A Novel Way to Die (14 page)

“Mary Ann’s a better crime fighter than you,” Darla commented in the cat’s direction
while heading for the foreign language section to answer a phone customer’s question.

That accomplished, she tried ringing Jake’s cell, but her call went straight to voice
mail. She left a quick message—
Hey, how about lunch at the deli later?
—and then got to work paying invoices and going through the latest publishers’ catalogues
in between assisting customers. Robert kept equally busy stocking shelves and jumping
in to help ring up sales. Every time the bells on the front door jangled, Darla looked
up to see if perhaps Barry had decided to stop by, only to be vaguely disappointed
each time that it was not him.

It was almost noon when Jake called back on the store phone.

“Hey, kid, I got your message. Sorry, I can’t break for lunch. Things are popping.”

“That’s okay, I understand,” Darla told her. “I don’t suppose what’s popping has anything
to do with Tera or Hilda Aguilar, does it?”

She heard a small sigh from the other end before Jake responded, “Remember what I
said about client confidentiality? Oops, someone else is trying to ring through. Let
me get that, and I’ll stop by the store later, all right?”

Jake hung up before Darla could even reply. Frowning, Darla hung up the receiver.

She considered calling Reese to find out if he’d located Tera, but then thought better
of it. He’d just tell her it wasn’t any of her business. She decided to send him a
text instead, asking about the neighborhood watch, and let him reply at his convenience.
And maybe at the same time he’d give her an update on the Curt situation.

She waited until Robert finished ringing up the soccer mom he’d been helping. She
was pleased to see that the woman had bought one of the books featured in Robert’s
window display in addition to a DIY book on plumbing and, strangely, a copy of
Robinson Crusoe
. But then, she’d gotten used to customers’ eclectic tastes in reading matter.

“Hey, it’s lunchtime,” she reminded the teen. “I feel like a turkey Reuben special
from the deli. How about I buy, you fly?”

“Yeah, sure.” He gave her an enthusiastic grin. “Is it okay if I get, you know, one
of those big chocolate chip cookies, too?”

“Sure. Consider it a bonus for your good work on the window display. Tell them to
put it all on my account.”

“Yes!” He gave a little fist pump and reached under the counter for his jacket. “Back
in a minute.”

She smiled as he tore out of the store like Hamlet on catnip. All in all, Robert was
working out quite well, she decided. Once he’d had a little more time and training,
she might even manage an extra day off on occasion, with him to take up the slack.

Since this was their usual prelunch lull, Darla headed upstairs to the storeroom.
She returned downstairs with a lamb’s-wool duster in one hand and an ostrich-feather
duster in the other. Picking up where she’d left off a couple of days earlier, she
got to work cleaning the inventory, allowing herself the occasional unavoidable sneeze
in the process.

She’d been amazed when she’d first taken over the shop to learn how quickly dust accumulated
on books. While the regular stock was treated to the standard duster routine, James
had a special HEPA vacuum he used on the collectibles and first editions. He’d also
explained how, to avoid damage, it was better to clean on a regular basis, rather
than making it an hours-long project on occasion. And so Darla tried to tackle the
place with her collection of cloths and dusters whenever she had a slow period during
the week.

She had barely gotten started on the first shelf, however, when she heard the distinctive
thud
of a book hitting the wood floor.

“Hamlet?”

Darla peered around the corner of the shelf to see the cat still stretched out on
his rug near the door. Hearing his name, he yawned, showing sharp white teeth and
a bubblegum pink tongue, and then settled his chin back on his paws to sleep.

Frowning, she set down her dusters and headed in the direction from where the sound
had come. Sure enough, in the classics section she found a single paperback book lying
on the floor. Her frown deepened. The last time that Hamlet had pulled books off the
store’s shelves, he’d been trying to communicate a murderer’s identity. Maybe he was
at it again. But could the touchy feline have rushed over, snagged the book, and flown
back to his sleeping spot that quickly?

Curious, she picked up the volume and flipped it over. “
The Man in the Iron Mask
,” she read aloud, followed by a thoughtful, “Hmmm.”

