Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery)

by Ali Brandon

  Tino lowered his sunglasses to give her a look of mock disappointment. “I thought he could ride shotgun in the front seat with me. Oh well, maybe next time.”

  “Probably not,” was Darla’s reply. “We had a little scare with him getting loose while we were at the cat show.”

  “Yeah, that was you? I heard someone tried to steal a gato from the show. Ana told me about that.”

  “Ana?”

  “Yeah, mi prima—my cousin—Ana Garcia. She’s a cop.”

  Doubtless the same Officer Garcia who, along with Officer Johnston, had been dispatched every time something went wrong in Darla’s vicinity. While she digested this bit of information, Clyde put the last bag in the trunk and shut it.

  Jake moved closer to the bellman and slipped him a few bills. “Thanks for all your help these past couple of days, Clyde. And sorry about the ding I put in your golf cart.”

  “No problem.” Then, ducking his head a little, he added, “So, uh, if you need a guide around town, I’ve lived here all my life. And, uh, I’m off on Wednesday.”

  Jake smiled and slipped on her mirrored shades. “I appreciate the offer, but I really need to spend the time with my mother. You understand.”

  “Oh, sure, sure. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Jake. Oh, and you, too, Darla,” he added with a nod in Darla’s direction as he grabbed the cart and pushed it back toward the lobby.

  “Your tall friend there, she’s a real heartbreaker,” Tino observed to Darla as the lobby doors opened and then closed behind the bellman. To Jake, he added in a cheeky tone, “Hey, chica, why’d you shoot the poor guy down? You shoulda given him a chance.”

  Jake turned the mirrored shades his way, her expression unsmiling. Even without her usual stacked-heel boots, she still towered over the cabbie. In precise tones that would have done Professor James proud, she said, “If you wish to earn your tip, you will address me as ma’am. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tino obediently echoed, snapping to attention and opening the passenger door for her. To Darla, he said in a low tone, “Ex-military?”

  “Ex-cop,” Darla cheerfully replied as she loaded Hamlet, inside his carrier, after Jake. Preparing to slide in beside the cat, she added, “Like your prima, Ana.”

  “Uh-oh. I know what that means.”

  Closing the door after her, Tino trotted back around to the driver’s side, jumped in, and then swung about to face them. “And where can I take you lovely ladies? I mean, you fine women—er, you two ma’ams?”

  Still wearing her shades and still channeling James, Jake gave the cabbie Nattie’s address. Tino turned back around again and snapped on his seat belt before resetting the meter. As he pulled out from under the breezeway and onto the street, Darla exchanged quick glances with her friend. She saw the faintest quiver of a smile on Jake’s lips before the PI resumed her stern visage. Obviously, she was enjoying yanking the young cabbie’s chain.

  “So, should we go the shortcut or the scenic route?” he called back to them.

  “Shortcut,” Jake declared.

  “Scenic route,” Darla countered.

  Tino gave an exaggerated sigh and glanced at them via the rearview mirror. “Okay, which one of you ma’ams is paying the fare?”

  “I am,” Darla told him with a smile, “so scenic route it is. But just hit the highlights. Hamlet will start getting restless if we drag it out too long.”

  “Scenic but short. Gotcha. Say, how about I show you the mansion of that old guy that killed that other old guy at your hotel?”

  “You know where Billy Pope lives?” This from Jake, whose casual tone, Darla knew, belied her actual interest.

  Tino nodded. “I know where all the rich people live. We’ll swing by when I show you one of the water-taxi launches.”

  The cabbie proceeded to take them on an eclectic tour that rivaled their recent drive with Nattie. Hamlet, safely in his carrier, gave a couple of questioning meows the first few blocks but apparently decided that if he’d survived a ride with Jake’s mother, he’d survive Tino, too.

  Zipping through the crowded streets with the flair of a man who did it for a living, Tino pointed out some of the obvious tourist sights: the art museum, the nearest college, even a supposedly haunted pioneer home. He also rolled past a few more offbeat places: a gloriously campy art deco movie theater (where, Darla presumed, they showed fancy-pantsy art films); the International Swimming Hall of Fame, and a dive bar and a restaurant where, according to Tino, was served the world’s best rum runner and the best Cuban sandwich, respectively.

