"A Bossy Cat, a Homeless Employee, and a Dead Body Which Crisis Does Darla Tend to First"
Reviewed by Leanne Davis
Posted January 18, 2013
Mystery
Darla Pettistone inherited a bookstore in Brooklyn. The
neighborhood is filled with friendly and unique characters.
She feels she is settling in nicely but she needs to hire
additional staff. Her great aunt's cat, Hamlet, ran off the
last person Darla hired in just a few hours. Now, Hamlet is
included in the interviews and he is being very difficult.
Darla finally hires, Robert, a young man whom only Hamlet
approves of. However, Robert is working out very nicely
until Darla catches him sneaking in one night. Robert has
been kicked out of his home and has been sleeping with
various friends and in the entrance to the garden apartment
of the store until Darla catches him. Now, she finds
herself worrying about him as he becomes a person of
interest in the investigation of a murder.
Darla will have to expose the real killer as she searches
for a place for Robert to live.
A NOVEL WAY TO DIE is my first exposure to this series.
It's fun to read
and worthwhile. The mystery was very good and the cat
really added some interest to the story.
SUMMARY
Darla Pettistone may have inherited her great aunt Dee’s
Brooklyn bookstore, but it’s the store’s mascot—an oversized
black cat named Hamlet—who acts like he owns the place. And
when someone turns up dead, Hamlet smells something rotten
in Brooklyn…
As the owner of Pettistone’s Fine Books, Darla is settling
nicely into her new life, even reaching an uneasy truce with
Hamlet. Unfortunately, when she needs to hire a new clerk,
the finicky feline decides to lend a paw to the hiring
process. He chases away applicants who don’t meet his
approval, finally settling on an unlikely candidate: Robert,
a book-loving Goth kid who has a secret only Hamlet knows.
And Hamlet can’t seem to stay out of trouble. One of the
bookstore’s regular customers, a man who is renovating a
local brownstone, claims he’s seen Hamlet prowling the
neighborhood. When the man’s business partner is found dead,
Darla discovers that Hamlet may have been the only witness
to what could be murder. With the crafty cat’s help, she
wonders if they just might be able to pounce on a killer...
ExcerptChapter 1
"Madison, this is a great resume."
Darla Pettistone tossed her single auburn braid over her
shoulder and scanned the page again. "Not only do you have a
brand new degree in English literature, but you spent all
your holidays and summers working at one of the major book
chains. You've got retail, and you know the classics. But
you do realize that this is a part–time position that
you're interviewing for, right?"
"Part–time would be awesome," the plump blonde
declared and gave an eager smile. "I live with my parents,
so there's no rent to worry about. And in addition to
working at the local women's shelter, I do spend a lot of
time involved in community organizing. If there's a protest
in town, I'm there! So I really can't fit a full–time
job into my schedule."
"Well, I can certainly understand that," Darla replied,
managing not to roll her eyes.
When Darla was Madison's age—a dozen years
ago—she'd locked down a full–time job with a
major corporation a good six months before graduating with a
business degree. She had paid her own rent on a furnished
duplex during most of her college time, managing to also pay
off a little compact car a year earlier than her loan
schedule. The full scholarship had helped her make ends meet.
And, like Madison, she had worked part–time at a
bookstore . . . though Darla's hours had been after classes
and weekends, leaving her scant time to save the
red–tailed chipmunks or protest for the universal
right to tip jars. Later, she'd kept busy enough at the
marketing firm where she worked that her charity efforts had
been limited to the annual walks sponsored by her company.
Of course, that had been back home in Dallas. Maybe it
was a generational quirk, or maybe things in Brooklyn simply
were different. She'd found many such disparities in the
eight months since she had inherited the restored
brownstone, which housed two apartments as well as her
bookstore, Pettistone's Fine Books.
"All right," Darla went on, determined not to hold the
girl's off–hours activities against her, "let's see
about your stock knowledge. Suppose I'm a customer looking
for that famous book about the girl in overalls, but I can't
remember the author or title. What do you give me?"
"To Kill a Mockingbird?"
"Bingo! What if I want the controversial new novel that
my book club is reading?"
"Fifty Shades of Grey," she replied, her faintly
disapproving tone indicating she did not consider it book
club material.
Darla nodded. "Very good. Now, the one with a tiger on
the cover?"
"The Jungle Book. Oh, wait, no . . . Life of Pi."
"Last one. How about the book about the guy who fights
all the time?"
