by Ali Brandon
Clyde, meanwhile, sidled over. Sotto voce, he asked Jake, “So, why didn’t you tell me you had a twin sister?”
Despite the somber circumstances, Darla had to suppress a snicker. She’d been debating whether to make a similar quip herself and had finally erred on the side of prudence. Which was probably what Clyde should have done, she told herself as Jake shot the bellman a look that would have quelled a lesser man.
Clyde apparently had developed a thick hide from his time spent dealing with the public, for he grinned. Still, he held up both hands in a gesture of surrender as he added, “Just kidding.”
“Uh, folks,” Garcia spoke up, “no kibitzing, if you don’t mind. You’re all considered witnesses until Detective Martinez says differently.”
That comment from the officer abruptly quashed any amusement Darla was feeling. Her trepidation grew when Detective Martinez pulled open the hotel room door again and strode a few feet out into the hall.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen. I need to know what everyone knows about this situation. Who are our witnesses here? Anyone?”
“Those two ladies are the ones who found him,” Garcia spoke up, indicating Darla and Jake.
The detective turned her laser gaze on them and whipped out her business cards. “Detective Sam Martinez, Fort Lauderdale Police,” she said, officially introducing herself and handing a card to Jake. “And you are . . . ?”
“Jake Martelli, Martelli Investigations, Inc.,” Jake said, rising to hand over her own card. “NYPD, retired. Licensed by the state of New York as a PI.”
“Not licensed in the state of Florida, I see,” Martinez observed as she squinted at the credentials printed on Jake’s card.
Jake shook her head. “I’m not on the clock. I’m here on vacation and doing a little unofficial personal security for Ms. Pettistone and her pet, since they are guests of honor at the cat show next door.”
“And you would be Ms. Pettistone?” Martinez asked, turning to Darla.
Darla nodded. “Darla Pettistone, owner of Pettistone’s Fine Books in Brooklyn, New York,” she said, handing over both a business card and one of Hamlet’s “paw”-tograph fliers. “My cat, Hamlet, is why we’re here.”
There was a fractional defrosting of the detective’s attitude as the woman glanced at the flier and appeared to bite back a reflexive smile. “Yeah, I heard something about a little dustup there.” Martinez squinted more closely at the flier Darla had handed her. “So this is the cat someone stole from the exhibit hall. That happen on your watch, Ms. Martelli?”
“What, you’re sayin’ my daughter’s no good at her job?” Nattie broke in, popping up from the bench before Jake could respond.
Martinez raised a brow. “And, ma’am, you are . . . ?”
“Uh, that’s Ms. Martelli’s mother,” Johnston spoke up, flipping back through his notes. “Ms. Natalia Martelli.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Nattie went on. “Some lousy, rotten catnapper snuck up behind her and hit her on the head and stole Hamlet!”
“Ma, I got this.” Jake put out a warning hand to Nattie, who muttered under her breath but grudgingly returned to her seat beside Darla.
“Yes, we had an incident at the show,” Jake continued. “Someone assaulted me backstage and took off with the cat. These officers”—she indicated Garcia and Johnston—“responded, so they should be able to give you all the details, but the cat has since been recovered. Darla and I spotted him on this room’s balcony about an hour ago. Since we were told the gentleman wasn’t in the room, the bellman let us inside. That’s when we retrieved the cat and discovered Mr. Pope’s body. Unfortunately, Mrs. Timpson and my mother came into the room before we could secure it, and they saw the deceased, as well. We immediately vacated the premises and called the authorities.”
Martinez scowled, and Darla wondered which she was more concerned with: the body, or the fact they’d tromped all over her crime scene. What she asked, however, was: “Why would anyone steal a cat? Is it valuable?”
“He isn’t valuable, per se, except to me,” Darla spoke up. “But he’s something of an Internet celebrity these days. I suppose someone could’ve wanted him for that reason. Or maybe they’d planned to hold him for ransom.”
“Did you actually get a ransom note? A call asking for money?”
“No,” Darla admitted, trying not to sound resentful at the detective’s apparent dismissal of her theory. After all, it was a viable possibility. Maybe she and Jake had found Hamlet before the kidnapper had a chance to dictate terms.
