Twice Told Tail

by Ali Brandon

  “He’s kind of messed up, but I’m not sure he’s a bad guy, overall. I just wonder how things would have worked out for him if he’d gotten his bequest when he was supposed to. We’re talking a pretty nice chunk of change,” she added, telling him the revised figure that she had calculated upon rereading the document.

  James raised a brow in surprise.

  “That is, indeed, quite a bit more than we thought. If the money is still invested somewhere, after twenty years the gentleman could find himself sitting on a considerable fortune.”

  Darla let herself imagine for a fraction of an instant what that would be like. Of course, she’d been incredibly blessed herself, in being her great-aunt’s sole beneficiary. But the truth of her situation was that most of the estate had been tied up in property. And while she wasn’t exactly land-poor, as the expression went, she hadn’t yet traded in the ten-year-old Mercedes for a Lamborghini.

  “Or, on the other hand,” she pointed out, “Vinnie’s father might have blown the money years ago, and there’s nothing left now for him to claim. And all giving him the trust document will do is make him even more miserable and bitter than he already is.”

  “Hmm. That is a valid point, but I do believe that ethically we are bound to give the paperwork to him; besides, he might ultimately have discovered the document himself, without our interference. As to what happens afterward, it is none of our affair. Devotee as I am of Hawthorne, I still will be happy to see that volume out of all our lives later today.”

  Darla nodded.

  “Agreed. But I’m still kind of curious to know how the story of Miriam and Donatello ends,” she replied, referring to the book’s main characters. “Remind me to buy a paperback copy for myself the next time I place a stock order.”

  While they were speaking, Robert had come down the stairs from the coffee lounge. “The regular coffeepots are set,” he told them as he pulled on his coat and reached beneath the counter for his backpack. “Anyone want me to pick up lunch when I go to the deli?”

  “If you don’t mind,” Darla said with a smile as she reached for her own bag to find some cash. “I’ll take my usual.”

  “Turkey Reuben, vinegar-style potato salad, pickle instead of chips,” he recited with a grin, having been through the drill a few times before.

  But as she handed over the money, she recalled that she hadn’t yet run over to check on Mary Ann.

  “Robert, when you take Roma for her walk on the way to lunch, can you see how Mary Ann is doing? And if she needs lunch, too, you’ve got enough with what I gave you to cover it.” At his nod, she added, “And if anything seems wrong, come back here first before you go to the deli.”

  As Robert started for the door, James said, “I fear I was remiss, as well. I did not look to see whether her store was open when I arrived at work.”

  “Actually, I’m sure she’d prefer we didn’t hover over her. But until Reese solves her brother’s murder, I’m not comfortable knowing she’s there alone. At least Robert will be with her at the estate sale the next couple of days. But I can’t help wonder where she really was the morning Mr. Plinski was murdered.” She proceeded to tell him what little Reese had related to her.

  “I fear we simply will have to trust Detective Reese in this matter,” James told her when she’d finished. “Knowing Mary Ann, I am confident that her silence was not a capricious decision on her part. In time, she will let us know the full story, assuming it is any of our concern.”

  It was a good forty-five minutes later when Robert returned bearing a large and slightly greasy bag. “How was Mary Ann?” she asked as she helped him unload the food onto the counter.

  He shrugged. “She’s good. She’s all ready for the estate sale tomorrow. We have to be there before nine, so we have to leave around eight.” He paused for a bite of his pickle and added, “Mr. Hodge was there, too. He’s got a car, so he’s going to drive us.”

  Hodge would be with her? Darla took a considering bite of her own pickle, absently savoring the crunch and blast of garlic. On the one hand, she was glad Mary Ann wasn’t alone while dealing with her grief. On the other, she was spending an awful lot a time with a man who, given their sixty-year separation, was pretty much a stranger.

