search.
“Well, close,” she decided a moment later as, scrolling through a popular movie database, she saw that the director of an older film version of The Man in the Iron Mask had the first name of William. A bit too much of a reach? She shook her head even as she wrote down Bill. What she needed was a list of characters from the novel. Unfortunately, the publisher had neglected to supply that little convenience in the copy that she held. But she did find a story summary as part of a preface. Swiftly, she began to read bits of it aloud.
“Story opens in the Bastille . . . Aramis was a Musketeer, is now a priest . . . listening to a prisoner’s confession . . . he claims he’s the twin brother of King Louis XIV.”
She paused long enough to scribble down the words Louis and king, and then went on, “Blah, blah, Aramis decides to free this prisoner . . . will swap him for his brother. Meanwhile, things aren’t going well at court. King Louis sulking, blah, blah . . . can’t decide between his mistress and his wife, Maria Theresa—”
She broke off abruptly and stared at Hamlet. “Maria Theresa,” she slowly repeated as she recalled the overheard phone conversation at Hilda’s shop the day before. “Maria Teresa is Tera’s full name. But surely she couldn’t . . .”
Darla trailed off as her previous mental image of Hilda wielding a crowbar was replaced by the mental picture she’d been trying to hold at bay ever since she’d first heard that Tera was missing: that of the petite girl doing her version of “batter’s up” on Curt’s skull. After all, hadn’t Barry said he’d overheard the pair fighting the day before they found Curt’s body? But surely a run-of-the-mill lovers’ quarrel couldn’t be enough to drive the hot-tempered Tera to murder. Or could it?
Reluctantly, she added Tera to her list; then, for good measure, she added Hilda’s name, too. Better that she not decide this early in the game that Curt’s killer was male, despite Hamlet’s choice of book titles. After all, a crowbar was as deadly a weapon in a female’s hand as it was in a man’s.
Even as she mulled over that unsettling possibility, the bells on the shop door jangled, and in rushed a woman whom she didn’t recognize.
At least, not at first.
TWELVE
“HILDA?”
Had Darla passed this version of the Great Scentsations owner on the street, she likely would have slipped the woman a dollar and kept on walking. Never had she suspected that the coolly elegant Hilda Aguilar could look so downright . . . well, frumpy.
Today, the woman’s frosted blond hair was pulled back in a stubby, lopsided ponytail rather than styled into the usual sleek French twist or smooth bob Darla was used to seeing. As for the usual professional makeup job—the one that looked airbrushed on—this morning it consisted of simply a slash of red lipstick that had already been partially chewed off. But, the designer handbag over her shoulder notwithstanding, the most surprising aspect of the woman’s appearance was the fact she was wearing a tracksuit of the kind septuagenarian Mary Ann Plinski favored when not dressed for work.
Hilda, however, seemed either unaware or unconcerned that her appearance had shocked Darla into momentary speechlessness. Barely missing stepping on Hamlet, who scrambled out of the way just in time, she hurried to the counter where Darla was standing.
“Darla, thank God you are here! I came to see Jake, but she won’t be back for a while. I talked to her on the phone, and she said I could wait for her up here, if you don’t mind.”
Darla shook her head, her concern growing. “No, I don’t mind. Why don’t you sit upstairs in the lounge area? There’s coffee up there, and hot water if you want tea.”
Though the woman could probably use a cup of something stronger, Darla decided. Hilda’s eyes were ringed with dark circles that were likely owed in equal parts to a sleepless night and yesterday’s makeup.
Hilda, however, shook her head, refusing the offer. “I-I’d rather stay down here, if you don’t mind. I’m afraid I’ll go crazy if I stay alone.”
Darla stepped around the counter and impulsively took the woman’s hand. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she urged. “Is it Tera?”
The other woman nodded.
“Darla, she-she never came home last night.”
A tear spilled down one unpowdered cheek and left a faint eyeliner trail behind. “I spent all yesterday afternoon