Words With Fiends (8 page)

By way of answer, the cat gave a small snore and rolled onto his side. He kicked a paperback that had been left on the counter by a previous browser who'd seen the signs asking customers not to reshelf books they'd decided against buying, but to instead bring them to the front. It was a new policy she'd recently instituted after determining that she and her staff spent far too many unproductive hours returning errant books to their proper places after a busy day.

Not that she didn't suspect that many of those wayward volumes had been misshelved deliberately. How else to explain the
Field Guide to Body Art
she'd found squirreled away in the kids' section, or the copy of
365 Decadent Desserts
tucked in among the diet books?

The book hit the ground with a resounding splat.

“Don't bother getting up, I'll handle this,” Darla muttered in Hamlet's direction. She went around the counter to retrieve the fallen volume, the latest release in a popular fantasy series. She scanned the beefy anime-inspired warrior on its cover and then reflexively read the title aloud: “
Nothing is What It Seems.
”

Darla frowned in Hamlet's direction. In the time since Darla had assumed ownership of the bookstore, she'd had more than a couple of odd situations occur, all of which Hamlet had seemingly had some feline insight into. Lacking opposable thumbs—the sole reason, Darla often joked to Jake, that Hamlet was not already dictator of some small country—the wily cat found other ways to communicate. Often it was by means of pulling various book titles from the store's shelves; “book snagging,” as Darla liked to call it.

To anyone else not privy to the circumstances, this sort of behavior from a bored cat might be nothing more than mischief. Darla was certain by now, however, that Hamlet's choices in literature were anything but random. In retrospect, the various snagged titles had had a definite connection to circumstances, and had even yielded valuable clues.

So maybe Hamlet was at it again? “
Nothing is What It Seems
,” Darla repeated as she again studied the garish cover. Given that the character depicted in the artwork was obviously of Asian influence, Hamlet might well be trying to give her a heads up about Master Tomlinson's suicide.

Did he know something she didn't about Master Tomlinson's death?

Her frown deepening, she demanded, “All right, Hamlet, spill. Are you trying to tell me that his suicide wasn't suicide? Should I be talking to Reese about this?”

Hamlet did not deign to answer but simply let loose another snore before settling into a more comfortable position.

But how did one inadvertently hang oneself?

The first explanation that came to mind promptly made her wish she hadn't decided to explore that train of thought. Hadn't there been a cult actor known for his martial arts roles who had accidentally strangled himself while engaging in some kinky solitary play? Darla shuddered, hoping Master Tomlinson had not gone down that same path—yet on the other hand, a fatal accident of any sort was marginally less devastating than a death deliberately planned.

Wishful thinking, kid.
Darla could practically hear Jake's voice in her ear, swiftly dispelling the unlikely scenario she'd been trying to conjure. Even if the sensei had been standing on the bench reinstalling a hook, how could a knotted belt have managed to accidentally wrap around both that hardware and his neck?

“Try again, Hammy. Reese will laugh in my face if I bring this up,” she muttered as she carried the book back to its proper spot on the shelves. She should accept what happened and move on. After all, sometimes things actually
were
just what they appeared to be.

Splat!

Darla jumped at the unexpected sound. Could that have been another fallen book, courtesy of Hamlet? She glanced back and spied the feline still sprawled on the counter where she'd left him. Surely he couldn't have jumped down, snagged a book, and leaped back onto the counter to feign sleep so quickly.

Or could he?

Shaking her head, Darla marched back in the direction of the register, eyes peeled for a book lying on the floor where it shouldn't be. Nothing
.
After a few moments' searching, however, she found a book in the section of the store that used to be the brownstone's back parlor. Now, the refurbished room housed the old standbys of her stock . . . history, travel, crafts, biographies, politics. Warily, she picked up the heavy volume from the floor and read the title.

“
Trust Me.
”

The book itself was a recent autobiography of a well-known political commentator. Whether or not the author could indeed be believed, Darla had no idea. But if Hamlet had chosen this title to bolster his previous unspoken commentary, then she likely would do well to keep her eyes and ears open. Because maybe the clever cat was right.

