Words With Fiends (9 page)

“Sure, so long as I'm out by one. Robert and I have a date for the pet store.”

“Cradle robber,” Jake promptly shot back, though her tone indicated that she knew full well what Darla meant. “Okay, see you in five.”

Darla hung up and collected her purse, and then pulled on a coat and scarf for the brief walk down to Jake's apartment. Not that she'd freeze to death in the thirty seconds it would take to go from door to door, but she'd need some warm outer clothing for the walk later.

“Hey, Hammy, any requests?” she asked the feline, pausing with her hand on the front knob. “I'm going to grab a bite with Jake, and then Robert and I are off to the pet shop.”

Hamlet gave her a slanted look but made no reply. And thank goodness for that, Darla told herself with a grin. If he started actually talking to her, she'd be asking Brody for a refund . . . that was, once she awakened from her faint!

She walked into Jake's apartment to find that the usual paperwork had been shoved aside to restore the chrome table that served as her desk to its original dining function. Two places had been set atop woven kitchen towels doubling as placemats on its bright red Formica top. A partially filled glass casserole dish rested upon a pair of ceramic trivets, the spicy aroma of tomato, meat, and cheese filling the room. Darla's stomach immediately began to growl in anticipation.

“Grab a plate and dig in,” came Jake's voice from the kitchen alcove. All that was visible of her, however, was a pair of tight black jeans. The rest of her was hidden within the vintage fridge, from whose depths she emerged a moment later, bearing two chilled bottles of sparkling water.

“Too early for wine or beer,” she explained with a grin as she set the bottles down on the table and gestured for Darla to sit. “If you're a good girl and eat all your lunch, there might be a bit of tiramisu left over from my bakery run the other day.”

“I swear, I don't know how you stay so fit,” Darla good-naturedly complained as she took her seat and served herself a sizeable portion of the pasta. “The way you eat, you should be at least three hundred pounds, but you look great.”

“Daily visits to the gym, kid. You should try it.”

Since Darla's previous attempts at gym membership had ended badly—she'd never forgotten the time she'd been bodily moved from a territorial woman's self-declared permanent spot in Pilates class—Darla concentrated on the food, instead. Besides, between her martial arts classes and all the hoofing around town she'd done since she had moved to Brooklyn, she figured she got her share of exercise.

Instead, she asked, “You said you needed some feedback. Does this have anything to do with the Russian Bombshell case?”

“Yeah, I'm still trying to track her down, and I think Alex is way off base with this whole ‘younger man' thing,” Jake mumbled through her own mouthful of ziti. Washing it down with a sip of bottled water, she added in a clearer voice, “I mean, if you just got out of a lousy marriage, would you hook up with a new guy right away . . . assuming you and the guy weren't already doing the horizontal mambo beforehand?”

“Not a chance!” Darla set down her fork with a clank and vigorously shook her head. Once her own divorce had been finalized, her initial emotions had been a combination of relief, elation, and a bit of trepidation over what she would do going forward. There'd even been some sorrow over the fact that she and the man she'd once sworn to love forever now barely tolerated each other's existence. Horniness, however, had not entered into the equation . . . at least, not for some time.

“Not a chance,” she repeated more calmly. “The night my divorce was final, I went to a couple of clubs with some friends to celebrate. After that, I took in a foreign film at the midnight movie—the kind my ex always hated, with subtitles. Then I drove to the lake and sat there watching the stars until the sun started to come up. The finale was going to one of those twenty-four-hour places to eat chocolate chip pancakes and drink a strawberry milkshake . . . extra large.”

She grinned a little at the memory and grabbed up her fork again. “But don't worry, I paid for my sins. I went home and slept the rest of the day, and I woke up that night with a sugar hangover you wouldn't believe.”

“I've had those before. Almost as bad as the real kind,” Jake agreed with a matching grin. “So your prime motivation wasn't finding a new squeeze, huh? Kind of what I figured. I don't think she's gone underground with some man, but I do need to figure out where she's living now.”

