Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery) (18 page)

Darla nodded. “I’ll live.” Limping a little, she hurried into the apartment to find Hamlet patiently waiting next to the locked sliders.

“You little so-and-so,” she grumbled as she opened the glass door. “Fine, go out.”

With another tail flick, Hamlet strolled out onto the balcony and made a graceful leap up onto the railing. There, he settled with paws tucked to his chest and turned wide emerald eyes on Darla.
Me, I’m a good kitty
, that innocent expression seemed to be saying.

Darla snorted. “Yeah, right,” she said and turned to head toward the guest room. “Now let’s see how in the heck you got out.”

Nattie, however, had already solved the mystery.

“Gee, sorry, Darla. I forgot all about that linen cupboard,” she said from the hallway, pointing to the open cabinet door on the wall near Darla’s room. “You can get to it from inside the bathroom, too.”

Darla went into the guest bath to find a similar cabinet door also standing wide open. Peering straight ahead past the towels, she could see the wall that separated the bathroom from Nattie’s master suite. But, glancing to her left, she saw the second opening and the hall beyond, where Nattie stood looking back at her. Obviously, Hamlet had discovered this clever little architectural feature and played it to his advantage.

“Don’t worry, dear,” the old woman told her with a grin at the cat’s cleverness. “Hamlet seems well behaved enough that I’m sure it’s fine to let him wander the condo all he wants.”

“Well behaved, my . . . posterior region,” Darla muttered, editing herself at the last minute and channeling James. “But on the bright side, he’ll be with us the rest of tonight, so I’ll be able to keep an eye on him.”

Darla shut the linen cabinet and marched into the guest room to make sure Mr. Claims-to-Be-a-Good-Kitty had not wreaked—or was it wrought?—any degree of havoc in her absence. To her relief, her luggage appeared intact, the pillows and comforter on the bed undisturbed, and the closet door closed.

Maybe he’s a good kitty after all
, she thought with an indulgent smile. And then she walked around the bed and saw the box of scattered paperwork.

What appeared to be paid bills, bank statements, and various legal documents blanketed the sand-colored carpet back there. With a groan, Darla dropped to her knees and started gathering the pages. How she would ever get them rearranged, she had no idea. The best she could do was scoop them up and then confess Hamlet’s transgression to Nattie. She was straightening the first stack of paperwork when the old woman chose to check up on her.

“Darla, do you think it’s okay if I take Hamlet—”

She broke off and stared at Darla, offended. “Hey, whaddaya doing with my papers? They’re private, you know.”

“Oh, Nattie, I’m so sorry,” Darla replied. “Hamlet got into some trouble after all. He pulled down this whole box of paperwork. I was trying to clean it up for you.”

“Eh, that’s okay then,” the old woman said, her expression relaxing as, with much cracking and creaking of joints, she knelt beside Darla. “Here, just toss it all back in the box, and I’ll reorganize it another time.”

They made short work of the cleanup and then regrouped in the living room, where Jake sprawled on the rattan couch. “It’s four o’clock now,” Jake said with a look at her watch. “Why don’t we kick back awhile before we go out to dinner?”

“That will give me a chance to check in with James and catch up on email,” Darla agreed.

Nattie nodded as well. “I wouldn’t mind resting my eyes for a few minutes.”

Since Hamlet made no objection, either, Jake flipped on a movie while Darla and Nattie each retired to their respective rooms. Darla finished unpacking and then set up her laptop on the dresser, dragging over the small cushioned Windsor chair in the corner to sit on.

James already had taken care of most of the store emails. And his message to her regarding the state of the Project, as she had begun thinking of the coffee-bar remodel, was briefer than usual . . . meaning only a single page on the screen.

You will be interested to know that Mr. Putin himself came in again to supervise the progress today. Even though everything is now plumbed in, he had a few ideas for improving the design. I discussed that with him at length. I did not necessarily agree with all his suggestions; however, he does have the construction expertise, and so I granted him permission to make the below substitutions.

