The Chick and the Dead (26 page)

"Maybe yes," he finally said. "Maybe no. I'm leaning toward the mo." This was not something I wanted to hear. Not when I was so sure of myself, my theory, and the undeniable evidence I'd discovered in Weird Bob's workroom. I tried again. "Are you sure? Come on, Rick, this is pretty important. Think! This guy, he always smells like cigarettes."

"Now I know he hasn't been around here." Rick shook his head. "I was a smoker myself. Quit a three-pack-a-day habit not a year ago. Believe me, I'd remember the smell of smoke." He breathed deep, as if he could smell it and was enjoying every cancer-inducing molecule. "What I wouldn't give for a Camel unfiltered." He wiped the smile of nicotine desire off his face.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm pretty sure the guy you're talking about was never here to see the mausoleum."

"But he might have been the one who clunked you on the head." What was it called on those TV courtroom shows? Leading a witness?

Oh yeah, I was leading Rick, all right. Hopefully to remembering Bob's involvement in the mugging. Unfortunately, the only place I was leading him was nowhere at all.

He was sure of himself when he said, "I told you, somebody snuck up from behind me. Big guy or no big guy, I didn't see a thing."

I was still holding the box that contained the camera, and I looked from Rick to the long curl of film at the bottom of the box. Maybe there was more than one way to prove Weird Bob's involvement. "You didn't see anything," I said, "but maybe your camera did." I fished out the film. "Will this prove anything?" He sized up the film. "It's been exposed. It's toast."

"But you could try, couldn't you? I mean, develop it or something?" Rick wasn't so sure, and I think he would have said so if I didn't play the sympathy card. And bat my eyelashes at him.

"I found your camera," I said, thinking back to the lessons in the not-so-gentle art of persuasion I'd learned from Gus. "I brought it back to you. The least you can do—"

"You're right." When I offered it, he took the box out of my hands. "I don't know what you think I'm going to find on this film. I've told you, I've told the folks here at the cemetery who asked, I've told the cops. Nothing unusual happened the day I was mugged. I don't remember taking any pictures that were special that day. That's for sure. In fact, when I think back on it, I don't remember much of anything at all except—"

"Except… " I leaned forward, eager to hear more.

Rick looked away. "You're going to think it's crazy," he said. I didn't bother to point out that as the world's one and only Gifted cemetery tour guide, I was getting used to the fact that pretty much nothing was crazy.

Or maybe everything was.

This wasn't the time to get philosophical.

"Tell me anyway," I said instead. "Maybe between the two of us, we can figure out what it means." Rick's hands were big. He wrapped them around his camera. "It's just that…" He blushed. "I feel so goofy admitting it. I mean, hell, I'm no psychologist, but even I know it's probably got some weird mental health implication or something. You see, my grandmother, she was a drinker. She used to whack me around when I was a kid. You know, when she was drunk. She thought she was fooling us all, that we didn't know when she was hitting the bottle. Yeah, like we were that stupid!" He made a sour face. "She used to try to cover up the smell of the booze on her breath."

Rick looked so uncomfortable about confessing all this, I might have felt sorry for him if I wasn't so busy wondering what it all meant.

"I think that's why every time I think back to the day I was mugged, I have the same weird memory," he said. "You know, like the fact that I was knocked on the head is getting all mixed up with what happened to me when I was a kid and Grandma was hanging with Jack Daniel's. That's got to be why every time I think about the mugging, I have the same sensory experience. I'll bet some psychologist would make a big deal out of that, huh?"

"Depends what sensory experience you're talking about."

"Like I said, it's crazy." Uncomfortable, Rick cleared his throat. "Every time I think about getting whacked on the head, I think about Grandma. You see, that's how she covered up the smell of the liquor. That's what I think about when I think about getting whacked. Menthol cough drops."

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

As she looked over the ballroom of the Renaissance Hotel and the crowd of costumed partyers milling around the buffet tables where candles twinkled and champagne flowed, Ella's face was aglow. Mine…

Let's just say that my interest in the scene was a little more scientific. With that in mind, I took a quick look around. Kurt and Elizabeth were across the room, she in her blue velvet dress, he in his uniform, bickering about which of their pictures (twenty feet tall and hanging at the far end of the ballroom) was better/more attractive/more professional.

