Twice Told Tail

by Ali Brandon

  And because she’d also sprung for infrared cameras, the system’s night vision was almost as clear as daytime, meaning she clearly saw Reese pulling up in his unmarked car a moment later. She had the front door open before he’d even made it up the front steps.

  EIGHT

  “It’s cold as the Knicks out there,” the detective greeted her, referring to the New York City basketball team that had been on a losing streak of late.

  Darla smiled a little as she shut the door behind him. “Back in Texas, we say it’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass brassiere.”

  “Nah, it’s not that cold yet. Wait until December.” Then, settling into official cop mode, Reese asked, “Where’s the camera setup?”

  “Over at the register.”

  She walked him to the counter and pulled up a second stool so they could sit side by side at the computer. “I’ll pull up the screen so we can see it live, first,” she said, pressing a key.

  The main screen divided itself into six miniature screens: two exterior and four interior. “It’ll record up to four weeks’ worth of video before it starts overwriting the old files,” she continued, “so I just let it run. Everything is location- and time-stamped.”

  She pointed to the narrow banner at the top of each screen. The time, broken down to seconds, was displayed in digital numerals. Alongside the time was the date and one of six camera locations: front door, courtyard, coffee bar, register, front room, back room.

  “This way you don’t have to search through hours of nothing if you want to see what happens overnight. You can narrow the recording down to a particular camera and time fence,” she finished, slipping into her old business-speak with that last.

  He nodded. “Mary Ann said she left her place at nine this morning. Let’s take a look at what your front door camera caught starting at that point in time until eleven, when you and Connie showed up at Bygone Days.”

  “And we’re looking for . . . ?”

  She trailed off, wondering if he would actually admit that he had his suspicions about Hodge. He hesitated a moment and then replied, “For Mary Ann’s sake, I’d like to eliminate Rodger Camden as any sort of suspect. No, I’m not saying he or anyone else killed Mr. Plinski.” He hurriedly clarified as Darla stared at him, wide-eyed. “Like I told you before, I’m covering all the bases. That’s kind of what we cops do.”

  He shook his head, and she could almost hear his patronizing thought . . . Civilians.

  Ignoring that, Darla asked, “But what makes you think he was there today? Mary Ann told me he might have stopped by her place yesterday while she was gone, but she didn’t say anything about this morning.”

  “Call it a hunch,” he told her. “So help me out here. You’re still sure you’d recognize this Hodge person if you saw him? Mary Ann texted me a pic she’d taken with him on her cell phone, but she only caught half his face, so I’m kind of at a disadvantage here.”

  He pulled out his own cell and swiftly scrolled through his pictures. “That him?”

  The picture Mary Ann had taken was typical of someone new to the selfie game, with the distinctive “fishbowl” look that exaggerated their noses and added several chins. Hodge had indeed been caught halfway out of the screen, but his snowy hair and Ronald Reagan–like rosy cheeks were unmistakable.

  “Yep, it’s him,” she confirmed. “We only met once, but he’s a distinctive-looking guy. I’m pretty sure I’d know him anywhere else.”

  So saying, she began typing in the parameters for the video review. But as Reese leaned in nearer to watch, she found herself uncomfortably aware of just how closely they were sitting to each other. Back in the antiques store, with a man’s dead body not far away and several emergency personnel within speaking distance, she’d barely taken notice as they’d sat knee to knee. But alone with him now, here in the half-lit bookstore, she felt oddly like a teenager on her first date.

  She scooted her stool away just a little, pretending she was trying for a better view of the screen. Maybe it was the hush around them that added a certain sense of intimacy. Or maybe it was how the scent of his leather coat was mixing with the faint spicy smell of his aftershave to form a cliché masculine perfume that—just like in romance novels—was strangely compelling.

  Reese, on the other hand, seemed totally oblivious to any such nuances.

  “You think you can hurry this along, Darla? I told Connie I’d pick her up for dinner to make up for this morning.”

  “Right,” she replied, her momentary lapse into fancy bursting, as James would say, like the proverbial soap bubble.

  Now the computer screen was back to a single image, with the time stamp across the top indicating nine that morning. Forgetting anything but the color images on the monitor, she leaned closer to watch the action.

  Her street was still surprisingly busy at that hour . . . though, of course, since she was usually in her apartment or downstairs in the store by then, she never really paid close attention to the morning traffic patterns. Pedestrians and vehicles were moving at a regular enough clip. Had she set the software to motion-activated recording, the video still would have replayed at a relatively constant pace.

  But, as she’d previously pointed out, the view from the front camera extended to only ten or so feet to either side of her stoop. If Reese indeed suspected Hodge of having been in Bygone Days at the time of Mr. Plinski’s death, the man would have had to come from the direction of Darla’s shop to be caught on her video.

  “Can you fast-forward it a little?” Reese wanted to know.

  Darla nodded and adjusted the settings. Now the video played at the pace of an old-time silent movie. Twice, the detective had her stop and replay so they could study a particular passerby. Both times, a closer look confirmed that the figure in question wasn’t Hodge.

