or two in recent weeks.
Crossing mental fingers that the boy was as good as the resume that he’d emailed her, and that Hamlet might find him acceptable, Darla headed in his direction.
“Hi, I’m Darla Pettistone, store owner,” she said with a bright smile, holding out her hand. With a quick glance at the paperwork in her other hand, she added, “You must be Robert Gilmore.”
He looked up and unfolded himself from the overstuffed chair, and then grunted what she took to be an affirmation. The handshake he gave her in return was unenthusiastic, at best. Darla, who had taken her share of motivational workshops in the past, reminded herself: Not always a negative trait, particularly in teenagers. Still, her own enthusiasm flagged as she took swift stock of him.
Up close, Robert looked vaguely familiar. Her fleeting confusion faded, however, when she realized he simply resembled any number of young men his age that she’d seen about the neighborhood. The one difference was that, while he was dressed all in black, his shirt was tucked in and his pants did not sag unduly.
Neatly groomed. For that, she mentally gave him credit points; this despite the fact that his posture needed work. If he stood up straight, he’d be almost as tall as Jake. Unfortunately, his slouch and his unsmiling visage lent him an air of teen surliness that even the undeniable spark of intelligence in his bright blue eyes couldn’t quite counteract.
Definite problems in the customer service area, she predicted, picturing him interacting with the portion of her customer base that was Social Security age. Still, he’d made the effort to send a resume and come in for an interview. The least she could do was hold up her end of the deal and grill him over his qualifications.
“All right, let’s talk about your work experience,” she began, determined to give it the old college try. “It says here you’ve done the fast-food thing summers and weekends, you graduated high school back in June, and up until last week you worked at Bill’s Books and Stuff.”
But barely had Darla gestured him back to his chair and taken a seat opposite him than she knew why he’d appeared familiar to her.
“Robert!” she exclaimed, her red brows knitting into a thunderous frown. “You’ve got a girlfriend named Sunny, right?”
Not waiting for his reply, she shoved back in her chair and stood. “You’ve chopped off that silly lock of hair and gotten rid of your piercings, but I know who you are. You’re that kid who accused me of murder!”
THREE
DARLA STARED ACCUSINGLY AT THE YOUNG MAN SLOUCHED in the chair in front of her. No doubt about it, this was the same sullen teenager who, along with his girlfriend, had issued some not-so-veiled threats against her following Valerie Baylor’s death. Then, he’d sported all manner of piercings and chains, while his dyed black hair had been limited to a single luxuriant lock that hung in his face. Now, while still favoring the same hue of shoe-polish black, he’d removed the hardware and cut off the dangling tail of hair while letting the rest grow back in. It had been an effective disguise-in-reverse, she conceded. It might even have worked if he’d managed to lose the ’tude along with the metal bits and the rest.
She slapped the paperwork onto the table in disgust, the sound making the youth jump.
��So why are you really here?” she demanded. Robert stared at Darla in what appeared to be genuine alarm. “Were you planning some weird sort of undercover espionage while you pretended to work? Or were you and Sunny going to start up that whole online protest thing again?”
“Uh, me and Sunny, we’re not dating anymore. And, I-I wasn’t planning anything,” he managed. “We knew what happened that night wasn’t your fault. We were all just bummed about Valerie dying like that. It was, like, a real trauma.”
His words held a note of honesty that dialed down Darla’s stereotypical redheaded temper just a notch. To be fair, the original online protest against Pettistone’s Fine Books had never really gotten off the virtual ground . . . still, it was the principle of the thing! And now, the kid had the nerve to show up in her store as a potential employee? If she were smart, she’d show him the door now and be done with it.
Her intention must have been obvious, for Robert dropped his gaze to his fingernails, which had been bitten to their quicks. “I’m, like,