He had a real knack for knowing when to smother a customer with attention and when to back off. He also had a wonderful sense of style. He paired shoes and purses as if it were a talent he'd been born with and I, for one, had no doubt he had been. The fact that I had been, too, made us soul-mates of sorts, and by the time he was un-busy enough to spend ten minutes sitting and chatting with me, I was so giddy from the smell of expensive leather and the promise of a life after the afterlife of Garden View, I was tempted to ask Charles if along with every other Sunday off, he could guarantee me a ghost-free work environment.
I might actually have done it. Except that in the middle of a serious discussion of the advantages of Miu Miu versus Kate Spade, I looked toward a chichi display of even more chichi summer sandals and straw bags—and saw Gus.
My heart stopped, the astonishment so complete and so unexpected, it solidified inside me until every inch of my body was flash frozen. I'd been describing my idea of the perfect spring outfit to Charles and my arm went numb in the middle of a Vanna-like gesture toward a pair of silk and lizard T-strap pumps. I swear, if I hadn't been a) in public, b) in the middle of a job interview, and c) wondering if, finally, I hadn't completely lost my mind, I would have screamed.
Instead, before I could stop myself, I popped out of my chair, my arm still extended, my body language now more accusatory than it was graceful. "You can't be here," I said.
"Excuse me?"
I realized my mistake the moment I heard Charles's befuddled voice. I yanked my gaze away from Gus and back to Charles, who was eyeing me as if… well, as if I'd seen a ghost.
"All the time," I blurted out along with a smile that was tight around the edges and too wide to be genuine. "You can't be here all the time, is what I meant to say. That's why you need reliable people to work for you."
"Absolutely." My recovery was so smooth, Charles never lost the gleam in his dark eyes. Seeing that we shared the same concerns about work ethics, he just about sparkled. He stood. "I'll let you in on a little secret, darling. That's exactly why it's taking me so long to hire a new associate. I can't entrust this department to just anyone. I need to find someone with fashion sense. Someone with common sense, too. I think that .you might be that person."
"Oh, I am." I swallowed hard and kept on smiling and when Charles moved back and motioned me toward the cash register desk, I dared another look at the sandals and straw bags.
Gus was nowhere in sight.
The tension drained out of me, and since we were standing so close, Charles must have felt it. He smiled. Being a reasonable person, he assumed I was feeling good because our interview was progressing so well.
I wondered how long that smile would have lasted if he knew this was a totally different kind of relief. I had been imagining things.
Thing.
One thing.
Gus.
My nerves were on edge from the stress of the interviewing process and I'd let it get to me. Of course Gus wasn't there at Saks among the Pradas and the Jimmy Choos. Gus was back at the cemetery. Right where he belonged.
"Let me show you around," Charles offered, but before he could, a woman walked into the department and eyed up the Dolce & Gabbanas. He excused himself, promised he'd be right back, and left me on my own.
Now that I was calmer, I allowed myself the extravagance of indulging in a little visualization. Me in summer white, assisting pleasant and polite customers, enjoying the atmosphere—the wonderful civility—of Saks. Me, making more money than I was making at the cemetery, free of worry. No more watching every step as I maneuvered my way through the sometimes-treacherous Garden View landscape. No more digging through dusty files to find the solution to a mystery that probably wasn't much of a mystery, anyway.
A warm wave of peacefulness rippled through me, and I cradled an adorable Moschino Cheap & Chic pink polka dot slingback in one hand.
I spent a few minutes picturing the outfit I'd buy to go along with the shoes and how I would wear it to spend an evening with Quinn. I imagined wearing the same shoes for a date with Dan and wondered if he'd notice them. I smiled, deciding right then and there that after I gave Ella my two weeks' notice and served out the remainder of my sentence, I'd never again set foot inside the gates of Garden View. Which meant I'd never again have to deal with—
"Gus?"
