You Only Live Nine Times, page 31
Scarlett cocked one ear toward the store as she worked on shoving the soiled paper towels toward trash bags. Danny was muttering to himself under his breath—nothing Scarlett could make out, although Homer was probably getting an earful. Danny must have tested getting up, as twice Hot Mike snarled loudly before settling back into watchful silence.
Brock had been uncharacteristically quiet. It had quickly dawned on him that he might have initially mis-assessed the situation. And now he was in a real pickle, because how was he going to explain his appearance at Title Wave? What possible reason could he manufacture for having deliberately come by after the store was closed for the day, prepared to let himself in with a key he no longer had any right to carry?
It was too late to leave unnoticed, or Brock would have slunk out. Besides, from what he’d overheard in Rachel’s 911 call, he’d stumbled into ringside seats for what was going to be Coacoochee’s most gossiped-about event until at least the Millennium and possibly longer. It was all unfolding right in front of him! He was an eyewitness to history!
Maybe even more than an eyewitness? There was, after all, plenty of credit to go around in a situation like this. Surely Rachel would concede that his presence may have contributed a tiny amount to Danny's apprehension…
Brock knew he hadn’t been quite as welcoming to Rachel as he might have been these past few months. He hadn’t always lived up to his own standards of graciousness. But perhaps Rachel could be prevailed upon to overlook any lapses in his behavior. Especially considering how sincerely sorry he was for all of it now.
“Listen, Rachel,” Brock began in a subdued tone. He moved to bring around the camera, still hidden behind his back, so Rachel could see it. But he paused, unnerved by the way she was looking at him. Agog and perplexed. As if she had never seen him before.
“You saved my life, Brock.” Rachel’s voice cracked with emotion. "If you hadn't opened that door when you did..."
“WHAT?!!?” Scarlett screeched from the back room—so loudly that Homer had to pretend the sound came from him, causing Rachel to eye him quizzically. Vashti hurried to Scarlett’s side.
“This is how we get to keep the dumbwaiter,” she told her sternly.
“Well, I…” Brock trailed off. Any minute now, Rachel was going to realize there was no logical reason for him to be there. Should he come up with some stupid explanation before she asked for one? That would probably look less suspicious. “It's funny, because the only reason I'm even here is…”
Once again Brock fell silent midsentence—this time because Rachel had walked across the room to throw herself into his arms.
“Thank you,” she told him tearfully. “I wouldn't even be standing here right now if it wasn't for you!" Rachel pulled a tissue from her jeans pocket and blew her nose. "And thank you for saving Homer’s life, too.”
"It was…erm…" Brock awkwardly patted Rachel's back with one hand, still holding the telltale camera with the other. "It was my pleasure."
“This is SO not worth it,” Scarlett grumbled in the back room. They would have to spend the next few weeks listening to Rachel call Brock a "hero"—and all because he was taking credit for something that she, Scarlett, had done!
Scarlett's three years of life thus far had been an endless catalog of grievances and wrongs inflicted upon her. Nevertheless, this was still the least fair thing she'd ever heard of.
Hibiscus Road had surrendered to Halloween with characteristic excess. Fairy lights in the royal palms jostled for attention with glowing strings of plastic jack-o’-lanterns. Storefronts that usually wore their pastel colors with dignity now sported cardboard witches, inflatable ghosts, and enough fake cobwebs to suggest a year’s worth of shoddy housekeeping. Music rose in all directions—“Monster Mash” on repeat from the vintage boutique, atmospheric lounge music from the 710 Bar, which was projecting Nosferatu in a continuous loop on its rear wall. Spooky tangos emanated from Club Yucca, and Laurie’s Closet had been playing Rob Zombie all day.
The pedestrian mall grew ever more crowded as the sun set, the throngs a preview of what Hibiscus Road would look like in just a few weeks, when Season finally began. Costumed children darted between the legs of exhausted parents like schools of tropical fish—witches and zombies, two Backstreet Boys, a wailing dinosaur whose younger brother, Charlie Chaplin, had stolen his KitKat. Adults spilled in and out of bars dressed as genies, doctors, ghosts. Sonny and Cher paused to chat with three Marie Antoinettes—complete with gloves, crinolines, and skyscraper wigs—who held court over a shared cigarette outside Gallery Moda.