“You said she had money. Do you think she left town, maybe went on a cruise?”

“That's a possibility, especially if she doesn't want Alex to find her. No way she can keep her whereabouts a secret if she sticks around the Russian immigrant community. The question is, what did she do with all the stuff Alex said she took with her?”

“Maybe she rented a storage locker to stash it?” Darla suggested.

Jake shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe she found a cheap apartment in the suburbs to stash herself. Except I'm not finding any record of new utilities in her name. And I haven't found cell phone service for her, either. Either she's smart enough to keep her name out of the public records, or she's been so sheltered she doesn't know how to do the basics on her own.”

“Yeah, well, even when you know how to do it, it's still a lot of work setting up house somewhere new,” Darla reminded her, vividly recalling the hassles she'd recently gone through several months earlier when taking over her great-aunt's property. There was no such thing as a free lunch . . . or a free bookstore.

“So maybe Mrs. Putin found a place that paid utilities for her,” she suggested, “and maybe she uses one of those prepaid phones.”

Jake gave her a pleased look. “Sharp thinking, kid. You must be taking sleuth lessons from Hamlet. So now what?”

After a couple more bites of ziti, Jake answered her own question.

“Call it a hunch, but I'm still liking the Atlantic City idea. All our bombshell would have to do is hop one of those gambling shuttles, and she's there. She's got the cash to find herself a nice hotel there and hole up. Even if she already found herself an apartment around here, it would be a smart move. You know, let her new place sit unoccupied for a while, just to make sure her devoted son doesn't track her to it. Then, when things cool down, or sonny agrees to back off, she can go home.”

“I've always heard that a tourist town is the best place to hide,” Darla agreed, dabbing at some stray tomato sauce on her chin. “And no one will think twice about her accent and the fact she doesn't speak much English.”

“So, you feel like leaving the store to James's tender mercies and taking a little field trip to the big AC?” Jake asked, shoving aside her now-empty plate with a satisfied sigh.

Darla finished off the last bite of her own meal and gave her head a regretful shake.

“I'd like to, but with the whole Hamlet situation and Master Tomlinson's death, and now Robert hiding out with the dog, things are kind of unsettled here. I'd better stick around here until everything is worked out.”

“Yeah, I forgot. Since you're a prime witness, the cops are probably going to need to question you again, so you might as well make it easy on them and not go gallivanting off,” Jake told her, slicing two generous slabs of the promised tiramisu.

“But Robert and I already told Officer Wing what we knew,” Darla reminded her after absently accepting her portion and taking an automatic bite. The term
prime witness
was more than a little disconcerting. “Why would he need to talk to us again?”

“You mean Reese didn't say anything last night?”

“About what?”

Jake waved a forkful of her tiramisu in a “never mind” gesture. “Forget it, drop the subject. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“You
haven't
said anything, that's the problem. What happened that Reese didn't bother to mention?”

For a moment, Darla thought Jake would refuse to answer. Instead, the PI finished off the bite of dessert and then settled back in her chair with a frown.

“You'll know soon enough, so I guess there's no harm in giving you a heads-up. Reese told me he heard that the attending physician in the emergency room had some suspicions about the cause of your sensei's death. Nothing's formal until the ME finishes up, but talk is that it wasn't a suicide.”

“You mean his death was an accident, after all?” Darla demanded.

“No, not an accident.”

Darla stared at her friend in dismay, not wanting to put her thoughts into words, but knowing she had no other choice. “If Master Tomlinson didn't kill himself, and his death wasn't an accident, then that means . . .”

“Yeah, kid, that means he was murdered.”

MURDERED?

