by Ali Brandon
“A crime of passion versus a crime of disinterest,” James mused. “I am sure philosophers could debate the virtues of both and not come to a decision as to which was the greater sin.”
He scrubbed a hand across his bearded chin and sighed.
“I find myself at a loss, as well. But there is one thing I have learned over the years, and that is that one never knows about another’s past. It could be possible that Bernard had a dark secret from his youth that came back to haunt him.”
“You mean, something worse than Hodge betraying the Plinskis’ parents to the government back in the fifties? Oh, wait, I suppose you don’t know about that.”
By the time she’d gotten James up-to-date on the McCarthy-inspired machinations that had happened sixty years earlier, her store manager was shaking his head.
“As I said, one never knows. I am surprised that the press has not brought up that particular detail. Not to offer spoilers, as they say, but if you do manage to read your new Hawthorne, you may find some interesting parallels between it and our current situation.”
Reading was the last thing on her mind at the moment. She did, however, make a mental note to keep an eye on Hamlet . . . that, along with sitting down when she had a moment and making a list of the books that had she’d randomly retrieved off the floor these past few days. It appeared she’d been a bit hasty the other day in informing the crafty feline that his sleuthing talents weren’t needed in this situation.
Obviously, they were. The question was, did Hamlet actually know anything about Mr. Plinski’s murder . . . and, if so, would he reveal what he knew?
For the moment, all she said aloud was, “I just wish there were something we could do to help.”
“I think all we can sensibly do is what Jake suggested. We should keep the proverbial eye on the situation and make sure that Mary Ann remains safe.”
“I’m on board with that, too. In fact, if Mary Ann has forgiven us by then, Jake and I were going to drive her out to Queens on Monday so she can prep for her estate sale.”
“An excellent idea. I must admit that, with all you have told me, I am rather nervous at the thought of her being alone.”
A customer walked up just then with a couple of books on financial planning. Darla halted the conversation to ring up her purchases, while James excused himself to enter the new books on their auction website.
Afterward, a steady stream of customers alternated between browsing for books and drinking coffee, so that Darla didn’t have a chance to chat again with James. And since Robert was keeping equally busy in the coffee lounge, she didn’t get the opportunity to learn if Mary Ann had indeed recruited the youth to help with the estate sale.
Finally, around four, there was a lull in the action. Darla was just about to go upstairs when she heard the bells on the front door chime again. She turned back around, only to see a determined Mary Ann Plinski wrapped in an oversized blue shawl headed her way.
Recalling too well last night’s less-than-cordial parting, Darla glanced about for reinforcements. Unfortunately, James was straightening stock in the back room, meaning she wouldn’t have him as a buffer should Mary Ann want to continue her previous night’s lecture. Steeling herself for a chilly reception, she hesitantly greeted the old woman.
“Hi, Mary Ann. Are you looking for Robert? He’s upstairs in the coffee bar. I can send him down, if you like.”
“Actually, Darla, I’m looking for you.” Cheeks growing pink and wrinkled hands tightly clasping the shawl to her, she said, “I really must apologize for my behavior last night.
“No, no”—she interrupted when Darla would have protested—“hear me out. I know that you and Jake were only looking out for my well-being, and I do appreciate that. I suppose I mostly was embarrassed for you girls to find me, well, in flagrante, and so I fear I acted a bit badly. I do hope you can forgive me, my dear.”
“Of course,” Darla exclaimed, rushing over to give the old woman a hug. “And you certainly had a right to be upset that we just waltzed into your place. But I’m glad to know that you realize we did it for the best of reasons. And I promise, we’ll never do that again.”
“My dear, I am so glad we’ve cleared the air. I did stop by to see Jake first, and she was good enough to accept my apology. So I believe I’ve put everything to rights again.”
Then she wrinkled her brow. “Oh dear, I did mean to give her back my keys, but she had to run off to an appointment and so I didn’t get the chance.” She dug into the pocket of her shirtdress and pulled out the same keys from the night before. “Would you very much mind giving these to Jake the next time you see her?”
“Of course,” Darla agreed, pulling out her own ring from beneath the counter and hooking Mary Ann’s keys on for safekeeping. “So I suppose Jake didn’t have time to say anything to you about taking a field trip tomorrow to Queens?”
When the old woman shook her head, Darla told her the PI’s suggestion that they drive her out to the house where she would be holding the estate sale for a customer in the next week.
“It would save you having to hire a car up and back,” Darla finished, “plus we can help with some of the grunt work. You know . . . moving things around, setting up tables. And assuming Robert already agreed to help you with the sale, we can bring him along, too.”
Mary Ann considered the idea for a moment and then nodded.
“That is an excellent idea. Let me contact the executor right now and make certain the house can be available tomorrow. And, I must admit, I always did enjoy being squired around town in Dee’s old car. I feel quite elegant sitting in those fancy leather seats.”
After agreeing to call Darla back within the hour, the old woman snugged her shawl more tightly around her and left the store. As the bells chimed after her, James appeared, silent as Hamlet, at the counter.
“I am happy to hear that you and Mary Ann have resolved yesterday’s differences. Do I understand you will be helping her set up this latest estate sale?”