Of course, Hamlet might have had nothing to do with the book at all. Maybe the customer
who’d picked up the copy of Defoe’s classic
Robinson Crusoe
had accidentally dislodged this Alexandre Dumas book from its spot on the
D
shelf, with gravity eventually doing the rest of the work. But how often did she
have to pick up fallen books after a customer left the store?

Not too often.
Darla pursed her lips and nodded. For the moment, she would assume that it
had
been Hamlet who had pulled down the book as a clue—no matter that he was being even
vaguer than previously in his hints.

“How about sometime you give me a book title that’s an actual name?” she told Hamlet
as she carried the book to the counter. “You know, like
Anna Karenina
or
David Copperfield
or
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
. That would really help narrow down the suspect list, you know?”

Hamlet did not deign to reply.

“Fine, so I’ll play twenty questions by my lonesome,” she told him. “You speak up
if I get it right.”

Dragging out a pen and sheet of paper, she scribbled
Man in Iron Mask
at the top of the page. Then she halted, momentarily stumped. She hadn’t read the
book since high school, and even then she’d skimmed it. For better or worse, she’d
seen the movie version—which likely bore only a nominal resemblance to the original
novel—but that had been quite a while ago. Her memory of the characters’ names and
the plot was hazy.

“Let’s take it a face value and assume that the killer is male . . . as in,
Man
,” she said and underlined that word on her page. “Help me out, Hamlet. How about
D’Artagnan or Aramis or Porthos or Athos? Any of those ring a bell?”

Once more, the feline remained provokingly silent. “Okay, maybe I need to back up.
Since the author is Alexandre Dumas, let’s try Alexander for the killer.”

Darla wrote down that name, followed by a large question mark. It didn’t matter that
she didn’t know any Alexanders, but maybe Curt had. Or maybe he knew an Al or Alec
or an—

“Alex,” she exclaimed with a triumphant smile, writing that name in large letters
and circling it. “Robert’s buddy Alex Putin, the Russian mafia guy. He’s in construction,
and he’s probably killed a bunch of people before.”

Not that she had firsthand knowledge of this—either the Russian mafia connections
or any actual killings—but his name was as good a place as any to start.

She added
Alex Putin
to her budding list as a second possibility; then, with a snort, she crossed out
that name and glanced toward the cat.

“Too easy. If the killer was Alex Putin, you’d have snagged something from Aleksandr
Solzhenitsyn or else a Vladimir Putin bio, wouldn’t you? Besides, there’s no reason
to believe that Curt has ever even met the man, just because they’re both in construction.”

Then she frowned. The more obvious candidate was Porn Shop Bill, though how he could
possibly be tied to Dumas’s work, she couldn’t guess. Maybe there was a “William”
somewhere in the story? She turned to her keyboard and did a quick online search.

“Well, close,” she decided a moment later as, scrolling through a popular movie database,
she saw that the director of an older film version of
The Man in the Iron Mask
had the first name of William.
A bit too much of a reach?
She shook her head even as she wrote down
Bill
. What she needed was a list of characters from the novel. Unfortunately, the publisher
had neglected to supply that little convenience in the copy that she held. But she
did find a story summary as part of a preface. Swiftly, she began to read bits of
it aloud.

“Story opens in the Bastille . . . Aramis was a Musketeer, is now a priest . . . listening
to a prisoner’s confession . . . he claims he’s the twin brother of King Louis XIV.”

She paused long enough to scribble down the words
Louis
and
king
, and then went on, “Blah, blah, Aramis decides to free this prisoner . . . will swap
him for his brother. Meanwhile, things aren’t going well at court. King Louis sulking,
blah, blah . . . can’t decide between his mistress and his wife, Maria Theresa—”

She broke off abruptly and stared at Hamlet. “Maria Theresa,” she slowly repeated
as she recalled the overheard phone conversation at Hilda’s shop the day before. “Maria
Teresa is Tera’s full name. But surely she couldn’t . . .”