Of course, that was the only logical scenario left. Even so, Darla caught her breath at the word and dropped a forkful of tiramisu back onto her plate. Jake, meanwhile, was saying, “From what I hear, it was a pretty poor attempt to stage a suicide scene. Whoever did it didn't stop to think that the man weighed too much for that hook to hold him. Besides, there's an obvious difference in the marks you find on the neck of a hanging victim versus someone who's been strangled. And there are other signs, too. Someone wraps a rope around someone else's neck, you get burst capillaries in the eyes, skin under the fingernails where they struggled—”

At Darla's gasp of horror, Jake broke off and added, “Sorry, kid, didn't mean to get graphic there. But it's Forensics 101. Even the greenest street cop knows what to look for in these situations.”

Jake, who was well-versed in that sort of unsavory business, returned her attention to her dessert plate. Darla, however, had lost her appetite. But why would someone kill Master Tomlinson . . . and, more important, who?

Abruptly, she recalled the argument between the sensei and Grace Valentine, whose son had been excluded from an important tournament. But surely that wasn't a motive for murder. Just as swiftly, she recalled the few chill words exchanged between Tomlinson and his stepsons just two days before the man's death. Could the enmity between them have run far deeper than anyone suspected?

Then she frowned. “But the man was a martial arts expert. No way would someone have gotten the jump on him. He'd have fought off any attacker who tried it.”

“Maybe they took him by surprise, or maybe he was sleeping or drugged,” Jake said with a shrug. “Just because you're the second coming of Chuck Norris doesn't mean someone can't take you out. So don't let your imagination run away with you.”

“What do I tell Robert about all this?”

“Don't tell him anything yet,” Jake advised. “Like I said, none of this is official yet. Let the kid have a little fun buying that dog some cute stuff without worrying about a murder investigation, okay?”

Darla considered that for a moment and then nodded. “Okay. Time enough for him to find out when the cops come around asking questions.”

Then she looked down at her barely touched dessert, and her practical side kicked in. “Mind if I wrap this up and take it with me?”

• • •

A FEW MINUTES BEFORE ONE, DARLA MET ROBERT AND A BUNDLED UP
Roma outside the bookstore for the trek to Fluffy Faces Pet Boutique. The day was sunny despite the chill in the air, and Darla felt her spirits rise a bit. As Jake had said, nothing about Master Tomlinson's supposed murder was official yet. She'd enjoy assuming ignorance for a couple more hours.

A couple of blocks into their journey, however, Darla realized that they would be passing the dojo on their way to the pet store. That reminder was something that Robert didn't need right now. And surely it would be confusing for little Roma to be taken past what had been her second home now that her master was gone.

The same thing must have occurred to Robert, for he halted momentarily and said in a subdued voice, “Can we, you know, take the long way?”

“Of course,” she assured him and made a quick turn at the next corner. Robert made no other comment, though she saw him surreptitiously swipe at his eyes with his free hand, Roma tightly cradled in the other.

Quickly, Darla started a conversation about a shipment of books due later that week, and her ideas for some Easter promotions. By the time they reached the pet shop, Robert was almost smiling again, and his attitude was eager as he reached for the door.

“She'll need two sweaters in case one gets dirty,” he determined, “and maybe I should get her some of those doggie boots for when it snows.”

“Don't go too crazy in there,” Darla reminded him. “Technically, you're only fostering her until we know that no one else wants her.”

“Yeah, I know,” he agreed as he hurried in, Darla following after.

The pet boutique lived up to its descriptor. Rather than items being tossed in bins, as in the pet supermarkets she'd seen back home, the merchandise in this shop was beautifully presented on heavy glass shelves. Rhinestone leashes and collars mingled with vases of exotic blooms and vintage pottery, while designer canine couture was artfully arranged upon antique children's tables and chairs. On one wall, a variety of dog bowls had been mounted to form a mosaic that, at a distance, resembled the shop's poodle face logo. The staff all wore smart bib aprons with that same logo embroidered on the chest.

Definitely not a pet supermarket.

Darla wandered to the cat toy section (which the sleek hand-painted sign above that aisle branded
feline diversions
), and found a toy she thought would appeal to Hamlet's hunter instincts: a flexible wand with a mass of feathers and small leather strings bundled on its end like some captive steampunk bird.