  They passed the promised water-taxi launch—“Not as good as riding with me,” Tino told them, “but it’s pretty fun, and you can carry your own booze on”—and Darla recalled Nattie saying that working on one of those Intracoastal tourist boats had been a previous part-time job of hers. Then Tino took a little jog off the main boulevard, sliding down a twisting narrow side street that ran parallel with the water not far from one of the marinas.

  Riding down this particular road felt almost like driving through a tunnel. Along one side of them, newly greening deciduous trees, combined with various palm species, canopied a portion of the lane. On the opposite side, concrete walls six feet tall and a scant couple of yards from the curb stretched down the road, serving as a barrier between passing traffic and the million-dollar-plus residences that faced out onto the Intracoastal.

  Despite the seeming out-of-the-way location, it was a busy little thoroughfare, full of vehicles ranging from beat-up box trucks to luxury sedans. At intervals, other smaller lanes lined with still more homes pointed like narrow fingers directly toward the water. Most of those streets were marked “Dead End” and required crossing over small bridges.

  “Sorry,” Tino spoke up. “You can’t really see the homes from here. You gotta ride the water taxi for that. But we’re lucky to get this close. Parts of this road are gated off, and you can’t get through unless security lets you pass.”

  Still, at each property’s driveway, the gates—a few wooden, most others wrought iron—allowed tantalizing glimpses of what lay beyond. This close to the water, there was little room for a yard, so most homes were built right up against the road. Darla’s favorite, she decided as Tino slowed for another speed bump, was a salmon-colored, Mediterranean-style beauty with a red-tiled roof and numerous covered porches and balconies.

  A moment later, the cabbie pulled off onto the narrow shoulder in front of a painted wooden gate that was almost a parody of the traditional white picket fence.

  “That’s Mr. Pope’s place,” he said, pointing to the two-and-a-half-story pale yellow stucco home visible between the gate’s broad pickets.

  For a mansion, it looked refreshingly humble, Darla thought. True, it featured a matching detached garage, a mother-in-law quarters, and what appeared to be a pool house; still, the various structures’ lines were clean and simple, just fancied up a bit with white trim and white-tile details. Still, no one was getting in who didn’t belong; the gate was mounted with one of those metal boxes with an intercom and a keycard slot, like at a hotel.

  “He’s got a really nice garden, and there’s a dock out back where he has a boat,” Tino told them. “And there’s at least three cars in that garage. One of them’s a Bentley, but I think it’s leased.”

  “You sure know an awful lot about the man,” Jake observed.

  Tino shrugged. “Hey, we cabbies, we get around. No one pays us much attention, or questions us when we’re stopped like this.”

  As if in illustration, a Jaguar slid up behind them. The driver beeped, reminding them that most of the taxi still hung out into the street, halfway blocking the lane. Tino stuck out a tattooed arm and waved the driver on.

  “See,” he said as the Jag beeped again and, once the opposite lane traffic cleared, zipped around them, “for all he knows, we’re just waiting on the hi
red help to open the gate for you ma’ams.”

  Before Darla could reply, a sudden and very irritated meow issued from the cat carrier.

  “Oops. Hamlet says it’s time to get a move on,” Darla told the cabbie. “Let’s cut the tour short here and head to the condo.”

  “You got it.”

  He pulled back onto the road and took the next left since, as predicted, a large security gate now spanned the road, making the section beyond private. And with that turn, they were now driving through what appeared at first glance to be a decidedly lower-middle-class neighborhood. But Darla spied a construction crew removing what remained of one demolished house, and she realized that the value of these homes was in the lot and location and not the structures themselves. One of those tear-downs likely ran into the midsix figures just as it stood.

  They reached Nattie’s condo just a few minutes later. And while the complex wasn’t an elegant manor like Pope’s place, it still had a certain upscale style of its own.

