Don of the Dead
Page 24
No answer.
I was annoyed but I also knew that at a time like that, even a don needed his privacy. We'd talk about the case the next day. I started back to the car.
That's when I heard another car glide by out on the street. From the powerful sound of the motor, I knew it was a big car. The windows must have been down and the stereo was cranked.
As clear as day, I heard the music. Sinatra singing "My Way."
And suddenly, I remembered what Gus had said all those weeks ago. About the way he'd head to the Other Side when it was his time.
I froze in place, one foot on a flat headstone, the other on the turf. A tear slipped down my cheek and I admit it, I didn't even try to wipe it away.
Instead, I walked to my car, and when I got there, I turned to Gus's mausoleum one last time.
"Goodbye, Gus," I said, and drove toward the office. Maybe I'd give my mom a call. And if I had time before five o'clock rolled around and I headed home, I figured I'd drop my dad a line.
As much as I hated to admit it, I knew I was going to miss Gus, but by the time I got back to the office, I'd pretty much convinced myself that everything that had happened was for the best. The Scarpetti family (immediate and business) was finally at peace and, hey, so was I.
No more Gus.
No more ghost.
No more investigation.
I have to say, though I hadn't realized how much the whole thing had weighed on me, I was suddenly as light as a feather. I could finally get back to my own life.
I was jazzed. Which explains why I was so taken aback when I opened my office door and found a woman sitting on my desk waiting for me.
She was in her twenties. Pretty in an old-fashioned sort of way. She had short-cropped blond hair (a little darker at the roots) and she was wearing a black top and a pink cardigan with the letter D written on it in rhinestones.
Oh, and one of those poodle skirts.
The kind women wore back in the fifties. When she saw me, she grinned and waved. She snapped her gum.
"Hiya, honey," she said. "Gus sent me."
About the Author
CASEY DANIELS once applied for a job as a tour guide in a cemetery. She didn't get the job, but she did get the idea for the Pepper Martin mystery series. Casey learned to love mysteries early thanks to her father, a Cleveland Police detective who enjoyed Sherlock Holmes stories and spent his days off searching for stolen cars—with Casey along for the ride. Later, she read her way through every mystery on the library shelves. Casey has a degree in English and a background in journalism and teaching. She lives in Northeast Ohio, and you can visit her website at www.caseydaniels.com.