James went on to list the various construction options he’d approved, among them a beveled edge rather than a bullnose for the countertop; bronze trim rather than copper; a U-shaped counter rather than an L-shaped one. He ended with a postscript.

I made an executive decision and ordered a gross of logo coffee cups, which should arrive sometime next week. While I, myself, would prefer fine china, these utilitarian mugs will be easier to clean and less prone to breakage. Besides which, I find myself agreeing with you regarding the marketing angle. JTJ

Smiling at that last, Darla went back and reread the message. She was tempted to ask him to send her pictures of the job after all, but she resisted the temptation. In matters of taste, she trusted James implicitly; besides which, it was going to be more fun to see the finished project for the first time in person. And so her reply to his message was simply,
Works for me
, followed by three smiley faces.

The second email from James, however, rated frown faces. It was in response to her message the previous night letting him know that Hamlet’s debut hadn’t gone quite as expected. She’d considered keeping him in the dark about that, at least until their return from Florida, but in the end had decided honesty—or, at least, an approximation of same—was her best bet. With her luck, he would have read something about it online and never forgiven her for saying nothing. And so she’d given him a sanitized version of events, earning the following reply:

Both Robert and I continue to be concerned about Hamlet’s well-being. I trust he is exhibiting no ill effects from his traumatic ordeal. Have the police determined a motive for his kidnapping? Oh, and we hope that Jake is well, too. James.

Postscript: I suspect from the restrained tone of your missive that you have not given me all the details, but you can be assured I will expect a full accounting upon your return. JTJ

She was about to reply to that one, when a third email from her store manager abruptly popped up on her screen. The subject line, in all caps to indicate shouting, read:
WHY DIDN’T YOU MENTION THE MURDER?

Since the precisely spoken Professor James only lapsed into shouting and the use of contractions when under extreme duress, Darla knew he was pretty ticked off about being kept out of this loop. Wincing, she opened the email to find a series of links to articles in Fort Lauderdale’s major daily newspaper, the
Sun Sentinel
. She didn’t need to click on them to guess to what news story they led. James’s only other comment in the body of the email was:
It is amazing what one can find on the Internet these days by simply Googling an event.

Darla debated whether she should call him to explain and beg forgiveness, or take the wimp’s way out and email her apology. Rationalizing that he was probably busy with customers, she typed out said apology along with an account of what had gone on over the past couple of days.

Conscience temporarily appeased, she finished her other emails and dashed off postcards to her parents and sister in Texas, and to her other sister in Washington State. By the time she was done, it was time to choose something to wear to supper on the patio at the Cuban diner that was also suitable for a poolside memorial service. Luckily, one of the outfits she’d brought was a pair of lightweight black linen pants with a matching black linen top stenciled with turquoise and white fish silhouettes . . . beachy-looking, yet in requisite black.

“Hey, Darla. The bus is leaving,” she heard Nattie call from the living room.

Grabbing up her purse and Hamlet’s lead, Darla went out to the balcony to get the ornery feline. Apparently, his nap had agreed with him, for Hamlet seemed in an almost playful mood as she snapped on the leash and walked him inside. The short ride to the diner was equally uneventful—at Darla’s request, they rode with the top up so as not to frighten Hamlet—and the diner’s staff seemed quite pleased to have the feline join the trio at their outdoor table.

They went with the daily special, which was a Cuban sandwich with black beans and rice on the side. The Cuban proved as tasty as Tino had promised. Made with ham, pork, Swiss cheese, pickles, and mustard on Cuban bread, and then flattened and grilled, the traditional sandwich reminded Darla of a panini. Even Hamlet approved, nibbling bits of pork that Darla cut onto a saucer for him. And the mango ice cream they had for dessert made Darla glad her linen pants had an elastic waistband.

