Twice Told Tail

by Ali Brandon

  “Remember, he’s supposed to be cremated,” Jake replied. “And, no, it’s not bad. It’s normal, and it’s a heck of a lot healthier than doing the old sackcloth-and-ashes routine for weeks on end. Bernard was our friend, and I think he’d want us to go right on enjoying life even though he’s gone.”

  “I guess you’re right. When I die, I don’t want people to be prostrate with grief. Well, I do want them to be at least a little sad,” she amended with a small smile.

  Jake gave a vigorous nod.

  “When I croak, I want everyone to have a big party in my honor and get sloppy drunk and laugh like hell,” she said, toasting herself with her second glass of ouzo. “On the other hand, I told Ma I want one of those giant weeping angels on my grave. You know, so when people wander past, they’ll figure I was this saintly being in life.”

  “Jake Martelli, saintly?” Darla shot back, smile broadening. “Wow, talk about acting. I think I’d better nominate you alongside Hamlet for that Lifetime Achievement trophy.”

  They finished their meal chatting about inconsequentials, deliberately avoiding the topic of Mr. Plinski’s murder and possible suspects. Finally, well after eight o’clock, it was time to brave the late fall weather outside.

  “You know, I think I need to drag Maybelle out of storage,” Darla said as they plunged into the cold night air. She referred, of course, to the decade-old Mercedes-Benz that Great-Aunt Dee had left her, which was parked at a nearby garage. “All this walking around is making this Texas girl stir-crazy. I need to hop in the car and drive somewhere.”

  “Well, you better hurry before the bad weather comes in.”

  Then, snapping her fingers—quite the accomplishment with gloved hands—Jake added, “I know, why don’t we take Mary Ann out to the place where she’s going to be holding the estate sale? I talked to her about it last night, and she’s determined to carry on with handling the event. The house is in Queens somewhere, so it’s not like we’d be driving all over creation, but it’ll get you on the road.”

  “Actually, Mary Ann said she wanted to talk to Robert about the sale, to see if he could help,” Darla replied. “The bookstore’s closed on Monday, so that would be a perfect day to for all of us to help her get things set up. Why don’t we swing by Mary Ann’s place on the way home and talk to her about it?”

  They hustled down the darkened streets, which, because it was Saturday night, were busier than normal. It was closing in on nine when they reached Darla’s brownstone. The usual faint light in the bookstore shined through her front window, while in her apartment above, a second light burned brighter. She could see Hamlet sitting there, silhouetted like a Halloween cat as he kept watch over the street, and she gave him a fond smile.

  Mary Ann’s place, a few steps away, was dark, except for a light burning on the third floor. Darla knew that, unlike her portion of the building, the Plinskis’ place did not have a separate entry hall and stairs to divide the retail space from the private areas. Instead, there was a single main staircase, which they kept roped off from customers. If she recalled correctly, Mr. Plinski’s bedroom plus his workshop and storage rooms were on the second level. Common areas—kitchen, living room, dining nook—were on the third floor, along with Mary Ann’s bedroom and a second guest room. And, of course, there was Robert’s garden apartment below street level.

  “Good, she’s still up,” Jake said, pulling out her cell phone while Darla huddled deeper into her coat. “I’ll call her first to let her know we’re here.”

  “Odd,” she said after letting the phone ring for a few moments. “It went to voice mail.”

  “Maybe she’s taking a bath. Give it a minute and call again.”

  Jake waited and then tried again as Darla had suggested, only to shake her head. “Still no answer. I’m going to try the front door.”

  They hurried up the steps, pausing on her stoop to ring the doorbell. Like Darla, Mary Ann had an intercom in place, so she could find out who was at the door from the safety of her apartment. But no tinny voice emerged from that metal box to greet them.

  “I’m getting a little worried,” Jake admitted with a frown as she rang a second time and got no answer via the intercom. “There’s no reason she shouldn’t be home, and even if she was asleep, the phone calls and doorbell ringing should have woken her up by now.”

