Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery) (14 page)

“Hold that last thought, and check this out first,” Darla told her friend as she handed over the article. “Last night while you were gone, Hamlet decided to do a little light reading. He ripped this out of the hotel magazine.”

Jake pulled her reading glasses from her jacket pocket and scanned the pages.

“What do you think? Could this put our friend Billy Pope on the suspect list in Ted Stein’s murder?” Darla asked when her friend finally looked up from the tattered article.

The PI promptly shook her head.

“For my sake, I hope he’s not. If Sam so much as Mirandizes the man, Ma won’t let me hear the end of it unless I try to prove him innocent.”

Which Darla knew that Jake couldn’t technically do without being a licensed PI in Florida. She considered this a moment, and then replied, “You know what you said a minute ago about none of this being our concern? Well, I think you’re right. Let’s get through today in one piece and then do some sightseeing. We’re supposed to be on vacation. If Detective Martinez needs anything more from us, she knows where to find us.”

“Sounds good to me, kid.”

“Good.” Setting down her empty
grande
-sized paper cup, Darla stood. “You know, we did promise the show folks that we’d take Hamlet through the hall a few times each day so everyone can see him. Why don’t we take him on a quick stroll past the vendor tables before it gets too crowded? Besides,” she wheedled, “we need to visit with Trixie again so you can make up your mind whether or not you want to adopt her.”

The mention of the three-legged recue cat was apparently sufficient for Jake. The trio made their way through the slowly growing crowd, dodging the exhibitors who were rushing their furry charges from cage to ring and back again. Darla noticed as they passed him that Billy Pope was back in his usual judging spot in Ring One, looking dapper. He glanced up as they strolled past, giving no indication his room had been the site of a grisly murder scene the evening before, with the victim a known colleague of his. But either he didn’t see them—though a redhead and a six-foot-tall brunette walking a cat were hard to miss—or else he thought it best not to engage, for his gaze swept quickly past them with no sign of recognition.

Aloud, Darla wondered, “Shouldn’t he be lying low for a few days? I mean, if whoever killed Ted Stein meant to kill him instead, do you think it’s safe for him to be out in public?”

“Since whoever it was got up close and personal with Ted, I’d lay odds the killer knew who he was whacking over the head. Right now, my big question is: What was Stein doing in Pope’s hotel room?”

“Maybe he saw Hamlet on the balcony before we did and let himself into the room to rescue him?”

“Maybe,” Jake replied, “though from what I saw, Ted wasn’t really the rescuing type.” She gave a quick look around, just in case they could be heard over the bustle of the cat-show crowd, and then went on, “Unless he’s as good at climbing railings as Hamlet, someone had to have let Ted inside the room. And those wingtips he was wearing? They were Billy’s. I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my day, but that one is at the top of the list for weirdness.”

“It’s not at the top; it’s on a whole different crazy chart,” Darla replied. Pausing to look at an orange tabby Cornish Rex, she added, “I wonder if the police returned them to Billy. Though all I can say is that if those were
my
wingtips, they’d be in a trash bin somewhere right now. You think Ted had some kind of shoe fetish?”

“Beats me. I can’t come up with any good reason for a grown man to be wearing another man’s shoes like that.”

Darla thought a moment, and then snapped her fingers.

“Wait—I’ve got it. I know how this whole thing went down. Ted snuck into Billy’s room because he wanted those wingtips. Billy caught him wearing his precious shoes, freaked out, and killed him, then went down to the restaurant to create an alibi. He planned to go back up to the room and ‘find’ Ted dead, not expecting us to have found him first. Billy is the killer. Slam-dunk case.”

“Interesting motive,” Jake replied with a grin, “but slow down, Nancy Drew. Taking the wingtips out of the mix, if Pope
had
killed Stein and was trying to create an alibi for himself, he sure blew it, coming back up to the room alone like that. He had no way of knowing that Stein’s body had already been found, and half the Fort Lauderdale PD was already there to witness him walking up after the fact. If he was the killer, he would have made sure that Alicia or someone from the show was with him when he came back to the room. That way, he’d have an eyewitness who could testify to his shock at discovering the body.”

“Oh, right.”