Darla trailed off as her previous mental image of Hilda wielding a crowbar was replaced
by the mental picture she’d been trying to hold at bay ever since she’d first heard
that Tera was missing: that of the petite girl doing her version of “batter’s up”
on Curt’s skull. After all, hadn’t Barry said he’d overheard the pair fighting the
day before they found Curt’s body? But surely a run-of-the-mill lovers’ quarrel couldn’t
be enough to drive the hot-tempered Tera to murder. Or could it?

Reluctantly, she added
Tera
to her list; then, for good measure, she added Hilda’s name, too. Better that she
not decide this early in the game that Curt’s killer was male, despite Hamlet’s choice
of book titles. After all, a crowbar was as deadly a weapon in a female’s hand as
it was in a man’s.

Even as she mulled over that unsettling possibility, the bells on the shop door jangled,
and in rushed a woman whom she didn’t recognize.

At least, not at first.

TWELVE

“HILDA?”

Had Darla passed this version of the Great Scentsations owner on the street, she likely
would have slipped the woman a dollar and kept on walking. Never had she suspected
that the coolly elegant Hilda Aguilar could look so downright . . . well, frumpy.

Today, the woman’s frosted blond hair was pulled back in a stubby, lopsided ponytail
rather than styled into the usual sleek French twist or smooth bob Darla was used
to seeing. As for the usual professional makeup job—the one that looked airbrushed
on—this morning it consisted of simply a slash of red lipstick that had already been
partially chewed off. But, the designer handbag over her shoulder notwithstanding,
the most surprising aspect of the woman’s appearance was the fact she was wearing
a tracksuit of the kind septuagenarian Mary Ann Plinski favored when not dressed for
work.

Hilda, however, seemed either unaware or unconcerned that her appearance had shocked
Darla into momentary speechlessness. Barely missing stepping on Hamlet, who scrambled
out of the way just in time, she hurried to the counter where Darla was standing.

“Darla, thank God you are here! I came to see Jake, but she won’t be back for a while.
I talked to her on the phone, and she said I could wait for her up here, if you don’t
mind.”

Darla shook her head, her concern growing. “No, I don’t mind. Why don’t you sit upstairs
in the lounge area? There’s coffee up there, and hot water if you want tea.”

Though the woman could probably use a cup of something stronger, Darla decided. Hilda’s
eyes were ringed with dark circles that were likely owed in equal parts to a sleepless
night and yesterday’s makeup.

Hilda, however, shook her head, refusing the offer. “I-I’d rather stay down here,
if you don’t mind. I’m afraid I’ll go crazy if I stay alone.”

Darla stepped around the counter and impulsively took the woman’s hand. “Tell me what’s
wrong,” she urged. “Is it Tera?”

The other woman nodded.

“Darla, she-she never came home last night.”

A tear spilled down one unpowdered cheek and left a faint eyeliner trail behind. “I
spent all yesterday afternoon calling her, and she never answered her phone. I finally
closed the shop early because I thought maybe she was home sick in bed, but she wasn’t
there, either.”

The woman paused and took a shuddering breath. “I didn’t know what else to do, so
I phoned a few of her friends. No one saw her at school yesterday morning. And then
that detective—I don’t remember his name—came by my house looking for her last night.
He said that when she showed up again, he needed to talk to her right away.”

“I’m sure it’s just routine,” Darla assured her, but Hilda shook her head.

“You don’t understand. The questions he asked me about her, I could not believe. Does
she have a passport . . . does she have any friends with criminal records? Finally,
I got angry and told him to leave.”

Probably not the best move, going Mama Grizzly on a cop
, Darla thought wryly, though she could understand a parent wanting to protect her
child. Aloud, she asked, “So is that why you’re looking for Jake, to see if she can
find Tera before the police do?”

“That’s all I could think to do. Tera has no one in this city besides me. The rest
of the family, they’re back in Miami or in Cuba. I’ve always taken care of her. She
knows nothing of life, of what it takes to survive on her own.”

Hilda paused and gave a swipe at her eyes, which were damp again.

“Me, I was only seventeen when I escaped from Cuba with my husband and his entire
family on a little fishing boat meant for just six people. It was the hurricane season,
but we didn’t know a storm was forming in the Atlantic when we set out. With the wind
and the waves, it was a miracle that we stayed afloat long enough to reach Miami.”