  “Do you think something’s wrong?” Darla asked, feeling a little worried herself. “What if all the stress of the past few days has made her sick? What if she had a heart attack just like Mr. Plinski and can’t get to the phone to call for help?”

  Jake nodded and reached into her coat pocket, pulling out her keychain.

  “I still have her keys from the other night,” she said, flipping through the bunch until she reached one that shined bright blue in the gleam from the nearby streetlight.

  At Darla’s uncertain look, she added with a wry smile, “Don’t worry, kid, it’s not breaking and entering since we’re not planning on stealing anything. Worst they can get us for is criminal trespass, and that’s only if Mary Ann presses charges.”

  Darla hesitated, torn between concern at invading the old woman’s privacy and fear of what could happen if Mary Ann truly was ill and they didn’t investigate.

  Then a worse thought occurred to her. Burglars were known to take advantage of deaths and the bereaved. What if an intruder assumed the place would be easy pickings under the circumstances, and had broken in to steal what he could?

  Or, even more chilling, what if the person who’d actually killed Mr. Plinski had come back looking for the old man’s sister!

  That last possibility settled it for her.

  “I’d rather have her mad at us for overreacting than find out later she’d needed help and we weren’t there for her,” she finally declared. “I vote we go in, too.”

  “Okay, we’ll take a look. But don’t panic until we know for sure something’s wrong. There’s probably a logical reason why she’s not answering.”

  With that, Jake turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door. She took a quick look inside before glancing back at Darla and shaking her head.

  “The alarm system is off,” she whispered, ushering Darla inside the shop and closing the door behind them. “Not a good sign. I think something else is going on here.”

  Darla glanced over at the faintly glowing keypad on the wall, and a shiver went through her. The red LED that typically indicated a security system was armed wasn’t lit, while the green “Ready” light glowed brightly. Definitely not a good sign, she silently agreed, trying hard to follow her friend’s previous instructions not to panic.

  Jake, meanwhile, flicked on the tiny flashlight attached to her keychain. “Wait here. I’m going to take a quick look around, first,” she whispered.

  Darla nodded as she mentally finished her friend’s thought. To make sure no one is lurking around down here. She watched as Jake, with her tiny but powerful light, made her cautious way down the aisles. Other than the PI’s flashlight, the only illumination came from outside through the windows and from the glowing alarm panel at Darla’s shoulder. The usually homey shop had taken on a mysterious air that was deepened by the uneven shadows tossed out by the odd-sized array of shelves that lined the aisles. Even worse were the distorted human shapes that, on closer review, were mannequins wearing vintage clothing. Probably her ceramic pie plate would look equally scary under the circumstances, she told herself grimly.

  After what seemed like several minutes but was probably less than one, Jake returned to where Darla waited.

  “Nothing looks out of place,” she murmured. “I’m going to try something else. You wait right here by the door, and if anything goes south, get out as fast as you can and call 9-1-1.”

  “Got it,” Darla whispered back, pulling her cell phone from her purse so she would have it immediately at hand. She added, “Be careful.
”

  Jake nodded and quietly started toward the stairway. Despite her nervousness, Darla couldn’t help but marvel at how the woman’s footsteps made no sound against the wooden floor, even though she was wearing her usual clunky Doc Martens boots. The PI definitely could give Hawkeye from The Last of the Mohicans a run for his money when it came to tracking.

  Once she reached the foot of the stairs, Jake flicked off her small flashlight, but not before Darla saw that the automatic gliding stair lift the Plinskis had installed a while back to help them negotiate the two flights of stairs sat empty. Moving to the far side of the carved newel post, the PI called up, “Mary Ann, it’s me . . . Jake. Are you up there? Mary Ann?”

  Darla held her breath. A couple of heartbeats later, she heard from the floor above the faintest squeal of an opening door, and then the soft, cautious creak of wooden floorboards.

