Words With Fiends (3 page)

Jake dropped the abbess routine and shot her a mock-offended look.

“I'll have you know that my little jewel game promotes hand-eye coordination, which is important for someone of my advanced age. And it also helps distract me from smoking, so no apologies here. Now, why don't you see if you can tear yourself away from your game long enough to order us some food.”

Half an hour later, the laptop and paperwork had been shoved aside in favor of several small side dishes ranging from calamari to chorizo, all neatly arranged in their to-go containers atop the chrome table. Darla had claimed one of the two small tweed wing chairs that Jake reserved for client seating. In just a few minutes, the pair made significant headway into their impromptu meal, complemented by two frosty mugs of light ale Jake had scavenged from her usually empty refrigerator.

“Ice cream is one thing, but I'm not much on cold beer in the winter,” Darla said between sips. “But I have to say I can't think of anything better to wash this all down with.”

Then, figuring that this was as good a time as any to pump her friend for info, Darla licked a bit of pepper sauce from her thumb and casually added, “So, I hear that Alex Putin is your latest client.”

“That new employee of yours sure has a big yap on him,” Jake declared through a bite of paella, though she tempered the criticism with a smile. Darla knew Jake had a soft spot for the goth teen. “Yes, Mr. Putin gave me a retainer. And, no, I can't tell you about the case.”

“Are you sure you can't be bribed?” Darla snatched up the last calamari ring and waved it enticingly before her friend.

Jake shook her head. “You know the rules, kid. Confidentiality is the cornerstone of my business.”

“Nice saying. Sounds like something you should stick on your business card.”

“Actually, it's written on the banner on my website,” the older woman replied, her expression pious.

Darla rolled her eyes and popped the would-be bribe into her own mouth. Not that she didn't agree with Jake in principle; it was just frustrating not to be able to tap into that source of gossip. Then she sobered.

“Jake, I understand the whole discretion thing, but I can't help but be worried, all the same. I know it's none of my business, but do you think someone like you—I mean, an ex-police officer—should be associating with a crook like Alex Putin?”

“You're right, kid . . . it's none of your business,” Jake shot back, her tone sharp enough that Darla blinked.

Then, apparently realizing that her reaction had been over the top, the PI sat back in her leather chair and sighed.

“Sorry, I didn't mean it to come out like that. I was second-guessing the situation, myself, the whole time I was talking to him. Believe me, I don't want to become one of those cliché private eyes who takes on anyone as a client so long as they can write a check that doesn't bounce. But business has been a little slow the past few weeks, and I've got bills to pay,” she said with a meaningful gesture around the apartment.

Darla nodded, glad to brush aside her own momentarily bruised feelings to focus on concern for her friend. “Don't worry, I understand. And if you ever need an extension on the rent, don't hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, kid, but I'll scrape by. Bottom line, though, I'm not about to turn down any halfway decent clients.”

She paused and held up a warning hand. “And before you start lecturing again, remember what Reese told you the last time the guy's name came up.”

Reese was Detective Fiorello Reese, a former colleague of Jake whose acquaintance Darla had first made when he'd worked security at an afterhours autographing event at her store the previous year. He remained Jake's good friend, though his relationship with Darla was one she was still trying to figure out. It didn't help that Jake subtly continued trying to throw the two of them together, no matter that they weren't exactly a Match.com made in heaven . . . at least, not in Darla's opinion.

“Calling Alex a crook is going too far,” Jake went on. “As far as the police are concerned, he's a legitimate businessman. His name may have been mentioned a time or two regarding some questionable deals, but he's never been arrested for anything, let alone been convicted. Bottom line, I don't have any problem letting him hire me.”

“Alex?” Darla raised a brow in her best James imitation. “A bit informal, aren't we?”

“Don't push it, kid.”

“Okay, okay, but at least tell me why he needs a private detective. Is his wife cheating on him? Or maybe someone's blackmailing him, and he's afraid to go to the police? Or—”

“Enough. You can guess all you like, but I'm not telling you squat. So behave yourself if you want some of Mary Ann's pie. Speaking of which,” she added as a small
ding
sounded from the kitchen, “I think it's ready!”

Leaving behind the subject of Jake's new client, they spent another companionable hour eating Mary Ann's tasty creation and speculating instead on how James and Martha's date-that-wasn't might have turned out.

“She's a little young for him—well, a lot young for him—but I've quit worrying about the whole older man–younger woman thing,” Darla magnanimously declared. “If it works, it works, and the age difference shouldn't matter. And I think she'll be good for him. I hate to think of him going home to an empty apartment every night.”

“Believe me, his apartment is empty only if he wants it that way,” Jake assured her.