"The Art of War, by Sun Tzu," Madison answered with a
triumphant smile.
Darla smiled back. "I have to say, I'm pretty impressed.
You seem to be just what we're looking for."
Then she sobered and added, "There's just one thing more.
We have a shop cat, and he'd have to approve you first
before I could consider hiring you. His name is Hamlet."
Hamlet.
Darla shook her head. If someone composed a soundtrack to
her life at the shop, then every mention of Hamlet would be
accompanied by shrieking violins and an ominous
dum–dum–DUM stinger. A stereotypical bookstore
feline would curl picturesquely in a wicker basket near the
front door and greet customers with a purr. But Hamlet
stalked the shelves like a miniature Genghis Cat, black fur
gleaming and green eyes as cold and sparkling as emeralds.
The store's regulars all knew the drill—knew, as well,
where they stood in his feline rankings—while
first–time shoppers quickly learned their places in
the hierarchy.
Big spenders, once–a–week customers, and
those who read classic literature got the paw print of
approval, meaning they were allowed to fawn over him and
occasionally scratch his chin. Genre fiction readers (unless
they fell into the big–spend, once–weekly
category) were not allowed to touch him, though he would
condescend to send a small meowrmph their way in
appreciation for their business. Customers who shopped once
a month made up the next lower tier, meaning they were
tolerated, and nothing more (though, on days when he was in
a particularly good feline mood, he might deign to give them
a whisker flick). Those who attempted to return their
purchases got his patented Cat Stare of Death and moved down
a notch from whatever rank they'd previously held.
Unabashed browsers and magazine–only customers were
treated to his kiss–off treatment: a flop on the floor
followed by one hind leg flung over his shoulder and a lick
to the base of his tail.
Madison, of course, knew nothing of this. No doubt she'd
already conjured the cat–in–the–basket
image in her mind.
"Oooh, a kitty!" the girl squealed. "When I was little, I
had a white Persian named Mr. Cuddles. Mommy got allergies,
so we had to give him away to my uncle and aunt, but I've
always loved cats."
"Well, that's important, but what's more important is
that Hamlet loves you back," Darla replied. Though, given
Hamlet's persnickety nature, "love" was something of a
stretch. "Tolerate" would be more appropriate.
Bad enough that she had to hire a new part–time
employee. She never would have suspected that the true
challenge lay in finding someone who could get along with
Hamlet, the official black cat mascot of Pettistone's Fine
Books. Darla had been shocked earlier that year to learn
that she had inherited Hamlet along with the building and
business from her late Great–Aunt Dee. It wasn't as if
she'd been close to the old woman. They'd actually
interacted only a handful of times over the years; still,
Great–Aunt Dee was the original Darla Pettistone, for
whom Darla had been named.
They had shared similarly round faces and snub noses,
though the old woman's red hair had come courtesy of Miss
Clairol, while Darla's wavy auburn mane was strictly her
own. The octogenarian had also originally hailed from Texas,
just like Darla. However, about sixty years earlier, the
then twenty–five–year–old had fled north,
renaming herself Dee to put distance between her new life
and her country roots. Despite the twangy Texas accent that
she could never quite lose, Dee had apparently settled in
surprisingly well in Brooklyn. Perhaps it was due to her
three native–New Yorker husbands—all of whom had been
wealthy and had thoughtfully predeceased her—that
she'd sequentially married over the years.
Hamlet had appeared on the scene long after, coming to
the store as an abandoned kitten. He'd been named for the
tragic Shakespearean character . . . or, rather, for the
copy of the play that he'd pulled down off the bookshelf and
made into his personal little kitten bed.
Hamlet had split his time between apartment and bookstore
for almost ten years now. And since Dee had been Hamlet's
caretaker (Darla never thought of the cat as being owned),
this meant that Darla technically was as close to a blood
relation to Hamlet as a human could be. It also meant that
they—feline and woman—were pretty much stuck
with each other. And given that Darla had never been much of
a cat person, her learning curve in this relationship had
been steep. Still, she had grudgingly concluded she could
only hire an employee that Hamlet liked . . . or, at least,
one that he wouldn't feel compelled to systematically
terrorize out of a job. Unfortunately, he'd already
ix–nayed the first few candidates she had interviewed.
"Let's get this over with," Darla told the girl. "Go
ahead and bring your things"—she'd learned not to let
a potential hiree leave behind anything they'd have to come
back for later—"and we'll go down to the main store to
find him. While we're looking, I'll show you around the
place a bit."