  Not Mary Ann, she instinctively knew, and shivered. What would happen now? Would this stranger come down the steps to confront Jake face-to-face, or would he somehow try to make a break for it? A second door at the rear of the store led out to a mirror image of Darla’s own courtyard. If the interloper could make it that far without Jake stopping him, he could be into the alley and out onto the street within moments.

  The footsteps kept coming, and Darla could feel her heart beating faster. The footsteps halted at the top of the stairway, and she knew the confrontation was imminent. She tensed and put a hand on the front doorknob, ready to follow Jake’s instructions if need be.

  Abruptly, the overhead bulbs flashed on in a blinding wave of light, and a man’s outraged voice boomed, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  TWELVE

  As Darla watched in amazement, a tall, wiry old man with rosy cheeks came marching a few steps down the stairway. He was holding a baseball bat and wearing only baggy white boxer shorts topped by a white tank-style undershirt.

  Hodge?

  No surprise that he was back on the streets—after all, he’d simply been questioned in the murder—but what was he doing at Mary Ann’s at this time of night? She eyed the baseball bat he held with sudden suspicion. What if they’d all been wrong, and he had been the one to kill Mr. Plinski? And what if he’d switched to a new and far more brutal weapon than a pillow, and Mary Ann was lying somewhere upstairs bludgeoned to death?

  But that horrifying possibility had barely flashed through her mind when Darla saw that he was followed by a very living and breathing Mary Ann.

  The old woman was dressed in a lacy white nightgown with a pink plaid flannel robe belted tightly around her. Her gray hair, which was usually pulled up in a neat, tight bun, drifted loose past her shoulders, giving her an oddly girlish look that belied her many wrinkles. She pushed past Hodge and marched halfway down the stairs, her expression stunned.

  “Jake . . . Darla? What in the world are you girls doing in here?”

  Darla stared right back at her as realization dawned. Obviously, what was happening between Mary Ann and Hodge was a far cry from murder. She shot a helpless look at Jake, who appeared, for the first time since Darla had known her, to be at a loss for words.

  “Uh, we—that is, Darla and I—were worried about you,” the PI finally managed. “We, uh, came by to ask if you wanted us to drive you out to Queens on Monday so you could work on that estate sale. You didn’t answer your phone or the door, and we thought . . .”

  She trailed off, and Darla dutifully took over.

  “We’re sorry, Mary Ann. We thought maybe something happened to you. We saw your light on upstairs, so we tried calling and ringing the bell. We couldn’t just walk off without knowing you were okay, and Jake did have a key, so we . . .”

  Darla stuttered to a halt as well, feeling almost like she was sixteen again and facing a parental scolding for missing curfew. And Mary Ann did not disappoint her.

  “I see,” the old woman clipped out, her reproachful gaze moving from her to Jake and back again. “And I suppose it never occurred to you girls that I might be deliberately ignoring your interruptions? That I might be otherwise occupied?”

  “Now, now, Annie,” Hodge broke in, laying a large hand on her thin shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on them. They only had your best interests at heart . . . right, girls?”

  Darla glanced Jake’s way again and saw to her relief that the PI had regained her equilibrium.

  “I think we’re forgetting the important thing,” Jake coolly replied. “Mary Ann’s brother—our friend—was murdered just yesterday in almost this very spot. I’m not saying I think you had anything to do with it, but unless and until Reese finds himself another suspect, you’re still going to be on his radar. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be here, under the circumstances.”

  “And I think that’s something for me to decide,” Mary Ann broke in, sounding affronted.

  Then, as the three of them stared at her, she continued, “Do you honestly think I would welcome Hodge into my home”—her pale cheeks abruptly pinked at the logical if unsaid corollary, into my bed—“if I didn’t believe he was innocent? Now, I think you girls better go home and leave us in peace. Oh, and Jake, I will take those keys, if you don’t mind.”

  She took a few more steps down the stairs, held out a wrinkled palm, and waited while the PI unfastened the keys from her ring and handed them over.

  “Thank you,” she said, closing her fingers over them. “Now, why don’t I show you girls out?”

