Words With Fiends (18 page)

“That is a possibility,” James agreed. “There are many recorded instances of animals protesting the caging of other animals by means of some drastic behavior. And, as a cat, he does not understand the den concept that allows dogs to be comfortable in a kennel when a cat would find such a situation intolerable.”

“Just as long as they're not fighting, I'm happy,” was Darla's smiling take on it. Then, drawing James aside, she softly asked, “When will the rescue group be here?”

“In approximately twenty minutes,” he replied, consulting his watch. “I have already forewarned Robert that they will want to see his apartment as part of the fostering approval process, so perhaps you will allow him a short break to give them a brief tour.”

“Certainly. And, James, thanks for doing this.”

“It is my pleasure. I have no doubt that young Robert will make an exemplary pet guardian for Roma.”

Soon, the bells on the front door jingled. Along with another sharp blast of winter air came two women bundled against the cold. Unwrapping matching red scarves from around their faces, they revealed themselves to be similar enough in appearance but different enough in age that Darla guessed them to be mother and daughter.

“Hi, James,” the older of the two cheerily called, waving in the manager's direction. She was perhaps Jake's age, but her straight black hair was cropped short as a boy's and liberally shot through with gray. Pink-cheeked tending toward plump, she was the same height but a few dress sizes larger than the slim girl next to her.

Turning in Darla's direction, she stuck out her hand and added, “You must be Ms. Pettistone. I'm Bonnie Greenwood, and this is my daughter, Sylvie. We're from the Furry Berets Pet Rescue.” Sylvie had the same black hair as her mother, though her locks were shoulder-length and untouched by gray. Darla guessed her to be around the same age as Robert.

“Please, call me Darla,” she politely protested as she shook both women's hands. “And we're very happy you were able to help us.”

“Yes, James gave us the lowdown. So, where's our little dog, and who's the young man who wants to foster her?”

“Uh, that would be me,” Robert said, coming out from the back room where he'd been restocking the science fiction and fantasy shelves. “I'm Robert, uh, Gilmore. And that's Roma.”

Ducking his head nervously, he hurried past them to the counter and scooped up the small dog from where she'd been snoozing on the floor. She gave a wide yawn, her long pink tongue lolling, and then snuggled into his arms, bright eyes blinking at the newcomers.

“Ah, she's sweet,” Sylvie exclaimed as she went over to where Robert stood. Reaching a hand toward the little hound, she asked, “May I?”

“Uh, sure.”

Robert grinned proudly as the girl gently scratched Roma behind the ears and then proceeded to ooh and aah over her, which no doubt helped put the youth at ease, for he said, “Here, want to hold her?”

While the pair bonded over the little dog, Bonnie briskly got down to business with Darla and James.

“First thing, we'll take her by the vet for a checkup and scan,” she said, proceeding to outline the process much as James had previously explained it to Darla. “Of course, we need to take a quick look at Robert's place, just to make sure it's set up for a dog. And we'll need a signed statement from his landlord allowing him to keep a pet.”

“That would be Mary Ann Plinski next door,” Darla explained. “I'm sure she would be happy to sign. And she'll give Robert a sterling reference, too.”

“As will I and Ms. Pettistone,” James interjected.

His pronouncement drew a smile from Bonnie. “Don't worry, James, if you say the kid is good for it, I believe you. Now, let's go look at his place and then visit with his landlady.”

Thirty minutes later, Sylvie and Bonnie walked out with Roma. Robert stood with his nose pressed to the door glass for several moments watching them drive off before turning back to James and Darla.

“Are you sure, you know, that they'll take good care of her?”

“The Fuzzy Berets are one of the finest rescue organizations in the city,” James assured him. “And do not worry, I will let you know the moment they call me with the results from the veterinarian. Now, those chapter books will not stock themselves, will they?”

Nodding, Robert wandered dejectedly back toward the children's section where a cart was piled with boxes of books.

“Poor guy, it's got to be tough waiting,” Darla said, shaking her head in commiseration. “I just hope that Bonnie and Sylvie aren't able to get hold of Dr. Tomlinson. Which reminds me . . .”

