by Ali Brandon
“And the medical examiner has confirmed this?”
Darla nodded.
“Apparently, Reese was suspicious from the start because Mr. Plinski’s dentures had come loose, and his tongue was bitten,” she explained. “And there was some bruising around his mouth that couldn’t be explained by a stroke or heart attack. Because of that, Reese managed to convince the ME’s office to move Mr. Plinski’s autopsy to the head of the line. The lab found his blood and saliva on the pillow, so along with all the other autopsy results, that pretty much clinched the deal.”
“Extraordinary!” James mused. “And we were all so certain that Bernard had suffered a heart attack.”
“Actually, he did. Being smothered triggered a cardiac event, so technically, he did die of a heart attack. And that’s the only saving grace in this whole horrible situation,” she added with a shudder. “From what Jake said, that meant his death was probably pretty swift. If it had been the smothering that killed him, it could have taken three or four minutes for it to be over with.”
“Horrible, indeed,” James agreed, his expression sorrowful. “But what is this about Detective Reese thinking Mr. Camden had anything to do with it?”
“All I know is that he was brought in for questioning last night. It turns out there’s video of him from our security camera showing him headed to Mary Ann’s shop that morning after she left, but before Connie and I got there. Reese is supposed to pick it up sometime this morning. Here, just in case I’m tied up with a customer, it’s in the register,” she said and opened its drawer to show James it was stowed in the twenties slot.
Her manager, meanwhile, was frowning. “But being caught on video—the wrong place at the wrong time—is hardly evidence of murder.”
“Agreed,” Darla said with a sigh. “But what worries me is that there doesn’t seem to be anyone else who could have done it. Nothing was taken from the store, so apparently they’ve ruled out some random robbery as a motive. And Mary Ann swears her brother had no enemies.”
“Indeed. Though I suppose that the concept of enemies is a relative one. I daresay we have all left an angry soul or two in our path at some point and not even realized it.”
With that lapse into the philosophical realm, James finished putting away his things and then went about his usual pre-opening routine. Shaking her head, Darla did the same.
At least she’d again been spared explaining this new and far more disturbing development to Robert. Since it was Saturday, and the coffee bar usually did brisk business early, he had been waiting on the stoop for her when she’d come down to the bookstore thirty minutes earlier. One look at the youth’s distraught face, and she knew he’d already paid a visit to Jake’s and heard the news.
“This is, like, too freakin’ crazy,” he’d angrily muttered as he’d stomped his way into the store and up the steps to the lounge.
Darla had had no argument to refute that sentiment. She’d let him go on his way, knowing he needed some time to process the shocking news and hoping the routine of the workday would help somewhat. She hadn’t yet dared call Jake to see how Mary Ann was handling this latest revelation, though she knew that at some point she would have to reach out to her elderly friend.
But what in the world did one say to someone whose only sibling had been murdered?
With the register up and running, and paperwork in place, Darla busied herself with rearranging a few shelves that had been left disarrayed from the day before. In the process, she found propped against the old mantelpiece a copy of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, which had somehow migrated out of the classics section.
Or, given the fact that Mr. Plinski’s death had been ruled a homicide, had Hamlet been doing a bit of random book snagging again?
She frowned. In the past, the plucky feline had used his book-snagging skills to help snare killers. But even if Hamlet was weighing in on the situation, what did this classic play have to do with a supposed high school rivalry?
She glanced around for the cat, who had kept himself scarce since breakfast that morning. Just like her, he’d not had much sleep the night before . . . she, because of Jake’s phone call with the shocking new developments regarding Mr. Plinski’s death, and he, because her tossing and turning in bed hadn’t allowed him his usual undisturbed spot atop her comforter. Chances were the feline was holed up somewhere taking a little snooze. She finally spied him lounging on the foreign language shelves, eyes tightly closed as he snored gently.