Perfect,
she thought, and then did a double take when she checked the price tag and saw the item cost more than the last pair of shoes she'd purchased for herself. Well, maybe not so perfect, after all.

Sorry, Hamlet,
she silently told the cat in absentia.
Looks like it's the old toilet paper cardboard core and piece of string for you.

Robert, meanwhile, seemed unfazed by the prices. He was walking Roma up and down the dog aisle, accompanied by a gushing young woman who seemed as impressed with him as with Roma. Suppressing a bit of indulgent amusement, Darla watched as Robert tried various colors and styles of sweaters on the little hound, who wiggled a bit but was surprisingly agreeable to the process. She expected the teen to settle on one of the doggie goth looks in black that were displayed alongside a somewhat frightening arrangement of spiked collars. To her surprise, however, he chose a more sedate mauve that complemented Roma's gray and white coat. Its slouch-style neckline allowed the fabric to be pulled high enough up so that it covered her delicate ears like the canine version of a hoodie.

“Let's get the yellow one, too,” Robert told the salesgirl. “Oh, yeah, and the red one, just in case she wants to look, you know, festive for Valentine's Day. And we need a harness—the stretchy kind, so the straps don't scrape her—and a matching leash. And maybe some toys.”

A few minutes later, he had completed his selections and was proudly carrying Roma, wearing her new mauve sweater, up to the register to check out. The salesgirl—Tina, according to the embroidered name on her apron—followed behind carrying the rest of his purchases. But halfway to the counter, he halted in front of a small display from which hung perhaps two dozen wide collars crafted from richly embroidered fabrics in jewel tones that looked straight out of a European history book.

“Sick,” the teen exclaimed, and held up Roma so she could better see the collars. “If you wore one of these, you'd be a real Renaissance dog. Check it out, Ms. Pettistone,” he added in Darla's direction. “Wouldn't Roma look epic in one of these?”

While Darla nodded her assent, Tina declared in a strong Brooklyn accent, “They're called martingale collars. They're for dogs like yours with delicate necks, so they don't squish their tracheas when they pull on their leads. Seriously, you should buy one for her.”

Robert set Roma down and handed the salesgirl his other purchases. After a moment's consideration, he reached for the tag hanging from a particularly handsome collar threaded with the same shade of mauve as Roma's new sweater. Darla saw his eyes widen in disbelief as he read the price; then, reluctantly, he shook his head.

“Sorry, Roma, maybe later.”

“Wait,” Darla impulsively declared. “How about I buy that collar for her as my own little present?”

“Really? That would be, like, awesome!”

He grabbed the collar he'd admired and put it on Roma. While the salesgirl removed the tag and handed it to Darla—more expensive than the cat wand, but cheaper than a car payment, she told herself—Robert walked Roma over to the full-length mirror where she could presumably admire her reflection.

Darla, meanwhile, took herself over to the cash register, trying not to wince when Tina finished totaling up Robert's purchases. The teen was going to be putting in a lot of OT the next few weeks if he hoped to repay Darla for Roma's new wardrobe before the end of the year, she told herself as she signed the charge slip. Then, feeling guilty over her splurge on the collar for the dog, she told Tina to wait a minute and then headed back to the
feline diversions
aisle.

Grabbing the fluffiest of the cat wands, she returned to the register. “This one, too,” she said, hesitating only a little as she handed over her credit card again.

A few minutes later and many dollars lighter, she and Robert were headed back in the direction of the brownstone. Snug in her new sweater and wearing her fancy collar, Roma pranced her way down the sidewalk like a tiny dressage horse.

“Thanks again, Ms. Pettistone,” Robert told her, looking far happier than he had since the previous day's tragedy. “I'm going to take great care of Roma. You'll see.”

Then, as they approached a grocer on the next corner, Robert halted and thrust the little hound's leash and his bag of purchases in her direction. “Can you, like, hold her for a minute while I get something?”