At nine p.m. precisely, the parade would begin on Allamanda Avenue, led by the Coacoochee High marching band dressed as skeletal mariachis. Any and all Coacoocheeans who wished to march behind the band and show off their costumes were invited to do so. Until then, Hibiscus Road was clearly the place to be, thrumming with the kind of energy that suggested everyone had agreed to be ridiculous together, just for tonight.
Photographers were out in full force to document yet another Coacoochee Halloween celebration, and a tight cluster had formed around Title Wave Books. Isabella Stuart stood in front of the store in a drop-waist Daisy Buchanan dress with Art Deco beading and a feathered headband. She had, after all, volunteered to manage publicity for Title Wave’s Halloween event. And if Isabella was conscious, as she greeted reporters, that this was also the venue where one of her star clients had threatened to murder a shopkeeper—having just murdered another of her star clients in his own home—she gave no sign of it. Isabella’s voice was calm and professional while cameras clicked around her, and she gestured at Title Wave’s display windows—where the Hawaiian-shirted skeleton and spooky vintage typewriter made their farewell appearance—with poised assurance.
Rachel also stood on Hibiscus Road, watching as costumed children and their exhausted parents streamed out through Title Wave’s doors to begin trick-or-treating. Standing next to her was Dahlia Delgado. “I'm going to miss him when he's gone.” Dahlia regarded the plastic skeleton mournfully.
“We’ll come up with something great for Thanksgiving,” Rachel assured her.
“I know you will.” Dahlia slung an arm around Rachel’s shoulders and squeezed her in a brief side hug. “You’ve handled everything with such grace, mami,” she added in a low, confidential tone. “Everybody thinks so.” The Chamber of Commerce had sent Dahlia on Wednesday with an immediate offer to find a backup location for this year’s pre-parade celebration. Nobody expected Rachel even to show up at Title Wave by Saturday, much less plan a full day of Halloween festivities for half the town.
Time off sounded good in theory, Rachel acknowledged, and a big part of her longed for just that. But after only one day upstairs “recuperating,” she'd insisted on getting back to work.
In fact, the more work the better.
Rachel reminded herself that this was what she’d signed up for as she surveyed tables sticky with the remains of "monster brains" (raspberry Jell-O with mandarin orange segments suspended inside), crumbs from the "mummy dogs" (pigs in blankets wrapped to look bandaged, with mustard dots for eyes), and the spectacular wreckage of the "haunted graveyard cake"—chocolate sheet cake covered in crushed Oreos, with Milano cookies as tombstones and gummy worms writhing through the "dirt." Some of the moms had stepped in after Danny’s arrest, and Rachel had to admit the kids seemed just as happy with Jell-O as they would have been with any of Danny’s more ambitious creations.
Nick Torres and his family were among the last stragglers. Nick was due at the station before the parade started—Halloween was always a lively night in Coacoochee, especially when it fell on a Saturday—but the kids had wanted to stay at Title Wave long enough for the face painter to complete her pièce de résistance: clown makeup for Lucas (who was otherwise dressed as a cowboy) and “fairy princess” heart and flower designs for Hanna, who wore a pair of iridescent butterfly wings. Nick caught sight of Rachel standing outside with Dahlia, the black-velvet cat ears she wore only slightly askew in the curls of her hair. Her simple black dress and tights still looked surprisingly sharp after hours of reading spooky stories, supervising craft stations, and cleaning up spills. Hard to believe that just four days ago, she'd been fighting for her life in this same space.
Also hard to believe Hot Mike had flunked police training! Nick looked over to where he stood now, pressing against Natalie Dunbar’s leg as she chatted with Dorothea Wilson. Natalie was dressed as Crocodile Dundee—leather vest, distinctive hat, the whole works—but every eye turned to the German Shepherd beside her. No costume for Hot Mike, although he might as well have been wearing a cape. The "hero dog" story had been all over the news, and people around town still pointed and stared when he and Natalie went out.
Nick caught her eye as he was leaving, and the two exchanged friendly nods. Then Nick and his family merged with the trick-or-treating multitudes swarming Hibiscus Road.