When Darla gave her a questioning look, she explained, “Besides his work at the bookstore, James is involved in all sorts of organizations. Last I heard, he was part of some sort of wine experts' forum, a ‘friends of the orchid' society kind of thing, and I think he sponsors a local animal rescue group. Oh, and he's still a board member on that city arts council. If he wanted female company, he'd have found it. I even went out with him once.”

“I'd forgotten about that,” Darla admitted. “Another one of those non-dates, right? Though I have to say, it would have been fun if you two had gotten together.”

“Fun? It would have been a disaster,” Jake said as she cut herself another slice of pie and dolloped on a scoop of melting ice cream. “We're fine as friends, but we have zero in common except for liking Thai food. Martha's more his type with all the reading she does, and that classy accent of hers. That's what he goes for, know what I mean?”

“Actually, I don't.” Darla picked a crumb off her now otherwise empty pie plate. “I'm embarrassed to say that I don't really know all that much about James. Except for the board member thing, I didn't know about any of those other extracurricular activities. That's pretty bad, isn't it? I mean, he's worked for me for almost a year. I should know those things.”

“Don't beat yourself up, kid. You don't learn everything about a person in the first five minutes you meet them. You and I've been hanging out together ever since you moved in, and there's lots I don't know about you yet.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, what made you finally dump your—what do you always call him?—slimeball ex-husband?”

As Darla reflexively curled her lip at the thought—no way was she telling Jake that particular bit of unpleasantness!—her friend gave a satisfied nod. “See, you proved my point. You're no different from anyone else. Not to sound like Forrest Gump, but people are like onions. They've got all sorts of layers to them.”

“Yeah, and when you start peeling those layers away, you'd better get ready for some tears,” Darla finished for her. “All right, point made. And now I don't feel so bad about not knowing all of James's secrets.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes you don't want to know those things,” Jake said. “No, I'm not talking about James, in particular,” she added when Darla gave her a surprised look. “But if you want to toss around a few more clichés, what was it that Oscar Wilde said about the pure and simple truth rarely being pure and never being simple? You pry around too much into someone's past looking for all the facts, and you're almost guaranteed to dig up something unpleasant. Which works fine if you're a cop, but pretty well stinks if you're not.”

“No arguments here,” Darla assured her, recalling some of the unpleasant secrets she'd been privy to of late. Then, reaching for the ice cream scoop and waggling it, she added, “This is the only kind of digging I intend to do from here on out.”

“I TALKED TO DR. BIRMINGHAM YESTERDAY,” DARLA TOLD
James the next afternoon when he arrived for his shift. “She recommended a guy to do that whole cat whisperer thing with Hamlet. Apparently, he's the real deal. Of course, he costs a fortune, but he gives a decent discount to her patients.”

She glanced again at the note she'd scribbled earlier. “I lucked out in that he has a free slot tomorrow morning. He's supposed to be here about thirty minutes before the store opens for a preliminary consultation.”

“And is that consultation to be with you, or with Hamlet?” James wanted to know.

Darla watched for sarcasm in his expression but, seeing nothing other than genuine interest, admitted, “Actually, I'm not sure. I made the appointment with his assistant, and she was pretty vague about the whole thing. If Dr. B hadn't recommended him, I'd think it was a scam. But from what she says, the man gets results.”

“Indeed. Will this take place here in the store, or upstairs in your apartment?”

“I'll leave that up to the cat guy. His assistant said, and I quote, ‘Brody will feel the vibes and let you know where Hamlet's center is,' unquote. Though as far as I know, Hamlet's only center is somewhere in his belly.”

She would have added a few more observations regarding what was sounding more and more like some strange New Age, touchy-feely experiment, except that her worry over the once-cantankerous feline was growing. This morning, he'd merely pawed at his kibble and then had given what had sounded to Darla like a very human sigh before padding his way to the sofa. And it had been only in the last half hour that he'd finally made his way into the shop. He'd taken up residence on the bright green beanbag in the kids' section, much to the consternation of the preschooler who was waiting in that area while his mother browsed the nonfiction shelves nearby.

“I shall keep an open mind,” James agreed. “I have watched a few of those animal behaviorist shows on television, and they do seem to accomplish some remarkable results. Perhaps this Brody person will restore Hamlet to his usual cheerful self.”

Darla smiled a little at this gentle sarcasm—Hamlet was many things, but never jovial—and replied, “Speaking of cheerful selves, how was your date last night? Yes, I know it wasn't an official date,” she hurried to clarify when he gave her a stern look, “but how was it, anyhow?”

“It was . . . edifying,” was his only comment before he gave his vest a tug and turned on his heel, marching in the direction of the stairs.

“What does edifying mean?” Robert wanted to know, sidling up beside her.

