by Ali Brandon
She looked up to see Jake nodding.
“Yeah, I’d put money on it that the nail tip belonged to Tera,” the older woman said in a flat tone. “The question is, how did it—and Tera’s phone, for that matter—get into the Dumpster?”
When Darla waited expectantly for an answer, she sighed and went on, “All right, I can think of a couple of possibilities. Number one: the fingernail fell off when she tossed the phone in there herself.”
“But why would Tera throw her phone away?”
Jake gave her a hard look. “We’ve got to face it, Darla, there’s a chance that she was the one who killed Curt. Maybe she planned it; maybe it happened in the heat of the moment. Either way, she wouldn’t want anyone tracking her down. If she’s like most kids her age, she would know about cell phone pinging from those detective shows on television, or maybe the movies. She runs out of the building, stops to toss her phone into the container, catches one of those fake nails on a piece of lumber, and pops it right off.”
“And if she didn’t kill Curt?”
“Then we move on to possibility number two. Maybe Tera had the bad luck to walk in on the killer as he was whacking her boyfriend, and gets killed, too, but taken elsewhere, and the murderer tosses her phone in the Dumpster.”
Darla sat silent for a moment, grateful for the music that filled the unsettling gap in their conversation. She wasn’t sure which scenario she found more comforting: Tera, alive but a murderer, or Tera, dead but an innocent victim. “I think I prefer possibility number three, whatever that might be,” she finally said, drawing an answering nod from Jake.
“Yeah, me, too,” the older woman said with a weary sigh. “So try to keep a positive attitude. Right now, this bit of plastic isn’t anything more than another piece of evidence for Reese. I’ll give him a call and let him know what you found.”
Darla nodded, not trusting herself to speak for a moment. What Jake had said earlier about homeless teens like Robert could apply equally well to Tera. She might have an indulgent mother and a nice roof over her head; still, she was young and likely as naïve as most twenty-one-year-old girls. If she’d hooked up with Curt—who might have had his own share of shady acquaintances—who knew what sort of situation she had stumbled into by proxy?
While she considered this, a lyric from the music Jake was playing knocked at the door of her subconscious and then all but slapped her to full attention. Darla sat up straighter in her chair. The mournful introductory instrumental passage that had gone on for a good minute had given way to fast, pulsing lyrics. She could have sworn the lead vocalist had just rasped out the words “Murders in the Rue Morgue.”
“This song . . . what’s playing right now?” she demanded, straining to catch more of the spill of words.
Jake shrugged. “It’s still Iron Maiden. I told you, that gruesome graphic novel you had on the counter yesterday made me remember this album of theirs. This cut is called ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue.’”
The chorus repeated, and to Darla’s surprise Jake joined in singing. “Murders in the Rue Morgue, running from the Gendarmes, Murders in the Rue Morgue, running from the arms of the law.”
As the ex-cop continued singing along with the next verse, Darla stared openmouthed at her. “The Man in the Iron Mask . . . Murders in the Rue Morgue . . . Iron Maiden,” she murmured while Jake sang along. “Could they all be related? But how?”
The song ended just then, and Jake shut off the player with her remote. “I’m heading out to meet Reese in a few,” she said. “I’ll let you know later if he has any ideas about Robert’s situation. In the meantime, try not to worry about Tera. That’s my job.”
“I can’t help but worry, it’s in my DNA.” Darla managed a small smile as she said that, but in truth she was more than a little fearful that the search for the missing Tera was not going to end well. As for learning the identity of the person responsible for Curt’s death—and, possibly, Tera’s fate—it seemed that Hamlet was still the only one with any insight into that. But as soon as she got back to the bookstore, she was going to start flipping through the clues he had left her and figure out what she’d missed.
* * *
“I SUGGEST THAT WE RETURN TO THE GRAPHIC NOVEL, THE MURDERS IN the Rue Morgue,” James said soon after he arrived for his two o’clock shift. “For starters, I would make note of the fact that the title says ‘murders,’ meaning multiple. And if you will recall the particulars of the story, the two victims were mother and daughter.”
