Dead for the Money

Dead for the Money

The Dead Detective Mysteries # 2

ISBN: 978-0-9571527-1-7

Digital-ebook version
© 2012 by Peg Herring

Published in the United Kingdom by LL-Publications 2012

www.ll-publications.com

57 Blair Avenue

Hurlford

Scotland

KA1 5AZ

Edited by Leslie Brown

Book layout and typesetting by
jimandzetta.com

Cover art and design © 2012 by

Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle
Design
(
razzdazzdesign.com
)

Published in the US, UK and Worldwide

Dead for the Money – The Dead Detective Mysteries #2
is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher.

Reviewers Investigate

The Dead Detective Agency

“The Dead Detective Agency 
combines belief in the afterlife with the paradoxical uncertainty of survival in the present, and is full of wickedly dark humor combined with regular laugh-out-loud moments.” 

—Sam Millar, New York Journal of Books

(nyjournalofbooks.com)

“A line I’m sure many of us on Earth can relate to is when the policeman ‘used his remote as a weapon against commercials’. I wish I’d written that...This limbo novel has much to recommend it. ”

—Geoff Nelder, The Compulsive Reader

(www.compulsivereader.com)

“This is the first book by Peg Herring I have had the pleasure of reviewing. I look forward to the next case of The Dead Detective Mystery Series: 
Dead for the Money.” 

—Chrystal Dorsey, Fiction Addict

(fictionaddict.com)

“This is a murder mystery unlike any other, with a premise so twisty, so surprising, so excellent, you’re bound to read it fast and beg for the next installment.”

— C.K.Crigger, Buried Under Books

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

The author would like to thank James Ecker, Retired Chief Engineer for the Mackinac Bridge Authority, for his help with the specifics of what it’s like to climb around on the Mackinac Bridge. Though such activity is neither allowed nor recommended, Jim helped me imagine and describe what it would be like in the scenario presented in this book. If there are mistakes, they are mine, not his, because he has been everywhere on that impressive structure and knows it like most people know their own backyards.

Chapter One

“
W
HO
KNEW
HEAVEN
WAS
LIKE
A
LUXURY
LINER
?” the man across from Seamus said, spearing the last bite of his steak. His head was shaved and shiny, and tattoos curled around his ears like ram’s horns. He was called Joshua, but he did not bring Jericho to mind. More like pure Jersey. “It’s not what I imagined.” He leaned back from his empty plate, patting his stomach with a satisfied air. “But I gotta tell you, it’s pretty great.”

“This is our introduction to the afterlife.”

Seamus glanced at the speaker, a sweet-faced young woman in a diaphanous turquoise evening gown. Noting her work-roughened hands, he guessed it was the nicest thing she’d ever worn.

“This ship, the feeling that we’re on a cruise” —she waved vaguely at the elegant room around them— “It’s all designed to help us adjust to the fact that our lives are over.”

“That’s right,” another woman put in. “They provide all the comforts while we prepare for the final step.”

“Which I hear is much better.” The first woman looked around the table. “I believe that.”

There was a moment of silence as the diners considered their own opinions. In the background, the band finished a smooth rendition of “The Impossible Dream.”

As the notes of a new song began softly, a wide-eyed girl of about nineteen asked, “What about punishment?” Her food had hardly been touched, and Seamus figured she had not yet adjusted to the idea of being dead.

“Oh, that will all be taken care of,” said a woman a few chairs down whose facial wrinkles were intensified by a screaming-red dye job on her hair. “My caseworker said not to worry about it.”

Although he generally stayed out of such conversations, Seamus could not ignore the look of dread on the girl’s face. “Think of all the good things you’ve heard about the afterlife,” he told her. “That’s what’s true.”

Her spine relaxed a little and she smiled timidly. It was the same every night: new faces, but the same fears, anticipation, and wonder. The newly dead talking about being newly dead.

“It really is like a sea cruise,” one man said.

