Double Booked For Death
- Автор: Брэндон Али
- Серия: A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery #1
- Год: 2011
- Язык: английский
- Год: Penguin
- ISBN: 0425244970
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Double Booked For Death». Краткое содержание книги:
Reese had apparently already calculated the advantages of having a car at his disposal—particularly one that was likely eight or ten steps above what he normally drove when on duty—for he nodded as he grabbed his jacket. “Sure, Red. You can come, but you’re only there to ID the girl if Jake doesn’t spot her first. No chasing suspects on foot. Or running them over.”
Darla was already digging into her purse for her keys, when she halted and gave Reese a stony look. Jake, who knew the cause of her sudden ire, grinned broadly.
“Hey, Reese,” she said, “you’d better retract that, or you’re gonna be walking the whole way to the Village.”
“Retract what?” he demanded, looking from her to Darla in bemusement.
Before Darla could explain, Jake cheerfully went on, “You just broke the first commandment of Darla: thou shalt not ever call her ‘Red.’ That is, not if you value your man parts.”
Reese’s bemused look turned faintly disbelieving, but he took a prudent step back anyhow as he asked, “Okay, and why not?”
“Because my ex-husband used to call me that,” Darla spoke up in a tight voice.
Reese shrugged and raised both hands in mock surrender. “Good enough reason for me. Sure, Darla, you can come.”
“Fine.”
She jangled the keys, feeling a bit embarrassed at her abrupt reaction to the nickname, which she knew had been meant in a comradely way. Face it, she told herself, with hair this color, there’s always someone who’s going to call you that. Time to toughen up.
Summoning a conciliatory smile to smooth things over, she added, “So, what are we waiting for?”
They walked quickly over to the garage, where Darla took the service elevator to the level where her late aunt’s sleek, midnight blue sedan sat patiently parked. She unlocked it and slipped behind the wheel, not bothering to suppress the reflexive “ahh” as she sunk into the cushy leather seat in contrasting gray. A hint of Dee’s favorite perfume still lingered, despite the fact it had been half a year since the last time the old woman had driven it.
Darla had never owned a car this nice. Her ex had somehow always ended up with the more expensive vehicle in the family. His excuse had been that his job often entailed whisking customers about town, and he couldn’t very well pick them up in a cloth-seated compact. Whenever it came time for her to purchase a new car, however, he invariably laid the whole environmentally conscious guilt trip on her and insisted that, since her commute was longer, she should opt for a cheaper, more fuel-efficient model. And so she’d spent most of her adult life driving cars that sipped fuel but did little to nourish her inner diva. By contrast, her inherited Mercedes barely got double-digit mileage in town, but compensated for that lack with its air of pure luxury that made her feel to the manner born.
Darla had last driven the car about two weeks earlier, and so she held her breath as she waited for the engine to turn over. To her relief, it caught with a purr that would have put Hamlet to shame. She slid open the moonroof and then put on the eighties-era pair of black-framed Wayfarers that she had found tucked behind the visor the first time she drove the car.
She wasn’t sure if said sunglasses had belonged to Great-Aunt Dee or the last of her late husbands. Still, in Darla’s opinion the retro eyewear added a nice, adventurous vibe to her usual sedate fashion choices. She didn’t have time this day, however, to admire the effect in the rearview mirror. Instead, she hastily put the Mercedes into gear, and a few moments later she was downstairs again at the entry where Reese and Jake awaited her. Both had donned sunglasses as well, though theirs were the mirrored, police-issue variety.
She powered down the driver’s side window and frowned in Reese’s direction.
“No way,” she told him when he appeared headed toward her door. “The computer’s one thing, but no one drives Maybelle except me. You can ride shotgun.”
She thought for a moment he’d argue the point. To his credit, however, he only said, “Nice shades,” and opened the rear passenger door for Jake. Then, politely closing it after her, he walked around to the front passenger side.
Jake, meanwhile, had leaned over the front seat, chin almost on Darla’s shoulder. “That was pretty bold of you, telling a Jersey boy he has to sit there and let a broad drive him around,” she said with a grin. “Now, show a little compassion and don’t rub it in.”
“I won’t,” she promised as Reese opened his door and slid in. He shot her a look. Or so she presumed, since she technically couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses.
“You won’t what?” he said.
“I won’t break any traffic laws getting there. Now, how about some directions, before the Lone Protester flies the coop again?”
Reese gave her the name of their destination, which was literally “A Cuppa Joe”—she had thought he was indulging in cop-speak before—and pointed her in the direction of the expressway. Once they were well on their way, he settled back in his seat and gave an experimental sniff.
“Smells like Chanel No. 5.”
“Yep. That was Great-Aunt Dee’s favorite.”
Darla managed a fond smile even as she negotiated a tricky lane change and then ignored sign language from the driver she passed.
“I can remember her wearing it from the time I was a little girl,” she went on. “I think the scent permanently permeated the seat leather of this car after ten years of her driving it. The apartment used to smell the same way, but now it’s dissipated. I kind of miss it, though.”
“Yeah, my ma liked Chanel No. 5, too. She’d save up a whole year to buy herself one of those little bitty bottles, and she’d make it last until the next year. I always told her someday I’d buy her a whole vat of it, so she could bathe in it if she wanted, but I never got the chance.”
Darla glanced Reese’s way in time to see him shrug. From the way he let the subject trail off, she had to assume his mother was long dead. She didn’t know him well enough yet to broach a potentially awkward subject like that, so instead, she took the safe way out and asked, “Is this my turn coming up?”
“Next block,” he told her. “And while we’ve got a minute, how about a description of your girl? Jake’s already given me hers, but we’d better compare notes in case she changed her hair or put on glasses or something.”
As Darla relayed what she’d noticed, another thought occurred to her.
“Wait. I know someone else who has seen her up close and personal. Juanita Hillburn.” When he merely stared at her, expression quizzical, Darla added, “She’s one of the local television news people. You know, blond, obnoxious, in-your-face.”
“Reese doesn’t watch anything except ESPN and the History Channel,” Jake interjected with a grin.
Reese gave her a quelling look over his shoulder and then asked Darla, “This Hillburn woman . . . when would she have seen the girl?”
“The day of the autographing. She was interviewing me and mentioned she’d also talked to the Lone Protester. You must have noticed her news van on the street.”
“Yeah, well, I was kinda busy then, and that was before your author got herself killed,” he said with a shrug as he reached for his cell phone again. “I’ll have someone check that out with Hillburn. Maybe she’s got some tape we can pull. What station did you say she was on?”
Darla gave him the call letters while he dialed his precinct. Once he’d relayed that bit of information, he snapped the phone shut again with a satisfied nod. “If we need it, it’s ours. Now, turn here.”
They reached the coffee shop a few minutes later. A young couple and a college-aged boy sat at two of the three outdoor tables, meaning the Lone Protester—if she was still there—must be enjoying her brew inside the café. As to be expected, every parking spot on the block was taken, except for one Mercedes-sized opening in a restricted loading zone.