Seeing him sleeping there, she spared the cat an indulgent smile. No doubt finding the book was simply a coincidence. She’d added the wayward volume to her stack of books to reshelve, when she heard James say, “Our auction customer has agreed to stop by today.”
“Are you talking about the Marble Faun buyer?” Curious, Darla set down her stack of books and headed to the counter, where her manager was going through his email.
James looked up from the screen and nodded. “Yes. He will be here sometime around noon today . . . and, to quote, with cash in hand.”
“Great. I can’t wait to see how this works out. What’s the guy’s name, in case I’m up front when he comes in?”
“He did not say. He is using one of those free email accounts, and he apparently calls himself BookBuyer75.”
Darla frowned. “Odd. I’m sure it’s no biggie, especially since he’s a cash buyer. But all the dealers I know always have a full-blown signature file attached to their messages.”
“Precisely. I agree, this is a bit unusual. I will do a web search on his nom de guerre to see if I can find any further information on him.”
While James played Internet detective—to no avail, he finally admitted—Darla opened the bookstore and ushered in her usual Saturday morning coffee addicts. Things stayed busy enough that she was able to forget for a while the previous day’s tragedy. But every so often, Mr. Plinski’s slack face flashed through her mind, so that she had to stop and compose herself before she could continue waiting on her customers.
When she had a moment, she ran upstairs to check on Robert. He was doggedly keeping the coffee drinks flowing, but from the grim set to his mouth she could see he was having even more difficulty than she coping with what had happened.
She returned downstairs to find that, while she was talking with Robert, Reese had stopped in for the thumb drive. Typical, she grumbled to herself. He probably deliberately timed it that way so he could slip in and out without having to talk to her.
She also took time to check off one item from her mental list, calling some of her and Mary Ann’s mutual friends in the neighborhood to tell them the disturbing news. It was still early enough in the day that, while some had heard via the grapevine about Mr. Plinski’s death, not everyone had seen the story that morning that confirmed it was murder.
Such nice man, and so terrible thing to happen, Steve Mookjai had sadly told her. I send my daughter over with food for her. And then, pragmatically, he had asked, Will you still want engagement party for Detective Reese and Miss Connie next week?
Darla assured him that the gathering was still on, that Reese had guaranteed his fiancée that he’d be there for it, no matter what. Then she’d hung up to make a couple more calls.
When the usual lull hit a bit after eleven, she found James and told him, “If you can hold down the fort, I should go see how Mary Ann is doing. Jake shouldn’t have to carry the whole burden of watching out for her. It’s important that Mary Ann knows she can turn to us, too.”
“I agree. Do let Mary Ann know that Robert and I are both at her disposal.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she told him. She pulled a jacket off the coat rack at the side door, heading into her private hall and then out the front steps. A flash of black fur greeted her as she stepped from stoop to sidewalk.
The mystery cat! Once again, she’d seen little more than its tail but, as best
she could judge, the stray appeared smaller and less hefty than Hamlet. A female, perhaps?
“Here, kitty,” she called as the sleek black feline disappeared behind the bookstore’s stoop, as if headed to Jake’s place. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. It’s too cold for a kitty to be running loose.”
But, search as she might in the vicinity of the steps, she saw no further sign of the cat. Obviously, it shared more than just its inky coat color with Hamlet. Like him, the stray seemed to have a talent for padding through walls. Reminding herself to put out water and a bit of kibble for the cat later, she pulled her coat more closely about her and hurried down the stairway leading to Jake’s place.
Pausing for a quick knock, she opened the door—Jake left her front entrance unlocked during business hours—and hurried inside.
“Hey, kid,” Jake said, looking up from her seat at the chrome dinette table. She was wearing a celery-green corduroy shirt over an incongruously cheery knit turtleneck printed with what Darla, squinting, saw were cartoon bears on skis. Quite the change from the PI’s usual black and jewel tones.
Pulling off her black-framed reading glasses and tossing them onto a stack of printouts, Jake gestured Darla to the seat across from her. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “I’m more concerned about Mary Ann. I thought I’d check in and see how she’s doing. Is she resting again?”
