Words With Fiends (13 page)

“He—he asked you to bring him a cat harness?”

“Hamlet thought it might be a good idea if he accompanied you when you go out,” Brody said with a nod. “I have a matching leash here, as well. Shall we see if he approves?”

Darla managed a nod. Only the night before, the cat had wrestled with Roma's harness, and now his official feline behavioral empath had brought him one of his own, seemingly out of the blue. Coincidence, or . . .

She reflexively put her fingers to her own forehead, and then yanked them away. Hamlet might be smarter than the average cat, but no way was he sending telepathic messages to Brody the Cat Whisperer.

Hamlet, meanwhile, apparently had determined—telepathically or otherwise—that Brody had arrived with the requested harness, for he appeared all at once atop the register counter. From that vantage point, he surveyed the man with a seemingly expectant look.

“Hi, Hamlet,” Brody greeted him. “I think this size should fit you, and I took the liberty of choosing a harness that coordinates with your fur, so that it's not as obvious that you're wearing a restraint. Don't want to give the local toms the wrong impression, you know.”

As he conducted this one-sided bantering with the cat, Brody was unbuckling a strap on the harness. Then, while Darla watched in amazement, he slipped the contraption around an uncomplaining Hamlet's muscular frame and fastened it securely onto him. The final step was clipping on the matching lead.

“Now, let's take you for a test drive,” the man said with another smile and a guiding tug on the leash.

Hamlet hesitated; then he gave a graceful leap off the counter onto the wood floor. There, he paused again to sit and scratch with one rear foot at the strap wrapping around his belly. Apparently deciding it was there for the duration, he rose again and gave Brody a questioning
meowrmph
.

“It's easy, just one paw in front of the other,” the man prompted him.

Hamlet took a tentative step, and then another, until he was striding toward the shop's front door, Brody walking alongside him with leash loosely in hand. For the next couple of minutes, the pair executed figure eights and quick turns up and down the aisles, Hamlet performing like a circus big cat. Luckily, no customers came in during the demonstration, so that man and cat had the store to themselves.

Then Brody halted before Darla and handed the leash to her. “Your turn.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, tightly gripping the loop. “I've never walked a cat before, only dogs.”

“It's pretty much the same thing, except he won't be sniffing every tree and post,” Brody assured her. “Give it a try.”

Nodding, she took a step, and then another. Hamlet kept pace with her, tugging only a little when he wanted to go in a direction different from her.

“I think he likes it,” Darla finally declared with a delighted little laugh after they'd made a circuit up and back along one aisle. “Are you sure it's safe to take him outside in this harness?”

“As long as it's securely fastened so he can't slip out of it. And don't just hold the leash; be sure you keep the loop hooked over your wrist, too. There's nothing more dangerous than a dog or cat that's gotten away from its owner and is dragging a leash behind it. But I have a feeling Hamlet is going to enjoy walking with you.”

He reached down to unsnap the leash, and then unbuckled the harness. Hamlet endured all the activity with surprising patience, though he did succumb to the urge to bat at the harness as Brody slipped it off him.

His expression satisfied, the man handed the gear to Darla, making very certain as he did so that their hands did not touch. Darla suppressed a smile but did her part to keep her fingers at a safe distance from his. She'd have thought that the fur of the average cat probably was a lot germier than human flesh, but maybe not.

“Practice with him inside a couple more times to make sure you're both comfortable before you go out,” he recommended. “Any problems, call me. Either way, I'll come back in a few days to see how you two are getting along.”

“Thanks,” she replied, feeling the sentiment was somewhat inadequate for what he'd accomplished. She suspected if she'd gone with her original plan to buy the harness on her own, Hamlet would have been quite a bit less cooperative.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she added as he started for the door. “Remember the whole atonement thing you talked about the first time you were here? Well, I think I know what Hamlet's mission is.”

“Do you?”

He paused, hand on knob—with, of course, the end of his scarf serving as a germ buffer—and turned back to her with another of his gentle smiles.

“I've learned not to make those sorts of pronouncements until everything has come full circle,” he said. “Atonement can be a tricky thing, especially from a cat's point of view.”

With that cryptic pronouncement, he opened the door and slipped out into the cold, leaving Darla to stare after him. She didn't have much time to ponder the statement, however, for James arrived a few moments later for his shift.

