Double Booked For Death

They went. The cool night air outside Jake’s apartment did a little to dispel the fuzziness that seemed to have gripped her brain, for which Darla was grateful. Last thing she needed was to be off her guard around Reese. Deliberately keeping a bit of distance between them, she hurried up her own concrete steps, glad she’d remembered to turn on the small light that illuminated the door. She paused there, however, to reflexively glance back in the direction of the Valerie shrine.

The sidewalk tribute hunkered in the dark like an immense petalled caterpillar, stretching the length of one brownstone. Someone had lit the dozens of candles that had been left among the flowers, and their flickering golden light seemed to give movement to the mound. For an instant, she could swear that a caped female figure stood in the shadows among the flowers, watching her.

She shivered despite herself.

“Chilly,” she explained aloud to Reese as she dug into her pocket for the key, though in fact the wine had warmed her sufficiently that she didn’t need a coat.

Reese, snug in his leather motorcycle jacket, merely shrugged. He, too, appeared taken by the sight of the shrine.

“Looks like the votive candles at church,” he remarked as he joined her. “Except these days, the real candles have been replaced with those electric ones. Fire codes, you know. It’s not the same.”

“Kind of takes away some of the mystery,” Darla agreed and unlocked the front door. Barely had she opened it, however, when Reese put out a restraining arm.

“No way you’re going up first,” he declared, and she saw from his expression he was serious. “I know you told Jake you’re sure Hamlet caused that little problem in your apartment this afternoon, but I’m pretty good at reading people. You don’t believe it yourself, do you?”

Darla started to protest, and then shook her head. “Yes . . . no . . . maybe?” she answered, trying to smile but not doing much of a job of it. “I mean, I’ve seen him pull books off a shelf, but there’s no way a cat could stack them on top of each other so neatly. It had to be a person . . . or like Mary Ann said, a poltergeist. She was kidding, of course, but that’s as good as any theory I’ve come up with so far.”

“Poltergeist?” Reese echoed with a snort that promptly made her regret mentioning that conversation. “I saw the movie . . . scared the crap out of me when I was a kid. But if it will make you feel better, I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my fifteen years as a cop, and ghosts ain’t one of them.”

He started up the steps, Darla behind him. It was obvious from the view she had that his gym workouts were doing the job, she thought with an inner grin of appreciation. Though, to be honest, she could tell that the past few months of marching up and down two flights a couple of times a day had helped in the posterior area for her as well. But recalling the way she’d been outrun that morning, she knew she should still consider adding wind sprints to her workout routine.

When they reached the top landing, Reese stepped aside long enough for her to unlock that door before again taking the lead. “Stay out here in the hall,” he said in a low tone, “and I’ll give you the all clear once I’ve had a look.”

Though Darla felt certain that no one had broken in during the past few hours, she found herself holding her breath in nervous anticipation as he slowly turned the knob and inched open the door. The faint light from the single lamp she’d left burning in the living room threw a pale white ribbon onto the faded cabbage-rose pattern of the landing. So far as she could tell, all was silent inside. Reese signaled her to wait, and then pushed the door open the rest of the way.

“A-a-a-i-i-i-e-e-e!”

A drawn out, ungodly shriek split the silence. The singular sound was followed by a flash of black and a thud that collided squarely with Reese’s chest.

The detective let loose with a few pithy epithets that included the FCC top seven plus several that Darla couldn’t recall previously hearing. She didn’t have time to be offended, however—she was too busy trying not to burst out laughing. Reese, meanwhile, made a hasty retreat back into the hall and slammed the door closed again.

He stared down at his battered leather jacket, which now sported four distinct claw marks angled from shoulder to opposite hip. Shaking his head, he said, “I guess we have our answer. Your buddy Hamlet’s not going to let any intruders into your place.”

That did it for Darla. Whether it was the wine, or the stress of the past days’ events, or simply the look of disbelief on Reese’s face, she lost it. With an outright howl of hilarity, she collapsed onto the carpet and laughed herself silly.

It was a good two minutes before she had herself suffi – ciently in hand again to be able to stand. The detective, meanwhile, was surveying her with a sour look. “Guess I provided the entertainment tonight, huh?”

“Sorry,” she said, trying for contrite but not quite making it. “He must still be mad at you from this afternoon. But that doesn’t excuse the ninja strike. I’ll be glad to pay for the damages to your jacket.”