by Ali Brandon
Instead, Hal caught hold of Master Tomlinson’s black belt still draped around Mark’s neck and whipped it away from him. Then, carefully folding the belt, he took a few steps away from the man and deliberately turned his back on him.
Darla felt a faint rumble move through the silent crowd. And then, almost in unison, the spectators and competitors all followed suit, simultaneously shaming and shunning the man in handcuffs. Darla saw Reese release Mark to the uniformed officers before she and Robert also turned away. And as the police led the handcuffed man through the silent crowd, Darla could have sworn she heard the sensei’s voice in her ear saying, Good job.
TWENTY-FOUR
“YOU KNOW WHAT REALLY TICKS ME OFF?” JAKE DECLARED as she reached for a second jelly donut. “Not only did I miss seeing you and Robert competing yesterday, but everything was already over by the time I got to the tournament.”
Darla and Jake were doing a modified version of Sunday brunch, courtesy of the latter; Darla had volunteered to cook, but Jake had told her not to bother. This meant coffee, juice, and pastries instead of the usual omelets with all the trimmings. Darla had asked Robert to join them, but he’d politely declined, explaining that he’d already told Sylvie from the rescue group that he’d help clean cages at the no-kill shelter that morning before joining Darla at work at noon.
Wiping a bit of wayward jelly from her chin, Jake added, “I mean, if Alex hadn’t told me what happened, I never would have known that I basically missed”—she picked up that morning’s sports page and pointed to the lead article—“‘the most dramatic denouement to any martial arts event since Steve Lopez’s 2008 Olympic tae kwon do sudden-death upset.’ Quote, unquote.”
“Well, I guess I’d have thought it was pretty dramatic if it had happened to someone else,” Darla wryly conceded. Then, registering what her friend had said, she added, “Wait, rewind that. Did you say Alex? As in Alex Putin?”
“Yeah, remember, he’s one of the tournament’s top sponsors each year. He was there yesterday. He even did a Russian Sambo demonstration that morning.”
“He did? Was he the guy in the dark blue gi?”
“The same.”
“I can’t believe I missed another chance to see the man up close and personal,” Darla groaned in good-natured dismay. “So how did he react when you told him about finding his mother on the lam in Atlantic City . . . and as a newlywed, to boot?”
Jake winced.
“Let’s just say his reaction could qualify as the second most dramatic martial arts denouement since 2008. He had to write a check before he left to cover repairing the window that he broke when he played javelin with somebody’s bo . . . you know, those long wooden staffs. But I’m pretty sure by the time the happy couple gets back from their honeymoon, he’ll be over the worst of it.”
The PI bit into her donut, adding through a mouthful of jelly, “Oh, and I didn’t even tell you who the old geezer is. Remember that article in the paper the other week about the city council guy and his father duking it out in public? Turns out they were fighting over Mrs. Putin.”
“Seriously?”
Jake nodded. “They both knew her through the same online singles organization, believe it or not. Sonny boy apparently thought he was a shoo-in for the role of the next Mister Mrs. Putin, but it turned out that it was Pop who had all the right moves.”
“I don’t want to hear anymore,” Darla replied, putting her hands over her ears. “I’m just glad you solved your case.”
“Yeah, well, I’d say the same about you and Hamlet, but it sounds like the whole thing is a pretty sad mess.”
“You can say that again. And don’t give me any credit. Hamlet’s the only one who solved anything.” Darla paused and gave the feline, who was perched in his usual spot on the couch, a fond look. “I was pretty sure up until Mark locked me in that utility room that Dr. Tomlinson was the one who killed her husband. Hamlet knew better. He even gave me the whole Tess of the d’Urbervilles’s theory to work with, and then typed out part of Mark’s username.”
When Jake shot her a disbelieving look at that last, Darla gave her a quick explanation of the cat’s walking-on-keyboard technique, and then added, “It wasn’t Hamlet’s fault I went the wrong way with it.”
“So this Mark Poole guy confessed?”