Maybe nothing really
was
what it seemed.

“OH, MY. I'M REALLY NOT SURE ABOUT THIS, DARLA.”

Mary Ann Plinski stood behind the counter of her antiques shop with her wrinkled hands clasping and unclasping before her, her pursed lips reflecting her uncertainty. “As I told you before, I've never cared much for dogs.”

Which was just as well, Darla briefly reflected, because a dog let loose in the woman's shop would have spelled disaster for the merchandise. Bygone Days Antiques specialized in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Americana, though Darla had noticed a steady trend in the past few months to collectibles dating from the early twentieth century, too.

Budget,
Mary Ann had confided to her, explaining that the market for cheaper collectibles was growing, while the demand for true antiques was slipping.

In fact, according to Mary Ann, her brother had recently sent a good number of their more pricey pieces to a local auction to clear room for the more modern merchandise. Even so, the faintly musty scents of old wooden furniture and vintage clothing and linens made Darla feel at home in the crowded shop, which never looked the same from visit to visit.

Now, she nodded in understanding of the old woman's protest.

“I know you don't normally allow pets in the apartment, but Roma is very friendly with strangers, and she has perfect manners. And this is an exceptional situation.”

“Yes, so it seems,” Mary Ann said with a sigh.

Darla nodded again. She'd stopped by the Plinskis' shop the night before to explain to Mary Ann what had happened at the dojo, confiding as well how deeply Robert had been affected by the tragedy. Mary Ann had agreed that, under the circumstances, the dog could stay the night. But she had politely dug in her heels at the prospect of adding Roma to the lease.

“It's not just me, you know,” the old woman had explained. “Brother is frail, and he's sensitive to unpleasant noises like barking and howling.”

Brother, of course, being Mary Ann's older sibling who owned the building and store with her. Darla still had yet to meet the elderly gentleman in person, although she'd seen him in passing—and not long ago, had witnessed him being loaded into an ambulance following a heart attack scare. She understood why Mary Ann was so protective of her brother but she also knew how much Roma meant to Robert, particularly at this moment.

Now, she gave Mary Ann an encouraging smile and gestured to Robert, who'd been huddling with the tiny dog near the shop's front door. “Robert, why don't you introduce Roma to Ms. Plinski?”

Darla had stopped in to see Robert first thing that morning, to check on his welfare. She'd had a text from Jake the previous night, saying that the teen was coping as well as could be expected but needed a little alone time to process everything that had happened. Darla was sure that having the little hound at his side would no doubt make things easier for him.

Whether it had been the heart-to-heart with Jake or simply the resiliency of youth, Robert had seemed pretty much back to normal that morning . . . that was, normal for a kid who favored all black in his wardrobe and wore rings and studs in various appendages. Now, Robert gave Mary Ann a tentative smile and set Roma on the ground at his feet, careful to keep hold of the purple lead. Roma, looking uncharacteristically subdued, quivered slightly where she stood, her ears tightly folded back against her narrow head and her long whip of a tail tucked between her legs. Mary Ann walked around the counter, halting a prudent distance away and giving the little dog a doubtful look.

“Well, she is very pretty, I will admit, and much tinier than I'd expected. Is she a miniature greyhound?”

“No, ma'am, she's an Italian greyhound. That's a whole different breed. But Iggies—that's what people who own them call them—are sighthounds just like regular greyhounds. That means they, you know, hunt by sight instead of scent,” he explained with an expert air.

Darla suppressed a smile. No doubt Robert had spent the prior evening on his smart phone searching the Internet for information about the breed.

As Mary Ann leaned forward for a closer look, the teen went on, “Iggies have been around for almost two thousand years, but they were especially popular during the Renaissance in Italy. That's why, you know, they're called
Italian
greyhounds. If you look at old paintings, you'll see them hunting or lying around on pillows. And they always wore those big fancy collars with lots of jewels and stuff.”

“That's very interesting, Robert,” the old woman agreed. “Why, the Borgias or Machiavelli or even Leonardo da Vinci might have owned one of these dogs.”