Feeling deflated that Jake had so readily punched holes in her theory, Darla decided to give crime fighting a rest for a minute. Instead, she encouraged a toddler who’d given a happy little shriek at the sight of Hamlet to come closer. After the boy’s parents had snapped the obligatory camera photo of the little boy flashing a gummy grin at the oversized feline, Darla tried again.

“So does Detective Martinez have any idea of a motive, or a suspect?”

“If she does, she’s not sharing. Though, from what everyone says, Stein was a class-A jack wagon who ticked people off right and left, so any number of folks might have wanted him dead. I know
I
wanted to strangle him while I was sitting in at that board meeting the other night at Ma’s condo.”

“But that still leaves Hamlet’s kidnapping. The fact that Hamlet was in Billy Pope’s room has to mean something.” Darla halted long enough to scoop up Hamlet and snuggle him protectively in her arms . . . only to set him right back down again when he gave a little rumble that definitely was not a purr.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jake replied. “Hamlet could have escaped from whoever took him and just happened to be on Billy’s balcony when we found him. Those balconies are close enough that you could hold hands with the person on the one next to you. He could have hopscotched around out there for a while until we noticed him.”

Darla considered that a moment. “That could explain why I never got a ransom note or call. The person who took Hamlet didn’t have him as a hostage long enough to do anything.”

“Maybe. But now that Hamlet is safe and sound with us, all that is Sam’s problem.”

By unspoken agreement, they dropped the subject of Ted Stein’s death as they browsed the vendor tables, the occasional ring announcement the only interruption to the murmur of voices—human and feline—that was the soundtrack of the show. Darla finally broke down and bought the cat-shaped pillows she’d been lusting after. And then it was off to pay another visit to the Tropical Adoptables rescue booth.

Trixie was still there, the little Siamese bounding about the pen on her three legs with her fellow kittens. Darla noticed that all ten of the tiny cats now wore bright paper collars, eight of them blue, and Trixie’s and a little black female’s both yellow.

“The ones in blue are spoken for,” the middle-aged blond rescue woman, who had introduced herself as Marie, explained. “Their prospective new owners have filled out their paperwork and put down a deposit, and once we do the background checks, they can pick up their new kitties from our shelter and take them to their forever homes. The other two are still waiting for someone to adopt them.”

“I can’t believe no one wants that little black one,” Darla exclaimed. “Look how sweet she is. She looks like a miniature Hamlet.”

The rescue woman shook her head. “Special needs cats like Trixie, and black cats like Nera, are our hardest placements. Most people don’t want to take a chance on a cat that has issues, even if that cat can live a perfectly long and healthy life. And in the case of Nera, you won’t believe how many folks still think black cats are unlucky and refuse to own one.”

“Ridiculous,” Darla muttered. It was hard to fathom that some people still clung to such medieval beliefs, though she’d seen for herself the occasional bookstore customer steering clear of Hamlet simply because of his fur color. Although to be fair, in Hamlet’s case, there might have been a number of other possible reasons to stay out of the feline’s way.

Jake, meanwhile, pulled a pen out of her jacket. “Hand over the clipboard, Marie,” she addressed the rescue worker. “I’m going to adopt Trixie.”

“Fantastic! You won’t regret it, believe me.”

Digging out a clipboard with a long form attached, a smiling Marie gave Jake the paperwork. Then, while the PI began filling in the blanks, the woman shot Darla a hopeful look. “That just leaves Nera. You sure that handsome fellow of yours doesn’t need a little sister? I’ve got another clipboard.”

By way of answer, Hamlet leaned closer to the cage and hissed at the would-be sibling. Darla winced and pulled him back from the pen.

“Sorry, I think that’s a no. Hamlet is pretty much an only cat. But if you give me your contact information, I’d be happy to post something on my website for any of our mail-order customers in this area.”

By the time Jake finished her paperwork, Darla and Marie had exchanged cards and were swapping cat stories like old friends. Jake set the clipboard down and leaned into the pen, scooping the tiny Siamese into her arms.

“How’s tricks, Trix?” she asked in a high-pitched voice that an amused Darla had never before heard out of her friend. “Does hers want to come home with me?”

Trixie seemed on board with that suggestion, for she promptly snuggled against Jake’s shoulder, leaving a new sprinkling of silver cat hair on the black fabric.

