Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery) (19 page)

“Good point.”

Jake gave Darla an approving nod as she fished out part of the poster board that had drifted to the shallow end. “Alicia would be high on the radar for me if this were my case. But sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one. And that pretty well narrows it down to Billy, despite what Ma thinks.” Then the PI shook her head. “But we’re still missing some of the basic puzzle pieces. We don’t know for sure that Ted was the one who attacked me and took Hamlet, and we don’t know how he got into Billy’s room either.”

“So all we really have is a whole bunch of ‘don’t knows’.”

“Exactly.

Darla sighed. “We might as well settle on ‘Mrs. Peacock in the library with the candlestick’ and be done with it. Tell me again why we’re doing this on our vacation?”

“Because you and Ma decided you wanted to play private eye.” Groaning, Jake dragged herself upright again and picked up her shoes. “Let’s leave the detecting to Sam, okay? We can go back upstairs and stream a Gidget movie or two to get us in the mood for the beach tomorrow.”

“Works for me,” Darla agreed with a final splash as she also stood and gathered her footwear. Glancing up at the screened balcony, she added, “And I owe Hamlet a walk, too. Let me see how restless he is when we get back upstairs.”

They found Hamlet still peacefully snoozing, so Jake did as promised and downloaded the movie via Nattie’s surprisingly sophisticated entertainment center. Nattie was already camped out on the sofa. The three of them settled in to watch a lighthearted little beach film, which Darla had never seen before. They’d just reached the part where Gidget hired one of the surf bums as her date to a luau to make Moondoggie jealous, when Hamlet decided he needed an evening walk after all.

“Me-oooow!”
he called from where he had planted himself at the front door and was scratching at the panel with his front claws.

“Count on you to wait until I’m all comfortable,” Darla grumbled, shooting the cat an aggravated look as he continued to meow and scratch. Finally, she rose from where she’d been curled up in the rattan chair. “Fine, we’ll go for a walk, but it’s going to be a short one.”

“We can pause the movie if you like,” Jake volunteered from her own cozy spot on the sofa next to Nattie, raising the remote control in preparation.

Darla shook her head. “That’s okay. We won’t be gone long.”

Hamlet, satisfied that he’d gotten his way, deigned to sit quietly while Darla found his harness and leash, and then fastened them on him. The look he turned on her was angelic as, with a final pat on the door and a little
meow-rumph
, he waited for her to open it. Tapping into her inner Sandra Dee, Darla gave Jake and Nattie the “hang loose” pinkie and thumb wave—made famous by Hawaiians, surfers, and one president—then followed Hamlet out into the hall.

A brief elevator ride later, they were in the lobby. “Pool or driveway?” she asked the cat.

He didn’t ponder the question but made an immediate turn toward the front doors. Hoping that Mitzi the Maltese or the old white poodle hadn’t chosen this same time to take a potty break, Darla trotted after him and opened the doors.

The fountain splashed before them, its cascading water glowing blue from the underwater lights in each tier. She caught a faint whiff of chlorine, overlaid by the inviting scent of night-blooming jasmine that wafted from somewhere nearby. After the hoopla of the memorial service, it was nice to simply enjoy the South Florida night.

Hamlet seemed pleased with their little jaunt as well, trotting down the lighted drive with his black tail streaming behind him like a banner. Occasionally he stopped to sniff the night air, perhaps catching the scent of a Florida mouse on a night mission. It was cooler out now, but Darla didn’t mind the faint chill. Apparently, she’d been in New York long enough that temperatures in the fifties constituted shorts weather, she thought in amusement.

Hamlet trotted over to the nearest patch of lawn, springing back with cat surprise when an equally startled toad hopped away from the spot he’d been sniffing. He would have pursued it, but Darla gave a firm tug on the leash.

“No toads, Hammy. I overheard some of the people at the cat show talking about a nasty little toad species here in Florida that’s deadly poisonous to animals who lick them.”

Hamlet shot her a disappointed look but seemed to understand that amphibians were verboten. Still in search of adventure, however, he made a detour up a secondary drive. This one led from the showy circular driveway to the rear of the property, dead-ending at the condo building’s single-level covered parking structure. The drive ran parallel, first to the building and then to the waist-high stone planter spilling over with broad-leaved tropical plants that separated condo traffic from the rear landscaping. The wrought-iron fence a few yards on the other side of the planter wall was the same fence that enclosed the pool where the ill-fated memorial had been held. Even at a distance, Darla could see in the blue-lit water the remains of the poster and a couple of blooms that still swirled there like garnish in an oversized cocktail glass.

For safety’s sake, Darla coaxed Hamlet from the driveway onto the grass, though the uneven ground along the fence was not quite as conducive to walking.

