by Ali Brandon
Darla grimaced again. She had almost deleted the message unread. Her finger had hovered over the “Delete” key a good minute before she decided to open the email in case it contained news about his family (she still quite liked several of her ex-in-laws), or on the chance there were some legal loose threads concerning their divorce. Instead, the email had been what she’d feared it might be . . . a nonchalant request to make nice.
She had read the message several times, just to make sure she wasn’t missing some sinister nuance. By the fifth go-round, she had the email memorized.
Hey, Darla, long time, no speak. I heard you are up in Brooklyn running your great-aunt’s bookstore now. Quite a change from the old corporate world, huh? Anyhow, I’m going to be in your neck of the woods the week after Thanksgiving on business. I was thinking maybe we could get together for supper or something. You know, let bygones be bygones. No pressure, just friends. If you can break free one night, let me know and I’ll put you on the schedule.
And then, in what she guessed was an attempt at humor, he’d signed it
Your favorite ex-husband,
followed by
P.S., I’m buying.
Her first reaction had been to mutter a stream of bad words that caused Hamlet’s ears to prick up in surprise. Her second had been to type out a hasty reply beginning with Dear Slimeball, followed by the same bad words that Hamlet had disapproved of, and ending with Not in your wildest dreams. Bygones, indeed!
But discretion had intervened before she had hit the “Send“ button, and she’d deleted the message instead. True, her ex had been the one in the wrong—way in the wrong!—but there was no reason she should stoop to his level. And so she’d decided to wait a day to respond.
Which would be in the negative, of course.
Now, Darla shoved aside that unpleasant blip on her radar and returned her attention to the errand at hand. She had finished perusing her current aisle but had found nothing else wedding worthy besides the cake topper. Maybe Connie had had better luck.
She was just about to call to Connie to see how she was faring in the search, when a piercing scream nearly made her drop the pie plate.
And then a now-familiar cry came from Connie.
“Oh my Gawd, there’s a dead guy behind the counter!”
After a swift moment of shock, Darla rushed to the rear of the shop in the direction of Connie’s cry. What had she stumbled across now? Maybe one of the mannequins that Mary Ann sometimes used to display vintage dresses had toppled over in a corner. Whatever it was, if it was dead, Connie’s shrieking darn well should have awakened it again!
A moment later she reached Connie, who stood near the sales counter, manicured hands clapped over her mouth and overly made-up eyes wide.
“Connie, what’s wrong?” Darla demanded. “What did you see?”
Connie slowly removed her hands from her red lips and extended a quivering forefinger. “It’s a dead body.”
“Where? Oh!”
Darla rolled her eyes. Connie was pointing behind the modern computerized register, where Mr. Plinski sat in a wood-framed wingback chair upholstered in red brocade. His slippered feet were propped on a horsehair hassock. With his eyes closed and chin tucked to his chest, and a vintage needlepoint pillow propped on his lap, he did rather look like a display, Darla thought with a glimmer of amusement.
“Shh,” she told the other woman in a stage whisper, unable to suppress her smile. “That’s Mary Ann’s brother, Mr. Plinski. He’s just taking a nap. Lucky for you, he’s half deaf, so you didn’t startle him awake with all your yelling.”
“No,” Connie persisted in a small voice, pointing again. “Look how white his skin is. I tell you, he’s dead.”
Darla took another swift look at the man, and her smile abruptly faded. The old man did look strangely pale, but surely that was just a trick of the light. His chest was moving . . . wasn’t it?
Trying to tamp down a sudden surge of foreboding—he’s fine; it’s just Connie’s imagination going wild—she set down her pie dish on the counter.
“Don’t move,” she told Connie. “I’m going to try to wake him.”
Tiptoeing around the counter—don’t want to startle him awake, she tried to tell herself—Darla eased her way over to the wingback chair and bent closer to the man. Up close, the waxen stillness of his features was even more apparent, the gray stubble of his unshaved cheeks surprisingly dark against the slack flesh.