“She’s back at Bygone Days. Reese released the building again, so she decided she might as well open the store.”
“What?” Darla stared at her in disbelief. “That’s crazy. Why did you let her go?”
Her friend quirked a brow. “She’s a grown woman, and she’s of sound mind. What should I have done, tied her to the bed and made her hang out with me all day?”
Yes, was Darla’s first reaction, though obviously Jake had a point. If the old woman wanted to open her store, that was her prerogative. Still . . .
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to jump on you like that,” she replied. “I mean, Mr. Plinski’s barely been dead a day. I guess I didn’t expect Mary Ann would just pick up and carry on like normal.”
“Actually, it’s probably the best thing she can do. You know, get back into a routine.”
Jake picked up her glasses again and idly chewed on the tip of one earpiece.
“People handle grief differently, kid,” she reminded Darla. “You know that. Mary Ann’s from a generation that does the whole stiff-upper-lip thing . . . won’t ask for help . . . won’t admit they hurt. All we can do is keep an eye on her and be there when she needs us. Because, eventually, she will.”
Darla nodded. “You’re right. She should do what she needs to do. But I think I’ll still stop by and see how she is, and let her know I’m bringing by another casserole for her.”
She paused and added, “I might have overstepped, but I did call a few people this morning to let them know what happened so they wouldn’t have to read it in the papers or online.”
“Did you tell them about the pillow . . . I mean, that it was the murder weapon?” Jake quickly asked, looking suddenly concerned.
Darla thought back and then shook her head. “Not with our friends. I tried to make it as short and sweet as I could. I’m pretty sure all I said was that he died of a heart attack when someone tried to kill him, but I don’t think I said the actual word ‘pillow.’ But James and Robert both know. Why?”
“That’s probably one of those things Reese will be holding back from whatever account of the murder goes to the media. You know, to weed out the crazies that always like to wander into the station and confess to the latest crime. So all of you need to keep that on the QT for now.”
“I’ll warn both of them as soon as I get back,” she promised. “Anyhow, Steve Mookjai said he’s going to send by some food later, and Hal and Hank Tomlinson want her to know they’re available for any lifting or moving.”
“Right, the guys from the dojo,” Jake said. “It’s good you called them. That’s the kind of help she’ll need, not someone wrapping her in cotton batting and sticking her on a shelf somewhere.”
Darla hesitated again, and then asked. “What about Hodge? Did anything happen after he went in for questioning?”
Did anyone arrest him? was the question she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so.
Jake shrugged. “As far as I know, talking was all that happened, so I assume he’s back home again. That is, unless Reese really does think there’s a case against him.”
“Poor Hodge,” Darla found herself declaring. At Jake’s quizzical look, she explained, “I know I only met him once, but I just can’t believe he could murder someone. If he had any true feelings for Mary Ann, he couldn’t hurt her brother.”
“I’m inclined to agree, kid. Problem is, we’ve got motive and opportunity with Hodge, and no other suspects lined up. And don’t forget, there was plenty of time between when Hodge was caught on your security camera heading to the shop and when you and Connie arrived there for him to have done the deed and taken off again.”
“I know, but even with that whole bad blood thing with Mr. Plinski, I’m not convinced he’s guilty. And I have a feeling Mary Ann isn’t, either.” Pushing back her chair, she stood. “I’ll head over to her place now, and then I need to get back to the store. We have a cash buyer for a collectible book, and it sounds like the deal is going to be interesting.”
She halted with hand on the knob, however, and shot her friend an amused look. “Okay, I have to ask before I go. What’s with the bear shirt? It’s not your usual thing.”
Jake smiled. “Let’s just say it’s my little tribute to Bernard.”
Darla puzzled over that one a few moments as she trotted back up to street level and turned down the sidewalk toward Bygone Days. But by the time she reached the antiques shop, she recalled that “bern” was derived from the Germanic word for “bear.” She smiled a little at that. Mr. Plinski probably would have appreciated the sentiment.
