mission in the scheme of things, but an important one, nonetheless. She would let James know her theory tomorrow, and then between them they could make sure that the feline spent as much time as possible in the store while Robert was there.

And maybe both cat and youth would find a bit of emotional healing as a result.

• • •

THE NEXT MORNING, DARLA HAD JUST FINISHED HER OPENING
routine—flipping on the lights and powering up the register, making a run through the shelves looking for anything out of whack, rearranging the front floor displays for the greatest impact—when from the corner of her eye she saw movement through the wavy glass of the front door.

She glanced at the clock. Quarter to ten. Either someone was impatient for the store to open, or someone was looking for
her
.

For some reason, this last notion sent a small shiver through her. Tamping it down again, she set down the stack of paperbacks she was carrying and strode toward the door
. Can't leave a customer waiting on the stoop, even if they're here early,
she told herself. Still, even though the glass was difficult to see through, she made a point of peeking first before unlocking the door.

The distorted image, best as she could tell, was male, and something about his posture rang a bell with her. She turned the deadbolt knob and opened the door to a chill breeze.

She'd been right. There on the stoop stood a raggedy looking young man in a familiar patched denim jacket, his features all but hidden by the garish striped knit scarf wrapped around the lower portion of his face.

“Brody Raywinkle? What are you doing standing out there in the cold?” she demanded, hurriedly ushering him inside and shutting the door after him. “You should have knocked. Why, it's got to be thirty degrees out.”

“Probably,” he cheerfully agreed. “But you weren't open yet, and I didn't want to disturb you,” he added, unwrapping the scarf to release a multihued sprinkle of cat hair upon the wooden floor.

Biting back a comment at the fur invasion, Darla instead replied, “I'd rather be disturbed than find your frozen body on my stoop. But what are you doing here? I thought you weren't due back for at least a week.”

“Normally, yes, but I had a communication from Hamlet that made it necessary for me to return sooner than usual.”

“Communication?” Darla smiled a little. “Surely he didn't pick up the phone and call you, did he?”

Brody gave her a mildly rebuking look. “Actually, there have been several documented cases of cats dialing 9-1-1 in an emergency. Most times, the authorities later determined that the number was already programmed on speed dial, and they speculated that the cats in question knocked over the phone in a panic and hit the emergency key randomly. But in a few instances, the speed dial wasn't programmed, and yet 9-1-1 was called anyhow.”

Then, while Darla digested that interesting bit of information, the young man's frown became a smile. “As far as Hamlet, his communication with me was this way,” he said, and lightly tapped his forehead.

Darla smiled back. “I'll take your word for that. But what did Hamlet say he wanted?”

“This.”

Brody reached into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a tangle of thin black straps. It wasn't until he'd shaken them out and held up the resulting object for Darla to admire that she realized in surprise just what it was.