by Ali Brandon
“Darla, I am so sorry for dropping in on you like this with my problems,” Hilda exclaimed, the earlier quaver in her voice all but gone. “I must have faith that Jake will find Tera before the police do and bring her home so we can work this out together.”
“I’m sure she will. And even if Detective Reese finds her first, I promise you he’ll treat her fairly.”
“Perhaps.” That last was said with a shrug that seemed to speak of more than a little distrust of authority. Though, now knowing the woman’s history, Darla couldn’t quite blame her.
Bells jingled again. This time, to Darla’s great relief, it was Jake walking through the front door. She was dressed for serious investigating, her unbelted black leather duster swirling around her jean-encased calves with every stride, her stacked-heel boots effectively camouflaging her limp. A pair of mirrored sunglasses hid her eyes, and her curly black hair sprang from her head like a lion’s mane, everything combining to give Jake the look of a kick-butt anime heroine come to life.
Just what Hilda and Tera needed right about now, Darla thought with a grateful sigh.
“Hey, kid, thanks for filling in.” Jake gave Darla an approving nod before turning to Hilda. “Sorry you had to wait. I was making a few inquiries about Tera.”
“Did you have any luck?” Hilda greeted her, the crispness of her tone belied by the anxious way she was twisting her hands. “Has anyone seen my daughter?”
“So far, none of her friends have seen her since her Wednesday morning class. And I can’t find anyone who saw her after you said she left the house again Wednesday evening. Late Thursday morning is when Darla and Barry found Curt’s body, so we’ve got about twelve hours we have to account for to get her off the hook. Do you have that picture I asked you to bring?”
“Of course.” Hilda reached into her magical handbag and pulled out a small framed photo, the size one would keep propped on a bedside table. “That detective—”
“Detective Reese,” Darla helpfully supplied.
“—Yes, that Detective Reese, he wanted a picture, too, but I lied and told him I didn’t have one,” Hilda replied, a faint look of defiance adding color to her pale cheeks. Darla caught a glimpse of the photo as the woman clutched the frame to her with a possessive air.
The image appeared recent and professionally shot, although the setting was casual and outdoors. The photo captured the girl from the waist up, turned so that she peered back over one shoulder toward the camera. For once, it looked like Tera had abandoned the exaggerated makeup she usually favored, wearing just enough color on her wide brown eyes and full lips to accentuate those features. Her shoulder-length, dark blond hair was loose and windblown. One carefully manicured hand—the pink nails the same girlish shade as her bright lipstick—had reached up to brush an errant lock from her eyes.
In the hands of a less skilled photographer, the image might have appeared deliberately posed in poor imitation of some glossy magazine cover. Instead, it looked as if Tera had simply turned in laughing response to someone calling her name, her youthful beauty and exuberance captured forever in that one shot.
Breathtaking, Darla thought with a sudden feeling of dismay that she couldn’t quite explain or dismiss.
Hilda, meanwhile, had released her grip on the frame and was handing the photo over to Jake, adding, “Tera gave me that picture just a couple of weeks ago. I-I’d like it back when you’re finished.”
“Certainly. When we go back down to my office I’ll scan it, and then you can take it right back home with you again,” Jake assured her as she accepted the photo. “I’m going to make some fliers with her picture on them to start handing out around the neighborhood. I’ll leave a stack here to pass out to anyone willing to help, if that’s okay by Darla,” she added with a meaningful look in her direction.
Darla nodded, concurring with the unspoken suggestion that Reese would be the first recipient of same. In fact, as soon as she had the fliers in hand, she’d give the detective a call.
“Hi, Ms. Martelli,” came Robert’s voice from behind them. “What’s up?”
Using the back of his hand to swipe the last of the crumbs from his mouth, he leaned over her shoulder to see the photo Jake held. “Hey, that’s Tera. What are you doing with a picture of her?”
“You know her?” Jake demanded.
He shrugged. “I’ve seen her around with some of the other girls. I think she’s in college.”
“Tera is Mrs. Aguilar’s daughter,” Darla explained with a gesture at Hilda. “She’s gone missing, and Jake is trying to find her.”
“Oh, yeah? I saw her the other night.” He turned and started toward the best-seller display, only to stop in his tracks as he was pelted by a chorus of questions.
“Where did you see her?”
“You’re sure it was her? What night, Wednesday or Thursday?”
“Was she all right?”
This last came from Hilda, who hurried over and reached for Robert’s arm. The teen swiftly stepped back, holding up both hands in surrender.
“Whoa. Can you, you know, ask me one thing at time?”
“Robert, this is very important,” Jake told him, turning the photo so he could see it again. “You’re very certain it was this girl you saw, and not some other blonde?”
“Yeah. She’s not into the goth scene, so we’re not, like, friends or anything, but I’ve talked to her before. She was standing right under a streetlight when I walked past her.”
Jake tucked the photo under her arm and pulled out a notebook and pen from her coat pocket. “All right, we’ll assume it was Tera. Which night did you see her?”
The teen squinted in concentration as he counted back on his fingers. “Definitely Wednesday night.”