“As in, Hilda and Tera?” Darla speculated before shaking her head. “Except that Hilda isn’t dead. And hopefully Tera isn’t, either.”
Despite her resolution to work on Hamlet’s clues first thing, the bookstore had been busy as usual on a Saturday morning, leaving her no time for detecting. But now that James had arrived for his afternoon shift, Darla had pulled out her list from the day before and was making new notes. James, after hearing about her Dumpster find and the interesting coincidence regarding the heavy metal song title, had agreed to contribute his own opinions.
And Darla’s quick dismissal of his first observation did not go unchallenged.
“I will concede the fact that at least one of the pair is demonstrably still breathing, so perhaps we should view it as a symbolic death. The death of trust, the death of innocence, the death of—”
“Fine, I get the picture.”
Darla added a second column labeled Murders in the Rue Morgue, under which she wrote the names Hilda and Tera, each followed by a question mark. “And don’t forget our perfect tie-in to Porn Shop Bill. He’s got the orangutan looks and the motive and bad temper to make him a killer. He definitely stays on the suspect list,” she said, circling his name for good measure.
Though, to be fair, Reese had said that the man had only ever been convicted of assault, she reminded herself. Still, who was to say he didn’t up the ante with Curt?
“Now, about the song.” She wrote the words Murders in the Rue Morgue (song) over a third column, and beneath that added Iron Maiden.
“That’s two ‘irons,’” she pointed out, underlining the words in question, “plus a ‘man’ and a ‘maiden’ . . . and as you said, we’ve got the word ‘murders’ twice.”
She underlined the rest of the words and then looked up at James, stricken. “It sure seems like the clues all tell us that Tera is dead, too. You’ve got a man, Curt, and a maiden, Tera . . . and two murders.”
“Remember, Darla, it is all speculation at this point. Before we jump to more conclusions, perhaps we need to try our hand at word association.”
James’s words were calm, but Darla had seen a flash of dismay in his expression. No doubt he was struggling not to concede that she most likely was right. To keep up both their spirits, she decided not to harp on the theory.
“Fine. Let’s start with Iron Maiden. What else do you think of when you hear those words besides a heavy metal band?”
“For the record, that would not have been my first association,” James replied with pointed look. “I would go with the medieval instrument of torture, although I have read speculation that the Maiden never actually existed but was something of an archeological hoax.”
Hoax or not, Darla reluctantly added torture to the list. “All right, what else?”
“The former British prime minister, Margaret Thatcher,” was James’s second response. “She was nicknamed the Iron Lady. And, if memory serves me correctly”—he paused and typed in a few swift words on the computer—“yes, it does appear that the prime minister’s middle name is Hilda.”
“You’re kidding.”
Darla peered over his shoulder at the official biography that he’d pulled up online. To her amazement, she saw that the British politician’s middle name was indeed the same as that of the missing Tera’s mother. Shaking her head, she added Hilda’s name to the song column.
“Okay. What else do you think of when I say ‘iron’?”
“How about, you know, Iron
Man?”
The question came from Robert, who apparently had finished the task Darla had assigned him of stacking cartons of books upstairs and had wandered back down to the shop floor again. When she and James both turned slightly dumbfounded looks on him, the teen rolled his eyes.
“Don’t you ever, like, go to the movies? The comic book guy in the red metal suit. His real name is Tony Stark.”
“I saw the movie,” Darla loftily informed him. “It’s just that some ‘comic book guy’ sounds so, well, random.”
“No more random than a British politician,” James interjected, defending his protégé.
Darla shrugged. “All right, I’ll give you that one. Maybe Curt knew a guy named Tony,” she agreed and added that name to her growing list.
Robert was looking over her shoulder as she wrote. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. The theme song to the movie is called ‘Iron Man.’ It’s by this ancient metal band called Black Sabbath . . . you know, the one with that guy that, like, eats bats. He’s got a reality show or something on cable.”