“With everything you can imagine and more,” Joshua agreed.

Seamus wondered how many of them understood that they would soon forget the details of their former lives. In a day or two, the pretty girl in the red dress would recall that she liked musical comedies but would be unable to name a specific occasion when she had seen one or any one of the friends who accompanied her. Glancing around the table, he assessed the likelihood that someone here might object to that. No. Not a Portalist among them. All of his dinner companions would all accept the forgetting and make the crossing, content to leave the world, and even this ship, behind.

He was not like that. No matter how wonderful the next step might be, Seamus was unwilling to let go of Seamus. Like a small minority who chose to remain and remember, he stayed on the ship, waiting for the time when it felt right to give up who he was for whatever lay beyond.

Joshua’s mind apparently ran along the same track. “I understand that the workers on the ship are people who chose not to go on.”

“Not yet,” said a young man who had approached with a pitcher to refill their water glasses. As ice plopped and water splashed, he explained, “Portalists can go on anytime, but we choose to stick around a while.”

“If the next step is so wonderful, then why not take it?” asked the woman in turquoise.

The waiter, whose face was pleasantly freckled, thought about that for a few seconds. “I guess I want to enjoy this step,” he said finally. “You gotta admit, this ain’t bad. I work a few hours a day, and the rest of the time I get the same treatment you all are getting.”

“It’s really something,” Joshua agreed. “Anything you want to eat or wear, lots of things to do. My wife and I used to take a Disney cruise every year, but it was never as good as this.” His eyes clouded at the word
wife
, and Seamus imagined his thought:
My wife—now what was she like?

“What if a person wanted to go back, back to life? Could she do that?” asked the young girl.

Everyone paused at the naive question. Most of them understood that their lives were over, but it was undoubtedly hard for the very young, who never had much of a life at all, to accept that fact.

The waiter, who had been on the ship longer than anyone present except Seamus, said gently, “No, that’s not possible. No one goes back.”

That was not true, but Seamus did not contradict the speaker. He had gone back many times. Returning to life was not what the girl imagined, not what she would want. It was a job, and only a few could handle it.

As the meal progressed, Seamus observed the other Portalists serving food, taking away empty plates, playing in the orchestra across the room. Those who stayed on the ship were given jobs: nothing too taxing, but work that made them feel useful. Waiting tables or handing out towels in the gym was not enough for Seamus. He tried not to feel contemptuous of either the guests who blithely journeyed forward or the Portalists who hung around to enjoy the ship’s luxury. It was their choice, he reminded himself
. Maybe I’m the selfish one.

He had not come to dinner tonight for the company, but because Mike, the guy Seamus thought of as the Manager Angel, had stopped by his stateroom earlier. The visit had made Seamus’ day, though he tried not to show it.

After knocking on the cabin door and being invited inside, Mike entered, wrinkling his nose at the smell of what was almost certainly cigarette smoke. He was much too polite to mention it, though. Instead he asked, “Are you up for some work?”

Seamus had been lying on the bed, fully clothed except for his hat, working a crossword puzzle with a pen. “You know better than to ask,” he answered, setting the book down and shifting his feet to the floor.

Mike held up a hand, signaling patience. “He’s with Nancy right now, but she’s pretty sure this guy will need you.”

“Murdered?”

“He thinks so.” Mike, who looked to Seamus like Gene Kelly, took a step into the room and closed the door behind him. “He’s old, and I’d guess he was pretty shaky on his feet. He fell off a cliff while watching a yacht race. It could have been by accident, but he doesn’t think so.”

“He wants to know the results of the police investigation?”

“Yes. If he decides to go ahead with it, you’ll meet him after dinner and get the full story.”

Seamus lay back on the pillows stacked against the headboard. “You’re the boss, Mike.” Mike grinned at his pretended reluctance, knowing his “employee” was thrilled when a new job came along. Seamus liked the idea of working for Mike, or better still, for Good.