“Good. Now, what time?”
“I don’t know. Early. Maybe midnight?” Which time Darla personally wouldn’t have classified as early, but then she wasn’t eighteen anymore, either.
Jake nodded as she made another note. “Where exactly—I mean, besides under a streetlight—was she when you saw her?”
“She was a couple of streets away from here, near the house where that Curt guy bit it.”
“She was near Barry’s brownstone?” Darla exclaimed. Then, ignoring Jake’s okay-you-can-shut-up-now look, she demanded, “What were you doing there at midnight?’
“I don’t know, stuff,” was Robert’s evasive reply, his expression taking on the same defiant look that Hilda had worn earlier. “It’s a free country.”
“It doesn’t matter what Robert was doing there,” Jake broke in. “What’s important is what he knows about Tera. C’mon, kid,” she urged as he remained silent. “The girl could be in real trouble, and you’re the only one so far who knows anything about where she was around the time that Curt, er, bit it. Was she with anyone?”
Robert shook his head.
“And what was she doing, besides standing there? Looking behind her, carrying anything?”
“She was, like, talking on her phone,” he replied in an incredulous tone as if to imply, What else would she be doing?
Jake nodded again. “Could you tell if she was angry with the person on the other end? How did she seem?”
“I don’t know . . . regular, I guess. I didn’t stand around listening. That’s, like, rude.” Another customer walked in just then, and the youth seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “Sorry, gotta go help the lady,” he declared and rushed over to the silver-haired retiree in question.
Darla glanced Jake’s way. “I can go wait on the customer. Do you want me to drag him back over for more questions?”
“I’ve got what I need for now,” Jake said and shut her notebook. “If nothing else, we’ve established that Tera was in the neighborhood the night of Curt’s murder. Which doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she swiftly reassured Hilda, who had given an audible gasp at that last. “Let’s go downstairs so I can scan this photo and get some more info. Darla, I’ll be back later with those flier
s.”
The pair walked to the door, Jake leading the way like the heavy metal version of an avenging angel. Hilda’s posture was equally determined, if significantly less intimidating. Darla allowed herself a small smile. Even though she knew that Reese was a good cop, if it came down to betting who would locate Tera first, Darla put her money on Jake.
The question was, would finding the girl also mean that they’d found Curt’s killer . . . or was the true murderer still out there somewhere?
Darla pondered this while she made her way upstairs and pulled her turkey Reuben from the refrigerator. She’d carried with her the list she’d started before a disheveled Hilda had come rushing into the store. Between bites, she studied the page again, trying to find another clue in the column of names that she’d written. By the time she’d finished the sandwich, she’d conceded defeat.
“I might as well try a Magic 8 Ball,” Darla decided, crumpling her sandwich wrapper and tossing it in the trash.
She nearly threw her list after it but then changed her mind. She’d have James puzzle over the matter later in the afternoon. He’d enjoy the challenge and might well spot something that she had missed. For now, however, she wanted to have a word with Robert regarding his nighttime activities.
Darla made her way down the stairs again, dreading the conversation she was about to have but knowing that the subject would keep gnawing at her if she didn’t. Robert lived in the general vicinity, so it wouldn’t be unheard of for him to be wandering the neighborhood, even after midnight. But given that he had a job to go to in the morning, the fact that he wasn’t home asleep by then raised an unsettling question in her mind: what was Robert doing during his early morning rambles?
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said aloud. She already knew he was into the goth scene, which almost by definition required that he engage in dark-of-night activities. And people his age generally treated the wee hours like any other time of day.
But she also recalled the rumor Barry had mentioned that the scrap thieves might be tied to one of the local Russian gangs. Curt had said the last time she’d seen him that the police suspected it was teens doing the deed, particularly since they’d found candy wrappers at some of the scenes. She’d seen for herself that Robert treated candy as one of the primary food groups. He also had bragged about doing construction work for his friend Alex Putin. Could Robert somehow be involved in the recent spate of metal thefts?
And then a far worse possibility flashed through Darla’s mind, the thought so disturbing that she halted at the bottom step and abruptly sat down on the stairs lest her legs give out from under her. Try as she might, she couldn’t hold back the barrage of questions that abruptly pelted her like an unexpected Texas hailstorm.
What if Robert was the scrap thief who stole the copper tubing from Barry’s brownstone? And who’d then returned to plunder a second time, only to be confronted by a crowbar-wielding Curt? What if Robert had fought back against the older man and won that struggle?
What if it was Robert—not Tera—who had killed Curt Benedetto?
THIRTEEN
HOW LONG SHE HAD BEEN SITTING ON THE STAIRWAY contemplating the possibility of Robert as a cold-blooded killer, Darla wasn’t certain. It was only when a member of the store’s Friday Afternoon Book Club greeted her with a puzzled, “How have you been, Darla?” and squeezed past her on his way up the steps that she roused herself and headed to the register.