Natalie had been as perplexed as anyone when she’d finally made it to Title Wave on Tuesday night, panting and more than a little harried from having dashed into business after business on Hibiscus Road, looking fruitlessly for Hot Mike. She was no less astonished in hearing about his fortuitously timed entrance than Rachel had been to see it happen. How could Hot Mike possibly have known how desperately his help had been needed?
“Honestly, the way Danny was shrieking, I’m surprised the whole neighborhood didn’t come running.” Danny himself was being led out in handcuffs as Rachel made this observation, and she smiled sweetly at him as he was manhandled past her. “Hot Mike must’ve heard it and thought somebody was attacking an opera diva."
“I guess so…” Natalie said doubtfully. It was a nagging question, and Natalie didn’t give up easily on nagging questions. Journalistic curiosity notwithstanding, however, she realized this was probably the best explanation she was ever going to get, and decided to let the matter drop.
Natalie and Hot Mike ended up spending the night in Rachel’s apartment—along with Tommy, who was duly called and notified as soon as Rachel had finished giving her official statement to Jessica Martinez. A quick trip upstairs to check on Scarlett and Vashti revealed that, on top of everything else, Scarlett had somehow managed to overturn an entire bottle of Wesson Oil onto her head. “Stay with me,” she’d said to Natalie. “We’ll order a pizza and you can help me bathe my incredibly pissed-off cat.” This was a fair description; Rachel had never seen a deeper scowl on Scarlett’s face.
The three of them sat on Rachel’s terrace until the sun came up, drinking from the bottle of vodka Tommy brought and picking at the remains of the pizza. Natalie claimed to be “surprised, but not flabbergasted” about Danny. “I always thought he was a little too charming.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Rachel said dryly.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Natalie said hastily. “End of the day, I still thought it was Julian. Next time I investigate a poisoning,” she added sheepishly, “remind me to start with the bloke that cooks everyone’s food.”
Rachel laughed, but only a little. There wouldn’t be any “next time” for her.
Tommy, meantime, had shared the news that he’d called Isabella and taken his name out of the running to replace her at the Daily News. He’d also put in his notice at Palm. This was a genuinely shocking development, and Rachel’s mouth fell open as she regarded him.
“I’ve been thinking about it ever since Julian threatened you,” Tommy said. “If something I wrote five years ago could lead to so much ugliness now, maybe I don’t want to write things like that anymore.”
Rachel thought of Julian with a twinge. Nick had told her what happened. She'd realized too late that Julian's threat had actually been a warning—that he had, in his own way, been trying to help her.
In the end, though, he couldn’t even help himself. Now all his projects and properties would grind to a halt while lawyers hashed over the minutiae of his vast estate. In the days that followed, nobody in Coacoochee would be able to identify a single verifiable heir.
Vashti had laid claim to Tommy’s lap the moment he’d sat down, and Hot Mike had fallen asleep on the terrace floor, his huge head resting on Natalie's feet. Homer was an immovable fixture in Rachel’s lap. Between his physical exhaustion and the warm relief of Rachel's familiar scent, Homer had passed out-cold. Rachel looked down at him, still not quite able to believe they'd both gotten through the night's events alive and unharmed. The warmth of his fur beneath her tenderly stroking fingers seemed miraculous, somehow, and Rachel bent to whisper in his ear.
"Eres mucho gato," she told him, paraphrasing Ernest Hemingway in For Whom the Bell Tolls.
Thou art plenty of cat.
Only Scarlett remained alone, drying sulkily atop a terrycloth towel on one of the chaise lounges. “Poor Scarlett!” Rachel exclaimed as she drained the last of her vodka. “You may be the only one whose night was worse than mine.”
Scarlett threw her a baleful look. “You don’t know the half of it.”
Even with the store’s recent notoriety—not to mention Isabella Stuart’s professional prowess—Rachel wasn’t sure how many people would turn out for the “grown-ups” party on Halloween night. So it came as a heartening surprise to find the store packed to capacity (and possibly a scooch beyond) before it was even eight o’clock.