Darla smiled. “If you want the dictionary definition, it means ‘instructive.' If you want the King James version, I
think
it means Martha surprised him, but in a good way.”

The youth nodded in approval. “Very awesome. Ms. Washington is a nice lady, and the Big Hoss needs someone to hang with after everything that's happened.”

“What do you mean, everything that's happened?”

Robert gave her a quizzical look. “You know, everything. His wife leaving him, his daughter being some kind of radical. All that.”

“What? Who told you this?”

“Uh, he did?” Robert replied, looking suddenly chastened. “Uh, maybe it was supposed to be a secret or something?” Then, reaching under the counter for a box cutter, he added, “Guess I should get to work.”

He scurried off toward the stack of boxes that had been delivered right after lunch. Darla was tempted to follow after him, but decided against putting the youth on the spot. Still, she couldn't help but silently fume.
Another secret?
Bad enough that she hadn't known about her store manager's various avocations. Now, James was apparently confiding details of his personal life to Robert while leaving her, his employer, totally out of the loop.

Remember what you told Jake. No more digging around in other people's pasts.

She allowed herself to feel noble about that particular resolve. Even so, she was still inwardly grumbling a little when five o'clock came, and it was time for her and Robert to head to the dojo for their Friday night lesson.

“I may stop back in before closing if I don't stay to watch the sparring class,” she told James as she and Robert pulled on their coats and shouldered their gym bags. “But don't wait on me if I'm not back by seven.”

“Hamlet and I have everything under control,” James assured her with a glance at the feline, who had made his way to the main counter and now lay on his back with his rear paws shoved up against the register.

Darla nodded. “All right, then we'll play it by ear. And if you want to come in early tomorrow to meet Hamlet's, uh, therapist, please do.”

“Actually, I have already committed to be out with Ms. Washington again tonight, though I can cancel those plans if you feel I should be here with you.”

Darla raised a brow.
James and Martha, two nights in a row?
All she said, however, was, “No, you have a nice night out, and I'll see you when you come in at your usual time.”

“Very well, then. You and Robert enjoy your evening, as well, and consider the shop to be in good hands—and paws—until tomorrow.”

The walk to the dojo was swift and, by mutual choice, relatively silent. Robert had been avoiding her since his seeming slip regarding James's personal life, likely feeling that she would grill him on it, given the chance. Not that she would ever do such a thing, Darla virtuously reminded herself. She didn't want to put him in the uncomfortable position of worrying about betraying one or the other of his bosses.

Truth was, her only thought for the moment was getting to the dojo, and fast! She was sure she was on the verge of frostbite by the time they reached the Tomlinson Academy of Martial Arts. Compared to Darla's building's elegant entry, with its balustraded steps leading to a glass-windowed door, the street-level storefront that housed the dojo was workman-like, save for a pair of knee-high concrete fu dogs painted red that flanked the doorway. A large window gave a glimpse into the studio, where passersby could see the students practicing their synchronized moves.

And, just in case it wasn't obvious what was taking place inside, the red wooden door was emblazoned with both the dojo's name and the TAMA logo: an anime-styled, oversized punching fist with the letters
T
,
A
,
M
, and
A
tattooed on its respective knuckles. Cliché and macho as it might be, the logo made for a cool-looking T-shirt. She and Robert had each bought one after their first class.

Inside the dojo was a wide vestibule leading directly to the sensei's office. Darla privately called that hallway
Master Tomlinson's Hall of Fame
. Interrupted only by the broad archway midway down, which opened to the training area, the walls were a veritable scrapbook of the man's long martial arts career. In one large glass case, ribbons and medals covered four decades of championship wins, while another case held rows of trophies. The rest of the wall space was covered with photographs of Master Tomlinson over the years.

He'd worn his dark brown hair tied back in a short ponytail in some pictures, while in others he'd had the long hair and bangs look straight out of Woodstock. He'd been rugged-looking rather than movie star handsome in his prime, his six-foot-tall frame straight and well-muscled, but what Darla found most attractive about him was his grin, which was toothy, and filled with welcoming good humor.

Some snapshots were of him alone, and others taken with martial arts pioneers whose names she'd looked up in a reference book she had at the shop. Probably her favorite memorabilia were a dozen framed martial arts magazine covers that featured Tomlinson as the cover model kicking and jumping and punching along with such corny headlines as,
Learn to Knock Out Bad Sparring Habits
.

Of course, these days the sixty-something sensei didn't look much like the virile man in the photos. He'd packed on a good fifty pounds over the years, primarily to his belly. His once dark hair was mostly gray now, and thinning, cut shorter though combed back rakishly and held in place with a strip of black cloth. The toothy grin was a bit yellowed with age, combining with the rest to give him an unremarkable appearance. But anyone doubting his rank had only to look at the faded black belt, embroidered with five red stripes and a tiny red dragon, that tied his black gi jacket.

