Twice Told Tail

by Ali Brandon

SEVEN

  Darla stared at Mary Ann in shock.

  “What do you mean, you think Hodge had something to do with Mr. Plinski’s death? Are you trying to say your brother didn’t die of natural causes?”

  Swiftly she summoned a mental picture of the old man as she’d last seen him lying lifeless in his chair. There had been no sign of violence—no blood on his shirt, nothing wrapped around his neck—which eliminated stabbing or shooting or strangulation. And she’d seen no wound on his scalp, so no one had conked him over the head. What could Mary Ann mean?

  “Of course, Hodge would never have hurt Brother on purpose,” the old woman replied, vigorously shaking her gray head. “But I’m afraid I mentioned to Detective Reese that Hodge might have paid Brother a visit the other morning while I was, um, busy elsewhere. Hodge had been threatening to have it out with him over whatever caused problems between them all those years ago. I begged him not to do it. I even warned him that Brother had a bad heart. You remember, only last year he had that trouble . . .”

  She tearfully trailed off, and Darla recalled the night she’d seen the elderly man being hauled away from the Plinskis’ brownstone in an ambulance. She had been afraid at that point that Mary Ann’s brother had breathed his last, but he’d rallied and come home the following day. But it was obvious that Mr. Plinski’s health had been precarious. Could an argument with an old enemy the day before have been the final stressor that caused his heart to fail? Was that what Mary Ann feared?

  She gave her friend an encouraging pat on her hand.

  “Even if your brother was still upset over an argument, you really can’t blame Hodge for that. I’m sure you’re worrying for nothing.”

  “I hope so, my dear. But I don’t know what I’m going to do about any of this. My entire life is topsy-turvy now.”

  She lapsed into silence and concentrated on her tea. Darla simply sat quietly across from her until Jake reappeared a short while later. The PI was carrying a canvas tote bag that obviously had come from Mary Ann’s closet, for it proclaimed Yes, I Was a Hippie in Day-Glo mod lettering. Darla smiled a little as she pictured a twenty-something version of the tiny gray-haired woman dancing about a meadow wearing bell-bottoms and a lacy top, with flowers woven into her long streaming hair.

  Jake’s expression was pensive as she handed Mary Ann the tote. All she said, however, was, “I found everything except the green embroidered slippers. I hope that’s okay.”

  The old woman nodded and clutched the canvas bag to her. “I’ll be perfectly fine, dear, don’t worry. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to lie down for a time.”

  Darla made her quick good-byes; then, while Jake escorted Mary Ann to her tiny spare bedroom, she hurried outside again to make the swift run up her private stoop. She paused there, however, to spare a quick look toward Mary Ann’s brownstone. To her relief, the funeral home van had left . . . presumably, Mr. Plinski with it. Reese’s vehicle and a marked patrol car remained, no doubt finishing up any final police business. With luck, they’d soon be gone as well, and then Mary Ann could go about the sad task of mourning her brother.

  But as her chilly fingers fumbled with the key, she caught a flash of black from the corner of one eye. She whipped around in time to see a long black tail slip around the stoop of Bygone Days and then vanish.

  The Hamlet doppelganger?

  Hopefully so, and not Hamlet taking an unauthorized leave from the brownstone! Still, Darla couldn’t help but worry a bit about the big cat’s safety until she’d entered the bookstore from her private hall and saw him lounging atop the counter watching James. The latter, in turn, was on the computer intently studying the screen. She didn’t have to ask where Robert was, for the smell of roasting coffee filled the air. Apparently, he had decided to channel his emotions into practical activity.

  “I’m back,” she said unnecessarily. “And we have a small change of plans for tonight.”

  Giving Hamlet’s sleek black fur a ruffle, she told James of the new supper venue and the fact that Mary Ann would be spending the night with Jake. When she finished, the manager nodded his understanding.

  “I will let Robert know. I think it best that she does have company, at least for this one night. If you think about it, she has lost someone who has been close to her for more than seven decades. One does not adjust to a bereavement like that overnight.”