“Right. And they're smart, too. Watch this.”

Unsnapping Roma's collar, Robert took a few steps away from her and then gave a swift hand signal. “Roma, sit.”

The dog promptly planted her thin haunches on the floor. With another series of signals that Darla recalled seeing Master Tomlinson use with her, Robert said, “Roma, shake. Roma, lie down. Roma, roll over.”

The small hound quickly performed each trick in sequence and then returned to her seated position. Her pink tongue lolled from her mouth in a wide doggie grin, matching Robert's proud smile. “All right, this is, like, the best trick of all. Roma, up,” he commanded and clapped his hands.

Just as she'd done with Master Tomlinson, the little dog gave a gazelle-like leap and landed in Robert's open arms.

Now, it was Mary Ann who was clapping. “My, how clever she is,” the old woman exclaimed. Taking a tentative step forward, she added, “Do you think I might pet her?”

“Sure,” Robert agreed, offering up the dog now snuggly settled in his arms.

Mary Ann reached a wrinkled hand toward Roma's narrow brow and gave her a gentle stroke. “Why, she feels just like velvet,” she marveled, smiling when Roma gave her fingers a quick lick of approval.

Darla smiled, too. “So, what do you think, Mary Ann? Maybe we could try it for a week, just until other arrangements can be made?”

Not that Darla expected that any other arrangements were going to be made. She hadn't heard from Officer Wing since he'd called her yesterday to confirm Master Tomlinson's death. And while the cop had turned a blind eye at Robert taking Roma away, he surely would have tracked him down if someone had been looking for the little dog. But Darla suspected from the sensei's stepsons' attitudes that Roma was not high on the priority list for the man's surviving family, even though the tiny hound had been his beloved pet. Since no one had tried to locate her by now, chances were that no one would.

Mary Ann, meanwhile, was nodding.

“Robert, she can stay in your apartment temporarily so long as you promise she won't chew up the furniture or disturb Brother. And I expect you to walk her regularly and pick up after her, and make sure she always has fresh food and water. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” he exclaimed, happily hugging the dog to him. “Thanks, Ms. P. You're, like, the best!” Then, to Darla, he added, “Uh, Ms. Pettistone, could I maybe have an advance on my next check? With it getting so cold out, I want to buy Roma sweaters and stuff to wear.”

“I've got a better idea,” Darla replied. “There's a pet boutique a few blocks away. Since we're closed today, how about after lunch we head over there to go shopping? I'll charge it on my card, and you can pay me back a little at a time.”

“Sick! You're the best, too, Ms. Pettistone.”

“Well, I was planning on going anyway. I'm thinking I should buy Hamlet one of those fancy interactive toys and see if that perks him up a little.”

“Speaking of perking him up,” Mary Ann ventured, “why don't you introduce him to Roma?”

Hamlet and Roma?

Darla stared at her elderly friend in horror, visions of a howling dog and long, bloody claw marks crisscrossing velvet fur flashing through her mind. “I really don't think—”

“Yeah, that's a great idea,” Robert broke in. “That'll, you know, shake Hammy up a little.”

“I said perk, not shake,” Darla reminded him, even as she recalled what Brody the cat guy had told her . . . something about the Universe shaking up things when you least expect it? Though she suspected Roma the Italian greyhound didn't exactly fall into the category of Universe shaker.

“You know how Hamlet is,” she continued. “He's always been an only cat. Once, a woman came into the store with a puppy zipped inside one of those dog carrier purses. She put the purse on the counter, and Hamlet deliberately knocked the poor thing right off.”

Darla shuddered at the memory, grateful that she'd been within arm's length of the tumbling puppy on that particular day and had caught the purse before any harm was done.

Robert shrugged. “Well, I still think it's a good idea. Besides, Roma is a tough karate hound. She can take care of herself.”

“Maybe, but let's not put that to the test just yet. Let me get a few things done at home, and I'll meet you outside the store at one o'clock, okay?”

“Okay.”

Pausing to give Mary Ann a peck on the cheek, the youth tucked Roma's muzzle under his vest against the cold and hurried out the front door of the shop. Darla stared fondly after him before turning the same pleased look on the elderly woman.