She had barely grabbed hold of the lead before he had vanished into the small store. Darla gave Roma a quick scratch and then took the opportunity to whip out her phone and pull up her word game. Before she and Robert had left for the pet store, she'd hurriedly responded to a couple of the in-process matches.
Fightingwords
had made a counter play to that last for a modest seventeen points.

Grinning, Darla slid the
Q
on her virtual rack to the spot on the playing screen where two I's now were kittycorner to each other. The move formed the same word,
Qi,
both ways. Since the Q tile was worth ten points, and the open slot was a triple letter, that meant she had just scored over sixty points.
Take that!

While she basked in this momentary triumph, Robert reappeared bearing a paper-wrapped bouquet of seasonal blooms. For a confused moment, Darla thought the flowers were meant for her. But when he took the leash back from her and casually asked, “Do you mind if we, you know, go home the regular way?” the light dawned and she realized he meant to leave them as a tribute in front of the martial arts studio.

“Sure, if you want,” she replied, keeping hold of the bag for him since he was now juggling both dog and flowers.

For both their sakes, she prayed that no official word had yet come from the medical examiner's office. The last thing she wanted was for Robert to find crime scene tape blocking the dojo door and police swarming the place.

Which was pretty much what she and Robert saw when they turned the next corner.

Even from a distance, they could readily spy the yellow-and-black tape stretching from one of the red concrete fu dogs to the other to form a visual barricade across the studio's entry.

“What the—what's that?” the teen demanded, halting and scooping up Roma in his arms. Holding the dog protectively to his chest while awkwardly juggling the flowers, he exclaimed, “There's, like, cops and stuff at the dojo. Why are they back?”

Darla had stopped in her tracks, too. For a moment, she contemplated feigning ignorance. If she confessed that she already knew what the police were looking for, Robert might wonder why she hadn't said anything before. She was hard-pressed to come up with an explanation that didn't sound vaguely patronizing, like he was a child and she was protecting him. Better to treat him like an adult and lay it on the line now.

“I was going to wait to tell you until I found out if it was official,” she admitted, “but I guess it must be now. You see, I heard from Jake that there was some question about how Master Tomlinson died.”

“What do you mean, question?” Robert's blue eyes darkened. Roma, sensing his change in attitude, wriggled in his arms and gave a small whine. For her part, Darla raised a warning hand.

“Nothing's written in stone yet,” she told him . . . though given the two squad cars parked along the curb and a van marked
Crime Scene Investigations
, it was starting to look pretty darn official. “But Jake said the police think it's possible that he”—she paused, struggling a moment for the words—“that he was murdered, instead.”

“Murdered?”

Robert's disbelieving tone echoed the same incredulity that Darla had expressed to Jake a bit earlier. Then the teen shook his head.

“No way,” he declared, his smooth features knitting into a frown. “Who would do that to him? Everyone loved Sensei.” In the next breath, however, he added, “Well, maybe not everyone. Those jerks, Hank and Hal . . . they were always, like, in his face about stuff.”

The teen's voice began to rise, and he shifted into a defensive posture reminiscent of one of their class drills. Looking as menacing as he could, given that he was cradling both a small, sweatered dog and a bouquet of flowers in his arms, he went on, “I swear, if I find out that—”

“Don't start accusing anyone,” Darla broke in, putting a restraining hand on his shoulder. “The police will probably want to talk to us again, and you can't go around pointing fingers at people just because you don't like them. It could have been some crazy person off the street looking for something to steal, and Master Tomlinson had the bad luck to catch them in the act.”

“Yeah, but then why would they do what they did? I mean, that was like, all psycho and stuff, hanging him up by his belt. And no way some random dude could've killed him,” he said. “Sensei trained with Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris. He wouldn't let himself get gotten by some, you know, street punk.” Robert shook her hand off and strode down the sidewalk toward the dojo.