“Well, with his mouth all Botoxed, he hasn’t been doing much talking, from what Reese told me last night. But he pretty well confessed to me, plus he had the sensei’s missing black belt. Oh, and the cops found another used syringe and an empty vial of Botox in his gear bag. Apparently, he actually stole the vial from Grace in the first place.”
This was another bit of interesting information that Reese had shared. Darla hadn’t known that Grace was an aesthetician, but she’d not been surprised to learn that the woman was the sort who did carp pedicures and gave cheap if illegal Botox injections in hotel rooms. But she guessed that the woman might give up those events in the future, assuming she recovered from her own Botox experience.
Then Darla shook her head. “I hate to say it, but it almost seems like reading that novel was what set Mark off. I wonder if the reading group had chosen something else—maybe Pride and Prejudice—if none of this would have ever happened.”
“Don’t even go there, kid.” Jake set down her donut and gave Darla a stern look. “That’s like blaming the victim. It wasn’t the book’s fault—your buddy Mark had issues. Unless he took himself off to a shrink and got help for his obsession, he was a ticking time bomb. And there’s more of them walking around with us than anyone wants to admit. The best we can do is hope someone hears them ticking in time to get them into treatment before they hurt themselves or someone else.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Darla was ready, however, to change the subject to something far less heart wrenching—say, something like gossiping about the burgeoning romance between James and Martha. But before she could steer the conversation that way, Jake’s cell phone went off.
“Guess who?” Jake asked with a lift of one brow.
Darla didn’t have to guess. She knew the only person on Jake’s phone whose ring tone was the Bee Gee’s “Stayin’ Alive” was Reese.
“Uh, huh. Yeah. Uh, huh,” was Jake’s end of the conversation before she handed the phone to Darla. “He actually wanted to talk to you,” she explained, “but your phone kept going straight to voice mail.”
Darla took the phone, not sure what to expect. She’d already given Reese her statement yesterday and preferred not to rehash it all again. Though, on the bright side, she had glowed more than a little when he’d praised her counter-assault on Mark.
Good job, Red, he had told her. Not many people would have the presence of mind to go all kung fu with a pair of ladies’ shoes. Looks like you’ve got your mojo back.
And so she had, she realized. Despite the events of the previous day, she had slept a contentedly dreamless sleep that night and awakened more refreshed than she had been in weeks.
And Hamlet seemingly had his mojo back, too. In fact, the feline had spent much of the morning grumping about before complaining vocally about the amount of water in his bowl (not enough) and the extra blanket (too scratchy) that Darla accidentally had left on the sofa back. Apparently, solving Master Tomlinson’s murder and finding Grace before she met a similar fate—not to mention leading Reese to where Darla had been trapped behind the bleachers—had proved the official atonement that Brody had said was Hamlet’s goal. She’d have to give the cat whisperer, er, feline behavioral empath, a call later that day and let him know Hamlet was officially back to his ornery self again.
“Hi,” she said into the cell. “Sorry, after my phone died yesterday I forgot to charge it back up again.”
“That’s okay, Red. And, actually, I’m not calling for me,” he admitted. “I’m bringing Dr. Tomlinson down to the precinct to give a for
mal statement, and she wanted to know if I could bring her by to talk to you for a minute.”
“Uh, sure. How long until you get here?”
“Depending on how long it takes for you to buzz us in, I’d say about thirty seconds.”
Darla hung up the phone and handed it back to Jake. “Reese and Dr. Tomlinson are here,” she explained as she hit the buzzer. “Feel free to stick around. I’m not sure why she’s here, and I think I might need the moral support.”
“Consider yourself supported, kid,” Jake cheerfully replied, helping herself to donut number three.
Darla, meanwhile, opened the door and waited while Reese and the doctor made their way up the two flights. But as the pair walked in, Darla saw that she actually had three visitors. Roma the Italian greyhound, wearing her familiar mauve sweater, had come along for the ride. The little dog let out an excited yap, and Darla was immediately grateful that Robert had gone off with Sylvie that morning instead of having breakfast with her and Jake.