By unspoken agreement, they kept the dinner conversation light and away from such topics as murders and arrests. Once back at the condo, Darla set up Hamlet with a buffet of snacks, courtesy of the “kitty bag” that their admiring waiter had pressed on Darla as he presented the check. Leaving him happily gnawing on yet another bit of pork, she went to throw away the takeout container when an argument in the living room between Nattie and Jake stopped her short.

“Seriously, Ma, it’s like wearing a long white dress to a wedding. You’ll draw attention away from the dearly departed. No way can you wear that to the service.”

“That”
was a vintage-style picture hat in black straw, trimmed with black veiling, black satin roses, and black velvet ribbons that perched on Nattie’s head. It looked like something that Mary Ann might sell in her antique shop, Darla thought in amused admiration, wondering where the old woman had found such a creation. Had Jake worn it, the six-foot-tall PI probably could have pulled off such dramatic headwear with aplomb; but on Nattie, it made her resemble nothing so much as an evil, pixielike mushroom.

“We’re in Florida. When else am I gonna wear a hat like this, except a funeral?” Nattie stubbornly demanded. “Besides, look at Darla. She’s wearing black.”

“Right, but she doesn’t look like Morticia Addams heading to the Kentucky Derby,” Jake countered. “Darla, you tell her.”

“Don’t ask me to take sides,” Darla said with a smile, raising her hands in a “not touching this” gesture. Then, promptly contracting herself, she added, “But if Nattie thinks she won’t be properly dressed for the ceremony without it, then I say she should wear the hat.”

“Fine,” Jake said, rolling her eyes. “You stand next to her. I’ll be in the next county over.”

“Thanks, Darla. You know how to treat an old woman with respect,” Nattie replied, smiling at Darla and then sticking her tongue out at her daughter. “Are we ready? I want to get a good spot so I can keep an eye on all the potential suspects.”

“Give me two minutes to re-pin my hair,” Darla told them, “and I’m set.”

She went into the guest bath and did a quick restyling before going back into the bedroom for a final check on Hamlet. While she could have taken him down to the pool with her, she suspected it might appear less than respectful should she show up to a memorial service with a cat in tow. Not to mention that she still wasn’t sure whether Ted had been Hamlet’s catnapper. And in any case, Hamlet could always watch from the balcony if he was truly interested.

He was lounging on the giant pineapple pillow when she walked in, looking more than satisfied after a meal of sliced ham and pork. “This is vacation food only,” she warned him. “When we get home, it’s back to your usual kibble.”

Darla turned to leave, when she noticed something white sticking out from beneath the bed. Apparently, they’d missed one of the far-flung documents that Hamlet had decided to decorate the guest room with.

She bent and picked it up, meaning to put it in the box with the other paperwork she’d packed, only to notice that the letterhead was that of the Lauderdale Tropics Condominium Board Association. She didn’t mean to read any farther, except that several phrases were in bold, with a few pertinent words in red. Suddenly feeling uneasy, she read the letter from start to finish.

By the time she reached the final paragraph, her heart was beating faster. And when she read the letter’s signature, she felt the Cuban sandwich do a little flip in her stomach. She folded the letter along its original creases, but instead of putting it back into the box, she tucked it into the pocket of her empty suitcase, which was sitting alongside the dresser.

Then she glanced up again to see Hamlet’s unblinking green gaze fixed upon her. Could his spilling of the box have been deliberate? He blinked at her, and she heaved deep breath.

“Oh, Hamlet,” she softly said. “I think may I know why someone killed Ted Stein.”

FOURTEEN

HAVING SEEN TED STEIN IN ACTION, DARLA HAD BEEN PREPARED
for one of those embarrassing memorial services, the kind where the few people who show up are relatives or coworkers who do so simply out of obligation. And maybe to do a little impromptu twerking on his figurative grave. So Darla was surprised to find what appeared to be close to the entire condo population gathered poolside to honor the late Ted Stein.