  The stone sign plunked between two bushy palms at the edge of the semicircular drive read “Lauderdale Tropics.” In smaller words below that name was carved “A Fifty-Five-and-Better Community.” A little reverse ageism, Darla thought in amusement. The complex seemed less like an apartment building and more like an office tower, five stories tall with plenty of glass and balconies. With a little squinting, she told herself, someone looking out the fifth-floor window could probably just make out a glimpse of the Intracoastal Waterway.

  A three-tiered fountain big enough to swim in squatted halfway up the drive, right in front of the portico where Tino was pulling up. The driveway itself was stone rather than concrete, while the oversized glass doors leading into the building were etched with an elaborate tropical jungle scene. For all of Nattie’s disdain of things fancy-pantsy, the old woman appeared to be living in quite the nice situation, Darla thought.

  “Here you go, ma’ams,” Tino said, throwing the cab into park and popping the trunk.

  He hopped out and pulled open both passenger doors. While they climbed out and Darla wrestled Hamlet’s carrier onto the drive, the young man started unloading their bags onto the walkway in front of the lobby.

  “Can you manage all this luggage on your own?” he wanted to know.

  Darla nodded. “We got it on and off the plane, so we should be fine. Now, what do we owe you?”

  He quoted her a price, and she paid him and added a generous tip, earning a grin in return. “Forget about Clyde at the hotel,” he told her. “You two need a tour guide, you call me again.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  With a snappy little salute, he jumped back into the cab and headed out, narrowly missing an elderly woman and her equally aged white standard poodle who’d chosen that moment to cross the driveway without first looking both ways. Jake shook her head as she watched him go.

  “Kids these days,” she lamented, sounding an awful lot like Nattie, Darla thought in amusement as she slung her tote bag across her chest.

  Dragging Hamlet’s carrier behind her in one hand and her suitcase in the other, Darla followed Jake as the PI unlocked the foyer entry with Nattie’s spare key. The inside was equally fancy-pantsy, with lots of cool white tile and a calming palette of sand and sea green for the walls and ceiling.

  Rather like a hotel lobby, the foyer was empty save for a large round table in tile and brass that held a frighteningly spiky dried flower arrangement. Two small conversation groupings—each with a pastel floral love seat, matching chair, and tile-and-brass coffee table—took up the wall to Darla’s left. Ahead she saw three frosted-glass doors: the right one marked “Laundry,” the left one “Health Club,” and the center one “Pool.” To her left were two elevators as well as an alcove, which she saw served as the combination mailroom and business center.

  “Nice place,” Darla said in approval. By her guess, the condos this close to the water had to cost in the mid–six figures; she’d always had the idea that Jake came from a working-class background, but maybe there were some rich relatives in the Martelli family tree that no one had mentioned.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty nice,” Jake agreed as she pressed the elevator button. Then, answering Darla’s unspoken question, she added, “Ma has a decent pension on top of what she got of Dad’s. And she got really, really lucky one night at the casinos.”

  They took the elevator up to the second floor, accompanied by what sounded like the Mantovani cascading strings version of Jimmy Buffett. Darla tried not to laugh as Jake rolled her eyes, and muttered, “Would it kill them to pipe in a little heavy metal?”

  Darla promptly sobered, however, as she caught sight of a notice posted on the elevator announcing a memorial service being held for Ted Stein that evening out by the pool. Apparently the condo association used the elevator as the community bulletin board, no doubt going on the assumption that all residents would eventually have to go up or down in it.

  She had no time to discuss the planned gathering with Jake, however, since the condo elevator was significantly swifter than the one at the hotel. When the elevator door dinged open, Jake barreled out to flee the sentimental music. In the process, the PI all but stumbled over a familiar-looking old woman who stood right outside the door.

  “Mildred, good to see you again,” Darla said with a pleased smile while Jake and Mildred did an impromptu if necessary dance around each other. Darla dragged Hamlet and her suitcase out of the way. “I forgot Nattie said you lived here at the condo, too.”

  “Oh, yes. I was one of the first to buy. My place is down the hall from your mother,” Mildred said a bit breathlessly as she straightened her ruffled blouse. Properly rearranged, she smiled, revealing the usual spot of pink lipstick on her one bucktooth. “It’s nice to see you girls again. Will you be staying for a while?”

