by Ali Brandon
“Don’t worry, that’s Robert’s department,” Darla told him with a smile. Then, spying her clerk unpacking a box a few shelves away, she called, “Robert, wasn’t last night your final class in barista training?”
Robert poked his head around the shelf and grinned back, his dyed black hair flopping over one kohled eye. Darla bit her lip but didn’t say anything about the black eyeliner. Since the youth had diligently followed her rule these past months about no visible piercings while on the clock, she had finally relented and allowed him a minimum of goth makeup at work.
As long as you don’t scare the customers, had been her main stipulation.
“Yeah, last night was our final exam, and I, like, aced it,” he bragged. “They gave me a certificate and stuff. I even got first place in latte art because I drew a picture of Hamlet’s face in the foam that everyone thought was sick.”
Knowing that “sick” was a major compliment, Darla gave him an approving nod. “That’s wonderful. Maybe that cat face can be the Pettistone’s Coffee Bar trademark.”
Robert’s black-rimmed eyes widened. “Hey, great idea, Ms. P.!”
James gave a genteel snort as he headed toward the rear of the store. “Yes, a great idea. I suppose we will also be ordering coffee cups with Hamlet’s image upon them.”
Logo coffee cups?
Darla was about to echo the “great idea” sentiment in regard to James’s cynical suggestion when Robert abruptly spoke up again. “Wait, I almost forgot. While you and Professor James were upstairs with Mr. Cecil, some guy brought a package. I left it on the counter. And it’s not, you know, books or stuff.”
Before Darla could inspect her package, however, the string of small bells hanging on the front door jingled. In hurried a small female figure wrapped in a full-length, balding mink coat and an incongruous pink-and-orange scarf that swaddled her from throat to eyes. Then, like a thrift-store houri, the woman raised a gloved hand and, clutching one fringed end of the scarf, gave it a swirl. The pashmina promptly spun away to reveal a familiar, wrinkled face.
“Mary Ann!” Darla exclaimed as she recognized her elderly neighbor. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
The old woman gave a dismissive wave. “Really, Darla, I’ve lived in Brooklyn all of my life. I’m used to a little cold. Besides, young Robert does an excellent job of keeping our steps free of snow and ice.”
She smiled in the youth’s direction. Robert had finished unpacking his box and was headed to the back toward the recycling pile. Hearing his name, however, he paused and turned and gave the woman an enthusiastic wave.
“Hey, Ms. Plinski. Great coat.”
Mary Ann tittered as she gave a little pirouette to better show off the garment.
“Of course, I would never purchase a new fur,” she confided to Darla while Robert trotted off. “I found this one boxed up in our storeroom. Who knows how long it’s been sitting there? Brother probably bought it in an auction years ago and forgot all about it.”
Mary Ann and her older brother owned the brownstone next door to Darla. In addition to the apartment the two shared, their building also housed their antiques and collectibles shop, Bygone Days. Robert helped out the elderly pair on occasion with the heaving lifting. In return, Mary Ann had leased out her garden apartment to the youth at a substantially reduced rate. She had even waived her “no pets” rule on his behalf, allowing him to keep his tiny Italian greyhound, Roma, there with him.
“So what brings you here on a freezing cold day like this?” Darla asked her with a smile.
The old woman gave her a wide-eyed look. “Why, I wanted to know all about your upcoming trip to Florida. Robert said it had something to do with Hamlet, but for the life of me I couldn’t guess what.”
“I don’t know why he made it sound so mysterious. Hamlet is going to be the guest of honor at this year’s Feline Society of America National Championship show.”
“How exciting! But however did you ever manage that?”
“Remember that video of Hamlet at the martial arts tournament that Robert and I competed in last year? You know, the one of Hamlet out on the mat mimicking me as I did my karate routine? Well, the video went viral. That means—”
“Really, Darla, I know what viral means,” Mary Ann replied with a smile, cutting Darla off with another wave of her gloved hand. “I am quite Internet savvy, if I do say so, myself. Why, I even have three boards on Pinterest now.”