A few of the other club members had trickled into the store as well and were browsing the new releases. While the group had a formal membership of almost thirty—mostly students, retirees, and stay-at-home moms—a core group of about a dozen regulars met every two weeks upstairs in the shop’s lounge area. Darla always enjoyed their company and appreciated the recurring business, but today it was the distraction that their arrival offered that earned her gratitude. The conversation level in the store grew louder and more animated as they debated which, if any, of these newcomers might make for good future book club reading.
It took another twenty minutes and a few impulse book purchases before the club members all settled upstairs. Darla had little chance to say anything to Robert as he helped bag the purchases she rang up, and by the time the readers’ good-natured arguing had begun drifting down to them, she’d made up her mind to say nothing—at least, not directly to the youth. But as soon as Robert left for the day, she would call Jake for her advice and see if the ex-cop thought that Darla’s concerns warranted a call to Reese.
An hour and a half later, the book club meeting upstairs was beginning to wind down. Business had been a bit slow if steady, with one customer seeming to walk in just as another left. James had already arrived for his afternoon shift. After a quick greeting for Darla, he began conversing with Robert regarding the latest shipment of graphic novels from the day before, inventory for which they had a small but devoted customer base. As for Hamlet, he had long since decided that book club day was not his favorite store event and so had spent the past couple of hours safely ensconced atop the history shelf in the back room.
Hamlet rejoined her at the register as Robert stepped up and reached under the counter for his backpack. The sleeping bag was still cinched to it, but now Darla saw more nefarious uses for that piece of camping gear than an aid to making out in the park, as in, something that could be stuffed full of pilfered scrap metal.
“I guess it’s time for me to take off,” Robert told her, his closed expression reminding her of his attitude the day he’d come in for his initial interview.
Darla did her best to hide her feelings of dismay as she surveyed him. In his short tenure at Pettistone’s, the youth had proved a valuable if at times idiosyncratic employee. For now, she simply said, “See you tomorrow. And if you think of anything else that might help Jake or Detective Reese locate Tera Aguilar, you can call me.”
He mumbled something that might have been an agreement. Then, with a gentle paw bump for Hamlet and a “See you later” that could have been for either of them, he shouldered his backpack and made his way out.
The book club meeting officially broke up a few minutes later, and James mingled with the departing members. Despite his professed disdain for most modern literature, the ex-professor kept current on both fiction and nonfiction trends. Thus, his opinion was often solicited by the club members, most particularly by the women, several of whom had not-so-secret crushes on the man. Darla was at the register scanning receipts and had just saved off the final tally when the book club’s president made her way to the counter.
Martha Washington (No relation to the late president’s wife, the woman had smilingly assured her on their first meeting) was a slender, mixed-race woman in her late thirties. She wore her multihued hair in waist-length dreads that Darla always found herself envying, and spoke with a clipped English accent that sounded right out of a public television special.
Her pronunciation was no Madonna-type affectation, however, but legitimately earned. Darla knew from their discussions that although Martha’s career Army father had been born and bred in Georgia, he’d married an Englishwoman while stationed overseas. But Martha was definitely accent bilingual. Darla had heard the woman go Deep South in zero to sixty when the topic of conversation warranted it.
“Good afternoon, Darla,” she now said, sticking to her precise BBC tones. “Thank you as always for hosting our little group.”
“It’s my pleasure. Did everyone behave this time?”
Martha grinned at Darla’s oblique reference to Mark Poole. One of the group’s more vocal members, he’d grown irate with his fellow readers at the last meeting when his interpretation of certain literary symbolism was argued. Finally, knowing he wasn’t going to win the point, the man had stomped off before the meeting was over, vowing never to return. It was not the first time Darla had seen a book club member do the real-life version of what online forums referred to as “flouncing.” And as typically followed such histrionics, he’d returned for this week’s
meeting, book under his arm, pretending nothing had ever happened.
“Mark sat quietly and contributed only positive things,” Martha assured her. “In fact, before we began, he even offered an apology for his previous behavior.”
“Wonderful. So, can I do anything else for you?
“Actually, I found this on the floor back in the reference section and wasn’t sure where to restock it for you,” she said and held out a magazine-sized graphic novel.
Darla took the softcover book and laid it on the counter. “We just got in a shipment of these yesterday, so this one must have gone astray. Thanks for finding it before it got walked all over.”
“Not at all,” Martha replied with a smile as she pulled on a long wool coat in the same shades of black and tan and blond as her hair. “Very well, then. See you week after next. We’ve agreed to skip the planned book and instead discuss that title in the front window.”
Darla glanced at the window display. Sure enough, the stack on the red side had dwindled significantly since lunch. With luck, the book club would then choose the blue title as a counterpoint for the meeting after that one. Clutching a tote bag filled with paperbacks, Martha waved good-bye to James and headed for the door.
“Ah, that is the last of them,” the store manager declared as bells jingled behind the woman, leaving the store customer free for the moment. “Now that we have Robert, I may need to rearrange my schedule again so that I am off on those afternoons when they meet.”
She’d heard that last complaint before and knew that, despite his protestations, he actually enjoyed being in the book club spotlight. But she was more concerned with other issues just now to call him on it.
“Assuming we will still have Robert by then,” Darla answered instead.