“Ms. Pettistone, very nice to see you again,” Dr. Tomlinson said, coolly offering her hand. No matter that the woman had seen her husband’s killer apprehended in dramatic fashion only a day before, and attended to a critically injured patient for however many hours after that. The woman was dressed, as usual, as if she had stepped from the pages of a high-end magazine: black skirted suit, blown-out hair, and makeup with that airbrushed look that Darla could never duplicate on her own.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice,” she added, her words jogging Darla to her hostessing obligations.
“Not at all, and please have a seat. Oh, and this is my friend, Jake Martelli,” she added. “Jake, Dr. Jan Tomlinson.”
Jake nodded and gave a friendly wave. “We’re having donuts,” she explained unnecessarily, considering the open box before her. “Care to join us?’
The doctor gave Darla a hesitant look and then smiled just a little. “Actually, that sounds rather nice. I haven’t eaten donuts in years.”
A few moments later, seated at the dining table with Roma on her lap, the doctor nibbled on a plain glazed donut. Reese settled for coffee only, which he tactfully took with him to the sofa. Hamlet apparently decided to wash his paws of all of them, for he slipped off the sofa back and stalked toward the kitchen.
Darla stirred her own coffee and awkwardly waited for the woman to say something. When she did not, Darla ventured, “I hope Grace is doing better.”
“We are guardedly optimistic for her full recovery,” Dr. Tomlinson assured her. “It appears that her dose was only a fraction of what my husband was given, so the toxin didn’t kill her outright. But if you hadn’t found her when you did, there’s a good chance that she wouldn’t have survived.”
And at that, the woman abruptly broke down into a flurry of sobs that startled Darla, and sent her rushing for a box of tissues, while Jake reached for donut number four. Reese did his part by holding on to Roma while the doctor attempted to compose herself. Finally, the woman sat back against her chair and took a calming sip of coffee.
“I am so sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with another tissue and looking a bit surprised at what had just happened. Her makeup, however, had remained flawless, much to Darla’s unwilling admiration. “As you might guess, this has been a trying week, and tomorrow we’ll be holding the memorial service for Tom. It’s for family and close friends only. I thought perhaps that you and that young man, Robert, would like to attend.”
“We’d be honored,” Darla assured the woman.
Dr. Tomlinson smiled. “It’s at two p.m. at the dojo. He wanted to be cremated and then put into his trophy case with all the other awards, so that is what we will do.”
“Unusual,” Darla said, “but I think that’s very appropriate.”
“Well, I’m still not quite sure I approve, but it’s what Tom wanted.” And then she shook her head. “Poor Grace. She’ll be heartbroken to miss the service, but Chris has promised to make a little video for her so she can see it later.”
“That’s, uh, nice,” Darla managed, confused. While it was commendable that Dr. Tomlinson could be charitable to the woman who’d borne her husband’s illegitimate child, this seemed taking tolerance to extremes.
“That reminds me, Dr. Tomlinson,” Reese spoke up from his post in the living room. Leaving Roma curled up on Darla’s sofa, snoozing away, he set down his coffee and reached into his jacket. “You’ll remember we had a warrant to search your husband’s office. We found a photo in his file cabinet that we thought might be evidence, but we’ve already made a copy to use in our case against Mr. Poole. I’m sure you’ll want it back.”
As he handed the photo to the woman, Darla caught a glimpse of the image and bit back a gasp. It was the incriminating photo of the sensei and Grace together! How could Reese be so insensitive? Not only was he giving a recent widow a picture of her dead husband and his mistress, but said mistress in that photo was obviously within weeks of giving birth.
Darla exchanged quick looks with Jake. She, too, had apparently recognized the photo, if only from Darla’s description, for her black brows rose sky high in disbelief. But all Darla could do short of snatching the picture from Reese’s hand was to shoot him a warning look.
Unfortunately, it was too late. Dr. Tomlinson had already accepted the snapshot from him and was curiously studying it.
“I can’t believe it,” she exclaimed. “You found this in his file cabinet?”
Reese nodded, and now Darla’s warning look became an all out red alert. Lie! Make up something! But to Darla’s shock, the doctor burst into a merry little laugh.