She sighed and reached into her trousers pocket for her cell phone. “I've got to run upstairs and call Reese about something I found out about last night at the dojo. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

But she'd barely made her way up the steps and reached her front door when her phone began ringing. She glanced at the caller ID and then shook her head.

Too late for fireproof undies now
.

THE CONVERSATION WITH REESE WAS SHORT AND WENT
pretty much as Darla had expected . . . meaning the detective had remained relatively calm until she brought up how she'd found the photo of Master Tomlinson with Grace Valentine. At that point, holding the phone at arm's length from her ear, she'd decided that a whole fireproof apartment might be a worthwhile investment.

Eventually, however, Reese piped down enough to tell her that he was getting a warrant for a more thorough search of Master Tomlinson's files. “And unless I tell you different, I don't want you going back there anytime soon.”

“Actually, I have to,” she replied, bristling a little at his commanding air. “Hal gave me my yellow belt last night, and I signed up to compete in beginner forms at the tournament Saturday, so I have to get in some more practice before then. Who knows, I might even bring home a trophy.”

“Hey, Red, that's great,” he answered, warm approval now in his tone. “Okay, change of plans—I'm going to go with you to the tournament. Don't worry, it's not a date,” he clarified as, in a fair imitation of Brody's mind-meld routine, he apparently picked up on her reflexive rejection of the suggestion. “I'll carry your gear, and I'll be out there in the crowd cheering you on. But in between I'll do a little unofficial poking around to see what sort of bad blood there might be between your sensei and anyone else.”

“I suppose that's all right. But you pay your own way into the tournament.”

“Deal. And in the meantime, keep on practicing at the dojo, but stay out of file cabinets and desk drawers and any other place you might be tempted to snoop in.”

“I'll try to control myself,” was her sardonic response.

He either didn't catch the tone or chose to ignore it. “Oh, and by the way, good find on that photo. It'll probably be a dead end,” he cautioned as she perked up at the unexpected
atta girl
, “but it's definitely worth checking out.”

He hung up before she could make any response, leaving Darla to stare in amazement at the phone before pressing the “End” button and setting it down on the couch beside her. Hamlet had wandered his way back to the apartment following Roma's departure, and he now lay in his usual spot sprawled along the sofa back. Darla gave him a fond smile and put out her fist.

“How about a little fist bump love?” she asked the cat. “Reese actually complimented me. Twice. In the same conversation.”

Hamlet looked at her clenched fingers and then turned his head.

“Right, you only do that with Robert and Roma,” she said with a pretend huff, dropping her fist again. “That's fine, don't mind me. I'm only the one who keeps you in kibble and fresh litter. Oh, and I'm only the one who bought you this,” she added, grabbing up the kitty wand and waving it enticingly before him.

This, Hamlet deigned to acknowledge. They played companionably for several minutes, until Darla reluctantly reminded herself that she really needed to get back to the store.

“James's shift is almost up,” she apologized to the feline. “But if you want, we can go on a practice walk outside tomorrow. How would that be?”

Hamlet gave her another blink that she interpreted as a
sure, why not?
She checked first to make sure he had plenty of food and fresh water; then, with a guilty look back at him, she paused a moment at her desk to check her computer.

It was open, as had been usual these past weeks, to her favorite online word game. Preoccupied as she'd been with what had happened to Master Tomlinson and, now, the Roma situation, she'd let most of her in-progress matches sit for a good day. A few of her virtual friends had already “nudged” her—an instant message reminder that it was her turn.

Swiftly, she shuffled her letters for each game and played them, on the virtual board.
Fetid, acids, heaven, chaw
 . . . all combined with existing words for decent scores. But her best this round was the game with her virtual buddy,
Fightingwords
. Darla smirked a little as she played
chart
on the existing word
ale
which turned it into
tale.
With the help of a triple word tile, her turn netted her a cool fifty-nine points. Not too shabby! And the score, which had just been at a virtual tie, now tipped way in her favor.