As Jake had predicted, the sign on Bygone Days’ door was turned to “Open.” Steeling herself, Darla turned the knob and went inside. The usual faint jingle of bells accompanied her entrance. She glanced around her, aware that nothing had changed in the shop, itself. Yet somehow it felt emptier than it had a day ago.
Toward the back of the store, however, she could hear faint conversation . . . Mary Ann’s soft quaver, and a male voice that sounded familiar.
“Mary Ann,” she called as she pulled off her jacket. “It’s Darla.”
Not waiting for a reply, she headed down the side aisle in the direction of the register. As she rounded the endcap, she saw the old woman perched behind the counter on a low-backed bar stool upholstered in fifties orange-sherbet vinyl. Her brother’s red brocade chair was gone, Darla realized in relief.
But Mary Ann wasn’t alone. Doug Bates, owner of Doug’s DOUGhnuts—the local independent doughnut shop—was leaning against the counter chatting with her. At Darla’s approach, he straightened and gave her a friendly smile.
Nearing fifty, and packing almost that many extra pounds, Doug favored multiple gold chains and a tan that would put a Hollywood starlet to shame. His genial, blond good looks always brought to Darla’s mind an image of how Reese might look in another decade or so, if he gave up the gym for a daily dose of doughnuts. For once, the man wasn’t wearing his baker’s white drawstring pants and double-breasted chef’s jacket. Instead—no doubt as a concession to the chilly weather—he wore jeans and a thick sweatshirt with his shop logo on the front. His usual black-and-white checkered newsboy cap was on his head, however.
“Good to see you, neighbor,” he said in greeting as she drew closer. Gesturing to a large pastry box that also bore his logo, he continued, “I brought over some doughnuts if you want to sample one. Of course, I brought my famous apple fritters just for Mary Ann. She and Bernard
always liked them best.”
“They are wonderful,” the old woman agreed with a tremulous smile. “Brother would have had one for breakfast every day if I’d let him.”
She broke off momentarily for a quick snuffle into her handkerchief, and Darla and Doug exchanged looks over her bent gray head. Doug had suffered a tragic loss of his own over the July Fourth holiday, so he could readily sympathize with what the old woman was going through. He gave Darla a little head shake that she translated to mean Don’t push it, and she nodded back her agreement. But it would be difficult not to hover over her for a time.
“I’m sorry to be so weepy,” Mary Ann quavered once she’d wiped her eyes again. “It’s just hard knowing after all these years I’ll never see Brother again.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. Everyone understands,” Darla assured her. “But are you certain you’re up to putting in a full day at work?”
“She needs to keep her mind occupied,” Doug answered for her. “Right, Mary Ann?”
The latter nodded. “If I don’t stay busy, I’ll dwell on all this unpleasantness. The nice gentleman from the funeral home will be phoning later this afternoon, so I’ll need to be prepared for that.”
“If you need any of us to be on those calls with you or go with you somewhere, we’ll do it,” Doug assured her.
The old woman gave his stubby hand a fond pat. “I’m so fortunate to have good friends like you and Darla and the rest,” she told him. “I know that—oh, a customer.” She broke off as the shop door’s bells jangled. Popping up from the bar stool, she straightened the wrinkles from her blue corduroy shirtdress and headed toward the front.
“Tough break,” Doug said with a shake of his head once she was out of earshot. Moving around the counter, he took the stool Mary Ann had just vacated. “Someone his age, you expect old age to get him. But cold-blooded murder . . . that’s awful hard to wrap your head around.”
Now it was his turn to grow momentarily teary as he obviously applied that same scenario to himself. Darla gave him a sympathetic nod as she recalled the brash and colorful dance instructor who had been a neighborhood fixture, as well as Doug’s girlfriend. Her loss had been shocking, to say the least. “I understand. We all still miss Penelope, too.”