  While James handled things downstairs, Darla and Robert went upstairs to finish their lunch. Hamlet tagged along, a single insistent meow reminding Darla that she had to save a bit of turkey for him. While she disassembled her sandwich to accommodate His Royal Fuzziness, Robert pulled out a tea tray from beneath the coffee bar’s main counter and carried it over to their table.

  “Your turn,” he reminded her as he set down the tray with its crossword puzzle–style board and arrangement of wooden tiles.

  Darla smiled. She’d recently introduced her young barista to the word game, having found an old but unused set tucked on a shelf high in the storeroom. He’d been amazed to learn that the similar game app he’d played with his friends had actually been based on it. They managed to each play a turn or two during lunch, and Darla had been amused with how quickly the youth had taken to the low-tech version.

  “Just one turn today,” she told him, peering over the loft’s half wall for a look at the shop floor below. “Looks like James is going to need a hand in a minute.”

  She made quick work of her turn—best she could manage was adding an “A-R-E” to an available “C”—and ate half her sandwich, and then disappointed Hamlet by rewrapping the rest for lunch the next day. Leaving Robert to his turn—he triumphantly slapped down an “X” on a double-point square that could be scored from two directions—and to finish his meal, she hurried back downstairs to assist James.

  By the time they had handled the small afternoon rush of customers, a glance at the wall clock showed it was quarter to three. James had gone on his own lunch break, though he’d volunteered to forgo it. Knowing Reese would be there, she’d insisted her manager get his late lunch, though now she was wondering if she should have taken him up on his offer.

  Where are you, Reese? she wondered, checking the clock again. Last thing she wanted was to drop her bombshell on Vinnie without backup. And then, only a couple of minutes behind schedule, the detective walked through the door. He gave her the slightest nod of acknowledgment, his mirrored gaze sweeping the room.

  “Don’t worry, we’re all clear,” she hurriedly told him. “There aren’t any other customers for the moment, and Vinnie isn’t here yet.”

  He nodded again and took off his sunglasses.

  “Let me scope out the best view of the counter where I’ve got a bit of cover. Say, I smell garlic,” he commented as he headed for the shelves. “Did someone make a deli run? I’m starving.”

  She watched as, after a couple of false starts, he settled on a spot in the biography section. There, the shelving was slightly angled to accommodate the children’s section behind it. He pulled a book from the shelf and opened it while assuming a casual pose that gave him an unobstructed view of the front. Satisfied that nothing was going to happen without Reese to see it go down, Darla pulled the copy of The Marble Faun from beneath the counter and settled in to wait.

  At three o’clock, she stared nervously at the front door, not wanting to be taken by surprise when he walked in. But ten minutes later, Vinnie still had not shown up. At quarter after, she wandered over to where Reese waited, still pretending to read his book.

  “I don’t know why he’s late,” she grumbled. “We said three o’clock.”

  “Maybe he had a problem with a customer over at the bridal shop,” was the detective’s reply. “Give him a few more minutes.”

  The front bells jangled just then, and Darla started. But when she poked her head around the shelving unit expecting to see Vinnie, she instead saw James returning from his lunch break, followed by a new customer.

  Spying her standing in the shelves with Reese, her manager headed
in their direction. “Has Mr. Modello already come and gone?” he softly asked as he joined them.

  Darla shook her head. “He hasn’t shown up yet. Maybe I should give him a call and see if he’s still coming.”

  “Give it another five,” Reese instructed, “then make the call. And what was the verdict on the deli? Any chances there’s any leftovers you don’t want?”

  Rolling her eyes, Darla went upstairs to the lounge while James shrugged off his coat and went to help the middle-aged man who’d followed him in. She returned a few moments later trailed by Hamlet and carrying the other half of her turkey Reuben sandwich.

  “Here,” she said as she shoved it into the detective’s hands. “Don’t get any of the Thousand Island dressing on the stock.”

  While Reese made quick work of the sandwich—much to the dismay of Hamlet, whose emerald eyes shot green daggers in his direction—Darla returned to the counter. At twenty after three, she reached into the drawer under the counter for the business card that Vinnie had given her. “Which should I call, cell or business number?”