He was waiting just inside the doorway of the room where the extra shoes were kept and when I walked by, he stepped out in front of me. Though I hadn't noticed it before, I sure noticed now. He was not a happy camper.
The fire in Gus's eyes just about fried me. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Charles was still busy. "What I'm doing," I told him, "is completing a job interview. Which you shouldn't even know about. How do you know about it? And how can you be here? We're outside the cemetery. How can you be—"
"I've always been able to leave."
Just thinking of the possibilities made my stomach pitch. "Always? Anywhere?"
Gus was indignant. "Anywhere I want. Only it ain't as great as it sounds, you know? Where should I go? Home? To watch Rudy running things? Or maybe I should pop over to Italy. See the sights. Enjoy the food and wine." He made a noise from deep in his throat that reminded me of a growl. "Never wanted to leave before," he said. "Never had to. Until today."
As if he was taking aim over the barrel of a gun, Gus narrowed his eyes at me.
"I heard that message from this store, here, and I swear on my mother's grave—bless her soul—that I thought I must have been imagining things. You couldn't possibly be walking out on me. But then I come here and… " He threw his hands in the air. "I can't believe you would do this to me. That you of all people would stab me in the back. Especially when we had a deal."
"First of all, coming here to talk about a job doesn't qualify as stabbing you in the back. And second—"
He opened his mouth to say something but I didn't let him.
"Second, we never had a deal."
"And what about your job over at the cemetery?"
"My job is exactly that. A job. Nothing more. It's something I can walk away from. Whenever I decide I want to."
"And your investigation?"
It was my turn to growl. "I don't have an investigation. I told you from the start that I didn't want to investigate, Gus. I told you I didn't know how. I haven't found out anything new. I'm not going to find out anything new."
"So you're going to give up?"
"Hell, yes." I didn't realize how loud my voice was until I heard my own words echo back at me. I cringed, checked again to make sure Charles was still busy, and turned my anger back on Gus where it belonged. "This is the job I want."
He grunted. "Selling ugly shoes to spoiled women? You're better than that."
"And you're only saying that because you need me to do your dirty work for you."
"No. I'm saying it because it's—"
"Oh please!" I rolled my eyes. "You don't care. Remember? You told me as much back at the cemetery. You only saved me from ending up like a pancake under the wheels of that hearse because I'm the only one who can help you."
"And you're going to hold that against me? That I saved your life?" Gus shook his head in wonder. "The world is a different place than it was thirty years ago. There was a time when obligations meant something to people."
"We're not talking obligations. And besides, I don't have any. Not to my job at the cemetery and certainly not to you."
"Then to who, that cop who's sniffing around?"
He was trying to catch me off guard, and it wasn't going to happen again. I knew he listened to my phone messages. "Quinn is none of your business," I told Gus.
"You're a jamoke." He shook his head with disappointment. "A cop? I would have thought you had better taste than that. And that other boy? The one who wants your brain?"
"Oh, like it matters!" I screeched my frustration. "And like it's any of your business, a
nyway. Who I see is no concern of yours. Just like where I work. I'll go where I want, with whoever I want, and I'm not going to check in or run it by you, got that?"
"Yeah, I do, except I'm the one who makes out the schedule."
Damn, Charles was right behind me.
This time, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't manage a smile. My stomach hit bottom, then bounced into my throat, blocking my breathing. I squeezed my eyes shut, braced myself, and turned to him. When I opened my eyes, I found Charles looking just a little concerned and more than just a little frightened.
"This isn't nearly as crazy as it looks," I said.
"I hope not," Charles said. "Because I'll tell you what, it's looking pretty crazy."
"Pretty crazy as in—"
"Thanks for stopping by, Pepper." Charles slipped the personnel file out of my hands and clutched it to his Emilio Pucci tie like a protective shield. "We've got a couple more candidates to interview and if you're the one we choose, we'll give you a call."
"But I—" I tried, honest, but I couldn't come up with an excuse. Not one that didn't sound psychotic, anyway.