  Darla glanced at the time stamp. They’d reached ten o’clock with no sign of him, until Reese abruptly said, “Wait.”

  Darla stopped the video as Reese pointed to a tall, bundled-up figure whose pale hair was visible above his turned-up collar. “Can you zoom in?”

  Darla nodded, feeling her stomach suddenly clench as she focused the scene in closer. Now the man’s face was a bit pixilated even though it was more distinct. A broad nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two was clearly visible, as were the rosy cheeks made brighter by the cold.

  Reese, meanwhile, had pulled up the photo on his phone again. He glanced from one screen to the other and then nodded.

  “That’s him,” he said, jaw hard. “That’s Rodger Camden.”

  * * *

  Darla sat on her horsehair sofa, wrapped in one of Great-Aunt Dee’s old afghans and watching Hamlet bat a tailless catnip mouse across the rug. Reese had left the bookstore an hour ago, but not before he’d received a cell phone call that left him looking even grimmer than before. All he’d said about it, however, was, Connie’s gonna be pretty ticked off when I cancel dinner on her.

  They’d debated a few minutes on the best way for her to get him a file of the twelve hours of the security recording prior to eleven on the day in question. Once they agreed she could save it on a thumb drive that he could pick up in the morning, he headed out into the night. She hadn’t asked if he was going to talk to Hodge or Mary Ann, and he hadn’t volunteered the information. Though, of course, he would have that conversation . . . but surely only to clear Hodge of any responsibility in Mr. Plinski’s death, she tried to reassure herself.

  Why, then, did she feel like she’d somehow betrayed Mary Ann by sharing the recordings?

  “If I hadn’t volunteered to let Reese watch the video, he still could have slapped me with a warrant, and he’d have ended up seeing it, anyhow,” she told Hamlet, unable to keep the defensiveness from her voice. “And even without the video, you know he was going to talk to Hodge. I knew it when Reese asked about him this afternoon.”

/>   Hamlet blinked, then returned to his cat game, obviously not willing to weigh in on the matter. Not getting any help from that quarter, Darla debated calling down to Jake’s place. She could tell her friend what had transpired, and then leave it to the PI to forewarn Mary Ann about the situation. But Jake would likely revert to cop mode and not tell the old woman anything, so no need to put either of her friends on the spot.

  With a small groan of dismay, she tossed aside the afghan and stood. It was almost nine, still too early to call it a night, yet her thoughts were far too troubled to take up any pre-bedtime project. Even reading a book or turning on the television seemed more effort than she could manage.

  Deliberately, she pushed herself past that mental stagnation and launched into a few warm-up exercises she’d learned from her previous martial arts classes. Maybe shaking up her body a bit would help settle down her mind.

  “Ugh, stiff,” she muttered as she went through the routine. Obviously, she was out of practice. Time to head back to the dojo with Robert again.

  But as she finished a final series of crunches and got to her feet, she noticed that Hamlet had abandoned his cat game. Instead, he again was stretched at full length against the front window, peering out to the street beyond. Curious, she hurried over and joined him.

  The street traffic below was relatively busy; indeed, given that it was a Friday night, things would be lively until well after midnight despite the cold weather. And though they were three levels up, she knew that with the room lit she and Hamlet could still be seen from the sidewalk. Not a good strategy if she wanted to spy, she wryly told herself. With that, she reached over and flipped off the lamp, so that the room was equally dim as the half-lit street.

  “Who’re you looking at, Hammy?” she softly asked him. “Is the mystery kitty running around again?”

  Hamlet gave a little meow-rumph that could have meant anything, the tip of his long black tail gently whipping back and forth as he concentrated on whatever it was that he watched. Darla squinted down into the night with him for a while longer, until it occurred to her that she had something almost as good as cat vision to call upon.

  “Let’s see what the camera sees,” she told him as she went over to her laptop and booted it up. A few moments later, she had her security software showing live video of the stoop and surrounding area. As before, the black-and-white views courtesy of the night vision camera were crisp enough that she could have been watching a movie.

  “No cats here,” she said after a few minutes of studying the street view. And no skulkers, either. Everyone who had passed seemed intent on his or her destination. Not like last night.

  “Wait. I wonder . . .”

  With those murmured words, she switched the software over to the playback mode. If she and Reese had been able to catch Hodge walking past her store that morning, maybe she could spy last night’s smoking skulker and finally satisfy herself that he—or she—was simply an innocuous passerby.

  Repeating the earlier drill she’d done with Reese, Darla pulled up the previous night’s video. She started the recording fifteen or so minutes prior to her best guess as to when she and Hamlet had noticed that unknown person loitering about.

  For the first several minutes, the videoed sidewalk remained empty. Darla frowned, tempted to fast-forward through but not wanting to miss any glimpse of the figure. If her memory was accurate, the skulker had stood almost directly in front of the Plinskis’ brownstone, meaning he—or she—would only just be visible on Darla’s security camera.

  Hamlet, meanwhile, had noticed her focusing on the computer. Abandoning his window post, he came over to help her conduct the review, lightly leaping up onto the desk and peering rather nearsightedly at the laptop screen.