Since Darla had no clue what Pinterest was, she conceded the win to the older woman.
“Sorry, Mary Ann. Anyhow, when you combine all the different videos of Hamlet’s performance at the tournament that people uploaded, he had close to a million online hits, and that was back before Christmas. When Jake saw that, she called her mother in Fort Lauderdale. Apparently, Mrs. Martelli is good friends with the man who is president of the Feline Society of America, which is headquartered there. Jake suggested that her mom should tell the FSA folks to bring Hamlet down to Florida as their celebrity guest for this year’s annual championship show.”
Darla smiled. After all, who could resist a cat who mimicked his human with such sly accuracy? Even she laughed every time she saw the video, and she was the one who’d been unknowingly mocked. She’d even forgiven Hamlet for the fact that his performance at the tournament had caused her to be disqualified from her first and only karate competition.
Darla had scoffed when Jake first mentioned the cat-show idea, but her friend had been of the opinion that it never hurt to ask. Hey, kid, they can only say no had been her brash response. Still, the cop-turned-private-investigator had been as surprised as Darla when, a couple of weeks later, a registered letter arrived inviting one Hamlet the Cat to serve as the FSA guest of honor at the end of February.
“I still can’t believe I’m going to leave all this snow behind and go to Florida,” Darla went on. “They’re paying all my expenses to bring Hamlet down, and they even arranged for a plus one, so Jake is coming with me, too. She’s going to act as Hamlet’s official bodyguard. The cat show is on Saturday and Sunday, and FSA will put us up in the conference hotel for three nights starting Friday, but Jake and I decided to stay the whole next week and make it a real vacation.”
“What fun,” Mary Ann agreed. “I’ve often wondered if Brother and I should sell our place and move to Florida with all the other old people, but I know he would never leave the shop. So you and Jake will just have to enjoy the sunshine for me.”
“I’ll bring you back a souvenir,” Darla promised. Then, with a look around the empty bookstore—only two customers had stopped in since she’d unlocked the doors more than an hour ago—Darla added, “And maybe I should bring back some of that sunshine, too. Who wants to go out shopping in all this gloom? I swear, I don’t know how Great-Aunt Dee kept the place going in the winter.”
“Things will get better, my dear. We’re just having an unusually unpleasant season this year, is all. And once your new coffee bar is built, I’m sure scads of people will stop in for a nice hot drink, if nothing else.”
They spent a few more moments chatting about the remodeling job, and then Mary Ann pulled on her scarf again. “I’d better not leave Brother for too long. He might do something foolish, like try to shovel the walk outside the building.”
After the woman had made her good-byes, Darla spent a few minutes helping a customer who had come in just as Mary Ann was leaving. Once she’d rung the gentleman up and sent him on his way, she excitedly reached for the box waiting for her on the counter. Given that she’d be officially representing Pettistone’s Fine Books while at the Florida cat show, Darla had decided to do a little branding for the event, and when she had discovered a custom embroidery shop only a few blocks away, she had placed a rush order.
She opened the package and pulled out the topmost item—a polo shirt in an appropriately tropical pink—and gazed in appreciati
on at the logo: a black silhouette of a cat set against a blue book and encircled by the bookstore’s name in gold thread. Neatly stitched right above where the breast pocket would be on a dress shirt, the design looked crisply professional . . . classy, as her good-old-boy father would have put it. Indeed, the polos had turned out even better than she’d expected, so much so that she wish she’d done this months ago.
“James! Robert! Come see our new corporate shirts,” she called, eager for their approval, too. As the pair joined her at the register, she held up a lime green one and gushed, “Aren’t they great?”
Obviously, the unspoken answer to that question was a resounding no. James and Robert exchanged twin looks of horror before turning back to Darla, eyes wide as they stared at the polo shirt. Disappointed by their obvious lack of enthusiasm, Darla shook her head.
“Look, y’all, I told you I was thinking about doing this. Right now, no one can tell us from the customers. This will give all of us a nice professional look, especially now, when we’ve got the coffee bar to bring in a whole new crop of customers.