At Darla’s nod, he quirked a brow.
“I suppose I do not need to tell you to keep an eagle eye out, as they say, for any interesting literary finds. A time or two, Bernard was kind enough to let me do a little early-bird shopping before the general public was allowed into one of his sales, and I ended up with a few respectable buys out of it. I shall be out with Martha most of the morning, but do feel free to text me any photographs of likely volumes. Perhaps we can do that last collection of books one better.”
Agreeing to be his official book scout—and thus earning the privilege of borrowing his A Pocket Guide to the Identification of First Editions for the day—Darla left James to start the closing process while she went up to the coffee lounge to chat with Robert.
She found Hamlet keeping him company, the cat’s cool green gaze focused on the storeroom. “Has Hammy’s new friend showed back up again?” she asked the youth.
Robert shook his head. “If she did, she’s, you know, keeping a low profile. He’s been watching the storeroom like a hawk, but I haven’t seen any sign of her.”
“Well, I did leave food and water out for her last night. Were you able to get hold of anyone from the Furry Berets Pet Rescue about the cat trap?”
She was speaking of the volunteer group run by a woman named Bonnie Greenwood and dedicated to rescuing stray pets in the Brooklyn area. James was a behind-the-scenes sponsor of the organization, which had been responsible for formally placing Roma the Italian greyhound in Robert’s care.
The youth nodded.
“Yeah, I called Sylvie.” He referred, Darla knew, to Bonnie’s teenage daughter who was also a member of the group. “She said all their humane traps were out, but she might have one by, you know, Tuesday, and she’d bring it to me.“
“I guess that will have to do,” Darla replied. “Of course, if we’re lucky, maybe our mystery kitty wi
ll turn out to be tame enough that we can catch her ourselves and put her in Hamlet’s carrier to take her over to them instead. And I guess it’s just as well, since we’ll be gone tomorrow. Do you want to come with me and Jake to help Mary Ann get set up for her estate sale?”
“Sure. Ms. Plinski asked me about helping for the actual sale, but I told her I had to clear it with you.” He paused and gave her an uncertain look. “But I think the sale is Friday and Saturday, and those are our, you know, big coffee days. So I guess maybe I have to tell her no?”
“Of course not. This would be the perfect trial run to see how good a job you did training Pinky as your backup for when you’re gone next week,” Darla said with a smile.
Pinky—so named for his dyed-pink chin braids and a single pink braid atop his head—was Robert’s boyish-looking goth friend who fronted a goth/emo/metal band called The Screaming Babies. Pinky and his fellow musicians had filled in at the neighborhood July Fourth block party when the previously booked band had backed out. While not normally a fan of that sort of music, Darla definitely had been impressed by the young man’s fabulous tenor and his band’s willingness to play cover songs.
But Pinky seemed perpetually short of cash despite his musical talent. And so he’d been an eager volunteer to train as a backup barista for the inevitable times Robert was ill or on vacation.
Robert gave her an eager nod. “I’ll call him now. Even if he has any gigs those days, he wouldn’t have to play until late at night.”
Leaving him to finish cleaning up the coffee lounge and make his call to Pinky, Darla rejoined James downstairs to let him know what she’d decided.
“I see,” her manager replied when she had explained the Pinky substitution. “A trial by fire, of sorts, for the young man.”
“Exactly. I’d rather know whether or not he can handle the coffee bar on his own now, before Robert leaves town next week.“ Darla smiled. “I’m sure Pinky can do better than me. I can whip up a pot of your standard house brew, but I’m not much with the specialty drinks. I’ll know for sure if Pinky’s on board when we head out to the estate sale location tomorrow. Speaking of which . . .”
Her cell phone was chiming to alert her to an incoming text message. A quick check showed that the sender was Mary Ann.
“We’re on for our road trip tomorrow,” she told James as she read it and then typed a swift acknowledgment that included Jake. “I’ll let Robert know as soon as he comes down.”
“It appears that all is settled,” James replied as he reached for his overcoat. “I presume you have no objection to my leaving a few minutes early? Good. Then I shall plan to see you again on Tuesday. Remember,” he added as he reached the door, “do feel free to call or text me if you find any unusual volumes. Just do not, as they say, bust the budget.”
“I’ll be a smart shopper,” she promised with a smile as he headed out.
A few minutes later, Robert and Hamlet trooped down the stairs together. Darla updated Robert on the plan for the next day, and the youth confirmed that Pinky had agreed to run the coffee lounge for the two days Robert would be out with the estate sale, in addition to covering his vacation days.
“Perfect. And don’t worry about Roma being alone all day long while you’re working the sale. James and I will take turns checking in on her.” Then, lapsing into surrogate-mom mode, she added, “Now, go on home and don’t stay out with your friends too late. I’ll pick you up at nine along with Jake and Mary Ann.”
She let him out the front door; then, with Hamlet supervising, she did the final closing routine and was back out in her private hallway a few minutes later.
“So, Hammy,” she said as they climbed the stairs together, “got any ideas for something fun we can do tonight?”