“So you think this Pope guy is the one who stole the cat, then?” Martinez said as she scribbled in her notebook.
“I beg your pardon?”
The clipped words came from Alicia, who rose with icy majesty from her spot on the bench. Out-frosting Martinez’s chilly manner, she went on, “My father was a prominent man in this city. Not only was he a successful real estate magnate, he served as head judge for the Feline Society of America. He would never stoop to such an action; besides which, he was standing beside me when the kidnapping incident occurred, with at least two hundred other witnesses there who can attest to that fact. Now, can you tell me why we are speaking about this instead of trying to find out who killed my father?”
“Killed?”
If Martinez had been a cat, her ears would have flicked forward at the word. As it was, the detective raised a dark eyebrow and flipped her notebook closed again.
“Mrs. Timpson, is it?” she went on, earning a nod from Alicia. “All indications so far are that we’re dealing with an accidental death. Why would you think your father was murdered?”
Alicia gave an audible gulp, her carefully made-up features turning ashy. “I—I don’t know. I saw the blood. I—I just assumed . . .”
The glacier promptly melted into a puddle of uncertainty as Alicia dropped back onto the bench and clamped her lips shut. Darla exchanged swift glances with Jake. Her friend gave her a fleeting nod, which Darla took to mean, Hang on. We’ll talk when we’re back in the room.
But Darla wasn’t going to wait to come up with theories of her own. Why had Alicia immediately jumped to the conclusion that her father had been murdered? Was it because Jake had been attacked earlier that day? Or maybe it was because her daughter had threatened both Alicia and Billy, and Alicia feared that Cindy was somehow involved? Or maybe Alicia hadn’t been trying to enter the room when she and Jake had first spied the woman fumbling with the door. Maybe she’d been leaving the room, instead.
The detective, meanwhile, let her cold, dark gaze sweep over them all before focusing on Jake. “Anyone touch anything on or around the body that you know of?”
Jake shook her head. “I only touched his exposed calf to confirm whether or not he was dead. Beyond that, except for closing the balcony door and taking Hamlet with us, we left everything as we found it.”
“So how were you able to ID the body?”
“Well, it is his hotel room,” Darla began. “Besides, we saw his wingtips.”
“His shoes?” Martinez asked.
Darla nodded, “Apparently, Mr. Pope is known for wearing white wingtips all year round . . . you know, like a trademark.”
“Yes,” Alicia confirmed in a small voice. “He started wearing them when I was a child. Except when he’s on one of his boats, I don’t think there’s ever been a public occasion where he hasn’t worn a pair. They’re his signature look.”
“All right, but we’ll still need a formal ID.” The detective held up her smart phone. “The CSI team is still at work, so I can’t let anyone in the room, but I took a photo of the gentleman that shows his face very clearly. Mrs. Timpson, are you up to looking at the photo and confirming that it is your father in there?”
“I—I think so.”
Alicia rose on unsteady feet and took a few steps forward toward Martinez. The rest
of them stood, too, and formed a semicircle behind her—whether in support or curiosity, Darla couldn’t be sure. She uncharitably suspected Nattie of simple nosiness, despite her grief.
Martinez held the phone out to Alicia. For the first time since her arrival on the scene, the detective’s words held a note of kindness as she said, “It’s all right, ma’am. I cropped the picture so it’s his face only. He looks like he’s asleep.”
Alicia nodded and took a deep breath.
“I can do it,” she said, sounding more like her usual imperious self. She straightened her shoulders and took the phone, but before she even looked at the small screen, she abruptly screamed.
Darla gave a little shriek of her own at the unexpected sound, while Officers Garcia and Johnston jerked to attention as well. Both Jake and Martinez appeared equally startled, with the latter clipping out, “What the—”
“Here, gimme that,” Nattie said, snatching the phone from Alicia. “If yer not gonna look, I will.”
Alicia made no protest at the old woman’s action. Instead, she clamped her hands over her mouth and was staring in seeming horror down the hallway toward the elevator. As if she’d seen a ghost, was Darla’s reflexive thought.