  “No,” Darla agreed, “one does not.”

  With that grim pronouncement, she reached beneath the counter for her purse. “Hammy, you want to come upstairs and help me cook?” she asked the cat. “I’ll even let you do a little taste-testing, if you want.”

  Hamlet blinked, yawned, and slowly stood, seeming to understand that the usual routine had been disrupted. But he and Darla had barely reached the side door when she heard her manager make a sound of surprise.

  Turning, Darla asked in concern, “What’s wrong, James?”

  “I have been working on that software malfunction I told you about yesterday. I thought I had it repaired, but it seems not. The pricing for the 1871 box set of The Marble Faun has made another unexpected jump. It is now over eight hundred dollars.”

  “Wow. Talk about inflation.”

  “But that is not all.” James frowned at the computer screen. “Someone who is apparently local to us has since selected the Buy It Now option and requested an in-person pickup. We have sold the set.”

  “Wow,” Darla repeated. “Quick, send him the invoice before he tries to unbuy it.”

  James slanted her a look reminiscent of Hamlet at his sternest. “Really, Darla, would you wish me to take knowing advantage of a customer? Honor virtutis praemium.”

  Which Darla knew—but only because her manager had quoted it to Robert a time or two—meant, Esteem is the reward of virtue. Shrugging, she said, “I suppose not. But what about caveat emptor? Besides, no offense, but maybe they know something about this particular edition that you don’t. Maybe that’s a really good price for the set.”

  James allowed himself the slightest hint of a superior smile.

  “I think not. The price that our fine computer software suggests for this set would be in line for an 1860 first edition, first printing. A later printing of that same first edition would be worth somewhere in the range of two to three hundred dollars. What we are offering is a late-nineteenth-century reprint. It is still a two-volume set, as is the original, but it sells for considerably less than the later first-edition printings.”

  Ever the pragmatist when it came to dollars and cents, Darla nodded.

  “I understand, but business is business. Your listing is filled with pictures, and you’ve stated very clearly what is for sale. Send them the invoice, and give them a chance to take a good look at the set when they come to pick it up. If they realize they’re overpaying, you can refund their money . . . no harm, no foul. If they still want to pay that much after they’ve done their due diligence, then wrap that puppy up and send them on their way.”

  “Very well. But, for the record, I still must protest this tactic.”

  “Protest noted,” she said with a wry smile. “But protesting doesn’t pay the utility bills.”

  Leaving James to send his correspondence to the customer, Darla headed up to her apartment. For once—apparently also realizing that the mood was somber—Hamlet did not play his usual game of “Try to Trip the Human” as they took the stairs. Instead, he padded sedately at her side. Once inside, however, rather than taking his usual perch along the back of the horsehair couch, or dangling off the cushion of one of the ladder-back chairs, he made a beeline for the front window.

  While Darla went about preparing her casserole and a couple of side dishes for that evening, she periodically glanced into the living room to see Hamlet still entranced with the view outside. Was he looking for the other black cat, she wondered . . . or was he keeping tabs on possible sidewalk skulkers?
Or, worse, was he on feline alert lest the funeral home van return for someone else?

  Unsettling as the sight of him was with his nose pressed to the glass, at least guard duty was keeping him out from underfoot, she decided as she went about her tasks. Needing the distraction, she turned her television to a home improvement show marathon. The background sounds of thrilled homeowners walking into their made-over rooms lightened the atmosphere a bit. She only sniffled a time or two as she sliced and diced, and those times she pretended the onions were to blame.

  By a few minutes until five, when she took one final look as she was wrapping up the food to go, she saw that Hamlet had abandoned his post. He’d moved instead to her desk and was sprawled at full length across her open laptop keyboard.

  “Hammy, get down, you’re going to ruin my computer!” she said, scolding him.

  When he merely stretched—showing four paws’ worth of exposed claws in the process—and then settled comfortably again atop the keys, she rushed over to shoo him off. “Really, Hamlet, the repair guy is going to laugh me out of the store if I bring this computer back to him again stuffed with cat fur. Now, scoot!”