“Good morning,” he greeted her, a thermos of his personal coffee blend safely tucked beneath one overcoated arm. “And may I ask the identity of that young man in the horrific scarf whom I just saw leaving the store?”

“Good morning. That was Brody Raywinkle. Remember, Hamlet's feline behavioral empath?” she added when he gave her a quizzical look. “He had an emergency communication from Hamlet and stopped in.”

“Ah, yes. The, ahem, cat whisperer,” he confirmed, setting down the thermos to peel off his classic camel-colored coat. “And dare I ask the nature of this urgent situation?”

“Apparently, Hamlet wants his own harness and leash. He and Brody mind-melded, or whatever it is they do, and Brody brought these over for him,” Darla explained, holding up said items by way of explanation.

James raised a brow.

“Indeed? I must say, I wish that I shared your Mr. Raywinkle's powers. If I did, perhaps I would not have had to read about the passing of a certain Mr. Tomlinson in the newspapers, instead of hearing about it from you.”

DARLA WINCED A LITTLE AT JAMES'S POLITELY PHRASED
rebuke. Truth be told, she'd deliberately avoided the local news these past couple of days, not wanting to see or hear a recap of what she'd experienced in real time.

But it should have occurred to her that James—news junkie that he was—would have stumbled across the story at some point over the weekend. While she likely hadn't been listed by name in the piece in question, chances were that “a local bookseller” was mentioned somewhere in one of the later paragraphs as a witness.

“Sorry, James,” she told him. “I really didn't mean to keep you in the dark. It's just that so much happened so fast, I wasn't up to rehashing it right away. But I did plan to tell you everything today, honest.”

To her surprise, he gave her an understanding nod.

“Your point is well taken. I can understand not wanting to treat such an event like so much fodder for gossip. And I would suspect that young Robert is equally upset by what occurred.” At Darla's nod, he said, “But when one undergoes a harrowing experience, it does sometimes help to discuss things with a friend.”

“You're right, James. It does.”

And so, between customers, she spent the next couple of hours telling him everything. He listened with well-bred astonishment to it all. For her part, Darla found that with this telling the original sharp emotions were finally beginning to dull. And she found, too, that with each repetition she was looking more carefully at every detail.

“The whole part about hanging him by his black belt, that's the oddest thing about this whole situation,” she confided to James between their lunch hour customers. “Whoever killed him had to know that the autopsy would show the Botox, so what was the point of setting up his murder to look like suicide?”

“Perhaps the killer was trying to send a message of some sort. From what I know of the martial arts, one's belt is something of a revered object. To hang a man from it seems a great insult, indeed.”

“I get that,” Darla replied. “But although he was hanged with a black belt, it wasn't the fancy one he always wore, the one with the red stripes and the dragon. This was just a plain black rank belt. He probably had a bunch of them in that box under his desk.” She paused, then mused, “I wonder what happened to his real one. Surely he'd be wearing it, since he was planning to do our belt test.”

“A souvenir for the killer, perhaps?”

James's suggestion made her shiver. Somehow, that possibility made the whole situation seem even more grisly than it already was. She'd need to check with Reese and see if maybe the missing belt had been found somewhere in the sensei's office. But if not, that likely meant it had been taken by someone who knew just what that belt represented. A student, or maybe a fellow instructor? She frowned, considering. The sensei's wall of fame had pictures of him with some of the world's finest competitors, past and present. Perhaps among them was someone who held a grudge.

Then she recalled Reese asking her if she planned to attend the tournament that weekend. Maybe one or more of the participants were on the detective's suspect list, and he was looking for a subtle way to scope out that field without tipping his hand.

“James, if you can handle the store on your own this Saturday afternoon, I think I need to go to the martial arts tournament,” she told him.

James momentarily turned his attention from her to nod a greeting at the middle-aged brunette woman who'd just walked in. Then, giving Darla what she could only interpret as a faintly sheepish look, he replied, “Actually, I already took the liberty of asking Martha if she would care to lend some assistance should both you and Robert be gone that afternoon. She said she would be glad to help out . . . assuming, of course, that you approved my suggestion.”

“I think that's a marvelous idea. She knows books from a reader's standpoint, and she's been in this store almost as much as me. Besides,” she added with an arch smile, “that will give the two of you more time together.”