Could use a few lights out here
,
Darla groused to herself as the toe of her sneaker caught on a protruding stone, almost tripping her. Hamlet, with his feline night vision, had no such difficulty and kept a steady pace going. Once or twice, he glanced back her way as if to say,
Pitiful human, can’t you keep up?

They had not gone far, however, when a movement from the corner of her eye drew Darla’s attention. She glanced toward the pool again to see that someone—a woman—was walking around out there, carrying what appeared to be a cardboard box the size of an old-style computer monitor.

The newcomer looked up just then, light glinting off a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. It was Nattie’s friend, Mildred.

Pleased, Darla gave her a little wave. She started to call out to the woman when Hamlet abruptly leaped in front of Darla as if pouncing on another toad.

Momentarily distracted, she checked to see that the feline hadn’t caught some critter he shouldn’t have. When she looked up again, Mildred had left the gated pool area and was moving toward the drive.

At first, Darla was certain the woman must have seen her and Hamlet standing there in the shadows. Then she realized the old woman’s attention was focused on the parking garage. And something almost furtive in her body language made Darla hesitate to hail her now.

Scooping up Hamlet, Darla shrank back farther into the shadows. She watched as Mildred, still cradling her box, made her way through a gap in the wall and walked into the parking garage.

Hamlet began to struggle in her grasp, a sure sign he wanted down. Darla complied, reminding herself it was none of her business what Mildred was doing. Chances were the building’s trash container was located nearby, and the woman was simply throwing something away. Still, given the strange events of the past few days, Darla knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep that night if she didn’t satisfy her curiosity.

Hamlet was already ahead of her on this plan. Crouching like a panther on the prowl, he moved forward toward the parking garage, putting one soft paw in front of the other without rustling a single blade of grass. Holding on to his leash, Darla trailed after him. She could see Mildred simply standing there, box still in her arms as she surveyed the half-empty structure.

Probably just throwing out some trash
, she inwardly repeated. Though, if that were the case, why was she lingering there in an empty parking spot? And then a set of headlights a few rows from her blinked twice.

FIFTEEN

A SIGNAL?

Sure enough, Mildred started toward the car that had flashed its lights. Darla took a deep breath and then looked down at Hamlet. “Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s see what old Mildred is up to.”

Hamlet gave a soft
meow-rumph
and led the way. Keeping to the shadows, Darla reached the parking structure as Mildred paused beside a rusty blue Volkswagen Beetle that had duct tape patching its torn cloth top. The driver had left the vehicle running, and even Darla’s nonexpert ears could tell the Bug needed a tune-up. Not the sort of car the condo folks regularly drove, she noted, spying several dozen high-end automobiles parked in owners’ slots.

Darla crouched lower and moved still closer. She was relieved that Mildred and the VW had chosen to meet in an illuminated spot; standing as she was in shadow, Darla knew she would be less visible to them. Hamlet, small in profile and already camouflaged in black fur, had no such worries.

Darla was a row away when the driver abruptly shut off the engine and opened the door, while Mildred handed over the box. Then Mildred turned and scampered back toward the pool area again before Darla ever got a glimpse of the driver.

Drat!

Darla hesitated, then slid a couple of more cars down the row until she was directly opposite the VW. Staring through the windows of a lower-end Lexus, Darla had a clear view of her target. Unfortunately, the driver was bent over the passenger seat so Darla still couldn’t see the person’s face.

Then two things happened almost simultaneously. The driver straightened, revealing herself to be a young woman with bleached-blond hair—Alicia’s daughter, Cindy. At the same time, Darla heard a tiny but distinct
meow
emanate from the battered Beetle, the sound causing Hamlet’s ears to flick curiously. The girl fired up her car and backed out of the parking spot. As she maneuvered around, Darla made a crouched sprint to the end of her row, arriving just in time to see the VW pass by.

“Darn it, Cindy’s gone,” she whispered to Hamlet, who appeared tired now of playing spy and was sniffing an interesting twig. The odd cat exchange she’d witnessed had to mean something . . . but what, she had no idea. Her best bet would be to brainstorm the situation with Jake later that night, after Nattie was asleep.

But when Darla opened the door to the condo, she saw that the conversation was going to have to be put off for quite a different reason: Mildred herself was sitting on the rattan sofa, looking comfortable and prepared to stay awhile. And there was no sign of Jake or Nattie.

“Hello, dear,” the woman said with a friendly wave and a smile revealing the ever-present spot of pink lipstick. “I just popped in to ask Nattie about the memorial service. I see you and Hamlet have been out and about?”