  Hamlet scooted, but at his own pace. Once he’d abandoned his makeshift bed, Darla blew the loose sprinkling of fur off the keys and then hit “Enter” to take the laptop out of sleep mode. Fortunately, the computer seemed no worse for having served as a feline futon. And she could only shake her head as she saw that the cat had somehow managed to pull up an Arthurian website while he was snoozing.

  “Dreaming about being king?” She smiled as she closed the website window that featured a series of paintings by N. C. Wyeth that had illustrated a classic version of the Round Table legend. “How about you be king of the food bowl and go eat your supper?”

  He turned a cool green squint on her, obviously not appreciating the humor . . . but equally obviously not ready to pass up a meal. Turning the television to his favorite nature channel to keep him company, Darla left Hamlet munching his kibble while she carried her meal down to Jake’s apartment.

  James and Robert were already there, along with Roma, when Darla walked in. The gray-and-white Italian Greyhound curled sweetly in Mary Ann’s lap, her delicately pointed muzzle tucked beneath the old woman’s arm as she petted the little pup. Robert had pulled a footstool up beside her chair and was softly talking to Mary Ann. Jake and James were quietly chatting, as well. Both jumped up to help Darla with the food.

  “Smells great, kid,” Jake told her as she took the casserole. “Let’s put this in the oven to stay warm, and I’ll pour you some wine.”

  “How’s Mary Ann doing?” Darla murmured as the trio headed into the kitchen.

  “She is bearing up well,” James said. “We have learned that apparently Bernard’s final instructions specify he is to be cremated, so there will be only a small memorial service whenever Mary Ann is ready. In the meantime, we will all do what we can to support her while she decides whether to keep Bygone Days operating.”

  “She’s thinking about closing the antiques store?”

  Though, of course, that made sense, Darla told herself. Mary Ann was already well past traditional retirement age, and now she no longer had her brother and business partner to support her. She’d have to hire someone to help her run the store, an expense she likely couldn’t afford. But if she liquidated the business, maybe even rented out the space to someone else, Mary Ann could see a nice income stream to keep her comfortable in her retirement.

  “Whatever she does,” Darla said aloud, “I just hope she doesn’t rush into it. You know what they say about making life-changing decisions when you’re under stress.”

  Then, remembering Mary Ann’s earlier concerns about Hodge, she added to Jake, “Have you heard from Reese yet? He was acting kind of mysterious the whole time he was talking to me. I kept getting the feeling he thinks there’s something strange about Mr. Plinski’s death.”

  “You know the protocol, kid,” the PI replied, expression bland. “The ME has to confirm the cause of death, and Reese isn’t going to talk about his findings until that ruling is made.”

  “Well, I was there, and it looked pretty darned obvious to me what happened.”

  She accepted the glass of Chardonnay from Jake and trooped with her and James back into the main living area. For the next hour or so, they let Mary Ann reminisce about her brother, finally breaking to replenish the tissue supply and partake of Darla’s casserole, which everyone agreed was excellent.

  “I’ve made this same chicken tortilla dish for years,” she said with a dismissive wave as everyone—even Mary Ann—had seconds. Secretly, however, she was pleased that the southwestern-style meal had gone over so well. “It was my go-to recipe every time my ex and I had friends over for supper. Though usually we served Mexican beer, and I’d make stuffed jalapeños as an appetizer to go with it. But Jake’s antipasti went just fine, instead.”

  “And I heard no complaints about the white wine,” Jake said with a grin as she topped off everyone’s glass with more Chardonnay . . . except for Robert, who was drinking flavored water. “And once everyone is finished, I just might have some chocolate ripple ice cream in the freezer if anyone wants some.”

  They continued at the table in companionable conversation for a while longer, with Robert excusing himself to take Roma for a brief walk. The pair returned a few minutes later, and as the youth stripped off his heavy wool coat, he gave a hearty sneeze.

  “Bless you,” Darla exclaimed, adding, “Don’t tell me you ran into the mystery cat out there, and you’re allergic to it, just like Connie.”