And then a man’s reedy voice demanded, “What in the hell are all you people doing standing in front of my hotel room?”
“Billy!” Nattie shrieked, grinning as she shoved past Alicia to rush over to the man. “We thought you was dead, but you’re alive! Unless you’re a ghost,” she added with a suspicious look at him while she gripped his arm to apparently satisfy herself he was indeed corporeal.
“Well, I almost did starve to death, wondering why my daughter didn’t meet me for supper downstairs,” Billy Pope replied as he disengaged from Nattie’s grasp. “I finally figured out I left my phone upstairs, so I came back to the room to get it, only to find this.”
“Hold on,” Martinez interjected while Alicia went over to give her father a stiff hug before returning to her spot on the bench again. Plucking her gold shield from her waistband, Martinez flashed it at him and went on, “Detective Martinez, Fort Lauderdale PD. Are you telling me you’re Mr. Billy Pope and this is your room?”
“Yes, and yes. Now, would someone mind explaining why the police have taken it over?”
While Martinez gave him the CliffsNotes version, Darla reflexively glanced down at the man’s feet. White wingtips, just like he always wears. She shot a look at Jake, wondering if the PI had noticed this, too. The wingtips were the reason they’d assumed the dead man in Billy Pope’s room was Pope himself. Not only had someone other than the judge been wearing that unique style of footwear, but that person had somehow managed to die in Billy’s hotel room.
“We were just about to have your daughter make a positive ID from a photo,” Martinez was continuing, “when you showed up, alive and well.”
“So who’s in there, then?” the old man demanded, his thin voice barely audible now.
Jake gestured her mother over. “Ma, give the phone back to Detective Martinez so she can pull up the picture again. We need to figure out who the dead guy is.”
The detective punched in her passcode and handed the phone to Nattie, who squinted at the screen before handing it back, shaking her head. “I don’t have my reading glasses with me. He just looks like a blurry blob.”
“Ma’am,” Martinez replied, “why don’t you give the phone to Mr. Pope? It’s his room after all.”
The old woman handed off the phone to Billy, who stared at it for a long moment.
“C’mon, Billy,” Nattie urged. “Who is it? Do you know him?”
Billy briefly shut his eyes. Then, looking like he’d been punched in the gut, he nodded and held out the phone.
Darla stood to the other side of him, so she took the cell and cautiously looked at the photo herself. If the dead man had any connection to Hamlet’s kidnapping, she wanted to put a face to the criminal.
Her first thought on seeing the image was that Detective Martinez was right—the middle-aged man in the photo did look like he was just sleeping. Her second, and far more surprising realization, was that she actually did know the man . . . by sight, if not by actual acquaintance.
Darla promptly handed the phone back to the detective, but it was Billy Pope she addressed when she said, “I recognize him, too. I saw him at the show today. He’s the guy who raises the Minx cats. What was his name again?”
There was a pause before Alicia spoke up.
“Stein,” she said in a soft voice. “His name is Ted Stein.”
ELEVEN
AFTER DARLA GAVE HER WITNESS STATEMENT, SHE HEADED back to the suite to wait while Jake and Nattie took turns being questioned by Detective Sam Martinez. Nattie returned last from the grilling, around eight o’clock, and dramatically declared her intention to stay the night in the suite with Darla and Jake rather than go home alone to her place.
“After all this shock, I wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight back at the condo!” the old woman exclaimed with a shudder as she plopped onto the sofa with a proprietary air. “What if I saw Ted’s ghost floating around there? Me, I’m an old woman. I see something like that, and I get the angina and drop dead myself.”
Jake raised a brow. “Ma, I hate to play Captain Obvious, but aren’t you forgetting that Ted died right down the hall from us? You see any ghosts tonight, chances are they’ll be right here at the hotel.”
“Yeah, but here I’ll have my Jacqueline to protect me,” Nattie countered with a determined air.
Jake exchanged glances with Darla, who nodded her agreement. In Nattie’s place, she probably wouldn’t want to go home alone, either.