Darla managed a smile and a wave back before leaning down to unbuckle Hamlet. The cat leaped onto the rattan chair and gave the old woman a baleful look, not even bothering to pretend disinterest. Darla could only hope that Mildred didn’t question this obvious feline snub too closely.

“Oh, we just made a quick run outside so Hamlet could stretch his legs. Out front, to the fountain,” she added, to make sure Mildred would have no reason to wonder if they’d been prowling around near the pool. “Where are Jake and Nattie?”

“Jake ran off to the powder room, and Nattie wants to show me some kind of trick, though I must confess I’m not certain this is a good idea.”

“Eh, don’t be a stick-in-the-mud, Millie,” Nattie said as she came from the hallway dragging a large ironing board with a pink-flowered cover.

She propped it against the archway between dining and living room areas. As Darla watched in growing confusion, the old woman pulled one of the straight-backed dining chairs into the middle of the living room. Then she reached for the ironing board and laid it across the chair seat. A third of the ironing board overhung front and back, like a floral teeter-totter.

“Gidget did this on her bed,” Nattie explained to Mildred as she gripped the seatback and hiked one foot up onto the makeshift surfboard, “but I think this will work better on a chair. It’ll be more like real surfing, don’t ya think?”

“Ma, get down and put the ironing board away before you hurt yourself!”

This from Jake, who stood at the hall doorway staring in horror at her mother. Nattie left her foot where it was and shot her daughter a peeved look. “You won’t let me take a surfing lesson, so this is the closest I’ll ever get to trying it,” she said, and hopped up onto the center of the ironing board.

“See? I’m surfing,” Nattie said, gaining her balance and striking a pose with arms flung wide. But her triumph lasted only a moment, as the ironing board began to wobble precariously.

Darla gasped and started toward her, and even Mildred sprang up from her seat. Jake, however, was faster than both of them. She grabbed Nattie just in time to prevent the old woman from taking a nasty tumble.

“Down,” Jake demanded once Nattie regained her balance. She continued to hold on to her mother’s arm until Nattie reluctantly clambered off her ersatz surfboard.

“Eh, I almost had it,” the old woman said with very un-Gidgetlike snort. “I just need a little more practice.”

“Practice, my rear end. You try that stunt again and break a hip, and I swear I’ll put you in a nursing home.”

“Why don’t you ever want me to have any fun? I might be old, but that don’t mean I’m dead,” Nattie declared. “And Mildred was a gymnast. I bet she can do it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can,” the other woman said with a smile and duck of her head, so that the overhead light flickered off her glasses. “But I always work with a spotter. And I’m sorry, Jake, but I really didn’t think she’d try it.”

“Not your fault, Mildred,” Jake answered, giving her mother a stern look. “Now, why don’t we all sit down and watch the rest of the movie like grownups.”

“Oh, I can’t stay,” Mildred replied with a flutter of her hands. “As I told Darla, I just wanted to ask Nattie how the memorial gathering went.”

“Hoo-boy, it was a doozy! And I even got some of it on video,” Nattie declared with a grin, pulling her phone from her pants pocket and waving it in delight. “How about we get together in the morning and I tell you all about it?”

Mildred brightened. “Actually, the formal memorial for Ted is tomorrow morning at a synagogue in West Palm Beach. Do you want to come with me and tell me about it on the way?”

“Sure, that would be great fun. I haven’t been to a good memorial in at least a month.” Then, when Darla and Jake both stared at her in dismay, she added, “What? You get to my age and you’ll like going to these things, too. It’s like a game, seeing how many people you outlive.”

Unsure whether to laugh or be horrified, Darla merely shook her head. As for Jake, she gave a longsuffering sigh.

“Ma, I thought you were going shell hunting on the beach early in the morning with me and Darla.”

“Eh, I’ve got seashells out the patoot. You girls go, and when Millie and I get back, we’ll drive around town and see the sights.”

“I’ll come over at nine o’clock and get you so we can be there early for good seats,” Mildred agreed.

Nattie walked her to the door, the “surfing lesson” forgotten in her glee over Ted Stein’s upcoming memorial. Jake shook her head and put the ironing board back herself, while Darla returned the chair to the table. Hamlet kept a cool green gaze fixed on everyone until Mildred was gone; then he jumped down from the chair again and slipped like a black shadow back into the guest room.

By the time the final credits rolled on the big-screen television, Darla had come up with a subterfuge to get Jake alone. . . . She’d say she lost a tag off Hamlet’s harness during their walk and needed Jake’s help outside to find it.

Fortunately, Nattie saved her the trouble, declaring, “I need to get my beauty sleep if I’m going to make that memorial in the morning. How about you girls lock up for me?”