  Book now tucked under his arm, Reese wiped a bit of dressing from his chin and tossed the crumpled napkin and wrapper into her trash can. “Try the mobile number first. Go ahead and use your landline, so he can see it’s the bookstore calling. If he answers, just find out if he’s on the way. If he’s not, see if you can get him to reschedule for later today. If you don’t get him, don’t bother with a message.”

  Nodding, Darla punched in the numbers for the man’s mobile line. She held her breath while it rang five times and then switched over to voice mail.

  “No answer,” she told Reese as she ended the call. “I’ll try the shop next.”

  “Use your cell to call the bridal shop. If someone else besides him answers, I don’t want them seeing your store name popping up on any caller ID.”

  Darla frowned, not quite certain why that was important, but she complied, reaching under the counter for her phone. “If it’s not Vinnie who answers, should I talk to Daniel or just say I’ll call back?”

  “If Mr. Modello isn’t there, keep it short and sweet. Don’t explain, give your name, or leave a message. Just find out if he’s expected back anytime soon. Oh, and try not to sound too Texan.”

  She shot him a look at that last, even as she conceded he had a point. Slipping into a few “y’all’s” or a “how’re yew’s” during the conversation likely would cause whoever answered to remember the call.

  Taking a deep breath, Darla dialed the other number. This time the phone was answered on the second ring.

  “Davina’s Bridal, where every bride is special,” she heard Daniel say in a credible imitation of a radio announcer’s full-bodied voice. “How may I help you?”

  Daniel, she mouthed to Reese, pointing at the phone. Aloud, she clipped out, “Vincent Modello, please.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not in. This is Daniel. May I help you instead?”

  “I do need to speak with him personally. Do you happen to know when he’ll be back?”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Modello has taken a few days off, but if you would care to leave a message . . .”

  “Thanks, I’ll check back later,” she said, and hung up.

  Turning to Reese, she said, “That’s odd. Daniel just told me that Vinnie is on vacation. Vinnie didn’t mention that when we set up our appointment.”

  “Why would he need to? You weren’t meeting him at the bridal shop,” Reese suggested. “Try his cell number one more time, and if there’s still no answer, leave a message.”

  Switching out phones again, Darla redialed Vinnie on the landline. As before, the call went to voice mail.

  “Hello, Mr. Modello,” she said after the beep. “This is Darla from Pettistone’s Fine Books. I’d expected you at three today to pick up that copy of The Marble Faun, and it’s now three thirty. Please call me to reschedule.”

  She gave both of her phone numbers and then hung up.

  “What next?” she asked Reese.

  The detective shrugged. “For you, nothing unless Modello calls you back . . . then you call me. I’m going to see if I can find an address on him. The way you said he was acting over that book, it’s pretty odd he suddenly can’t make time to pick it up, even if he is on vacation.”

  With a final “Thanks for the sandwich,” he left the book on the counter and headed for the door. She watched him go, then happened to glance at the book’s title. She gave an amused snort.

  “The History of the Pinkerton Detective Agency,” she read aloud to Hamlet, who still looked peeved over the loss of the sandwich. “So, you think Reese grabbed the first book he could put his hands on, or you think he picked this one deliberately?

  “Oh, never mind,” she grumbled right back at him as the cat flopped onto his haunches and tossed a furry leg over one shoulder. “And I’m the one who should be complaining. That sandwich was going to be my lunch tomorrow. Now, go help James with the customers.”

  Tossing the Pinkerton book back onto the counter, she reached for her copy of The Marble Faun.

  “It should be titled The Bad Luck Faun,” she muttered with a snort, “because that’s all it’s been so far. James is right. I need to get this book to Vinnie before it causes any more trouble.”