  “We’re here through Sunday morning,” Jake told her. “Our plan is to get in a little sightseeing, maybe hang out at the beach.”

  “How nice. If you girls need a guide, I’ve lived here for years. Why, I even worked on the water taxi with Nattie. I’ll be happy to show you around.”

  Darla suppressed a smile. It seemed that the entire city of Fort Lauderdale was volunteering to play tour guide for them!

  “Thanks, Mildred,” Jake told the old woman, “but I think Ma has the guide duties covered.”

  “Oh, I understand.” Then, bending toward the cat carrier, she added, “And how is Hamlet today? Hopefully all recovered from his ordeal?”

  “He’s great,” Darla told her, only to hear a distinctly not-so-great growl come from the carrier’s occupant. Darla hurried to reassure her. “It’s not you. Hamlet’s probably just grumpy after that taxi ride.”

  “Not to worry, I’ve been growled at before,” was her placid response. She stepped into the elevator, adding as the doors closed on her, “I’ll see you girls later. Maybe at the memorial service tonight.”

  “Memorial service?” Jake echoed as she and Darla started down the hall, the rumble of their luggage wheels muffled by the faux Oriental carpet runner.

  Darla nodded. “There was a sign in the elevator. Apparently the condo residents are having a little get-together around the pool tonight at seven to honor Ted Stein’s memory. He might have been a jerk at the cat show, but I guess he had some friends here if they elected him to their board. Should we go?”

  “Let’s see what Ma wants to do. I’d rather try that bar that Tino was raving about, but since we found the body, I sort of feel obliged to do the memorial thing. Besides, it might be interesting to see who shows up.”

  Not that you intend to investigate the man’s death or anything, Darla silently added.

  They halted at the third unit on the left, and Jake pulled out the keys again. She opened the condo door, and Darla walked into what at first glance appeared to be a Florida souvenir shop, circa 1950.

  A doze
n kitschy Florida tea towels featuring variations on oranges, orchids, and palm trees had been framed and hung as art upon the pale green living room wall. Rattan furniture was upholstered in an oversized tropical floral pattern, heavy on pinks, which hues made more vibrant the faint rosy tinge to the broad beige tiles covering the floors. A matching rattan-and-glass bookshelf held Florida-themed souvenirs: snow globes, salt and pepper shakers, spoons, and decorative plates. A grouping of net-wrapped glass fishing floats were lit from within and hung from the ceiling near the sofa. Those makeshift lights competed with an arrangement of rattan hanging lamps over by the television set.

  But Darla’s favorite touch was right next to the front door. There, a bamboo-framed rectangle of weathered wood proclaimed the words “Tiki Bar” in fluorescent hues, accented by a wooden tiki mask nailed to one corner of it.

  “Wow,” was Darla’s assessment of the décor. “I don’t know that I could live with all this, but it sure is fun to visit it.”

  “Yeah, Ma got a little carried away with the vintage Florida theme. I think she watched too many beach movies back in the sixties.”

  Since, despite her love of heavy metal, Jake had a thing for vintage décor as well—her garden apartment was a veritable homage to the fifties and sixties—Darla refrained from comment. Instead, she looked toward the hallway. “Where do you want me and Hamlet?”

  “You two take the guest room. Make a right at the hall door and you’ll see it. The bathroom is yours, too . . . there’s a connecting door to your room as well as to the hall, so you can set up Hamlet’s things in there.”

  “What about you and Nattie?”

  “There’s a second bathroom in the master suite, so we’re covered. I’ll bunk with Ma, or else I’ll take the couch if she gets too restless. Oh, and the balcony should be Hamlet-proof,” Jake added, pointing to the sliding glass door. “Ma’s got windscreens installed in all the openings. If they can hold up to a hurricane, they can probably withstand one cat.”

  Darla rolled Hamlet back to the carpeted guest room and let him out to zip around a bit to get the kinks out. While he did his crazy kitty thing, she took quick stock of the room that was hers for the duration.