  Robert shook his head even as he achooed again. “Nobe,” he declared, his voice stuffy. “No sign ob it. I just wogged past some dude out dere who was smokig, ad it made be sneeze. I’m fine.”

  And as he predicted, a few moments later he was back to his usual voice.

  Further discussion on the mystery cat went unsaid, however, as Jake brought out the promised ice cream and began serving it.

  “While it does seem counterintuitive to eat ice cream in the winter,” James observed as the PI offered him a scoop, “Russian folklore holds that eating or drinking something cold will actually warm you more than consuming hot food or drink. And scientific studies have backed up that claim. Eating or drinking something very cold causes your blood vessels to tighten which, in turn, makes you feel warmer.”

  “Good to know,” Darla said with a smile. “Now I have a good excuse for stocking up on all the seasonal ice cream flavors like pumpkin pie and peppermint stick.”

  She was halfway through her bowl when her phone chimed to indicate an incoming message. She pulled the cell from her pocket and sneaked a glance at her screen, then felt her stomach clench. The sender was Reese, and the message was a terse Can you show me those surveillance recordings tonight?

  She glanced about the table. Everyone else was still involved with their ice cream and chatting about other folklore that had scientific basis, so she quickly returned the detective’s text.

  At Jake’s now. When?

  Can you meet me in 10?

  OK. Knock at the front door and I’ll let you in.

  Shoving the phone back into her pocket, she stood and said, “Sorry, y’all, but I have to duck out. I just got a text from Reese. He has a couple more questions, so I’m meeting him at the store. Jake, I’ll pick up my dishes in the morning.”

  “Anything that we should be concerned with?” James asked, while the rest—even little Roma—fixed her with equally questioning stares.

  Darla shook her head even as she deliberately didn’t look at Mary Ann.

  “He didn’t say exactly what he was looking for,” she told them, which was technically true. She was simply guessing what he had in mind, and she’d been wrong about that before. “I’m sure he’s just wanting to clear up a few things for his report.”

  �
��What about Brother?” Mary Ann asked in a quavering voice. “Does Detective Reese know . . . ?”

  She trailed off, but Darla knew she was asking, Does he know the cause of death? Does he know when his body will be released?

  Before she could answer, Jake interjected in a soothing voice, “Reese won’t be able to tell anybody anything at this point, but try not to worry. I’m sure everything will be resolved tomorrow, and you’d be the first to hear. These things just take a while sometimes.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Darla added. “I’ll stop back by here in the morning and give you any news.”

  Reminding Robert and James that they’d be conducting business as usual tomorrow, she gave Mary Ann a quick hug good-bye and hurried back to her place. She’d be wearing a rut in the sidewalk pretty soon, with all this back and forth, she thought with an ironic shake of her head. But at least she didn’t have far to go. It was a little after seven, and the sun had set, so the only illumination came from the nearby streetlights and passing traffic. But the light was sufficient for her to make her way easily along the walk.

  Reflexively, she glanced about for the mystery cat. If it was there, it had blended into the shadows. A couple walked past her, murmuring softly and intent only on each other, followed by a bundled-up jogger. No smokers went by, however, and the faint breeze moving between the buildings on either side of the street had long since dissipated the secondhand smoke that had caused Robert’s sneezing fit.

  She entered the brownstone through her private door and went into the store through the side entrance, punching her alarm code into the keypad there. As per her usual routine, only the light over the register remained on. Since the computer was right there, she didn’t bother turning on any other lights. Instead, she booted up the computer, pulling up the security camera program.

  Her original installer, Ted—he of the imaginary finger pistols and bluffly friendly manner—had come back by a few months earlier with the opening of the coffee bar to make a few tweaks to the security system. In addition to an upgrade to color video, she now had a full view of the upstairs lounge as well as a larger portion of the bookstore’s two downstairs rooms. A rear exterior camera covered her courtyard and the narrow alleyway beyond, while the front exterior camera gave a view of her stoop and a portion of the sidewalk to either side.