“Really, Darla, I do not require you to play Cupid for me,” was his swift response, but she heard a smile in his voice as he said it. “So let us consider that settled. I shall tell Martha we will prevail upon her services, and you go have a good time on Saturday with Robert.”

“With me?” a downcast voice spoke up. “Where are we, you know, going?”

“Robert!” Darla exclaimed in relief, turning to see the youth standing behind her. Apparently, he'd slipped into the store behind the customer James had greeted, for she didn't recall hearing the bells on the door ring yet again.

She gave him a considering look. A few stray snowflakes clung to his black hair—Reese's prediction of the night before had been accurate—though, as was his habit, he'd not bothered with a coat for the quick walk up from his apartment. But something about his black wardrobe lent him an even more subdued air than normal. She realized after a moment it was because he hadn't worn his usual tongue-in-cheek vest, which added a punch of color to the regular black shirt and jeans backdrop.

“I didn't get a text back from you yesterday,” she explained, “so I was a bit worried. I'm glad you made it in.”

In fact, she'd been tempted to knock on his door that morning, just to make sure all was well. She'd decided on further consideration to give him his space, as well as the benefit of the doubt. He was an adult, and the decision to wallow in disappointment or take it in stride would be his alone. She was glad to see that he'd followed the latter path.

Robert, meanwhile, had ducked his head. “Sorry I didn't text you back yesterday. I was, you know, busy the rest of the day. I didn't see it until a little bit ago.”

“No problem,” she assured him. “James was talking about the karate tournament this weekend. You still want to compete, don't you?”

He shrugged. “I'm not sure, not after . . . well, you know. Besides, I need more practice.”

“I talked to Detective Reese again yesterday. He said they'd be releasing the dojo back to Hal and Hank today, so we can go to class tonight if you want.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, his tone still noncommittal. Then his expression darkened, and he added in a baleful tone, “But not if
she
is going to be there.”

“Don't worry, Dr. Tomlinson never hung out at the studio before, and I doubt she'll start now,” Darla assured him. “And I really think you should compete. If nothing else, do it as a tribute to Master Tomlinson.”

The notion must have appealed to him, for he gave a thoughtful nod as he absently petted Hamlet, who had returned to the counter. Seeing the cat reminded Darla of that morning's lesson with Brody.

“James, if you don't mind taking care of the lady who just came in, Hamlet and I have something to show Robert.”

Reaching for the harness and leash she'd stowed beneath the register after Brody's departure, she showed them to Hamlet. “Wanna go for a stroll?”

Hamlet gave a little chirp that she took as an affirmative. While Robert watched in bemusement, she struggled a bit with arranging the straps properly around the feline. Fortunately, he was still inclined to be cooperative, although the look he shot her over his shoulder spoke volumes . . . none of it complimentary.

“I think I have it,” Darla finally said, fastening the main buckle. Then, clipping on the lead, she finished, “C'mon, Hamlet. Let's show Robert that you really are smarter than the average cat.”

The feline needed no further urging but gave a graceful leap to the floor. Then, with Darla following behind, he made a loop around the register and padded down the romance novel aisle. Robert trotted after them, grinning.

“That's like, you know . . .” Apparently the latest teen slang failed him, for he shook his head and simply followed after them. As they reached the travel section, however, he pleaded, “Can I try?”

“Sure.”

Darla handed off the lead and watched in satisfaction as teen and cat paraded through the store with the precision of a high school drill team. The sight drew an appreciative smile from James's customer, and a nod of approval from the manager. As for Darla, she gave a small smile of relief. Perhaps giving Robert the task of walking Hamlet outside once a day—weather permitting!—would distract him from thoughts of Roma.

“Wait,” Robert said, pulling out his phone. “I want to get a picture of this and post it on our social network. Go ahead, Ms. Pettistone.”

Feeling a bit silly—but well aware of the promotional power of the Internet—Darla obediently took the leash again. She posed with Hamlet alongside the bestseller table while Robert snapped a few shots.

“Be sure you use the one where Hamlet and I look thinnest,” she playfully warned him as he started scrolling through the pictures. Going over to peer past his shoulder, she exclaimed, “No, not that one! My smile looks goofy. Nope, Hamlet has his eyes closed in that one. There, that one, it's perfect.”