No, no, no, she told herself, feeling her chest tighten abruptly. “Mr. Plinski,” she croaked through a suddenly constricted esophagus. Then, clearing her throat, she tried again.
“Mr. Plinski,” she said, trying to keep the desperation from her voice. “It’s me, Darla from next door. Please wake up.”
She put out a tentative hand, praying this was all a terrible misunderstanding and that the old man would stir as soon as she gave him a gentle shake. But when she lightly touched his scrawny shoulder, she knew.
“Connie,” she choked out, tears springing to her eyes. “Call Reese and tell him we’re at the Plinskis’ shop. Tell him Mr. Plinski is . . .”
She trailed off, unable to say the word aloud. Connie, meanwhile, had pulled her phone from her bag and hit a key.
“Fi,” she said a moment later in a small voice, “Can you come get me? Something really bad has happened. Yeah, talk to Darla, would ya?” she said, and handed over her cell.
By now, Darla had edged back around the counter, away from the silent figure in the red brocade chair. The old man had seemed to have shrunk in on himself, becoming little more than a husk, while the round needlework pillow propped on his lap seemed a mocking reminder of transience.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, it read, the doleful words encircled by a stitched garland of red roses. She couldn’t help but remember the rest of the poem from high school.
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
Shivering a little at that last word, she put the phone to her ear. “Reese,” she managed, “I’ve got some awful news.”
In a halting voice, she relayed what had just happened. When she’d finished, she heard him sigh.
“Sorry, Red. He was a nice old guy. Don’t worry, I’ll make all the calls. How’s Mary Ann holding up?”
“Mary Ann!” Darla gasped, her heart sinking even further, if that were possible. “How could I forget? Reese, she’s not here. She had to meet a customer about a consignment. What should I do? I can’t tell her this over the phone.”
“I’ll take care of that when I get there. Are there any other customers in the place with you?”
“No. Just us.”
“Good. Don’t touch anything. Put the ‘Closed’ sign out so no one else can come in, and then wait up by the front door for me. Any idea when Mary Ann is due back?”
Darla shook her head, even though she knew Reese couldn’t see her. “I’m not sure, probably after lunch. She took a car service out, so the same people will probably pick her back up. Hurry, would you?”
“Be there in ten,” he assured her. “I’ll make all the calls as soon as I hang up.”
Darla pressed the “End” button and handed the phone back to Connie, whose gaze was studiously directed to the front of the store. “Reese wants us to wait up front until he gets here,” she told the woman. “We need to make sure no other customers come in.”
Connie nodded but made no move to comply until Darla—whose own gaze was also fixed anywhere but the red brocade chair—gave her a small shove.
“Okay, I get it,” she whined, rubbing her arm where Darla had nudged her. “All I can say is that Fi better—”
Before she could finish the thought, a jangle of bells that signaled the shop door opening cut her off. A customer!
“I told you!” Darla said with a gasp. “Quick, we have to intercept whoever it is and tell them the shop is closed.”
Not waiting to see if Connie was following, Darla rushed down the aisle toward the front of the store. She’d have to tell this newcomer something—gas leak in the store, perhaps, or maybe a hazardous cleaner spilled. Anything that would hurry them right back out the door. But as she reached the door and saw who was there, she gasped again.
“Mary Ann!”
“Why, Darla, I wondered if you and your friend might still be here,” the old woman said with a smile as she paused to remove her bright red wool scarf and camel-haired coat. “Was Brother able to help her find something nice?”
“No . . . that is, we’re still shopping. I mean . . .”
She trailed off, praying she could keep her composure. Somehow, she had to stall the old woman where she stood until Reese got there.
“Your dress is lovely,” she temporized, indicating the old woman’s winter white brocade suit, a Jackie O style that Darla assumed was one of her vintage finds along with the pillbox hat. Managing a smile, she continued. “A little fancy for going out to Queens and talking to some guy about used furniture and whatnots, isn’t it?”