“Do you think Roma will be here tonight?” Robert asked as they slipped past the archway. “I wanted to, you know, see her for a few minutes before class started.”

Darla gave him an indulgent smile. “She's usually here on Fridays. If she is, she's probably at the front of the class with Master Tomlinson. Come on, let's get dressed while the kids' class is finishing up, and then you can go look for her.”

They swiftly changed into their uniforms and then joined the parents watching from behind the windowed panel, rather like a section of office cubicle wall, which ran along one side of the training area. On the other side, the entire floor was covered by a series of thick red mats, while both front and back walls were covered by mirrors. At first glance, the room reminded Darla of a gymnasium or dance studio, but a closer look revealed American and Japanese flags gracing one side wall, the dojo's traditional altar with its reclining Buddha and a single flower in the front corner, and in the rear corner, a trio of man-shaped kicking dummies—upper torso only—awaiting their nightly punishment.

At that moment, twenty miniature would-be warriors—both boys and girls—were punching and kicking their way through a kata, which Darla had learned at her first class was the Japanese term for the choreographed forms they performed. Most of the kids already had moved up the ranks to yellow, orange, or even green or blue belt.

Darla self-consciously tightened the knot on her beginner's white belt. Made of heavy cotton material that had been parallel stitched to hold its shape, the belt was long enough to wrap twice about her waist and still leave long floppy ends hanging even after it had been knotted. Here was one place where being an adult didn't automatically confer status, she wryly reminded herself. And she hadn't yet gotten used to the idea of bowing to someone twenty years her junior just because they were a black belt.

Robert, however, had something other than rank on his mind. As the kids'class finished the drill and settled on the floor in a kneeling position for a moment of silence, he gave Darla a nudge with his elbow and stage whispered, “You were right. Look, she's here.”

Darla smiled as she followed his glance through the glass to see Roma sitting daintily at the front of the class next to Master Tomlinson. Seeing Robert, she cocked her head in their direction and flashed bright brown eyes at him. Apparently, the admiration was mutual.

“She's like, so sick,” Robert whispered, a bit of teen-speak that Darla mentally translated as
really cool
. “I wish I could take her home with me.” Then, at Darla's stern look, he sighed and shook his head. “Don't worry, I won't do it.”

“Good, because Hamlet would be pretty ticked off if he thought you were two-timing him—and with a dog, no less.” She added a smile, “Besides, you know Master Tomlinson would never give up Roma without a fight. He might be older than James, but you'd last about two seconds with him in a ring!”

But even the prospect of losing a theoretical battle to his sensei wasn't enough to dampen Robert's enthusiasm. He'd been smitten by the tiny gray and white Italian greyhound—not a miniature whippet, as Darla had first assumed—the first night he and Darla had shown up for class. Darla had always preferred large dogs, the sort one could trip over with no resulting injury to said beast; still, she had to admit that Roma was a cute little thing. Like her larger greyhound cousins, she appeared to be all legs and whip-thin tail, her sleek fur softer even than Hamlet's. Her delicate ears usually were folded back into neat rosettes against her narrow head, but they could fly up at a moment's notice when something caught her attention, making her look like a goofy, long-nosed fruit bat.

Just as Hamlet ruled the roost at Pettistone's Fine Books, Roma was the mascot of the martial arts studio. And to all the students' delight, her owner had taught her dojo etiquette. That meant that she made a doggie bow when entering and leaving the mat area, and sat quietly at full length with her dainty paws crossed before her whenever the students assumed a kneeling position. But what never failed to make Darla laugh was the way Roma would give a little howling bark whenever the students uttered their kiais—a quick exhalation that sounded like a yell—while practicing their punches.

By now, Master Tomlinson was dismissing his junior students, who promptly made beelines to where their parents waited.

“Good job, everyone,” he called, sounding sincere despite the gravel in his voice that portended an incipient cold. “Don't forget to turn in your tournament registrations. And remember to bow before you leave the mat.”

The prompt caused several students who'd been remiss to rush back to make a quick obeisance. Roma the dog, meanwhile, lightly padded her way across the mat, high-stepping like a dressage horse. Once she reached the mat's edge, she turned and gave what Darla knew in the dog training lingo was called a play bow. Then, with a happy if surprisingly deep bark for such a small dog, she waited for Robert to walk around the panel before bounding toward him, her whiplike tail creating a small breeze with its wagging.

While Robert gently wrestled with Roma, the rest of the adult class filed in. As Darla joined her fellow students, she heard a vehement female voice from behind the windowed wall. “You can't ban my son from the tournament! I pay good money for his lessons, and he's gonna be there. That first-place trophy is his!”