“But—but they’re girly pink,” Robert squeaked, holding out crossed forefingers in the universal “back off, Evil” gesture.
James was more restrained if equally to the point. “While I understand your thought process, Darla, surely you do not wish me to appear as if I worked as a greeter at a discount retailer. Short sleeves are not, as they used to say, my thing.”
“Aha! I knew you would say that.”
With a chuckle, Darla set aside the pink shirt and reached into the box again, pulling out a flat, tissue-wrapped bundle and then handing it to James.
As if he were disarming a bomb, the ex-professor gingerly peeled off the wrapping. Within was a crisp, white long-sleeved dress shirt neatly folded to display a smaller version of the Pettistone’s logo embroidered high upon the garment’s left sleeve.
“See, you can even wear your sweater vests with this,” Darla told him, referring to the man’s personal uniform, one that he’d worn every day she’d known him.
James briefly held up the shirt to gauge its size, the snowy fabric a bright contrast to his mahogany features. Finally, the frown that creased his broad brow relaxed, and he allowed himself a slight smile. “Perhaps I would not be averse to wearing this particular style.”
“Good, because there’s also one in pale blue for you,” Darla told him, knowing her manager favored that shade. Then she turned to Robert.
The youth had dispensed with the makeshift cross gesture but still wore an expression of dismay. “Uh, no offense, Ms. Pettistone, but I don’t think I’d, you know, look good in one of those shirts with all those sleeves, either.”
“That’s what I figured,” Darla told him with a smile. Feeling rather like a magician with a top hat filled with rabbits, she reached into the shipping box again and pulled out yet another shirt, which she tossed to Robert. “Maybe you’ll like this one better.”
“Sweet!”
Robert nodded in appreciation as he caught the black polo and held it up to admire. While he occasionally topped his work outfits with a bright-colored vest in good-natured imitation of James’s personal style, the rest of Robert’s wardrobe was strictly goth black, enlivened by the occasional gray. Knowing that, Darla had ordered him a couple of black shirts and reserved the bright colors for herself.
“I’m not going to be a real stickler about it,” she told them, “but I’d appreciate it if you’d wear your new shirts to work at least a couple of times a week. Oh, and I bought a few extras in different sizes and colors. I figured once the coffee bar is up and running, we can display a couple and maybe sell them to our customers.”
“I would agree there might be a market for such a thing,” James observed, refolding his new shirt and wrapping it again in its paper. “For some reason, much of the shopping public seems to enjoy purchasing logoed items. Of course, there is no accounting for—”
“Me-ROOW!”
The unmistakable cry of a cat ignored for far too long interrupted James’s platitudes. Hamlet had stalked down the stairs toward the register. He paused, and then, with a single graceful bound, lightly landed upon the countertop next to Darla’s box of shirts.
“Hey, little goth bro!” Robert exclaimed. This was the usual greeting between him and Hamlet, and it normally was followed by a fist bump . . . or, on Hamlet’s part, a paw bump. No matter how many times Darla had tried to get Hamlet to follow suit with her, however, the cat had stubbornly refused to play along.
For now, however, Hamlet didn’t appear interested in hanging with his human “bro.” Instead, his attention was fixed on the shipping box. He leaned closer for a sniff at the cardboard, only to rear back with a hiss almost as loud as a big rig releasing its air brakes.
“I do not think he approves of the shirts,” James observed.
Robert shook his head. “No, he’s mad because he knows there’s not one in there for him. Right, Hamlet?”
Hamlet slanted the youth a cool green look that Darla translated to mean Did you seriously just say that? Then, to further illustrate his feelings on the matter, he swiped one back paw back and forth atop the counter, like he was burying something in his litter box. Finally, with a swish of his long tail that sent the topmost of the nearby stack of free newspapers flying, the cat leaped off the counter and strolled his way toward the games section.
“Do you think he figured out about the T-R-I-P?” Robert asked, carefully spelling out the last word.