  NINETEEN

  By six o’clock, Darla still had not heard from Vinnie. She’d gone from being more than a bit irritated at his inconsideration to growing worried about his welfare. Maybe the man had decided to forget the Hawthorne novel and had gone off on some other wild-goose book hunt. Or maybe he’d up and quit his job at the bridal shop, and Daniel was covering for him. But no matter the explanation, she was pretty well out of patience with fauns and brides and secrets in general.

  “Now, Pinky does know that you were referring to a.m. and not p.m. when you told him to be here at nine tomorrow?” James asked as he gathered his overcoat and coffee thermos in preparation to leave for the evening.

  Darla smiled. “He knows. And before Robert left, he promised he’d call Pinky at least twice to make sure he was awake and on the way. So don’t worry, we’ll be fine until you come in at noon. And like I told you, this will be a perfect dry run for when Robert is on vacation.”

  “Agreed . . . but that does not mean I will breathe easily again until we lock the doors Saturday night. Speaking of which, are you certain that I cannot help pay the tab for Detective Reese and his fiancée’s engagement party?”

  “This one’s on me,” Darla assured him. “Just be there with bells on, or whatever the Professor James T. James equivalent is.”

  “I can assure you, it is not bells.”

  Darla’s smile broadened. “I didn’t think so. And tell Martha I’m looking forward to seeing her there. I didn’t get a chance to chat with her much the last time the book club met.”

  Promising her that he would, James headed into the night, Darla close on his heels to lock the door after him.

  “Don’t worry, no one is going to pull another Vinnie on me,” she told Hamlet, who was watching to make certain she followed through.

  A few minutes later, the pair were upstairs in the apartment again. After feeding Hamlet, who still seemed a bit miffed over the sandwich issue, she grabbed a chunk of cheese to hold her over until she’d made her own supper and went to her desk to check her personal email. As she opened the program, the first thing she spied was a message from a familiar and unwelcome name. Scrolling past it, she went through the rest of her messages first. Then, with no other unread messages remaining, she gritted her teeth and opened his.

  The message was briefer this time, but still pushing the same agenda.

  Hey, Darla, haven’t heard back from you yet. I know you’re busy, but I’d really like to see you when I’m in town. Mom still asks about you, and she never misses an opportunity to tell me what an idiot I was to let you go. So sho
ot me a message back and let me know if supper is on. Remember, I’m picking up the tab.

  This time, it was signed

  Your favorite (well, maybe not so favorite) ex-husband.

  “Argh!” she groaned aloud, drawing a questioning look from Hamlet, who was now sprawled along the back of the horsehair sofa.

  “It’s him again. Why doesn’t he go bother whatever-the-heck-her-name-was who he cheated on me with, instead?” she muttered, not caring that James would be struck to the heart had he heard that last twisted bit of syntax.

  But when Hamlet made no reply, she shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t know, either. But what do you think? Should I write back and tell him to get lost? Or just block his email address?

  “Or, I know,” she said with a small, evil grin. “I could be nice and say yes, and then make him take me to the most expensive place I can find and stuff myself to the gills. You know—appetizers, soup, salad, entrée, dessert—the whole enchilada. Except not nearly as cheap. And then bring home most of it in a giant doggie bag so you and I can enjoy our own little feast together the next night. What do you think?”

  The cat blinked and gave a small mrumph that she took to mean Go for it. Evil smile still in place, she started to hit “Reply” . . . and then paused.

  “Wait. I know what he’s up to, Hammy. He’s just doing this to make himself look like Mr. Magnanimous. I go to supper with him, he pays the big tab, and he’s done. He thinks he’s made up for all the crap he put me through. Well, no way am I going to help him ease his conscience. He should feel guilty.”

  With that, she hit the “Delete” key, sending his message to the trash file.

  “Settled,” she muttered in satisfaction as she got up from the computer again.

  Strangely in the mood for enchiladas now, she reached into her freezer and pulled out a handmade version of the filled corn tortilla staple that she’d previously bought from a local Mexican restaurant. Once she’d eaten, she turned on a bit of mindless television and played the role of couch potato until it was time for bed.