Double Booked For Death

“I hate compulsive neat fiends,” she remarked as she turned it over to demonstrate the can was empty. “It’s hard to pry into people’s trash when they don’t have any.”

She pulled open the desk drawers and then glanced at the bookcase, which held mostly reference books and office supplies. Numerous volumes—hardcover and paperback—of the first two Haunted High books filled one long shelf.

“Look at this,” Jake said, sounding impressed as she pointed down the row. “English, French, Spanish, Russian, Japanese . . . and there’s probably five other languages I have no clue what they are. And, aha!”

Carefully, she picked up a large black three-ring binder propped next to the printer on the topmost shelf. She turned it so Darla could see that it was neatly labeled on the front with the words “Last Ghoul Standing.”

“It’s the next Haunted High book,” she exclaimed, leafing through the pages. “I thought you said that Hillary Gables told you there weren’t any more manuscripts.”

“Either she lied, or she didn’t know,” Darla replied, keeping her gaze on the street below lest Morris abruptly exit a taxi. “I wonder what Morris plans to do with it when it’s finished, now that Valerie’s gone.”

Jake, meanwhile, had put back the binder and wandered over to the divided screen. She peered behind it and then jumped back as if someone had reached out and grabbed her.

“Holy crap, you’re not going to believe this!”

Darla felt her stomach plummet. “Please don’t tell me that Morris is lying dead back there,” she said, wincing over the words. The last thing she wanted to see was another of the Vickson family’s cooling corpses.

Jake shook her head. “It’s even better than that. Come over here!”

With another look out the window—two of the three punks were now involved in a one-handed shoving match with each other that was hampered by the ongoing threat of pants on the ground—Darla went. With the same caution that she’d using peering into a rattlesnake den, she looked around the edge of the screen.

“Holy crap!” she echoed Jake, adding, “Wow!”

Hidden behind the screen were two freestanding racks filled with women’s eveningwear in various lengths and styles. Whether of silk, satin, velvet, or lace, the predominant color was black, though a few jewel tones and pastels were mixed among them. A short wooden shelf stood to one side. She counted on its shelves ten evening clutches stored individually in neat plastic bins, and twice that many shoe boxes with famous designers’ names imprinted on their sides. Darla reached reverently for one of the boxes and gently opened the top to reveal a lilac drawstring dust bag. Unfortunately, the pair of pumps nestled inside appeared far larger than the size 7-½ she wore.

She sighed. She’d always wanted to try on a pair of Jimmy Choos.

“Any one of those dresses probably costs as much as my whole wardrobe,” Jake observed with a similarly wistful exhale as she longingly fingered a red silk strapless number. “Damn, he has good taste.”

Letting the fabric whisper back into place, Jake went over to the bath alcove. “This must be where the magic takes place,” she said, indicating a vintage painted iron-and-glass vanity upon which sat several neatly organized trays of cosmetics. “And look, here’s Mavis in action.”

Photos ringed the lighted oval mirror that hung over the vanity. Most of the pictures were of Mavis and her clients. A few obviously were models, and others apparently actors, including a couple of B-listers whom Darla recognized from television. Also among the collection were a few shots of Valerie Baylor, including one where she appeared to be standing beside a clone of herself.

“Oh my God, it’s Mavis dressed as Valerie!” Darla exclaimed, pointing. “In that black wig, he could totally pass for her, no problem.”

Seeing the photos prompted her to remember her guard duties. Darla muttered a mild oath and rushed to the door, taking a cautious peek over the railing in case Morris had sneaked in while they were admiring his outfits. Seeing no one, she slipped back inside and made a beeline for the front window.

“All clear,” she confirmed a bit breathlessly. “Are we almost finished?”

“Almost,” Jake muttered in an absent tone. She wandered back over to the desk and peered again at the shelves. “There’s got to be something here.”

She paused for a look at the pushbutton phone near the empty docking station. “Let’s see who Morris has been chatting with,” she said and pressed the “Speakerphone” button, opening the line. “If I can just find the ‘Redial’ button . . .”

She found it. Darla heard the familiar beep, boop, bop of tones as the last number that Morris had input now automatically replayed. Jake put a silencing finger to her lips as the line began to ring, but Darla needed no warning. She was holding her breath and mentally counting the rings as they sounded . . . One, two, three.

It was not until the fifth ring that someone picked up. They heard clattering, as if someone were fumbling with the phone, and then a woman’s sleepy voice answered, “Hillary Gables.”