his tone excited. Then he paused and glanced at Darla. “That is, you know, if Ms. Pettistone says I can leave for a few minutes.”
“Go ahead. You can make it up later.”
Robert gave a little whoop and reached under the counter for his backpack. Then he put out a triumphant fist to Hamlet, who obligingly bumped.
“Hey, little bro, guess what? I have a home. Maybe Ms. Plinski will let me get a dog or something, so you can have some company.”
“Oh dear,” Mary Ann said with a shake of her head as she let the youth escort her out, “let’s talk about that another time.”
As the front door closed after the pair, Darla turned to Jake. “Fist bump for finding Robert a forever home,” she said and touched knuckles with her friend. “I think this will work out fine for all of them.”
“Agreed,” Jake said with a matching grin. Then she glanced at her watch. “Sorry, kid, gotta run. I’ve got a client meeting in five. Will you be all right alone until Robert gets back?”
“Sure. Thursday is usually a slow day, anyhow. Besides, my official attack cat has my back.”
After Jake left, Darla reached under the register for the stack of invoices that had been piling up since her hospital stay. “Might as well work on these while we have some down time,” she told Hamlet and reached for her checkbook. But barely had she opened the register when she heard the shop door jangle, and a familiar voice said, “Hey, Red.”
TWENTY-FOUR
DARLA LOOKED UP. “REESE?”
She hadn’t seen him since the evening in the hospital, when he had come to take her statement. Jake had assured her that was no reflection on her. After all, she reminded Darla, he had a few other things on his list, like making sure there weren’t any other victims of Barry’s besides Curt and the building inspector. But Darla couldn’t help but wonder if his absence had something to do with the fact that he’d arrested the wrong person for Curt’s murder, and that Hamlet had been the one, for all intents and purposes, to solve the crime.
His expression unreadable, he strolled on in. Darla noted that he was back to the motorcycle jacket and jeans look. Either it was his day off, she thought, or he was no longer bucking for a promotion.
“So, holding down the fort alone?” he wanted to know.
She nodded. “Robert is next door with the Plinskis . . . it looks like he’s going to rent that garden apartment from them. And James doesn’t get here for another hour. So it’s just me and Hamlet taking care of business.”
Hearing his name, the feline in question opened a sleepy green eye and gave Reese a disdainful look. Apparently, Hamlet was not impressed by his human counterpart’s detective work. Not that he and Reese had ever been best buddies; still, the cat tolerated his presence.
Unlike with Barry.
“Oh my God, I just realized something,” she said with a small gasp. “Ever since the day Curt was murdered, whenever Hamlet saw Barry or sensed his presence, he would disappear. He didn’t want to be in the same room with him. He knew what Barry had done, and he was afraid of him.”
“Smart cat,” Reese observed.
He hesitated, and then went on, “I don’t like telling you this, but you’ll find out eventually. It turns out this wasn’t the first time the guy has been arrested for murder.”
“You mean, Barry killed someone before Curt and Toby?”
The detective nodded. “There was an incident about ten years ago in Connecticut. Similar scenario, though that time the weapon of choice was a tire iron. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any physical evidence to tie him to the crime, and the only witness statement got tossed for some reason. But I have a feeling the boys in Hartford will be reopening that case again soon.”
“Wow,” Darla replied in stunned disbelief. “I guess next time I decide to date a guy, I’d better be sure I get a paw’s up from Hamlet.”
And then, to her mortification, she began to cry, not stoic tears of fear or confusion, but loud, full-on sobs filled with equal parts outrage and self-pity. Reese handed her a handkerchief but wisely let her keep on crying until the storm subsided and the painful sobs had given way to the occasional sniffle.
“I’m sorry,” she croaked out once she’d blown her nose and dried her eyes. “I feel like an idiot. I’m fine, Hamlet’s fine, and Barry the bastard is