To her surprise, Mary Ann blushed. “Oh, it’s just something I threw on. I like to dress up every so often.”
Then she babbled on. “And I must say the poor fellow was totally out of his element trying to deal with his late mother’s estate. Apparently, she had been something of a world traveler and collected all sorts of indigenous art. We had another similar estate a few weeks ago, with a son trying to sell off his father’s lifelong collection of ephemera. Some of it was shockingly valuable, and some of it, well, frankly needed to be recycled. You just never know. But back to today’s appointment . . .”
She went on to describe a few pieces she’d seen, while Darla shot a despairing look at her watch.
Reese, where are you?
Fortunately, Mary Ann was in a talkative mood, which saved Darla from having to keep the conversation going herself. Still, if Mary Ann insisted on stirring from her current spot, she’d have no choice but to tell the old woman what had happened. But even as she mentally scrambled for another delaying tactic, Connie abruptly walked up behind her and planted herself squarely in front of the old woman.
“You’re the sister . . . Ms. Plinski, right? I’m Connie Capello.” She put out a hand. “Soon to be Mrs. Fiorello Reese.”
“Oh, yes, the bride. How nice to meet you.” Mary Ann twittered with pleasure while Darla tried not to panic.
Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything! she mentally commanded Connie, well aware that the woman was a loose cannon when it came to expressing herself. Unfortunately, her back was now to Darla, so that there was no possibility of pantomiming zipped lips. She could only pray that Connie had the good sense not to blurt out the distressing news.
But the telepathic command didn’t work. Once they’d exchanged a ladylike shake, Connie gave the old woman’s wrinkled hand a consoling pat. In a flash, Darla knew what Connie was about to say . . . knew she had no way to stop her.
“It’s such a shame we’re meeting under these circumstances.” Connie said, sadly shaking her head. “I am so very sorry for your loss.”
“My loss?” Sliding her hand from Connie’s grip, Mary Ann turned a puzzled look from her to Darla, who could only stare miserably back. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“You know, your brother,” Connie continued. “It was a terrible shock to us all, especially me. I mean, it’s not every day you find—”
“Connie!” Darla shrieked, finally finding her voice. “Don’t. Say. Another. Word.”
“What?” Connie stared back at her, expression peeved . . . and then understanding dawned. “Oh my Gawd, you didn’t tell her yet, did you?”
“Tell me what?” Mary Ann demanded, fear abruptly coloring her tone. Hugging her coat tightly to her, she persisted. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? Where’s Brother?”
“Why don’t we go over to the bookstore,” Darla suggested. “I’ll have Robert make us coffee, and—”
“Don’t treat me like a child—or, worse, like a bumbling old fool.” The elderly woman cut her short in a strong if quavering voice. “I’m perfectly sound of mind and capable of withstanding whatever I must. If there’s something I should know, tell me right now.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. We—Connie and I—found Mr. Plinski sitting in his chair behind the counter. It looks like after you left, he decided to take a nap and just never woke up.” Darla paused for a steadying breath; then, blinking back tears, she finished in a rush. “Mary Ann, I’m afraid your brother is dead.”
SIX
“How is Mary Ann holding up?” James asked once Darla returned to the bookstore for a short break after sitting with the old woman for the past hour. “You did not say much about her mental state before. Should I go over and make my condolences, or wait a bit?”
“Actually, Reese is busy questioning her right now, and then he wants to talk to Connie and me. I suppose they need some sort of timeline for the medical examiner, or something. But I know she’ll want to see you. After all, you’ve been friends for, what, almost eleven years?”
“Since I have been working here at Pettistone’s. She and Bernard are—were—both very fine people.”
“Yes, and I—”
Darla broke off abruptly as she realized what James had said.
“Bernard? Mr. Plinski’s first name is Bernard?” At his nod, she gave a small laugh. “I’ve been wondering what his name is forever. You know how Mary Ann always called him ‘Brother,’ and everyone else called him ‘Mr. Plinski.’”
