Double Booked For Death

FIFTEEN

WITH THE MARNIE SITUATION SETTLED—OR SO DARLA hoped!—she spent the next hour or so returning the displaced books to their proper places. Of course, being the avid reader that she was, she couldn’t resist flipping through a few of her favorite novels, stopping outright more than once to sit cross-legged on the floor to read a chapter or two. Only when she found herself weeping for probably the hundredth time over Beth’s death scene in the battered copy of Little Women that her grandmother had given her as a child did she take herself firmly in hand. She was due back downstairs at Jake’s for pizza at six o’clock, which was fast approaching.

She finished with the books and spent the rest of the time doing weekend household chores. Once, she gave way to morbid curiosity and flipped on the cable news station to see if there were any updates on Valerie Baylor’s death. A brief segment regurgitated that morning’s broadcast and included the news that no charges were being filed against the Lord’s Blessing Church or its driver, Marnie Jennings.

The newscaster also mentioned that private services would be held this coming Thursday. Remembering Hillary Gables’s promise to try to finagle an invite for her to the exclusive service, Darla made a mental note to check with the agent the next morning.

When six o’clock rolled around, she left Hamlet with his kibble and headed downstairs. Jake greeted her at the door, wiping a smear of tomato sauce from her chin as she ushered Darla inside.

“Sorry, snacking on some breadsticks and marina. And watch out, Reese went a bit overboard on the food,” Jake explained, gesturing her to take a seat.

Overboard was an understatement, Darla thought with a grin. In addition to the aforementioned breadsticks, the table held an immense sausage and black olive pizza (a couple of slices already missing), a heaping plate of wings, a six-pack of imported beer (also missing a couple), and a salad—that last presumably to counteract the calorie-fest that was the rest of the meal.

Reese sat in one of the matching chrome chairs doing the Henry the Eighth routine, a wing in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. She’d caught him in midchew, so he limited himself to a nod as Darla plopped into one of the other chairs.

“Better hurry if you want anything, kid,” Jake warned, serving herself salad and then passing the bowl to Darla. “A couple more minutes, and Reese will finish everything that’s not nailed down.”

“Yeah, you know, but at least I’ll work it off in the gym tonight,” he defended himself in a muffled voice as he swallowed. Giving her an evil grin, he added, “Which is more than I can say for some people. I think you’ve packed on a couple of extra pounds since I last saw—”

His comment was cut short as the remainder of Jake’s breadstick flew across the table to bounce off his forehead. But her tone was amiable as she said, “That’s right, pick on the crippled lady. But you know what they say: old age and treachery beats youth and skill every time. You and me ever tangle, you better put your money on me.”

“I know I will,” Darla agreed in solidarity as she dug into her lettuce. While they ate, Reese gave a more detailed account of his interview of Janie. It seemed that, after waiving her rights, she had been eager to tell her story. According to Reese, she’d grown defensive only when he’d pointed out that such a stunt, if actually sanctioned by the publisher, would not have entailed anonymous Internet advertising and cloak-and-dagger payment. When Reese had pressed her on the issue, she had finally admitted that she’d had her own suspicions, but that she needed the money for school.