“Don’t go wild until I see if things really take off or not. I’m hoping for walk-in business, to start . . . you know, the old word-of-mouth thing. God knows how many PIs in town I’m competing against. I figure if I keep it in the neighborhood, I’ll have an advantage.”
“So, you going to be skulking around with a camera taking pictures of cheating spouses?”
Jake snorted. “Not if I can help it. I’ve got plenty of corporate contacts, so I’m looking at narrowing the field. Corporate espionage, insurance fraud, surveillance—”
“Mystery shopping,” Darla supplied with a grin, earning an eye roll from her friend. “Let me know if you need any help with that. I can spend other people’s money with the best of them.”
“Maybe I’ll hire Hamlet. He proved himself a pretty good little sleuth with that whole Valerie Baylor business.”
Jake’s tone was rueful, but Darla had to concede that she was right. Valerie Baylor, the YA author famous for her Haunted High series, had made a well-publicized stop at Darla’s store—drawing hundreds of fervent fans, and one pitiless murderer. In the aftermath, Hamlet had demonstrated an uncanny knack for what Darla began to call “book snagging”: knocking seemingly random books off the store shelves, books that had proved, in retrospect, to have bearing on Valerie’s murder and the killer’s true identity. And though Hamlet didn’t get any credit, the feline had definitely had a paw in solving the crime.
Then her frown deepened. “Actually, I should hire you to tail the little beggar. It’s bad enough that he’s got some secret cat tunnel where he can go back and forth between the shop and the apartment. Now I think he’s found a way to sneak out of the building at night.”
“What makes you say that? Did you see him out on the sidewalk or something?”
Darla shook her head. “He’s too smart to tip his hand—er, paw—like that. But Mary Ann said she saw him outside last night. And, come to think of it, the other morning when I went to feed him, I saw what looked like grease or oil on his fur, like he’d crawled under a car. I’m afraid he’s out prowling the neighborhood looking for trouble.”
“Not good,” Jake agreed.
Darla took another determined bite of sandwich. “Mary Ann thinks he might be getting out through your place, so keep an eye out, okay? And let me know if you stumble across a cat-sized GPS we can stick around his neck.” Then, with a glance at her watch, Darla added, “Time to get back to the shop. James will be waiting, and I’ve got a few things to do before the next interview.”
They gathered their now-empty plates and dropped them off in the overflowing dish bin before heading for the door. Jake paused by the community bulletin board near the exit long enough to pin up a few of her new business cards.
“Half the neighborhood eats here,” she reminded Darla. “You never know who might need a private investigator.”
Darla pulled her olive-colored hip-length sweater more tightly around her as they made the two-block walk back to her store. The temperature was barely above fifty. It made for a perfect day for New Yorkers, but was pretty darn cold for a Texas girl used to battling summertime weather this time of year. She definitely wasn’t looking forward to winter in New York.
Jake must have seen her reflexive shiver, for she laughed. “Toughen up, kid. In another month or two you’ll be wading through snow up to your waist.”
Which meant said nasty white stuff would come up only to Jake’s thigh, Darla thought with an inner snort. Her friend was a good six inches taller than Darla’s own five-foot-four-inch height, and in the stacked Doc Marten boots that were part of her personal uniform, Jake easily topped six feet.
Halfway down the block from the corner deli, they both halted before the lace-curtained windows of one of Crawford Avenue’s many brownstones. This building, like Darla’s elegant, three-story Federal and several other brownstones on the surrounding blocks, had been converted to retail on its ground floor and apartments above.
The shop in question was a bath-and-body boutique that had become a favorite guilty pleasure of theirs. Aptly named Great Scentsations, the store was designed for indulgence, offering custom perfume, handmade soaps, and organic makeup, among other alluring merchandise.
“Wanna do a little retail therapy?” Jake suggested, her expression one of longing as she gazed at a genie-bottle-shaped vial of body lotion displayed amid a