But Hamlet had no suggestions, other than to give her an impatient meow as he reached the apartment door ahead of her, the wail signaling that it was way past his preferred time for supper. While Darla prepared his food, she recalled what Jake had said before about needing to find herself a decent guy and have a little grown-up fun for a change. Much as she was fond of Hamlet, spending all her evenings in with him didn’t exactly constitute a social life.
But since the decent guy had yet to appear on her doorstep, Darla contented herself with some leftover chicken pot pie for supper and her favorite zombie television show for après-meal entertainment. She and Hamlet both retired to bed soon after, though Darla opted for a little quick reading before she went to sleep. Her copy of The Marble Faun was still lying on her nightstand, untouched since she’d not had time the night before to start paging through it.
“Let’s give it a try,” she told Hamlet, who had come to join her at the foot of the bed. She’d made her way through but a few pages, however, when she closed it with a groan.
“Well, Hammy,” she told the cat, “James is going to think I’m a true hick, because I’m already about to give up on this book. Hawthorne spends the whole first chapter having his characters talk about statues of fauns and gladiators and picking on this young Italian guy who looks just like the faun. It’s all very lovely and poetic, but it’s about to put me to sleep. I guess the whole thing about how writers should start a story in the middle of the action wasn’t the fashion back in the 1860s.”
Hamlet, who had been lying with eyes closed and front paws hanging off the side of the comforter, gave what Darla was sure had to be a fake snore in response. She laughed. “So it’s putting you to sleep, too, huh? Well, don’t rat me out to James, okay? I’ll give it another try tomorrow night.”
Marking her place with a bookmark—James would have a stroke if she dared to dog-ear a page, no matter that she’d paid for the darned thing—she set the book back on her bedside table and flicked out the light. But as she lay back in the dark, she found herself childishly wishing she had a night light there in the room to dispel some of the darkness. For, much as she tried to forget it, Mr. Plinski’s murderer was still at large somewhere in the city.
THIRTEEN
“So, how did I do?” Darla anxiously asked.
It was Tuesday morning, the day after she, Jake, and Robert had helped Mary Ann with her estate sale prep at the house in Queens. In between customers, James had made a quick examination of the dusty box of used books she had acquired during what Mary Ann had cheerfully termed the “pre-sale” . . . though Jake had, with a grin, deemed it the “cherry-picking.”
Her store manager peeled off the gloves he’d worn as he inspected the volumes and gave Darla a considering look.
“If this were an exam, I would say that you earned a solid B. And since I am feeling particularly generous today, I might even bump you to a B plus.”
“Really? Great,” she replied, more than a little pleased by what was, from James, high praise. “How much profit do you think we can make off of these?”
“That depends, of course, on how much you paid.”
Darla told him the lot price that she and Mary Ann had settled on, and he nodded in approval.
“I suspect we should be able to average a one hundred percent markup across the board. This 1966 first edition of Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking is a good example. True, it is a thirteenth printing, but it still should sell for around one hundred eighty dollars. And I do like the little homey touch of the cut-out newspaper recipes tucked between a few of the pages,” he added with a small smile.
Darla smiled back.
“That’s one thing Mary Ann shared with me about books at estate sales,” she replied. “She said to always leaf through the books, because people stick all sorts of things in them as bookmarks, or for safekeeping. Recipes, old letters, even money, sometimes. I found a couple of school pictures that looked like they were from the 1960s in one old paperback. I gave those to Mary Ann to return to the estate’s executor. And another book had pressed pink flowers of some sort in them that someone had forgotte
n.”
“And you will agree that is much better than some of the things our customers manage to leave on our shelves and in our books here,” James said with a faint shudder of distaste.
Darla couldn’t dispute that. Despite all of them keeping as close a watch as possible, at least once a week they found fast-food wrappers and empty plastic soda bottles stashed on shelves and—particularly in the children’s section—bubble gum stuck on book covers and half-eaten fruit leathers stuck between pages.
“At any rate,” he finished, “I would say that you had a successful first excursion into buying collectible books. Speaking of which, how are you proceeding with The Marble Faun?”
“It was tough going the first couple of chapters,” she admitted. “But I gave it another shot last night, and it started to grow on me. I mean, it doesn’t have the pulse-pounding excitement of today’s bestsellers, but I’m getting curious to see what happens next. Right, Hamlet?” she addressed the big black cat, who was double-checking James’s work by sticking his nose into the box of books.
Hamlet raised his fuzzy face from the volumes and gave her a cool green look that said, Your opinion, not mine. Then, leaping off the counter, he flopped onto the floor and threw a hind leg over his shoulder as he commenced licking the base of his tail.
“Oops, guess Hammy didn’t like the passages I read aloud to him, after all,” Darla said with a chuckle at the cat’s display of disdain. “But I even brought the book down here with me to read on my lunch break.”
“Excellent. And once you have made your way through Hawthorne’s oeuvre, I will be glad to recommend another nineteenth-century author to you.”
Mildly alarmed at that last—an occasional dip into the classics was all well and good, but she wasn’t prepared to turn her personal reading time into a mini college course—Darla simply nodded. At least James hadn’t suggested she write a book report for him to grade!