“Hilda, I didn’t know. That must have been a terrifying journey.”

“I suppose it was, but I had grown up being frightened and hungry. To me, it was just
one more thing to endure. But after that, I was never frightened of anything else
again . . . not until now.” She paused, and her regal features abruptly crumpled.
“
Dios mío
, I am so afraid! I’m afraid that the police think my daughter killed Curt Benedetto!”

“Who wants lunch? Get it while it’s hot!”

Darla had been so caught up in Hilda’s account that she hadn’t heard the bells on
the shop door jingle. Robert had returned from the deli and was making his way toward
the counter triumphantly waving a large and slightly greasy paper bag. Darla released
Hilda’s hand and hurried to intercept him.

“Why don’t you put mine in the fridge upstairs in the lounge?” she suggested, giving
her head a meaningful shake as he peered curiously past her. “I’ve got a customer
I’m helping right now.”

Hilda began to sob, and the teen’s inquisitive expression promptly morphed into the
distressed look common to males who can’t bear to see the opposite gender cry.

“Yeah, sure,” he verbally backpedaled. “Do you want me to, uh, take my break now,
or wait?”

“Go ahead. I’ve got things under control here.”

Which wasn’t exactly the truth. For the moment, she had no idea what to say to a mother
whose only child had just become a suspect in a murder investigation. And she couldn’t
just leave the woman there crying, especially since her usual lunchtime customers
would be popping in any minute now.

Darla hurried back around the counter, grabbed the box of tissues from the shelf below,
and then thrust it into Hilda’s arms.

“Let’s find you a quiet spot,” she said, deftly steering the woman toward the shop’s
rear room. As in the main part of the store, a few small tufted chairs were tucked
in strategic corners so customers could sit and peruse potential purchases. Darla
settled the woman alongside the New Age shelves. Maybe she’d gain a bit of serenity
by osmosis.

“Here you go,” she said and plumped a tapestry pillow, which she then slipped behind
Hilda’s back. “You can wait right there until Jake comes back. Are you sure you wouldn’t
like me to bring you something?”

Hilda sniffled a moment into her tissue and then shook her head. “I’m so sorry, causing
such a scene in your nice store. But I know my daughter. She’s not capable of doing
such a horrible thing. How could that detective suspect her of murder?”

“Reese has to check her out, just like he’s doing with everyone else who knew Curt.
He’s only doing his job,” Darla gently reassured her. “Remember, she didn’t come home
the night that Curt was murdered, and you yourself said that she usually spent her
evenings with him. It does seem a bit suspicious.”

“I know, I know,” the woman agreed, breaking into fresh sobs. “But no matter what
happened, I can’t believe Tera would leave home without telling me.”

Darla handed her another tissue and desperately wished that Jake would hurry up. While
she was inclined to agree with Hilda that Tera didn’t seem to fit the type, she’d
heard Reese and Jake recount enough tales about unlikely killers to know that one
could never say never when it came to murder. On the other hand—

“Hilda, maybe Tera
did
have something to do with Curt’s death,” she ventured, “but that doesn’t mean it was
deliberate. Maybe they had a fight, and he tried to hurt her, and she was defending
herself. Or maybe he brought her down to the basement and tried to force himself on
her, and she had to hit him with the crowbar to get away. I think on the cop shows
they call it justifiable homicide or something.”

“You mean, self-defense?”

“Right. And maybe she’s afraid to come home because she knows the police will be looking
for her. And she won’t call you because no one can accuse you of helping her if you
don’t know where she is.”

“Oh, Darla, that does make sense.” Hilda looked up from her pile of sodden tissues,
her swollen eyes suddenly filling with hope. “I know she could never hurt anyone on
purpose . . . but maybe if he had tried to hurt her . . .”

She straightened and reached into her handbag, pulling out a compact. “I look a fright,”
she exclaimed with a glance in the small mirror. Shoving the mirror back into her
purse, she got to her feet again. “Please, I must make myself halfway presentable
before Jake gets here.”