She had been conducting the interview with Madison on the
shop's two–room second floor. The front area, which
overlooked the street, was designed as a lounge. In this
space, Darla hosted the occasional writers' groups and book
clubs, though the rest of the time the area served as a
reading room and employee break area. In one corner, a small
galley kitchen lurked behind an Asian–inspired screen,
allowing for a bit of cooking and wash–up.
The shop's storeroom was housed in the rear room, where
packing materials vied with cartons of books awaiting
shelving. Housing her storeroom on the second floor was not
the most convenient of arrangements, but Darla found that
bribery (in the form of coffee and pastries) usually worked
well enough on the delivery drivers to get them to haul one
or two hand truck's worth of books upstairs. And if her
baked goods didn't suffice, well, there was an
old–fashioned dumbwaiter that went between floors.
Though slow, it was sturdy enough to accommodate a case of
hardcovers—or, as she'd discovered as a child, objects
quite a bit larger!
As they made their way down the steps, Madison clutched
her pink iPad case to her ample chest and gave an
exaggerated sigh. "I think your shop is wonderful! It's
nothing like a chain store at all. It's, well, quaint . . .
just like your accent, Ms. Pettistone. Where did you say you
were from?"
"I'm from Dallas. A Texan born and bred."
"Well, I think it's adorable," the girl confided, as if
she were the elder of them. "The accent, I mean. Boys just
love girls who talk all cute like that."
"Good to know," Darla replied, trying to keep the sarcasm
from her tone.
She wasn't exactly in the market for a "boy." A couple of
years ago, she'd finally gathered the gumption to divorce
the inferior specimen she had married and was presently
enjoying her independence.
Turning the subject back to the shop, Darla said, "Our
main room started life as the brownstone's parlor. See on
that wall, how we still have the original
mahogany–mantled fireplace? Now, if you go through
that broad arch there"—she pointed toward the rear of
the store—"you'll see what was once the dining room.
That's where most of the classics and reference books are
stocked. We keep the fast movers and the gift items up here
so we can keep an eye out, if you know what I mean."
The girl nodded wisely. Having worked in retail, she'd
probably seen her share of shoplifters.
Darla continued her quick tour, Madison on her heels.
Beyond the old dining room lay the back door, which in turn
led to a tiny courtyard where Darla and her staff often took
lunch when the weather permitted. She pointed out to Madison
how all the doors lined up. In fact, the floor plan reminded
Darla of what they called a "shotgun shack" back home in
Texas, meaning one could walk a straight line—or fire
a shotgun—from front door to back without hitting
anything in between.
Or, rather, one could've if the shop's rooms had been empty.
Instead, a maze of oak bookshelves filled the place, the
tangle practically requiring a map to negotiate and
technically defeating the
single–shotgun–blast–traveling–from–door–to–door
concept. Great–Aunt Dee had eschewed the concept of
optimum use of the available space, choosing instead to make
clever little alcoves of the shelves. The old woman also had
left most of the rooms' original ornately carved wooden
built–ins intact, so that they served as additional
shelves for both books and an eclectic collection of vintage
miscellany.
"That's the nickel tour," Darla ended with a smile. "Now,
about Hamlet—"
"There he is." Madison cut her short, smiling and
pointing to the nearest bookshelf. There, beneath a garland
of orange jack–o'–lanterns that Darla had draped
in anticipation of Halloween, the cat was stretched at full
length, snoozing. But Hamlet was not the stereotypical
scrawny Halloween scaredy cat.
Cliché as the notion was, Darla had always thought of
Hamlet as a scaled–down panther. He was large for a
domestic shorthair and solid black save for a tiny diamond
of white on his belly. His paws when fully splayed were the
size of small child's hand, though far more lethally
equipped, since Great–Aunt Dee had not subscribed to
the idea of declawing indoor cats. And he was all muscle, as
Darla was reminded of every time she tried to dislodge him
from somewhere that he didn't belong.
Before Darla could warn her, the girl hurried over to the
cat. She put out one French–manicured hand in his
direction, as if to pet him. "What a cute—"
"No!" Darla shrieked, seeing a glimmer of emerald as
Hamlet opened one eye just a slit. Rushing to the shelf, she
all but bodychecked the girl, and just in time. Barely was
Madison out of claws' reach than Hamlet sprang to his feet
and swiped.