With any luck, they'd keep themselves so busy, I wouldn't have to deal. The rest of the crowd was another matter. From across the massive ballroom, I caught sight of Thomas Ross Howell, resplendent in tuxedo. He had a short, silver-haired woman on his arm (obviously his wife, Tammy) who must have spent the equivalent of one month of my rent on her green gown. Yeah, it was that spectacular. And who was I to criticize? I was a big believer in the if-you've-got-it-flaunt-it theory. At the same time I proved it by twinkling at President Lincoln, who walked by, looked me over, and gave me a wink, I wondered if Howell knew that David Barkwill, construction mogul, another of Didi's former boyfriends—and fellow murder suspect—was just a few short feet away getting himself a glass of punch.

He might not know, but I sure did. As dazzling as the whole scene was, I hadn't forgotten my primary mission. I had plans to talk to both Howell and Barkwill, as well as to the rest of the men from Didi's little black book who'd responded to my personal invitation in my best handwriting. As soon as I shook Ella.

Easier said than done.

Her eyes sparkling like the slick sheen of her rose-colored gown, Ella wound one elbow-length-glove-clad arm through mine. "Oh, Pepper. It's as if I stepped into a scene from
So Far the
Dawn
. Like a dream come true!"

I tugged at the side of my gown and at the corset beneath it that was pinching my boobs. "Only if you dream about being a masochist," I told her.

She thought I was kidding and laughed. "You look like a princess in a fairy tale," she said. She was right, and in keeping with the whole got-and-flaunt theory, I wasn't ashamed to admit it. The gold silk gown with its miles of creamy lace edging looked fabulous with my hair and as old-fart, old-fashioned, old-time as the style of the dress was (snug waist, wide skirt, and all), I really did look good in it.

Of course, the off-the-shoulder styling didn't hurt. Neither did the fact that my breasts were pressed, smashed, and mashed against the low-cut neckline. But how I looked and how I felt, those were two different things.

When a man excused himself to get around me, I stepped to one side. My hoop skirt swayed and I slapped a hand on either side of it to keep it from taking off down the dance floor and swinging me along with it. "How the hell did women ever function when they were bundled up in clothes like this?" I hissed.

"Between the corset and the pantaloons and this damned hoop—"

"Now, now." Ella scolded me, but she was smiling while she did it. "A proper lady never uses such language."

"I've got news for you, I'm no proper lady."

"That's pretty much what I'm counting on."

The comment came from right behind me, and I didn't have to turn around to know it was Quinn. For one thing, Ella looked that way and blushed from the more-modest-than-mine neckline of her gown all the way to her forehead. For another, Quinn's voice tickled its way up my spine and left a tingly sensation behind. Fire and ice and raw sexual energy.

Not a bad combination.

Not that I was going to let on. At least not this early in the evening. When I turned to him, I hoped he'd attribute the fact that I was trembling to the crazy wobbling of my hoop.

Nice try.

Because when I turned to him, and saw that he was wearing a tux…

Well, let's just say that
eye candy
took on a whole new meaning. I looked from the tips of Quinn's spit-polished shoes to the top of his head. Top to bottom was A-OK, and everything in between was mighty fine, too.

"Detective." I nodded my hello. "I didn't expect to see you all dressed up."

"Expecting to see me undressed?" His eyes sparkled in a way meant just for me. A fizz bubbled through my veins.

"I think it's time for me to greet the members of ISFTDS who are here," Ella said. Giggling, she . patted me on the arm and disappeared into the costumed crowd.

"Well, that will give her something to talk about at the office tomorrow," I said, even though I knew Ella was too sensible to spread gossip. "You're feeling mighty pleased with yourself tonight."

"And you're looking mighty good." Quinn gave me a careful once-over, his gaze stopping at my low neckline. "No wonder those olden days are considered so romantic."

"Don't get any ideas. Something tells me women back then didn't really show this much skin." I shifted my shoulders, trying not to feel so squashed. "I wouldn't even be this exposed if I tried on my gown in time to get it to the seamstress for alterations."