Maybe I am psychotic. Because I don't remember saying goodbye to Charles or leaving the mall. The next thing I knew, I was in my car, staring at the keys in my hand, too numb to even stick them in the ignition.
"Someday you'll thank me for this."
Was I surprised to find Gus in my passenger seat?
I barely spared him a look. "How do you figure?"
"You don't want to work with them snooty types." He made himself comfortable. "You're too much of a free spirit."
"No, that would be you."
I wasn't trying to be funny but Gus chuckled. "That's a good one. Me, a free spirit. Yeah, I guess I am."
"And I… " I poked the keys into the ignition, started the car, and pulled out of the parking lot. "I just crashed and burned."
"Who needs them." He aimed a look of disgust at the mall. "You've got better things to do."
We were out on the street and stopped at a red light before the enormity of my humiliation finally sank in. A tear streaked down my cheek and I wiped it away with the back of one hand.
"What?" Gus looked at me in wonder. "Don't tell me you're crying because of those people. They aren't worth it."
"Two dollars more an hour is."
He cocked his head to one side. "This is about money?"
I snorted my outrage but try as I might, I couldn't get the oomph of anger into my voice. It wavered on the tears that threatened to erupt full force. "You're the one who says that everything is business. Then you should realize that I've got business, too. I have bills to pay. Rent and utilities and—"
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Oh, yeah." I sniffed and gave a watery laugh. "I forgot. When I need money, all I have to do is ask my friendly neighborhood dead guy."
Gus shook his head. "You disappoint me. I thought you understood, about the way things work. You are doing this thing for me, this investigation, and you think I'm not going to show my appreciation?"
"By going away?"
This he didn't think was funny. And I knew all along it wasn't open to discussion.
Gus steepled his fingers and tapped his upper lip with his index finger, and though I was concentrating on traffic and couldn't take the time to watch him, I could sense that he was making a decision about something important.
We had already left the upper-middle-class vicinity of the mall and were headed into the blue-collar neighborhood I called home when he finally cleared his throat. "You'll excuse me. For not saying something sooner. You have to remember… " He glanced out the passenger window, watching as the everyday world slipped past us. "It's been a long time since I've had to deal with the living. A man, he forgets."
"What a pain in the ass he can be?"
"Exactly how business is done. Turn. Here," he said when we came to the street that would lead back to Garden View.
"No way you need a ride home. Not with the way you pop in and out of places."
"I'm not looking for a ride. I'm looking for money."
"What, we're going to knock over the local convenience store?"
His smile was wry. "Not a robbery," he said. "A payment. Your payment. After all, you are working for me."
"And you're going to pay me how?"
"Don't ask questions." We were near a little-used side entrance to Garden View, the one that was kept open on those nights when staff worked late. Tonight, I knew the groundskeeping guys were there repairing damage done to a bridge by the spring thaw. Gus pointed me inside. "Just keep driving," he said. "And don't stop until we get to my mausoleum."
In the summer, there were evening angel tours on the schedule, morning garden walks, and even a couple sunrise services that I would be obliged to attend. In the winter, the Friends of Garden View volunteers always sponsored an afterdark wildlife hike. But I hadn't been in my job long enough to participate in any of those things.
That was the first time I'd been in the cemetery after hours.
I pulled up to the section where Gus's mausoleum was located and cut my engine. The sounds of traffic out on Mayfield Road
were muffled and distant. From even farther off, I heard the low-pitched groan of the heavy equipment the grounds-keepers were using for their repairs. In the place where the branches of tall trees arched over the road like skeleton fingers, not even a bird chirped. The place was as quiet as a…
The usual metaphor came right to me and I cringed.
"As quiet as a tomb," I told Gus.
Except that when I turned to see if he got the joke, he wasn't in my car.
"Gus?" I didn't really expect to find him there, but I peered into the backseat and when I saw that it was empty, I opened my door and got out of the car. "Gus?"