“Thanks, Mary Ann. That was kind of you to let him keep Roma. Poor kid, having a dog to love really means a lot to him.”

She didn't have to explain to Mary Ann that Robert had no family of his own to speak of. The old woman already knew from Darla that the youth's parents were long divorced, with his mother living in California and his father having kicked Robert out of the house when the latter had turned eighteen. While Robert had plenty of friends his own age, Darla, James, Jake, and the Plinskis had pretty well become his surrogate family.

“I suppose it's true, that every boy should have a dog,” Mary Ann declared. Then, tapping a finger to her chin, she added, “You know, I think I have something here in the store that he might appreciate. I'll surprise him with it this afternoon.”

With a final promise to help Robert with the dog should he need assistance, Darla made her good-byes to the old woman and headed back to her apartment. More than anything, she wanted to spend a little quality time with Hamlet. If Brody the cat whisperer—scratch that, the feline behavioral empath—was right about Hamlet feeling the need to atone, the least she could do was hang out with him and give him a chance to do so.

The cat was where she'd left him earlier that morning, lounging on the back of the horsehair couch. “Hey, Hammy, how's tricks?” she greeted him in a breezy tone. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

Hamlet opened one emerald eye just long enough for her to pick up on the definite
you lookin' at me?
vibe coming off him. Then, flexing one front paw, so that his claws made a brief but unmistakable appearance, he shut his eye again.

So much for the atonement theory,
Darla told herself with a small grimace. Brody must have gotten some wires crossed somewhere.

“Fine, be that way,” she told the cat and plopped onto the far end of the couch. “But you're stuck with my company for a while . . . at least until I meet up with your buddy Robert after lunch.”

At the mention of Robert's name, Hamlet opened the other eye. This time, she sensed slightly less disdain on his part. “You know that Robert is pretty upset about what happened yesterday. So when he comes in to work tomorrow, be extra nice to him, okay?”

Hamlet closed his eye again and settled himself more comfortably on his perch. Marginally encouraged, Darla continued, “I know I act like I'm always in control, but finding Master Tomlinson like that was pretty darn awful. Every time I think about it, I feel sick to my stomach. He was such a nice man, and he really cared about us students. I know I told Robert that we shouldn't judge, that he must have felt overwhelmed by life to do such a thing, but that's just talk. It's really hard not to be angry on top of being so sad.”

She paused and brushed away a tear that threatened. Hamlet, meanwhile, opened both eyes now and stared at her.

“I know Jake understands,” she said, “but she's seen a whole lot worse, so I hate to dump on her with my problems. That's why I called Reese. He's the one who told me last time that you have to talk about this kind of thing, and not keep it all in. And he's right.”

For Reese had served as a literal shoulder for her to cry on. Thinking back on the previous night at the restaurant, Darla was torn between embarrassment and gratitude. In between courses, he'd let her rant, rave, and basically carry on like a five-year-old, all the while assuring her that everything she was feeling was what anyone in her place would feel.

Smiling a little, she went on, “I really do feel a little better today. You know, if he ever decided to quit being a cop, I think Reese would make a great priest. Uh, minus that whole celibacy thing, of course.”

She gave Hamlet an encouraging look, waiting for the feline version of an eye roll at her small attempt at humor. Instead, and much to her surprise, Hamlet stretched out a paw again. This time, however, his claws were sheathed, and he momentarily touched her shoulder in a gesture that, had it been made by a human, would have been the equivalent of a
there, there
.

“Thanks, Hamlet,” she told him, genuinely touched. Then, with a shake of her head, she said, “I really do need to do a few chores before I head out. I hope the vacuum won't bother you too much.”

Hamlet blinked once and shut his eyes again, which Darla took to mean she was free to proceed. She spent the next couple of hours giving the place an overdue cleaning, stopping only when her cell rang.

“Hey, kid,” Jake's sharp New Jersey tones greeted her. “I could use a little feedback from a divorced woman. You want to come down to share some leftover ziti for lunch and let me pick your brain?”