“I wondered what had happened to this picture. I thought it was lost years ago!”
“Actually, Ms. Valentine had the photo in her possession. From her statement, she suspected that someone had broken into her house a few weeks ago while she was at work, and she was pretty sure it was Mr. Poole. That’s what they were arguing about at the dojo the other day. Anyhow, our guess at this point is that Mr. Poole got hold of the picture at the same time he stole the Botox from her. He put it in Mr. Tomlinson’s file cabinet, thinking it would throw suspicion on her for the sensei’s murder.”
“What an odd thing for him to do. Why would anyone think this snapshot would be a reason for Grace to kill Tom?” Dr. Tomlinson said.
“I’m sure whatever shrink the court appoints to him will come up with an answer,” Reese said, not bothering to hide his disgust.
The woman nodded. “As a board-certified plastic surgeon, diagnosing mental illness is rather beyond my scope of expertise, but I do try to keep up with all the journals. In my highly unofficial opinion, Mark Poole is displaying symptoms of borderline personality disorder.”
“Yeah, that’s it!” Jake spoke up with a snap of sugar-covered fingers. “He’s got the symptoms in spades. The mood swings, the physical aggression, the self-destructive behavior, and unrealistic expectations in relationships, like putting people up on pedestals and then hating them when they fall. Textbook case, if you ask me.”
When the rest of them stared at her, she shrugged. “What? I read an article on BDP in Cosmo while I was getting my carp pedicure last week.”
The doctor sighed. “It certainly would explain why Mark went after Tom as well as Grace. Hank and Hal told me once that Mark seemed to have a serious case of hero-worship for Tom. Obviously the photo of him and Grace led him to believe that his hero was sadly mortal.”
Though that still didn’t answer another question that was foremost in Darla’s mind at the moment: Why did Dr. Tomlinson want to keep a picture of the sensei and Grace after all that had happened? Darla made plans to pin down Reese about this subject later as the detective told her, “Thanks for the hospitality, Darla, but Dr. Tomlinson and I need to head out now.”
“Wait!”
The exclamation came from Jake, who h
ad lapsed back into silence after her brief turn in the shrink’s chair. But now, perhaps fueled by four donuts’ worth of sugar, she forged on. “Since Darla is a nice Texas girl and too polite to ask, I will: Why in the world would you want to keep a picture of your husband and his pregnant mistress?”
“His what?” The doctor stared openmouthed at her for a moment, only to break into another merry laugh. “Oh, my dear, that is too funny,” she went on when she finally stopped laughing. “Grace was never Tom’s mistress. She was just an unfortunate young woman whom we took into our home when she had nowhere to go. She’d been a student at the dojo and looked up to Tom as a second father, so when her family refused to help her when she got pregnant, we helped her get back on her feet. Tom treated her like a daughter, as did I. In fact, I was the one who took that picture of them together. I always regretted not keeping a copy for myself.”
Then, with a genteel snort, she added, “And Chris is certainly not Tom’s child, though Tom did think of him as a grandson.” Her smile grew mistier. “You have to understand, family was everything to Tom. That’s why he insisted on adopting my boys, since their biological father was dead. And he considered all his students to be his family. Nothing gave him greater happiness than their successes. Grace was quite the project for him, and she did not always make the right choices. But he never gave up on her. Given the chance, I’m afraid he would have done the same thing again here, no matter that in the end it turned out badly for him.”
She glanced over at Reese and then returned her attention back to Jake and Darla.
“I already told Detective Reese that Tom suspected something wasn’t right about the way Mark Poole acted around Grace a few weeks before he”—she paused, seemingly to control herself—“well, a few weeks ago, but Grace claimed everything was fine. And so Tom gave the man the benefit of the doubt. Unfortunately, we had no clue that Grace knew Mark from back in her high school days, and that this whole obsession had started long ago. Why she didn’t tell us what was happening, I’ll never understand, but I suppose she wanted to prove she was capable of handling issues on her own. She wanted Tom to be proud of her.”