“Fine, Ma. If you’ll feel better sleeping here tonight, we understand. You can get up early and run back home to change before the show starts tomorrow.”
“I knew I could count on you, bambolina mia,” Nattie said in satisfaction. Then she frowned. “Wait—I don’t have a nightie or a toothbrush.”
“Don’t worry, there’s a toothbrush in the bathroom along with all the complimentary toiletries. And you can wear one of my T-shirts for a nightgown,” Jake told her.
“Then it’s settled. I sure hope you girls can stay up all night with me. It’ll be fun, like one of them slumber parties you had when you were a little girl.”
But despite Nattie’s assertion that she’d be up all night, by nine she was passed out in the bedroom alcove.
“I’ll take the couch,” Jake volunteered, ruefully adding, “Sam Martinez asked me to meet her in the bar downstairs around nine to kick around a few ideas, off the record. You know, shop talk. I didn’t realize that we’d be babysitting Ma. . . . Not that I mind, of course.”
“You go,” Darla insisted. “I’ll stay here with your mother. Besides, after all that happened today, I really don’t want to leave Hamlet again.”
“You sure?”
“Go!” Darla told her. “But remember, tomorrow is a school day.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” was Jake’s reply as she pocketed her keycard from off the coffee table again and headed for the door.
To the accompaniment of Nattie’s rhythmic snoring, Darla spent the next thirty minutes lounging on the floor playing with Hamlet and his feathered kitty wand. Despite her earlier concern, the cat seemed none the worse for his abduction, kicking and gnawing at the bright plumes with feline glee.
Then, hearing new commotion outside in the hallway, Darla scrambled to her feet. How many people were needed to take pictures of a bloodstain on the carpet? And, more to the point, how many more cops and various law enforcement people could Detective Martinez crowd into that small corridor?
“Hammy, let’s give those poor feathers a rest for a minute. I want to check this out.”
Leaving the cat sprawling beside his toy, she hurried to the door and squinted through the peephole, just in time t
o see a gurney bearing Ted Stein’s covered body wheeled past.
Darla shivered. The stark memory of seeing the man lying dead behind Billy Pope’s sofa had been bad enough. The sight of his shrouded form oddly distorted by the peephole’s wide viewing angle was enough to give her the heebie-jeebies.
Darn Nattie and her ghosts. The next thing she knew, she’d be imagining seeing phantom figures and get the angina herself!
“Come on, Hammy,” Darla said, swiftly turning from the door and back to him. “While we’re waiting for Jake to come back, let’s order up a good old pay-per-view comedy, and—”
She broke off. The feathered wand was still lying where she’d left it, but Hamlet was gone.
Tamping down sudden fear, she shot a quick look at the balcony door. It was still tightly shut and barricaded, just as she’d left it earlier. Then she glanced at the bedroom alcove. Enough light from the suite’s main room shone into that alcove for Darla to spy the feline curled upon the foot of her bed, apparently asleep. As she moved closer to check on him, she saw that he was using Nattie’s copy of the hotel magazine as his personal mattress topper.
“Here, Hammy. That can’t be comfortable,” she whispered to the feline, and tried to slip the open periodical out from beneath him.
Hamlet slit open one green eye and put out a swift paw, his razor-sharp claws slicing away a couple of crisp, four-color pages before Darla got the magazine away from him.
“Hammy,” she softly scolded, but he made no other protest. Instead, the emerald eye shut again, and he gave an audible snore.
Shaking her head, Darla left him with Nattie and picked up the torn paper from where it had drifted to the rug. She carried both pages and magazine back into the other room to toss them into the trash, when an inch-high headline on one torn page caught her eye.
Deconstructing Condo Association Theft.
The article unfolded like a soap opera. It named no names or associations but was heavy on scares. The offenses varied from condo board members absconding with association funds—much as Ted had accused Billy of doing—to predatory condo associations slapping liens on owners who’d fallen behind on their dues. All in all, it sounded like certain boards ran their associations like private fiefdoms, with the lowly owners at their mercy, sometimes to the point of losing their homes over a few hundred dollars in unpaid dues.