Double Booked For Death

“Darla? Darla, are you there?” came Mary Ann’s worried voice breaking through her unsettling reverie. “My dear, I was only joking about a poltergeist,” the woman said, punctuating those words with a nervous-sounding chuckle. “I hope you didn’t take me seriously. I’ve lived in this building all my life, and believe me, there are no ghosts here. Would you like me to come over, just to make you feel better?”

“Well . . .”

Darla hesitated, tempted to take her up on the offer. But, just as with Jake, she didn’t want the woman trudging up and down two flights of stairs for no good reason. While spry for her age, Mary Ann had gone through at least one knee-replacement surgery. And besides, now that Darla had allowed herself more time to consider all possibilities, the only reasonable explanation was that Hamlet had been the culprit after all.

“Mary Ann, you’re a champ. I appreciate your offer, but it’s not necessary,” she assured the other woman. “I think you’re right, and Hamlet was just looking for some attention. Detective Reese should be stopping by to see Jake later, so I’ll ask if he thinks there’s any cause for alarm.”

“That’s a sensible idea, Darla,” Mary Ann said in an approving tone. “But I’ll keep my eyes open, anyway, and you can call me if anything else strange happens.”

They exchanged a few final pleasantries, and then Darla hung up to find Hamlet back among the books. This time, with one large paw, he was methodically knocking the carefully arranged books, one at a time, onto the floor. Each landed with a small thud atop the previous into what was becoming a new pile. This stack, however, had a distinctly haphazard appearance to it.

“Enough with the books, Hamlet,” she sternly told him, setting down her phone to shoo him away. The entire situation was making her brain hurt. Better to hurry and reshelve the volumes, and put an end to the strange incident.

But first, she had to deal with Marnie.

Darla marched down the two flights of stairs with no clear plan in mind for confronting the woman. In fact, she couldn’t say exactly why she was so outraged by the woman’s presence there at the Valerie shrine. She’d never seen anything in Emily Post’s column about it being bad manners to hang around an accident site where you were the one responsible for the victim’s death. And there was nothing wrong about exercising one’s First Amendment rights in a public setting, no matter that said person’s opinions fell somewhere between outright mean and bat-pooh crazy. Technically speaking, since she couldn’t claim aggrieved relative status, it wasn’t even Darla’s business what the woman did.

Maybe it was simply the figurative bad taste that Marnie’s original, caps-filled letter had left in Darla’s mouth that made her want to speak her piece to the woman.

By the time she reached the sidewalk, the two teens who Marnie had been lecturing had escaped. The woman had buttonholed another victim, however: this one, a boy who looked no more than fourteen. As Darla drew closer, she could see that despite his somewhat threatening appearance—lots of black leather, black denim, and various bits of chain and metal, including what adorned his ears and nose—he appeared on the verge of tears as he listened to her spiel.

“Now, you do know that the Lord Jesus Christ smites those who read Valerie Baylor’s books instead of his word,” Darla overheard her declare. “Much as I hate speaking ill of the dead, I must tell you that she is already suffering the agonies of hellfire for polluting young minds with her blasphemous writings. If you don’t want to join her in Satan’s domain when you die, you must reject her teachings and accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior. Do you understand me, son?”

Her soft, twangy accent somehow made the callous words seem even harsher. The boy was attempting to back away from her, but he’d maneuvered himself up against a stoop, leaving him no choice but to stand there. For, despite the fact he’d been polluted with blasphemy, he also appeared too polite to simply push past Marnie and make his escape that way.

Darla’s redhead temper—the one she kept in check ninety-nine percent of the time—flared to volcanic life. If there was one thing she despised, it was a bully . . . male or female.

“Back off, Marnie,” she said in a stern voice as she approached. To the youth, she went on in a kinder tone, “It’s all right, I’ll take care of her.”

With a grateful nod, the boy skittered past them and ran down the street, chains jangling. Marnie, meanwhile, whipped about to face Darla.

“How dare you interrupt me in doing the Lord’s work?” she demanded, outrage tingeing her cheeks and lips scarlet, so that she looked like she’d dipped into Mavis’s makeup kit. Wide blue eyes narrowing, she leaned closer. “I was opening that boy’s mind to the truth. Why, look at this,” she cried with a gesture toward the flowered tribute. “They might as well be worshipping at the feet of a golden calf!”

She had a point, Darla thought with an inner snort as she surveyed the burgeoning mound of flowers; still, that didn’t excuse the woman’s outrageous behavior. Striving for a bit of calm, she went on, “I know you and your church don’t approve of Valerie Baylor’s books, but that doesn’t give you the right to censor what other people read. And you certainly have no right to bully minor children into submission. Why, I bet you’ve never even read one of her books.”