“Wow,” Jake murmured as the three of them walked down a candlelit path to join the somber crowd. “I hope this many people show up for me.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Darla whispered back. “You think maybe they’re serving drinks and appetizers afterward, and that’s what everyone is here for?”

Jake glanced at the little poolside tiki hut, devoid of any extraneous items save a lit candle arrangement, and shook her head.

“Cupboard looks bare,” she replied in the same low tones. “I guess they’re here because they actually liked the guy.”

“Eh, they didn’t know him like I did,” Nattie said, not bothering to lower her voice. Then, when a few others nearby shot her questioning looks, she pulled out a handkerchief and made a show of dabbing at her eyes.

“They didn’t know him,” she repeated with a dramatic sigh, “and now it’s too late. Such a tragedy. I can’t believe he’s really gone.”

“There, there,” a man’s quavering voice of approval spoke up from behind them. “Don’t worry, Nattie. We all feel the same way.”

The speaker was the same large old man Darla had seen swimming that morning in the pool. To Darla’s great relief, he was now wearing more than just the Speedo. In true snowbird fashion, he had on baggy navy blue shorts and a tight white polo shirt stretched so taut over his stomach she could make out his belly button. Standing beside him in a matching outfit was an old woman of similar girth, though half his height. Her helmet of hair was hennaed the same bright shade as Nattie’s.

“Georgie and I, we was just saying how awful it all is,” the woman proclaimed in a nasal accent that immediately pegged her as being yet another “New Yawk” transplant. “You’re not safe anywhere these days. Me, I carry the pepper spray everywhere I go.”

“That’s a smart move, Mae. I used to, until one day I didn’t have my glasses on and thought it was hairspray.” Nattie gave a little cackle; then, obviously recalling where she was, she sobered and went on, “You didn’t meet my daughter yet, and her friend.”

Nattie handled the quick introductions between them, adding, “That cat of Darla’s, he’s smart as a whip, and he can even walk on a leash. We’ll bring him down to visit you later.”

“Attention! Attention, everyone. We’re about to begin the service.”

The call came from the other side of the tiki bar, where someone had laid a spray of yellow carnations mixed with red snapdragons next to a propped-up poster board. Pinned to it were what looked like a series of Facebook pictures all featuring Ted—red drink cup or beer bottle in hand—hanging with people she assumed were various owners here at the Lauderdale Tropics. A few, she saw, were also of Ted and his Minx cats. Cute as the kittens looked, however, Darla got the vibe that the felines had been strictly business propositions for Ted.

The person who had called everyone to order was a middle-aged woman whose graying hair hung in two long braids. She wore khaki safari shorts topped by a matching short-sleeved jacket. Adding a punch of color to the drab outfit was a large, carved wooden necklace painted in primary colors that glowed in the artificial light.

“Rosalind Marcus,” Nattie whispered to her and Jake. “She’s on all the committees here. She likes to think she runs things, but she’s not even on the board.”

Rosalind, meanwhile, raised a hand for silence. Once the crowd settled down so that the only sounds were the rumble of nearby traffic and a chorus of peeping frogs, she began to speak.

“Thank you everyone for coming. We are here this evening to pay tribute to our dear friend, Ted Stein, who was heinously cut down in the prime of life.”

She paused dramatically, not needing to speak Billy Pope’s name aloud; plenty of the crowd murmured his name for her. Then, lifting a hand again, she continued, “But our purpose tonight is not to cast aspersions on . . . anyone. Instead, we pay homage to a man who worked tirelessly on behalf of his neighbors, looking out for their best interests, often to the detriment of himself.”

Rosalind went on in that vein for a couple more minutes, virtually asking for an “amen” every time she listed another of the man’s supposed virtues. All they needed was a documented miracle or two, Darla wryly thought, and Ted could be put up for sainthood, or the rabbinic equivalent thereof.