The sparkle in Quinn's eyes throttled back to a slow simmer. "Someone made an attempt to kill you while you were trying on the dress the first time, and we never found any evidence as to who it was. I imagine that was enough to make you reluctant to try on the gown a second time."

"I'll say," I told him, but I didn't mention the fact that I'd been too busy to try on the gown because of other things, too. Like communicating back and forth with msman, who, according to his latest e-mail, still—glory and hallelujah—had not found a buyer for the original manuscript page. Unfortunately he also said the price I had offered (more than I could afford) was a little low. The question popped out of me before I could stop it. "I don't suppose you know how I can raise five thousand dollars in cold, hard cash, do you?"

Quinn's gaze dropped to my chest, and a smile inched up the corners of his mouth. "I'm not going to state the obvious."

"You bet you're not."

"So why do you need that kind of money?"

I'd debated about telling him. Not about the money, of course. Before the words spilled out of my mouth, I hadn't realized I was going to mention the money. But there were other things, things I would need Quinn's help with eventually. Was now a good time to take him into my confidence? Probably not, but I knew that if I waited for the perfect moment, it would never come.

"There's something I want to buy," I said. "An original manuscript page. From
So Far the Dawn
." He barked out a laugh. "You of all people! Don't tell me you're turning into one of these—"

"Freaks?" I lowered my voice so the freaks around us wouldn't hear. "Not a chance. But listen, I think there's something strange going on. About the book. About the manuscript displayed at the museum." She was all the way across the room chatting with the mayor and the anchor from one of the national news programs, but I glanced over my shoulder at Merilee and lowered my voice anyway. "I don't think she wrote it," I told Quinn.

Something told me Quinn wasn't surprised often, and even when he was, I had a feeling he didn't let it show. Which is why I took it as something of a compliment when he rolled back on his heels, looked from Merilee to me, and whistled low under his breath. "Who—?"

"It was her sister, Didi. At least I think it was. Maybe. I'm pretty sure." I was. I think. "Anyway, I found someone online who claims to have an original page from the original manuscript. If I can buy it and you can get it… I don't know… tested or dated or whatever it is they do to check the age of things… and if you can get the writing on it compared to the sample of Didi's writing that I have… then we can prove it. And then everyone will know that Didi really wrote the book."

Even when Quinn was caught off guard, I found out he didn't let it get the best of him. He got right down to business, narrowing his eyes and shooting me a look. "And you know all this, how?" I shrugged. Was I stalling? Or trying to distract Quinn and get him to look at my chest? Either way, it worked. Both ways, it was better than having to confess how I really knew what I knew. Or at least what I thought I knew I knew.

"It really doesn't matter how I know, does it? What matters is that if Didi really wrote the book, then she should get the credit. And the big, fat royalty checks."

Even Quinn couldn't argue with logic like this. He nodded. "Then let's talk to this Didi and see what she has to say."

"We can't." Technically correct since
we
didn't have the Gift. "She's dead."

"Then how—"

"Can she get the money?" It was better to head him off at the pass than let him ask the obvious question:
Then how do you know
?

"Didi had a daughter," I explained. "She's dead, too, but her daughter had a daughter. Which means Didi has a granddaughter. Which means that if I can prove Didi wrote the book, Harmony—her granddaughter—can cash in on—"

Quinn was a quick study. He didn't need to hear any more. He cut off my explanation with a look designed to intimidate. "Which means you're talking a lot of money. And a lot of money explains why someone tried to kill you. It also tells me that the day you were attacked in your bedroom, you knew exactly what was going on, you just weren't talking. Looks like for the second time since I met you, you've stuck your nose where it doesn't belong."

It was hard to argue. Especially when he was right. So when had that ever stopped me? "My nose is exactly where it belongs," I told him. "Because I know Harmony. Or at least I've met her. The money is rightfully hers, and that means she deserves it. I also know that something isn't right in the world of
So Far
the Dawn
. The wrong person is taking credit for a book that millions of people love. Is that enough for you, Officer? If not, consider this. Everyone thinks Didi committed suicide, but she was really murdered, maybe because of the manuscript. And Trish Kingston—you remember her, the woman whose death you're currently investigating?—was involved in the mugging of that photographer over at Garden View. I don't know about you, but I think that means that the mugging might ultimately have had something to do with Trish's murder."