Darla dodged the claws but managed to step on the girl's
foot in the process. Madison, who had just caught her breath
after being elbowed, gave a little cry of pain. Grabbing at
her crushed toes and hopping on one foot, she dropped her
iPad, which gave a couple of bounces of its own.
"Well, really," she huffed once she'd regained her
balance. Bending to retrieve the fallen tablet, she added in
peeved tone, "If you didn't want me to pet the darned cat,
you could have said—"
She broke off with a gasp as she found herself
nose–to–nose with Hamlet, who had lapsed into
ninja cat mode and slipped unnoticed off the shelf. Suddenly
he was on the floor, standing between the girl and her
property. Green eyes cold and unblinking, the throaty
meowrmph that emanated from him dared her to make a grab for
the bright pink case.
"Don't do it," Darla hastily warned as the girl huffed
again and made as if to reach around him. "Let's walk back
to the cash register and give him a chance to leave, and
then we can come back for it."
"And let a cat get the better of me?"
Madison planted her fists on her hips and shot the feline
an evil look of her own, earning a bit of admiration from
Darla. She'd dismissed the girl as a cream
puff—particularly after her Mr. Cuddles
reference—but it seemed she was made of sterner stuff.
Darla allowed herself a small flicker of hope. Maybe this
was a test, and all Hamlet was looking for in an employee
was someone who would stand up to him.
Or not.
Hamlet had defeated far more formidable foes than blondes
with liberal arts degrees, and it appeared he wasn't about
to let a challenge go unanswered. He walked over to the pink
case and plopped atop it, front paws tucked neatly under his
chest. Despite her irritation with the feline, Darla found
herself smothering a grin. If this had been a chess game,
then this had been Hamlet's official "check."
Madison huffed again. "This isn't funny. Please make him
move, Ms. Pettistone."
"Hamlet, give it up."
The cat blinked but remained firmly settled on his prize.
Cautiously, Darla edged a foot in his direction, intent on
nudging him off. He raised a warning paw, claws fully
extended, and she prudently pulled her foot back out of
reach again. She'd seen those claws go through shoe leather
before. Check, again.
"Hang on, Madison," she said with a sigh of resignation.
"I'll get the squirt gun."
She'd bought the toy a couple of weeks into her tenure at
the bookstore as a last–ditch cat disciplinary tool .
. . say, for times that he stole gizmos worth six hundred
dollars plus from would–be employees. The cat version
of water boarding never failed to work. The problem was that
Hamlet always exacted his own revenge for such
tactics—last time, she'd found her store keys buried
in his cat box—so she employed this method of
persuasion only when she had no other choice.
She headed to the register and returned with the plastic
gun firmly clutched in hand. She checked the water level and
gave the gun a quick pump. "Last chance," she warned him,
then pulled the trigger.
The instant the first drop of water hit his sleek black
fur, Hamlet gave a vertical leap that would have done an
Olympic athlete proud. Then, with a hiss that sounded like a
combination of a cobra on steroids and a semitruck's air
brakes, he made a beeline for the next aisle, leaving the
iPad behind.
Darla bent and scooped it up. "Here you go," she told the
girl and handed it over.
Madison hugged the pink case like a prodigal child
returned and managed a smile. "I guess he doesn't like me
much, does he?"
"Maybe he just had a bad day," Darla assured her. "Should
I put you down on the list for a second interview?"
"Well, I—"
She broke off with a look of horror, staring at something
beyond Darla. Darla swung about to see that Hamlet had
returned, green eyes narrowed to slits as he stood behind her.
"Uh, maybe I'd better go," the girl declared, taking one
step back. Hamlet took a step forward. She took another step
back, and Hamlet moved forward again. Slowly, she backed up,
with Hamlet smoothly pacing her step for step. She froze . .
. and he did, too.
That was enough for Madison. With a squeal of horror, she
turned and ran. Darla heard the discordant jangle of bells
as the front door flew open, and winced as it slammed shut
with a glass–rattling thud.
Darla turned to glare at Hamlet. He sat calmly in the
middle of the aisle, unconcernedly licking his paw and
swabbing it over one black velvet ear.
"Great, another one bites the dust," she told him. "I
hope you're proud."
Hamlet looked up from his toilette and gave an innocent
blink. Then, with a flick of his whiskers as if to say, My
work here is done, he turned and calmly padded toward the
children's section.
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