She glanced over at Jake, whose expression was carefully neutral. Still, it was obvious to Darla that, despite the PI’s claim of noninvolvement, she was discreetly gauging the reactions of the various condo owners. Nattie made no such similar pretense of casualness. Instead, her giant hat dipped this way and that as the old woman peered at friends and neighbors.

After finally hitting the five-minute mark—Darla had glanced at her watch when the woman started—Rosalind made a little bow and conceded the floor. “Please, if you have a memory of Ted you’d like to share, speak up.”

There was the usual awkward few seconds where everyone waited for someone else to go first. Then an older gentleman in a golf cap and plaid Bermudas raised a hand.

“I’d like to say a few words about old Ted. Sure, he had his way about him, but he was the only board member who stood up for the rest of us. He’s the only one who tried to find out what happened to the money that someone took out of our association account.”

A general murmur of assent followed that pronouncement. Another old man stepped forward and talked about a weekly golf foursome with Ted. Still another mentioned the monthly cookouts sponsored by the association, which had been instigated by Stein when he joined the board. Then a spindly old woman in a shockingly short pink tennis skirt waved veined fingers.

“Ted took care of my Maltese, Mitzi, when I had to visit my sister in the hospital for a week. And once, when I was late on my monthly association dues, he paid them for me so I wouldn’t get fined.”

At that last, Darla opened her eyes wide in surprise. Why would Ted Stein have paid this woman’s dues? For it had been his signature as board member on the letter Hamlet had snagged that she’d read—a letter threatening to place liens on all condominiums whose owners were in arrears when it came to monthly association fees.

“Oh, yeah?” another voice piped up, this one male. “Well, that son of a gun slapped a lien on my place because I missed
my
dues payment one month while I was on a cruise. He threatened to sell my condo right out from under me! I had to get a lawyer to stop it.”

“He brought me cookies when I broke my hip!”

“He said someone else’s dog poop was my dog’s and made me pick it up!”

“He bought everyone a round of drinks one night at the Divers’ Hut!”

“He made me repaint my door; said red wasn’t on the approved-color list!”

With that, the somber service promptly devolved into a Team Ted versus Team Not-Ted bit of verbal flurry. Darla prudently retreated behind the tiki bar, hoping the bamboo barrier would keep her out of the way of retirees gone wild. Jake had the same idea, for she grabbed Nattie by the sleeve and pulled her out of harm’s reach behind the bar as well.

“People, people!” Rosalind cried over the growing hubbub. “This is a hallowed occasion! Please stop fighting. You know that Ted wouldn’t want us to—
STOP!
”

That final shriek was in response to a scrawny, six-foot-tall geezer with a tonsure haircut who had snatched the Ted poster board off the bar top and ripped it into quarters. Then, with a manic grin, the man flung the pieces skyward. As the poster board fluttered into the pool, he stomped off to a chorus of mingled hisses and cheers.

That act of petty vandalism was enough to send half a dozen retirees diving for the flower spray. The winner proved to be a little white-haired woman wearing a daisy print muumuu and compression socks. Before she could carry the flowers off, however, Mitzi the Maltese’s pink-skirted owner rushed over. A struggle ensued between the pair until the arrangement they were fighting over erupted in a cascade of blooms that were promptly trampled beneath their sneakered feet.

And then a shrill whistle rent the air, the sound so piercing that Darla slapped her palms over her ears.

She looked around to see Nattie with two fingers in her mouth emitting the kind of whistle made to summon a cab from two blocks away. The high-pitched noise stopped the bickering condo owners in their respective tracks.

“You oughta be ashamed of yerselves,” the old woman shouted. “Here, Rosalind tried to do something nice, and yer acting like schoolkids. Now go back to yer condos, all of you.”

To Darla’s surprise, the scolding worked. Attitudes deflated, and the crowd began to disperse shamefacedly. A few of the more responsible ones stopped first to blow out the candles and toss bits of crushed flowers into the poolside trash bin.