Rachel always loved the way Title Wave looked, but even she had to admit it had never looked better than it did tonight. Glittering cobwebs stretched between shelves in gossamer sheets that caught the purple and orange spotlights Rachel and Nadia had set up, creating shadows that shifted and breathed with the movement of the crowd. Paper lanterns in deep crimson and midnight black cast pools of colored light across the terrazzo floor, while vintage horror-movie posters had replaced the usual cover blowups adorning the walls. The poetry corner had become a fortune-teller’s lair, complete with shimmering curtains and a crystal ball that caught the light and cast rainbows onto laughing faces.
Even the cash register had transformed into a Gothic masterpiece, draped in rich burgundy velvet and crowned with an elaborate candelabra whose electric flames flickered so realistically that guests reached out to test their heat. The entire store glowed with an otherworldly ambiance that turned familiar corners into mysterious grottos where pirates traded gossip with phantoms, and witches in couture gowns shrieked with delight.
Rachel stood behind the café counter dispensing hot apple cider in paper cups. Griselda, dressed as Morticia Addams, was helping—although finding it difficult to keep her enormous sleeves from dipping into the crockpot keeping the cider warm. Rachel was also slightly paranoid about spilling anything on her own dress; she did, after all, have her first date with Evan Kirschner later that evening.
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?” Rachel asked Griselda when there was a lull in the action. It had only been a few days since Danny was arrested, but Rachel knew from experience that when your life falls apart, What's Going to Happen to Me Now? is the movie your mind plays and re-plays on an endless loop.
“I’m not sure yet.” Griselda waved at her boyfriend, Paolo, who’d dressed as Gomez Addams and was now approaching the café counter. “I’ve almost finished up my business degree at Nova so…” She shrugged prettily and smiled at Rachel. “I guess we’ll see! Gracias, mi amor,” she added to Paolo, who’d brought her a small packet of candy corn wrapped in colorful cellophane. “These are my secret weakness,” she confided in Rachel with a wink. "Don't tell anyone!"
Rachel chatted with Griselda and Paolo for a few more minutes, then let Nadia, costumed as Rosie the Riveter, take over the hot cider and headed toward the front of the store to tidy the display tables. “Mysteries To Die For” was still in decent shape, but “Gothic Romance” was a disordered mass of heaving bosoms and brooding castles. Clearly this was a popular genre, Rachel noted as she neatly restacked the books. Unlike the pristine, almost entirely undisturbed display table dedicated to Borrowed Glory. Rachel didn’t know if it was the book itself that accounted for lackluster sales thus far or Brock’s tendency to hover nearby, lying in wait to rope hapless passersby into a conversation about the way he’d saved two lives right here, in this very store.
Rachel was no fool. She’d seen Brock’s camera and knew he probably hadn’t been skulking about Title Wave after hours with the purest of intentions. But fair was fair, she told herself. Brock had saved her life. And Homer’s, too! A front-of-store display table all to himself—just through Thanksgiving—seemed like the least she could offer in return.
Scarlett had already coughed up three hairballs on the Borrowed Glory display. Rachel was beginning to suspect it was deliberate.
The party around her was now in full swing. Dorothea, dressed as Agatha Christie in a sensible tweed skirt and oxford shoes, regaled a group of cronies over by Caribbean travel. She paused mid-anecdote to give Laurie and Robert Castillo pecks on the cheek as they made their way past her in the crowd. Laurie was a riot of color as Frida Kahlo, her costume a masterpiece of layered Mexican textiles and fresh flowers woven into her elaborate updo. Robert was pitch perfect in Diego Rivera’s paint-splattered smock and wide-brimmed hat. Rachel had already told Nadia not to worry about cleanup—that she'd take care of it herself in the morning—but the grad student nevertheless moved through the crowd now, collecting discarded paper cups into a trash bag.
Tommy approached in full Ziggy Stardust regalia—a metallic silver jumpsuit that caught and reflected every colored light in the store, paired with four-inch platform boots that had him towering unsteadily above the crowd. The iconic lightning bolt blazed across his right eye in metallic red and blue paint, and he wore a red mullet wig with gravity-defying spikes. Glitter dusted his cheekbones, his face had been contoured into sharper angles, and his lips were painted deep metallic purple, completing the otherworldly transformation to glam rock alien.