“Ozzy Osbourne,” Darla supplied, feeling unduly proud to realize that she knew something about a band that an eighteen-year-old did not.
Then she frowned. Black Sabbath had been one of the names that Jake had mentioned in her paean to heavy metal music. Could this all be mere coincidence? It was as if anyone and everyone might have had a hand in Curt’s murder.
“We’re still missing some vital clue,” she said, setting her pen down and trying to tamp down the frustration she could feel welling inside her. She glanced around for Hamlet, who’d been keeping himself scarce since breakfast. If he could snag one more book for her, maybe that would somehow make the connection clear.
James picked up the list and perused it for a moment. “It would seem we have sufficient data but, as you say, no logical tie. I fear that Hamlet is falling down on the job as a detective.”
“Hamlet solves crimes?” Robert asked, eyes wide. “Hey, sweet!”
“I swear, we’re not a bunch of crackpots,” Darla said, “but Hamlet does seem to have a special knack for this detecting thing.” She gave him a quick rundown on how Hamlet had helped solve crimes in the past. “But for heaven’s sake don’t say anything about Hamlet’s book snagging to our customers,” she warned him. “Who knows what people would think? Besides,” she joked, “we don’t want to be overrun with crazies wanting Hamlet to solve Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance and the Kennedy assassination.” Though the wily cat likely has insights into both crimes, Darla wryly told herself.
Robert pantomimed zipping his lips. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. And I’ll keep an eye out for books on the floor.”
“You do that. So, you feel like working a full shift today?”
The offer was not entirely altruistic. While the extra hours would give a small boost to the teen’s paycheck—and the work would keep him off the streets for a few hours—she had another reason to hold him there. She wanted to pay another visit to Hilda to see if she could learn a bit more about the woman’s relationship with her daughter. Maybe she’d be more forthcoming with Darla than with Reese or even Jake.
Robert, meanwhile, was eagerly nodding. “Yeah, sure. I’ll stay.”
“Perfect. James, Robert is going to finish out the shift with you. And I’m going to take off an hour or so to run an errand.”
Once she was sure the pair had things under control, she grabbed her coat—the temperatures hadn’t climbed above the midfifties, which was brutally cold as far as she was concerned—and started down the street. Mary Ann was on her stoop sweeping, and Darla paused for a quick greeting. After a few words about the weather, which the native New Yorker Mary Ann referred to as simply “mild,” the old woman asked, “Did you get a chance to ask Detective Reese about the neighborhood watch yet?”
“Sorry, Mary Ann, he’s been busy with the murder investigation, so I didn’t want to call him. But I did send him a text, and I promise I’ll ask next time I see him.”
“Well, you can let him know that I have my baseball bat ready. Oh, and I found a set of walkie-talkies that Brother used to use back when he would go hunting with his friends. Perhaps they will come in handy.”
Darla nodded, picturing the brick-sized walkie-talkie units of a couple of decades past. They’d likely be more useful as weapons, she thought as she smothered a smile. Hit someone over the head with one of those babies, and it would be lights out for a while.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then Darla continued on. What exactly she would say to Hilda, she wasn’t sure. To her relief, Great Scentsations was open. She’d half expected the door to be locked, but doubtless Hilda preferred keeping busy to sitting home in an empty apartment hoping for her missing daughter to return. Still, the atmosphere inside the shop was far different than the spalike mood the place usually evoked.
Instead of the usual New Age music, Gregorian chant greeted Darla as she stepped inside. And rather than the usual candle scent of the day, the sweet aroma of incense—frankincense, perhaps, overlaid with sandalwood—clung to the air. In fact, the shop smelled and sounded more like a cathedral—or perhaps even a funeral parlor—than a trendy body and bath store. And, for the first time since Darla had ever been inside the place, no customers browsed the aisles or waited at the register.
“My customers, they sense it.”