"Over here."
His voice came from somewhere near the mausoleum, though in the dark and shadows, it was impossible to see from where. Remembering to watch my step (not to mention my Ferragamos), I crossed the swath of lawn that led to the impressive little building that housed Gus's earthly remains.
Right about then, though, it was his unearthly self that I was more concerned with.
"Gus? Where are you?"
"Over here." Through the brass door with its decorative glass inserts, I saw Gus look out at me from the inside of the mausoleum. "Get in here."
I stopped dead at the place where three wide, shallow steps led up to the door. "In? There? No thanks."
"Don't be ridiculous." Suddenly, Gus was right beside me, and because I figured it was too dark for him to see me do it, I pressed a hand to my heart, startled. "Get inside. I can't get the money myself. You know that."
I eyed Gus, then turned and looked skeptically at the mausoleum. "You have money in your tomb?"
"It's not a tomb. A tomb is—"
"A tomb is a burial half out in the open and half underground, like a mausoleum built into a hillside. Yeah, I know. I've done my homework."
"Then you shouldn't be afraid to come inside. It's not a tomb."
"I'm not afraid."
"And I'm not dead." He walked toward the door.
I held back. It was one thing walking around the grounds of Garden View, pointing out what Ella liked to call its architectural treasures. But actually going inside one of the mausoleums? To a place where a body was closed into a coffin and slid into an opening in the wall?
I swallowed the sudden sour taste in my mouth and scrambled. "Why would you have money in your—" I wasn't about to launch into another debate of proper cemetery vocabulary. "Why would you have money in there, anyway?" I asked Gus.
He let go a sigh of impatience. "This here mausoleum was built long before I got clipped. I helped design it. And I watched it being built. Because I wanted to make sure it was done right. When it was finished… well, let's put it this way. A man in my position, he never knows when he might need some cash. Fast. When this here mausoleum was finished, I made sure I stashed
some cash away. Just in case."
It sounded plausible. But even the promise of money wasn't going to get me inside. Not until I had some more answers. "Just in case of what? Like in case you needed to leave town?"
Gus pursed his lips, considering. "It's been known to happen."
"Or in case you needed to arrange a hit on someone?"
He snorted. "I told you, this was private money. Not business funds."
Another thought occurred to me and I looked at him hard, as if that might help me figure out if he was lying. "Money you got how? Robbing banks?"
"Your questions are out of line."
"Then answer them and I'll stop asking."
He scratched a finger behind his right ear. "The money is mine. Won fair and square. Poker."
"And you tucked it away here, where nobody could find it."
"Here. Other places. Like I said, a man never knows—"
"When he's going to have to skip out on his business associates and not leave a forwarding address."
"My murder proves as much, wouldn't you say?"
He had me there. Which didn't mean I walked up to the door of that mausoleum with a light heart. Gus pointed to one of the rocks tucked into the landscaping and I realized it was one of those phony, hide-a-key thingees. I retrieved the key and unlocked the door, and the second I touched the brass knob, ice filled my veins. I pulled the door open and stepped into the place where thirty years earlier, Gus Scarpetti had been laid to his not-so-eternal rest.
Chapter 8
A deal was a deal.
From a booth in the corner by the window, I watched Dan up at the counter, ordering my double latte (skim milk, no whipped cream), and thought about the nine thousand dollars in cold, hard cash that I'd deposited in my checking account that morning.
Like it or not, I knew exactly what it meant.
Sure, the money from Gus's mausoleum would go a long way toward supplementing what I made at Garden View. Sure, I wouldn't have to worry about paying my rent. Not for a long time, anyway. Sure, I was grateful. More than grateful. I was relieved. Overjoyed. Flat out happy. For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't have to wonder how I would stretch my paycheck to cover my bills. (That pair of Moschino Cheap & Chic pink polka dot slingbacks had my name on them, too.)
Don of the Dead Page 9