  “Let me know if you see anything,” she told him with a wry smile. But barely had she finished the words when the cat abruptly swiped an oversized black paw at the corner of the video image.

  “Wait.” She echoed Reese’s earlier command as she hit the “Pause” button. Sure enough, someone had moved into view from the direction of Mary Ann’s place. A look at the time stamp confirmed that this had to be their so-called skulker.

  “Good catch,” she said, praising the feline. With her nose almost as close to the screen now as Hamlet’s, Darla hit the “Play” button again.

  This time, she let the video run in slow motion. The figure stood leaning quite casually against one of those fancy, waist-high metal trash containers installed curbside. She was almost certain the figure was male, though dressed as he was in a heavy winter coat, it was hard to be one hundred percent certain. What was even more maddening was the fact that he was just on the edge of camera range so that—rather like Mary Ann’s selfie—only half his face and body were visible.

  Darla zoomed in as the video played on. Because of the cold, the figure wore a scarf wrapped around the lower portion of his face, making identification even more difficult. With the camera angle, all she could tell was that he had a nose, though it seemed to be a substantial one. The person could be Hodge . . . but then again, he could be almost anyone else, too. And, once again, she couldn’t figure out why someone would linger in the cold like that for no good reason. The person had to be watching for—waiting for—something.

  “Move over,” she muttered at the image. Maybe when he lit his cigarette, his angle would change enough to accommodate the camera and give her a better look at his face.

  The figure remained in place a few minutes longer. She marveled a bit at his fortitude given the weather; though, of course, if he was a native New Yorker, the temperature would have likely seemed no more than a bit brisk to him.

  And then, finally, she saw the flare of a lighter. Now, the figure leaned further into the frame as he drew on the cigarette. She saw a distinctive shock of pale hair just before the lighter flicked closed and the figure spun and walked out of camera range.

  “Darn it,” she muttered, rewinding and replaying that snippet of video a couple of times more. “What do you think, Hamlet? Is it Hodge, or not?”

  For, despite the relative clarity of the recording, the angle of the figure combined with the fact that he was mostly out of camera range the entire time made it impossible to confirm his identity. And while the man’s size and his white hair were telling, that was hardly enough to point to Hodge as the skulker. And it occurred to her that she had no clue if Hodge was a smoker or not, though she didn’t recall him smelling like an ashtray or smelling like he’d bathed in aftershave to cover up the evidence.

  Hamlet offered no opinion either way. Instead, he lightly leaped back down again and trotted over to the sofa. There, he sprawled along its back, legs dangling on either side so that he looked like a cat-shaped antimacassar . . . the old-style doily meant to keep gentlemen’s hair oil from staining the sofa fabric.

  Shaking her head in amused dismay, Darla shut down the computer again and rejoined Hamlet on the couch.

  “Why don’t we let Reese handle the police stuff on his own?” she told the cat. “He’s the professional here, not us. We should be concentrating on how we can help out Mary Ann these next few days.” And so she leaned back against the sofa listening to Hamlet’s rumbling purr and went through a mental list of things to do.

  Notify the local friends and neighbors as James had suggested: check.

  Bring Mary Ann a few hot meals so she didn’t have to cook: check.

  Get rid of that red brocade chair so Mary Ann didn’t have the constant unsettling reminder of her brother’s last few minutes on this earth: double check.

  She’d forgotten to ask Reese when Mary Ann could have her place back, but hopefully she might return in the morning if she was ready to do so. And if Mary Ann wanted to open up the shop again, Darla could send Robert over for a few hours each day to help out the old woman, since he’d worked part time there before.

  She was mulling over a
few possible thoughts for the memorial service when her cell phone abruptly rang. The unexpected sound made her jump and sent a startled Hamlet leaping off the sofa and darting back toward the bedroom.

  Darla hurriedly reached for the phone, noting as she did so the caller ID. Jake, she saw in dismay. Why would the PI be calling, unless something had happened to Mary Ann?

  She hit the “Talk” button and, not even bothering with a hello, breathlessly asked, “What’s wrong? Is Mary Ann okay?”

  “She’s sleeping now,” Jake replied, her tone sounding grim. “The glass of wine she had, combined with all the stress, pretty well knocked her out. With luck, she’ll sleep until morning. I’ll wait and tell her then.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “Reese called me a few minutes ago. Apparently, they’ve got a cause of death for Mr. Plinski.”

  “Heart attack, right?”

  She heard the PI’s sigh through the phone and braced herself for the news. But what her friend said next nearly caused her to drop her cell phone.

  “The cause of death was reflex cardiac arrest as a direct result of suffocation,” Jake corrected. “Specifically, homicidal smothering. Bernard didn’t just die, he was murdered. And Reese is bringing in Mary Ann’s friend, Hodge, for questioning.”

  NINE

  “Let me be sure that I understand this,” James choked out the next morning as he paused in the midst of stowing his belongings beneath the front counter. “You are saying Bernard Plinski was murdered? How?”

  “He was smothered with a pillow,” Darla told him, still not quite believing it herself. “Whoever did it used the embroidered one that was still in his lap when Connie and I found him.”