“Or ‘Mr. P.,’ in the case of young Robert.”
Darla nodded. “Right, and after a point it seemed like too much time had passed to just go up to him or Mary Ann and ask his first name. So he was always Mr. Plinski to me.”
Then, her momentary amusement fading, she sagged onto the stool behind the register and said in weary admiration, “I swear, that Mary Ann is a trouper. I think I was a bigger mess than she was. She never broke down, not even after Reese walked her back to where we found Mr. Plinski—Bernard—so she could see for herself he really was gone.”
Fortunately, Reese had pulled up to the store just as Darla was telling Mary Ann about her brother’s passing. She had feared that the old woman might break down into hysterics, maybe even faint. But she’d done none of that, save for a slight buckling of her knees and an almost inaudible “Oh, dear me.”
Sparing only a quick nod for Darla and his fiancée, Reese had helped steady Mary Ann, giving her a few words of encouraging comfort before handing her back over to Darla’s care. Then, leaving the three women at the door, he had strode to the back of the store to check out the situation for himself.
Connie had not been pleased.
“Well, hello to you, too,” she’d muttered once Reese was out of earshot, giving her gum an irritated smack. In the next moment, however, she’d dragged over one of the ladder-back chairs from a nearby display so Mary Ann could sit. The three of them had huddled there for a time: Mary Ann, sitting ramrod straight in the uncomfortable seat with her eyes closed; Darla, settling one comforting hand on the old woman’s shoulder while discreetly brushing away her own occasional tear with the other; and Connie, tapping a leopard-print-shod foot and checking her phone.
As the wait dragged on for medical personnel to arrive and pronounce the elderly man officially dead, Darla had taken that opportunity to borrow back her down coat and rush back to the store for a few minutes. She wanted to let James know what was going on, in case he or Robert spied the activity on the street. But the youth had been busy upstairs, and so she had left the responsibility to James before heading back to the antiques shop again.
Now she asked James, “How ab
out Robert? How did he handle the news?”
“Not very well, I fear. I told him you had decided to close the store for the rest of the day, and that he could return home, but he preferred to remain here. He is upstairs in the coffee lounge doing some cleaning.”
James shook his grizzled head and sighed, adding, “The next few days will not be easy for him. It would not be amiss to say that he looked upon Mr. Plinski as a grandfatherly figure.”
“I know,” Darla soberly agreed, “And since neither of them ever married, I think that he and Mary Ann thought of Robert as a surrogate grandson.”
For, like James, the youth had known the Plinskis since before Darla had inherited the bookstore. He’d started out as a customer buying Victorian mourning jewelry and vintage clothing that fit in with his goth lifestyle; then he’d served as an unofficial assistant helping the elderly siblings with some of the heavy lifting during their busy seasons. He had continued that role even after taking a full-time job at Pettistone’s, doing occasional chores in return for a significant discount on rent in their garden apartment, where he lived.
It would be hard on him, she told herself. Maybe it was a good thing Robert would be going off to stay with his father for a week.
“I need to send a quick email to a vendor,” Darla said as she slid the stool over to the computer. “As soon as I get that out of the way, I’ll go upstairs and talk to Robert. I’m going to see if Mary Ann wants to stay with me tonight, and I think it would be a good idea for him to have supper with us so he’s not down in that apartment all alone.”
She made quick work of the correspondence while James reshelved a few errant books. Then, climbing off the stool and allowing herself a nervous stretch, she told her manager, “Oh, and thanks for telling Robert and Jake about Mr. Plinski. It was hard enough telling you after having to break the news to Mary Ann.”
“I was glad to be of service,” James replied. “Under the circumstances, you should not have been forced, as they say, to do all of the heavy lifting. And I agree that closing the store for the afternoon was a proper response. I am finding it rather difficult, myself, to concentrate on work in the wake of this distressing news. However, perhaps we should volunteer to assist Mary Ann by notifying our mutual friends about what has happened.”