Darla obligingly pointed her in the direction of the ladies’ room and then went to
wait on the middle-aged executive who’d just walked in. By the time she’d sent him
off with a best-selling business biography and then rang up another customer who’d
come in for her weekly fix of the latest romance novels, Hilda had emerged from the
restroom looking almost like her usual self.

Darla took in the woman’s deftly recoiffed hair and fresh makeup with amazement.
She must have a personal stylist stashed in that purse
, she thought with a wry shake of her head. Even the tracksuit looked suddenly trendier,
thanks to a scarf Hilda must have found somewhere in the handbag and which now was
wrapped jauntily around her throat.

“Darla, I am so sorry for dropping in on you like this with my problems,” Hilda exclaimed,
the earlier quaver in her voice all but gone. “I must have faith that Jake will find
Tera before the police do and bring her home so we can work this out together.”

“I’m sure she will. And even if Detective Reese finds her first, I promise you he’ll
treat her fairly.”

“Perhaps.” That last was said with a shrug that seemed to speak of more than a little
distrust of authority. Though, now knowing the woman’s history, Darla couldn’t quite
blame her.

Bells jingled again. This time, to Darla’s great relief, it was Jake walking through
the front door. She was dressed for serious investigating, her unbelted black leather
duster swirling around her jean-encased calves with every stride, her stacked-heel
boots effectively camouflaging her limp. A pair of mirrored sunglasses hid her eyes,
and her curly black hair sprang from her head like a lion’s mane, everything combining
to give Jake the look of a kick-butt anime heroine come to life.

Just what Hilda and Tera needed right about now, Darla thought with a grateful sigh.

“Hey, kid, thanks for filling in.” Jake gave Darla an approving nod before turning
to Hilda. “Sorry you had to wait. I was making a few inquiries about Tera.”

“Did you have any luck?” Hilda greeted her, the crispness of her tone belied by the
anxious way she was twisting her hands. “Has anyone seen my daughter?”

“So far, none of her friends have seen her since her Wednesday morning class. And
I can’t find anyone who saw her after you said she left the house again Wednesday
evening. Late Thursday morning is when Darla and Barry found Curt’s body, so we’ve
got about twelve hours we have to account for to get her off the hook. Do you have
that picture I asked you to bring?”

“Of course.” Hilda reached into her magical handbag and pulled out a small framed
photo, the size one would keep propped on a bedside table. “That detective—”

“Detective Reese,” Darla helpfully supplied.

“—Yes, that Detective Reese, he wanted a picture, too, but I lied and told him I didn’t
have one,” Hilda replied, a faint look of defiance adding color to her pale cheeks.
Darla caught a glimpse of the photo as the woman clutched the frame to her with a
possessive air.

The image appeared recent and professionally shot, although the setting was casual
and outdoors. The photo captured the girl from the waist up, turned so that she peered
back over one shoulder toward the camera. For once, it looked like Tera had abandoned
the exaggerated makeup she usually favored, wearing just enough color on her wide
brown eyes and full lips to accentuate those features. Her shoulder-length, dark blond
hair was loose and windblown. One carefully manicured hand—the pink nails the same
girlish shade as her bright lipstick—had reached up to brush an errant lock from her
eyes.

In the hands of a less skilled photographer, the image might have appeared deliberately
posed in poor imitation of some glossy magazine cover. Instead, it looked as if Tera
had simply turned in laughing response to someone calling her name, her youthful beauty
and exuberance captured forever in that one shot.

Breathtaking
, Darla thought with a sudden feeling of dismay that she couldn’t quite explain or
dismiss.

Hilda, meanwhile, had released her grip on the frame and was handing the photo over
to Jake, adding, “Tera gave me that picture just a couple of weeks ago. I-I’d like
it back when you’re finished.”

“Certainly. When we go back down to my office I’ll scan it, and then you can take
it right back home with you again,” Jake assured her as she accepted the photo. “I’m
going to make some fliers with her picture on them to start handing out around the
neighborhood. I’ll leave a stack here to pass out to anyone willing to help, if that’s
okay by Darla,” she added with a meaningful look in her direction.

Darla nodded, concurring with the unspoken suggestion that Reese would be the first
recipient of same. In fact, as soon as she had the fliers in hand, she’d give the
detective a call.