Darla shrugged. “He saw me take my suitcase out of the closet last night, and I’ve got a couple of Florida guidebooks upstairs in my bedroom. Even worse, he caught me putting fresh towels in his cat carrier. A free vacation sounded like lots of fun when Jake and I first planned it, and it’s good publicity for the store, but maybe Hamlet isn’t up to traveling.”
“He will be just fine,” James assured her. “You have that calming spray from our friends at the rescue organization, and since he walks quite well on a leash, you will be able to exercise him outside when you get there. Besides, the construction noise and mess would likely be far more stressful on a cat than staying in a nice hotel.”
“Yeah, and it’s, you know, probably safer,” Robert said. “Those guys on the crew, they do a great job, but they don’t always pay attention to stuff. What if they were, like, bringing in tools from outside and left the door open for a minute? Hamlet could run outside and get lost and maybe freeze or something.”
While Darla didn’t doubt Hamlet would be able to make his way home should he escape the brownstone—to her past dismay, he’d done just that a time or two—she realized that James and Robert did have a point about the construction. The finicky feline would never put up with that sort of disruption to his personal stomping grounds. On the other hand, while Florida would be a strange new world for this Brooklyn-born cat, he’d be under her watchful eye twenty-four/seven the entire time, either on his leash or in his carrier. What kind of trouble could he get into that way?
Her earlier good spirits returning, Darla reached again for her bright pink polo.
“You’re right,” she told them as she refolded the garment and packed it away with the others. “It’ll be a couple of days watching Hamlet play Mr. Celebrity at the cat show, and the rest of the time it’s going to be nothing but sun and fun. I’ll probably be so relaxed I won’t even get around to sending out a bunch of postcards bragging about how warm it is in—”
Splat!
The unmistakable sound of a book hitting the wooden floor cut her short. Darla gave an exasperated sigh and turned in the direction where Hamlet had headed. The cagey cat had a habit of occasionally knocking books from their shelves. Of course, when she went to investigate, Hamlet invariably would be innocently sleeping far from the scene of the crime, or else would be nowhere to be found at all. In fact, she had yet to catch him in the act, but he remained
her prime suspect in what she’d come to call “book snagging.”
While it was an annoying bit of mischief on his part (and hard on the books, to boot), picking up after him wasn’t the problem. Rather, it was the fact that, more often than not, the book titles that mysteriously ended up on the floor had something to do with whatever might be happening at the time. While everyone else attributed Hamlet’s apparent insights to coincidence—at least publicly—Darla was convinced by now that the clever cat knew exactly what he was doing every time he sent a particular volume flying.
While Robert and James resumed their duties, Darla hurried over to where she guessed the most recent book had fallen. Sure enough, in front of the shelves that held the various trivia, puzzle, and other game-related books lay a single slim paperback. As for Hamlet, she spied him snoozing on one of the overstuffed reading chairs two aisles over.
Playing innocent or legitimately not guilty?
She picked up the wayward volume and glanced at it in surprise. What had she just been telling James and Robert about the upcoming Florida trip? Something about fun and relaxation? She shook her head. If the book she held was Hamlet’s prediction of what was to come, then apparently she’d spoken too soon. For this instructional guide to playing poker was titled Want to Bet?
TWO
“THE SKIES HERE IN FORT LAUDERDALE ARE CLEAR, AND THE temperature is a balmy seventy degrees . . . sweater weather for us Floridians.”
The news was met with a murmur of approval from the passengers as the plane taxied toward the gate. Darla had stuffed her coat into her checked luggage as soon as they’d reached the airport. She was set for the southern weather with white denim jeans, which she now cuffed to her knees, and a blue-and-white striped shirt she’d chosen for its distinct sailor vibe.
Darla had left the store that morning in James’s capable hands, reminding herself that a) she was due a vacation, b) Hamlet would be happier far away from the construction, and c) she’d be crazy not to jump at a chance to get out of the frigid temperatures dogging New York. But she still had a few niggling doubts about her decision that hadn’t been helped by the text from James that had come right before she had boarded the plane.