By the time Robert finished cropping and uploading the approved picture to the various Internet sites, James had finished checking out his customer and excused himself to take a break upstairs, leaving the store momentarily empty save for her and Robert. Darla took the opportunity to tell Robert what Brody had said about taking Hamlet for a regular walk.

“It'll make him feel like he's doing something important, watching over the neighborhood. And it might help with his wanderlust. Do you think you'd be able to take him out for me during your shift if things are slow?”

“Sure,” he agreed with a smile. “And he, you know, seems like he's perked up already. You look happier now . . . don't you, little goth bro?” he addressed Hamlet, who was sitting beside Darla, tail wrapped neatly around him.

Robert leaned toward the cat with fist extended to do their little fist-paw bump ritual. It was something that had fallen by the wayside during Hamlet's funk, and so Darla was pleased to see the cat raise his paw to respond. But barely had they “bumped” when Hamlet leaped to his feet again and, with a single strong tug, abruptly broke free of Darla's grasp. Before she realized what was happening, he went bounding toward the front of the store, black leash chasing like a whip snake after him.

“Oh, no, that's exactly what Brody warned me about,” Darla exclaimed over her shoulder as she rushed to stop his flight. “Thank goodness we're not outside on the street.”

Fast as Hamlet was, she didn't catch up to him until he halted at the shop's door. There, he sat back on his haunches and then proceeded to climb his front paws up the wooden door as if he were trying to look out its window.

“That's weird,” Robert observed as he joined Darla at the door. “I've never, like, seen him do something like that before.”

“Me, either,” Darla replied, bending down to take a firm grasp of the leash again. “Hamlet, what's wrong? Is something out there?”

By way of answer, the cat gave a low growl. Darla peered through the blurry glass but saw nothing other than the misty image of the street below.

“Maybe it's the snow?” she suggested.

Robert shook his head. “No, look at him. It's like he's hearing something.”

And, indeed, Hamlet had tilted his head as if listening, his green eyes wide and fixed somewhere beyond the door. Darla frowned, remembering how Brody had given her a momentary start that first day they'd met, when she'd mistaken him for some homeless person looking for shelter inside the bookstore. If the weather was getting worse, perhaps someone
was
out there, maybe shivering on the steps leading down to Jake's garden apartment.

“Here,” she said, and once again passed the leash to Robert. “You keep a tight hold on him. I'm going to take a peek outside.”

Assuring herself that Robert had the leash looped in approved fashion over his wrist, she opened the door and peered out. A whirl of fine snow, like a gust of confectioner's sugar, greeted her. Other than a couple of passing cars and a single well-bundled passerby strolling along, she saw no one, or nothing, that might have triggered the cat's response. A glance back at Robert and Hamlet, however, showed the cat still at full alert, ears flicking like tiny satellite dishes.

Curious now, she stepped onto the stoop and, shivering, peered over the balustrade to the steps leading down to Jake's apartment. “Someone there?” she called. “It's cold. Come on out.”

When she got no answer, she shrugged and turned back to Robert in the doorway.

“Nothing,” she told him, hugging her sweater tighter around her. “Maybe he's just getting more telepathic messages from Brody. I'll tell you about that later,” she added when Robert gave her a quizzical look. “But it's too darned cold out here to go chasing ghosts that only Hamlet can see. Come on, let's go back—”

She broke off as she heard a faint sound from the direction of Mary Ann's building. “What's that? Why, it sounds like—”

“Barking!” Robert cried, rushing with Hamlet to join her on the stoop. “Quick, hold Hamlet. I need to look.”

All but shoving the leash into her hand, Robert rushed down the concrete steps to the sidewalk and hurried the few feet to the steps leading down to his apartment, quickly vanishing from Darla's view.

Tightly clutching Hamlet's lead, Darla anxiously peered after her employee. Hamlet, she noticed, seemed to have forgotten his earlier distress that had brought them outside in the first place. Instead, he was sniffing at the gentle drift of snowflakes while fastidiously avoiding the small puddles of melting snow that were accumulating atop the stoop.

“Robert, what is it? Is something down there?” Darla called through chattering teeth, concerned when the youth didn't make an immediate reappearance. “I can't stay out here much longer. It's freezing, and I need to take Hamlet back inside.”