Even as she was savoring this little victory, a “ting” sounded, telling her that
Fightingwords
had just sent her a message. She pressed the word bubble icon to go to the chat function, which this particular gaming pal used quite often. His/her latest missive said in text-speak,
i'll get u my pretty.

“And your little dog, too,” Darla replied, typing out that same sentiment while her smile broadened. Whoever it was on the other end had a dry sense of humor that added an extra bit of fun to the game. Then, reminding herself she was supposed to be working and not playing, she hurried back downstairs to finish out the shift.

Right before closing, Robert announced he was going to grab his gear and head to the dojo for the sparring class as soon as Darla gave the okay. “I want to, like, get in some more practice before Saturday. You wanna go, too, Ms. P?”

Darla raised her hands in mock horror.

“No way. I'm competing in forms, remember? I don't need some black belt using me for a punching bag until after I come home with my trophy. I'll practice on my own upstairs tonight, thank you very much.”

“Okay, but you're missing all the fun,” he told her. “I'll practice with Chris. He said he'd teach me a few tricks to use in the competition. Not anything bad,” he hurriedly clarified when Darla shot him a disapproving look. “He was talking about ways to, you know, psych out your opponents.”

“So long as he's not teaching you to fight dirty, I won't say a word. But ask Hank or Hal if you need any real help.”

“Yeah, I guess they're not that bad, after all. But I'm still not telling them about Roma.”

“Our secret,” she agreed, uncomfortably aware that more than one secret was drifting around that dojo. Glancing at the clock, she added, “I'll finish up here. Why don't you run home and grab your gear so you can get to class early.”

“All right, thanks!” he said, shooting her a grin as he headed for the door.

A few minutes later, she rang up a last-minute customer who'd only just remembered as he'd passed her store that it was his partner's birthday. Feeling generous, Darla grabbed a fancy sheet of paw-print wrapping paper from under the counter and expertly wrapped the book for him, earning herself some good karma and a couple of air kisses as the man hurried out with his purchase. Smiling, she locked the door after him and made quick work of her shutdown routine. After the uproar of the past few days, all she wanted to do tonight was head back to the apartment, have a big bowl of veggie soup for supper, and watch an old movie with Hamlet before bedtime.

Oh, and practice her forms, she reminded herself, mentally picking out a spot in the store for the trophy she expected to win.

Once back upstairs, she put the soup on the stove to simmer and changed back into sweat pants and a T-shirt. Then, returning to the living room, she addressed the cat. “All right, Hamlet. Check out my form and let me know what you think.”

She made her bow to a panel of invisible judges. Then, assuming her beginning stance, she moved through the stylized series of punches, blocks, and kicks that represented defense and attack against an unseen opponent. She finished the first kata. Then, with another bow, she moved on to the second kata, and then the third. Each was a slightly more complicated routine than the one before it, and a couple of times she needed to stop and regroup when she accidentally left out a move. Only when she'd made it through all three katas, one after the other, without error, was she satisfied.

“All right, break time,” she declared a bit breathlessly to Hamlet, dabbing away the sweat from her forehead. “Let's have a little soup, and then—”

The abrupt, insistent drone of the downstairs door buzzer cut her musings short and made her jump.

“I have
got
to get that thing changed,” she muttered, rushing over to the door to hit the intercom button before whoever it was buzzed her again. With Jake out of town, and Robert still at sparring practice, she wasn't expecting anyone.

“Yes, who is it?” she cautiously greeted whoever was downstairs on her stoop.

“It's me, Reese,” a familiar voice shot back. “I need to talk to you.”

Again?
she thought with a sigh. She really needed to broaden her circle of friends. Aloud, she said, “About what?”

“We'll talk about that when I get up there,” was the clipped reply. “Look, Red, it's freezing out here. Be a pal and buzz me in now before I turn into an icicle. I've even got a bag of buffalo wings I'll share with you if you're nice.”

“Deal,” Darla agreed, unlocking the door. “Come on up.”

She didn't wait for him to knock at her apartment but already had the door opened by the time he'd made both flights of stairs.