  She followed Jake to the front of the store. Darla, meanwhile, stole a look at Hodge to see his reaction to this last. He caught her gaze and gave her a wink and a nod. He, at least, didn’t seem offended by their interference, she wryly thought.

  She waited, however, until they were outside again, standing at her own stoop, before she told Jake, “Well, talk about a night. We’ve ticked off Reese and Mary Ann, both. And, on top of that, we’ve learned there really is sex after seventy. Anything else we should try for before we call it a night?”

  Jake gave a self-deprecating snort. “Yep, one for the books, kid. I think we’ve done enough. Hopefully, both of them will cool off by tomorrow.”

  Darla nodded. “On the bright side, it looks like Hodge and Mary Ann might find themselves a nice little happily ever after.”

  Unless Doug’s theory about the merry widower was right?

  Suddenly shivering, and not just from the cold, she wondered if she should run the idea past Jake. But the PI was already saying, “We’re still back to the original problem. Someone murdered Bernard, and if we take Hodge out of the mix, there’s still no suspect, and no obvious motive. I tell you, kid, I have a really bad feeling about this.”

  Darla shot her a look of alarm. “What, do you think the real killer is someone else Mary Ann knows?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is that I’m going to cancel my appointments for the next couple of days and stick around here to keep an eye on things.”

  Darla frowned. She knew from both Jake and Reese that the more time that passed after a murder without an arrest, the less likely it became that anyone would ever be charged with a crime. They were already approaching the end of the forty-eight-hour window popularized by true-crime television. If Reese didn’t have a new suspect soon, the old man’s murder might go unsolved.

  Jake must have seen the worry in her face, for she gave her a reassuring pat on the arm. “Don’t worry, kid. This is personal for all of us. Between Reese and you and me, I promise we’ll find out who really did it and get some justice for Bernard and Mary Ann.”

  * * *

  “So, what was the final score on the books from the estate sale?” Darla asked her store manager the next afternoon.

  James had just come downstairs after spending the last couple of hours in the storeroom evaluating and pricing the volumes he’d shown her the previous night. Now he gave his brown-and-tan hound’s-tooth-checked vest a
satisfied tug as he addressed her.

  “I think we shall make a small profit from our buy,” he said, and pulled a list from his inside vest pocket. “My original estimate was fairly accurate. Perhaps half the volumes have a value that is strictly aesthetic, but the remainder do have some small collectible value. I will price them accordingly and we shall see if they sell.

  “Oh, and I presume you found the invoice for the copy of The Marble Faun that I left on the register for you?” he added. “If you noticed, I did give you the usual employee discount.”

  “Already handled,” she said with a smile. She picked up the document in question from the bin beneath the counter and pointed to the red stamped letters proclaiming “Paid” across it. “You’ll find my personal check in the register.”

  “Very good. Did you have the opportunity last evening to do any reading?”

  “Actually, no. My head was in such a whirl with everything that happened after I locked up last night that all I did was crawl into bed and shut off the lights.”

  She hadn’t had time to relate all the details of the prior night’s events to James before the first customers had come in. But now, after first checking to be sure Robert was still safely upstairs and no customers were in earshot, she launched into her account. She started with her and Jake’s meeting at the restaurant with Reese, and finished with their subsequent visit to Mary Ann’s place—leaving out the fact that Mary Ann and Hodge had been in their nightclothes during that denouement.

  “I was pretty shocked to see Hodge there, but I didn’t really think he’d killed Mr. Plinski, in the first place. And Mary Ann seems convinced of his innocence. But we’re back to the original problem. A murderer is still out there.”

  “Has Detective Reese opined at all about this?”

  “I haven’t heard anything from him since last night, and I don’t know if Jake has, either.”

  Then she shook her head. “All the stories I’m reading online and in the paper are saying it’s looking like a random killing, and maybe that’s true. Though I’m not sure if a random-killer scenario is better or worse than someone deliberately ending your life for a specific reason.”