Mae patted Nattie’s arm in approval as she walked by. “Good job. Someone needed to give them all a kick in the tush.”

“We can always count on you for that,” Georgie agreed with nod as he filed past.

Rosalind, still looking a bit shaken and carrying a few carnations that had survived the stampede, stopped long enough to say much the same thing.

“I know you and Ted didn’t care much for each other,” she added, “but it was good of you to break up that scene. You’ve got to wonder about people sometimes.”

“Yer right, Roz. Me, I just try to do the right thing” was Nattie’s pious reply. “Say, looks like we got a vacancy on the board now. Are you thinking about running?”

Linking arms with the woman, Nattie led Rosalind off toward the building, leaving only Darla and Jake remaining behind at the pool.

“And
that
is how you hold a memorial service,” Jake said with an appreciative grin. “If mine goes that good, I’ll be thrilled. I’ll bet our buddy Ted is feeling pretty proud right now.”

“Probably,” Darla absently agreed, watching the man’s floating images being chased about the water by the automatic pool sweeper. “You know, Jake, it seems like he sure stirs up a lot of strong feelings in people. Do you know if Detective Martinez is checking out any of the condo people as possible suspects?”

“I’m sure she’s got all the bases covered.” Jake gave her a keen look. “Why, did you notice something?”

“Not specifically, but Hamlet turned up something I think points at someone who lives here.”

Ignoring Jake’s smothered smile—the PI fluctuated between believing in Hamlet’s seemingly psychic-kitty skills and dismissing them as coincidence—Darla settled on the pool’s top step and pulled off her sandals so she could dangle her bare feet in the water. Jake joined her, casually kicking off her boat shoes to soak her feet in the cool water as well.

While the pool filters gently hummed, Darla explained how Hamlet had knocked down a box of Nattie’s papers, revealing the letter written by Ted Stein. On the surface, the missive had seemed merely an impersonal notification of association policy. But reading between the lines, Darla sensed more than a little spiteful bullying at work.

“Something in the way it was worded. It was like he couldn’t wait for someone to get in arrears with their payments,” she explained with a moue of distaste. “And his signature was this big flourish, like he was almost giddy with excitement at being the one to set the policy. That’s what some of the people here tonight were complaining about. He actually threatened to put liens on people’s condos if they got behind on their association dues.”

Jake raised a dark brow. “So you’re saying Ted was the designated hitter, so to speak, for the board?”

“Right. Remember the article about corruption on condominium boards? I wonder if Ted Stein actually got his hands on any units and resold them for a tidy profit. Maybe one of those foreclosed-on condo owners was still holding a grudge.”

Jake thought a moment, then grimaced. “Not a bad theory, but how would any of the condo people get into Billy’s hotel room to kill Ted? It’s not like the good old days when you could swipe a hotel room key off the pegboard.” She leaned back on the pebbled concrete. “Those keycards have to be programmed at the front desk, and half the time they get demagnetized when people put them too close to their cell phones and so forth.”

“What about Billy’s granddaughter, Cindy?” Darla asked. “I saw for myself that she has a thing for threatening people with glass objects. And maybe she didn’t like the way Ted tried to blackmail her grandfather. Billy could have given Cindy a key to his room.”

Jake shrugged. “Could be, but from what you’ve told me about her, it seems more likely she’d try to get in on the blackmail action, not put a stop to it.”

“How about Alicia?” Darla gave the surface of the pool an idle kick that sent a nearby floating stalk of red snapdragon bobbing. “Remember how she was standing right outside the hotel room when we went to rescue Hamlet? Just because she claimed to be going in doesn’t mean we didn’t actually catch her leaving after she’d done in Ted.” Then, as another thought occurred to her, Darla added, “Oh, and she used to be a ‘Pope’ before she got married, so that still works for the
Shoes of the Fisherman
book clue.”