“You're my new best friend,” she said as she surveyed his sauce-stained bag in approval.

She gave
him
an approving look, too. He'd changed from his work clothes into the more familiar jeans and black leather bomber jacket, paired with a wool hat and thick scarf. She always did like a man in leather, she reminded herself.

Gesturing him in, she said, “Let me get a platter to put those on. I've got some homemade soup ready to go, too. There's just enough to split. You want some?”

“Sure,” he agreed, following her to the kitchen. Then, taking in her outfit and sweat-dampened face, he added, “What, you've been working out?”

Darla pretended not to hear the surprise in his voice. “Actually, I'm practicing my katas for the tournament. Hal says he thinks I've got a pretty good chance to win.”

“Yeah, there's usually not a lot of competition in your age group for beginners,” Reese observed with a shrug. Then, when Darla shot him an annoyed look—why did everyone seem to think the only way she could win was if she were the only one in the category?—he quickly backpedaled.

“What I mean is, you won't have kids in your group, so you have to be pretty good. You want to show me, and I'll give you a little coaching? “

At her doubtful look, he added, “Hey, I got a closet full of trophies from when I took karate lessons as a kid. I know my stuff.”

“All right, but I really want to win this thing, so I'll be trusting that you do.”

She pulled down a platter from the cabinet and handed it off to Reese. Then she stacked bowls, plates, and cutlery on the table before heading back for the soup pot, leaving Reese to arrange the wings and celery sticks and blue cheese dip. She winced a little when she returned to find that his version of “arrange” was simply dumping the bag's contents onto the platter she'd provided.

Men,
she thought with a roll of her eyes, fighting the urge to separate celery from chicken into two neat piles. Instead, she ladled out the soup. That accomplished, she set the pot down on one of Great-Aunt Dee's antique trivets and reached for a wing.

“Uh, uh,” Reese interjected, stopping her with a wag of his forefinger as he took his chair. “You're in training. Katas first. You do a good job, you get to eat.”

Who died and made you sensei?

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask that aloud. But given the fact that someone
had
died and left a sensei opening, she bit back the retort and contented herself with another eye roll.

“Fine,” she told him, setting down the wing and licking the buffalo sauce from her fingers. “But constructive criticism only. No jokes.”

At his nod, she took up position in the living area, feeling a bit self-conscious as she made her bow and began the form. When she'd finished, she made her bow again and gave him a questioning look. “Well?”

“Not bad,” was his assessment through a mouthful of chicken. “You've learned not to bob up and down when you move, which is what gets most beginners. But watch your arm and hand position. You don't want to break your wrists.”

Setting down his wing, he demonstrated by holding out one muscular arm as if he'd just thrown a punch. Then, keeping his arm still, he momentarily raised his clenched fist so that his knuckles pointed upward rather than forward before returning his hand to its original position. He repeated that a couple of times before grabbing up the wing again.

“See, that's breaking your wrist. You want to keep everything in a straight line down your arm through your hand when you're punching. You do one of these in competition”—he demonstrated again, wing flapping—“the judges will knock off points. Plus you do that in an actual fight, you really will break a wrist. Worst of all, it makes you look like a sissy girl.”

“Well, I am a girl,” she grumbled, but she carefully adjusted her position anyway. “Okay, got it. Anything else?”

“Don't run through the kata too slow, or the judges will think you can't remember the next move. And don't go crazy fast, or the judges will think you're trying to look too cool for the mat and penalize you, too. Swift and steady, clean and crisp.”

She nodded and ran through the same kata again. When he gestured her to keep on, she did the next two katas in succession, and then repeated the entire set. When she had finished, she was sweating again but feeling pretty good about her progress.

For his part, Reese gave her a grin and an approving nod. “Do that on Saturday, and you've got yourself a trophy, Red. Now, grab some of these wings before they're all gone.”

She didn't wait for a second invitation, particularly since the pile of wings had diminished appreciably while she'd been practicing. At least there was plenty of soup. She made a pretty good veggie medley version, if she said so herself.