“Will do, Ma. Sleep tight.”

Jake waited until Nattie had disappeared down the hall, and the faint sound of running water came from the master suite, before she turned to Darla.

“All right, kid. You’ve been twitching like Hamlet’s tail ever since you got back from that walk. What’s going on?”

Darla gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I thought I was being pretty subtle. I hope your mother didn’t notice anything.”

“She only notices things when it suits her. Now go ahead—spill.”

Darla needed no further encouragement to relate what she’d seen with Mildred, Cindy, and the mysterious box. Jake asked no questions, though her expression went from concerned to perplexed as Darla described the final, incriminating meow she had heard.

“I don’t get it,” the PI said when Darla finished. “Maybe some sort of clandestine rescue thing going on? Could it have been Ted’s Minx cat?”

“I guess that’s a possibility,” Darla agreed. “But I think Ted’s sister was going to take his cat. And Mildred was so . . . so sneaky about it. Maybe they’re dealing in stolen champion cats?”

Jake gave her a slanted look. “What, you think Cindy is selling blue-ribbon kitties in some back alley to support her drug habit? And Mildred gets a cut of the action, too?”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .”

Darla trailed off with a reluctant smile and shook her head. “Okay, I agree. I probably overreacted. Chances are whatever happened between Cindy and Mildred was perfectly innocent.”

“Don’t worry, kid. Enough hinky stuff has been going on these past few days that I don’t blame you for thinking the worst.”

“Thanks. But speaking of hinky stuff, do you think Detective Martinez is any closer to figuring out who killed Ted Stein . . . and who hit you and stole Hamlet?”

Jake shrugged. “It’s not like back home, where I’m still part of the good old blue rumor mill. But I’ll put in a call to Sam in the morning, see if she’s made any progress on the case. Besides,” she added as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her own phone, “Ma’s not the only one who did a little clandestine filming during the memorial service. I figure after we do our shell hunting in the morning that we meet up with Sam and show this to her.”

*   *   *

“SERIOUSLY, DARLA, ARE YOU PLANNING ON CARRYING THAT WHOLE BAG
of seashells back to Brooklyn?” Jake asked the next morning as they packed up their towels and other gear after a couple of hours on the beach.

Nattie had been the first to head out from the condo—wearing her funeral chapeau, as Jake had dubbed the flamboyant black hat—and had departed with Mildred for Ted Stein’s official memorial. Once she’d left, Darla and Jake had thrown on their swimsuits and borrowed some of Nattie’s beach gear before absconding in her Mini Cooper in search of sun and surf. Darla had left Hamlet behind at the condo contentedly lounging on the balcony and catching some rays.

Now, Darla looked down at the bulging plastic grocery bag she’d been diligently filling all morning. Her best find had been what another shell hunter had told her was a Scotch bonnet. Slightly larger than Hamlet’s paw but cream colored and accented with rows of tan, rectangular splotches, it was a petite, sleek little cousin to those giant conchs whose pink-mouthed selves gaped from the shelves of every local gift shop.

“You’re right. Once I got them home, they’d probably just sit in a box somewhere, anyhow,” Darla said, pulling the Scotch bonnet out as a keeper. She handed the rest of her morning’s collection off to a couple of nearby grade-schoolers who were delighted to add her shells to their collection.

She tucked the empty bag into her tote to properly dispose of later—a lifeguard had warned her that turtles frequently mistook floating grocery bags for their favorite food, the moon jellyfish, and swallowed them with often fatal results. Then she reached for the sleeveless, green batik tank dress that she was using as a cover-up and pulled it on over her pale green two-piece. Given that she had a redhead’s typical fair complexion, which freckled and burned rather than tanned, Darla had slathered on plenty of sunscreen even though the sun hadn’t reached its peak.

Jake, with her olive skin, had no such similar worry, not even bothering with a ball cap like Darla wore to keep the sun off her face. The older woman had gone for a classic black maillot, halter-strapped and ruched. On anyone else the suit might have looked frumpy, but Jake gave it a distinct bad-girl vibe, probably because the high-cut legs showed off the unmistakable scar that ran like a thin purple lightning bolt from hip to halfway down her thigh.

This was the first time that Darla had ever seen evidence of the woman’s career-ending injury, though she’d watched Jake set off the metal detector at the airport security checkpoint because of the various pins in her leg. Jake caught her glancing at it and shrugged.

“Guess it kind of ruins my chances of a career in nude modeling,” she said with a smile, “but compared to some of those nasty chest scars I’ve seen on the cops who’ve had open-heart surgery, this is nothing. But I’ve been thinking about maybe getting it tattooed . . . you know, turn the scar into a snake or a flower vine or something.”