Hilda’s voice drifted to her, the tone oddly lifeless. Concerned, Darla headed for the back, where she spied the woman seated behind the register. Unlike the other day, Hilda had made a halfhearted attempted at styling her hair and had put on a bit of eye shadow and lipstick. But the makeup was too bright for her coloring—in fact, Darla suspected that the products might have belonged to Tera—and gave her skin a gray appearance that aged her a good ten years.
Not needing to feign concern, she asked, “What do they sense, Hilda?”
“Death.”
The single flat word sent a small shiver down Darla’s back. If this was the sort of vibe Hilda gave off to everyone who entered, then no wonder the store was empty. In fact, she might have hightailed it out of there herself save for the fact that, having seen Hilda in her current state, she was now concerned what the woman might do if left to her own devices.
“Hilda, the police are working very hard to solve Curt’s murder,” she assured her. “And both Jake and Detective Reese are doing their best to find Tera. You must be patient.”
“You don’t understand, Darla. If they do find her, it will be only to give me her body so I can bury her.”
“Don’t say that, Hilda. You mustn’t give up hope. She’s only been gone a few days. For all you know, she got mad and ran off to Atlantic City for a breather.”
“Without her phone?” At Darla’s look of surprise, the woman gave an emotionless chuckle. “Oh, yes, your Detective Reese came by this morning and told me that they found Tera’s phone in the trash outside that Curt’s house. And he didn’t say, but I know he thinks I know how it got there.”
“And do you know?” Darla asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
Hilda gave an elaborate shrug. “Everything is in God’s hands now. All I want is justice for my daughter.”
Darla hesitated. Was Hilda simply a grieving mother fatalistically accepting what was the most likely outcome to Tera’s strange disappearance, or was she a desperate woman coolly hiding something that she knew about Curt’s murder?
Keep her talking, Darla told herself. Maybe she’ll let something slip that could help Reese, or even connect Hamlet’s cryptic dots.
“If there’s anything I can do to help you through this, Hilda, let me know,” she said, meaning it. “But for now, remember those eye compresses you told me about? I think I should try those.”
“Certainly.” Hilda rose and gave her a jaundiced look. “And perhaps you could use a new foundation. Those freckles are charming on a young girl but, woman to woman, you’re a bit too old for that look.”
Biting back a ret
ort—did anyone ever tell Julianne Moore or Bryce Dallas Howard that she should cover her freckles?—Darla followed the older woman toward the front of the store again. While Hilda lectured on tinted organic moisturizer and concealers, Darla found her arms filling with pricey jars and bottles. Just as she was beginning to fear she’d need to take out a small loan to cover it all, she heard the shop door open and the sound of a familiar voice.
“Hello, Mrs. Aguilar,” Reese said as he strode down the aisle toward them.
Just as two nights ago when he’d shown up at her apartment, he was wearing his official prepping-for-the-promotion outfit of slacks, dress shirt, tie, and sport coat topped by the trench. Once again, it was belted behind him to swing wide open, and this time she could see his gold shield clipped to his belt. Definitely on official business.
He gave Darla a sidelong glance and added, “Darla, why don’t you do me a favor and step over to the register for a minute?
“Uh, sure.”
She made her way to the front again in time to see a uniformed police officer about Reese’s same height—though twenty years older and at least that many pounds heavier—enter the store. Darla watched as the officer lurked just inside the doorway, his expression impassive behind mirrored sunglasses. His stance, however, reflected alertness as he kept his gaze fixed on both Hilda and the detective.
Darla set down her would-be purchases on the counter and tried to ignore the sense of foreboding that had gripped. From the look of situation, she might not be finishing her transaction . . . good news for her bank balance, but potentially disturbing news for Hilda. Maybe they’d located Tera and were bringing her home, she tried to tell herself, though surely Reese would look a bit more cheery if the girl was all right. Or maybe the police had found Tera and instead were holding her for questioning in the matter of Curt’s murder, and had come to inform her mother of that fact.
Of course, there was another, far more awful possibility that Darla swiftly dismissed from her thoughts even as she strained her ears to catch every bit of any conversation that might ensue. Said conversation, however, proved surprisingly brief.