Darla smiled. “You don’t have to worry about contacting Jake’s landlady,” she told Marie. “That’s me, and I officially give her permission to keep a cat in her apartment.”

She signed the approval block on the form that Marie indicated and then turned her attention to Hamlet. “Looks like you’re getting a new neighbor,” she informed the cat. “I hope you like her better than Nera.”

Hamlet flicked a whisker but made no comment, which Darla took as a good sign. “All right, boy. If Jake can say good-bye to her little friend, we’ve got to head back to your pen to greet more of your fans.”

With seeming reluctance, Jake returned the kitten to Marie, who had pulled out a blue paper collar. Bending down to tear the kitten’s yellow collar off, she then fastened the blue one around Trixie’s neck.

“Another happy ending,” she exclaimed, looking close to tears as she handed Jake a sheet of paper. “Here are the directions to the shelter. Assuming everything goes well with your background check, you should be able to pick her up anytime after Thursday.”

“Our flight leaves Sunday morning, so how about Saturday a.m.? Darla and I plan to do some sightseeing for the rest of the week, and it wouldn’t be fair to Trixie to bring her to my mother’s condo just to leave her there alone.”

“Perfect. We’ll see you Saturday morning. Enjoy the rest of the show and your stay here in Florida.”

Leaving the kittens to pounce upon each other like tiny tigers, the two women plus Hamlet headed back in the direction of the stage. Darla glanced at her friend and saw Jake grinning like a kid who’d won a prize at the state fair.

“Looking forward to litter boxes and shedding cat hair, are you?” Darla asked with a matching smile.

Jake nodded. “Yeah, it’s gonna be fun. Would you believe Trixie will be my first pet ever?”

“Seriously?”

“Ma didn’t want to take care of a bunch of animals when we were growing up, and once I was accepted into the academy, I knew I wouldn’t have time to take proper care of a cat or dog. But now that I’m my own boss, I’ll be able to work my schedule however I want to. And since Robert is right next door with Roma, I’m sure I can persuade him to swap pet-sitting duties with me and Trixie.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Darla agreed. “And I’ll be your backup.”

They returned to Hamlet’s pen, where a small group of kids and their parents were waiting for the famous feline. Darla set him back inside the cage and unhooked the leash from his harness. Freed of his tether, Hamlet hopped onto the nearest bookshelf. Then, to the delight of the children, he leaped from that shelf to the next one, and all the way to the end, and then jumped his way back again, just like a circus cat.

Jake snorted. “If there was ever any question why that cat was named Hamlet, this explains it . . . at least, the ‘ham’ portion of it.”

“He’s definitely enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame,” Darla agreed. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with him when we get back to Brooklyn.”

Then she glanced down at the floor of his bookstore cage. “Wait, where did that book come from?”

“I don’t know. It probably fell down while he was doing his Cirque du Soleil routine.”

“Watch the cage door for me while I grab it, will you?”

Not waiting for Jake’s reply, Darla opened the cage and, to the further amusement of the children, quickly crawled inside. Apparently not on board with sharing his spotlight, Hamlet shot her a disapproving look but made no other protest. While Jake held the door firmly closed behind her, Darla scooted her way around one shelf and grabbed the fallen volume before scooting backward in the direction from which she’d come.

“That lady thinks she’s a cat, too,” one of the grade-schoolers piped up, prompting giggles from the rest of the kids.

Darla crawled out and rose, tucking the book under her arm and giving the children a fair imitation of Hamlet’s meow. She waited until the group had their fill of posing with him and moved on before she took a look at the book she had retrieved.

“
The Shoes of the Fisherman
,” she read aloud. A heraldic crest was the sole illustration on the cover, which gave her no clue as to its content. She looked at Jake. “I vaguely recognize the title, but I don’t know what it’s about. Wasn’t a movie made of it?”

“Yeah. Ma loved that film, so I had to watch it about a hundred times when I was growing up. It’s all about electing a pope.”

Not noticing that Darla was staring at her in alarm, Jake continued, “The whole title is symbolic. St. Peter was the first pope, and he was a fisherman, so all the popes that followed were said to be stepping into his shoes. And it was kind of eerie, because the book was written in the sixties, but it almost predicted Benedict . . . you know, the pope who resigned a while back. And then—”