Fortunes of the Dead

by Lynn Hightower

  “I wouldn’t do that anyway.”

  “You did to me.”

  “That’s true. But I wouldn’t to anyone else.”

  “Clayton is what you might call anal. And he can’t draft an agreement where he doesn’t get some kind of concession. Like you said, he’s a lawyer. Also, I had to let him put that in there so he’d draw up this fee document, between you, me, and the BMW.”

  “I’m seriously tempted.”

  “I can throw in some free dance lessons, if that would help.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lately I have taken to smoking cigars, a habit I clearly share with Emma Marsden. It is a terrible habit, especially considering that I can only afford cheap cigars, the kind that will bring everyone in the room to harmonious agreement—be they Democrats, liberals, Republicans, warmongers, pro-or anti-choice, for or against the death penalty—the agreement being that the kind of cigar I can afford is disgusting. If I were smelling it instead of smoking it, I would be disgusted too.

  On the other hand, I appreciate that the cigars have wooden tips, and are slim and black and slightly sweet. Nothing so good as chocolate, but still good. And although they pollute my lungs and the atmosphere, and add certain intriguing elements to the more feminine’ aspects of my personal scent—vanilla lotion and Escada perfume—they do not have calories, they do not make my abdomen swell so that my jeans are tight, and are for these reasons much better than chocolate. This is how women think, and I am a woman. If you are a woman or you know one who is honest, you are not surprised.

  Cigars are good for people like me who eat for three reasons: hunger, boredom, and the need for distracting stimulation, which is different enough from boredom to have its own category, but still close.

  I think it is the ritual of smoking cigars that I like, as well as the rebellion. I had a very southern upbringing, which means that beer and cigars are not the norm if you are female. In my family, even beer was unusual. It was bourbon and cigars, but that was for the men. Mixed drinks were highballs. My sister and I drank beer in college to annoy our parents and prove something, but our parents were fascinated and encouraged us to order beer whenever they took us to dinner. My dad would order a beer too, and my mom would taste ours but didn’t like it. For Mom it was Diet Pepsi or nothing, which is much worse for you than beer, which at least has B-12.

  I was quite delighted when Emma Marsden insisted on me taking the BMW home for the night, so long as I was willing to drop her off at her house. We made an appointment to meet at the courthouse before lunch the next day to transfer the title of ownership from her to me, and for us to sign the letter of agreement in regard to my services.

  Her house was out of my way, but driving the car was what I wanted to be doing. It was a 1999 Z3 Roadster, automatic, with antilock brakes, a CD player, and a power convertible roof. There was a small slit in the plastic rectangular back window, right along the crease where the plastic folded when the top was down. I didn’t much care. We drove out Main Street, away from town, until it became Richmond Road, and we followed it through the strips of restaurants, dry cleaners, and apartment complexes, past Lexington Mall and Home Depot, past the Man of War intersection that led to Homburg Place, where Emma Marsden taught ballroom dance at an independent studio, past the highway access to I-75, past a Waffle House, a Holiday Inn, and the Solid Gold Men’s Club, to Athens, Kentucky, where Emma had her house.

  There was something about it. A bit tumbledown, but solid, red brick, with a thrusting front porch (yes, there was a porch swing) and lights in the window. It reminded me of my little place in Chevy Chase (the lesser end of that neighborhood), and her place, like mine, clearly needed work. Still, for pure potential you couldn’t beat it. I had realized, after living in my cottage for a while, that some people look at old houses and see what is there (mold in the corners of the ceiling, cracks in the plaster, hardwood floors that have been loved into scratches and dents, linoleum floors that need to be peeled up to reveal the heart of pine underneath). I see what the house can be. I see it so clearly I forget what it really looks like, which makes me slow at renovation work, but content with what I have. I would rather have a rundown old cottage that is seventy years old and needs a shit-load of work than a brand-new house that is bigger. I’m not sure why that is, except that it seems to me a matter of presence, and charm, and happiness in the details. An arched doorway that leads to ten-foot ceilings and cracked walls and an electrical system that is nothing short of dangerous is my idea of home. Perfect drywall, carpet instead of battered wood floors, and tiny little twig trees just starting to grow have less and less appeal to me the longer I stay in my house.

  As soon as I pulled into the gravel driveway, the front door opened and a teenage girl stood behind the screen door, watching.

  “That’s my daughter, Blaine. Would you like to come in and meet her?”

  What I really wanted to do was see the inside of the house. Now that I am working on my own, I like to see what other people are doing with theirs. I hesitated, but the teenage girl walked out onto the porch. Her face, lit by the outside light, was heart-shaped and breathtakingly beautiful—or would have been if she’d had a more pleasant expression. She tapped her wrist like she was pointing to a watch, though she was not, in fact, wearing one. She gave both of us a stern look.

  I glanced over at Emma. “Out past your curfew?”

  She laughed. “Clearly. Come on in, she doesn’t bite.”

  “No, thanks. I need to get home.”

  “If you change your mind about the car, and taking the job and everything—”

  “I won’t.”

  “See you at the courthouse tomorrow.”

  I waved at Emma’s daughter, who waved back but did not smile, and heard her say “Who is that, and why is she taking your car?” as soon as Emma was on the porch. I backed out of the driveway without looking back, feeling that you-are-in-so-much-trouble sensation I hadn’t had since I was a teenager myself.

  I put the top down at the first stoplight, even though it was cold, and turned the heat on full blast to keep warm. I caught two teenage boys looking at me from the front seat of a Camaro.

  “Nice car,” they said, heads bobbing to the thrum of music.

  I smiled. And hit the accelerator as soon as the light turned green, leaving them two car lengths behind. I have always loved a powerful engine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the best of all possible worlds Joel would be just walking up the sidewalk to the front door when I pulled into our narrow driveway (paved, to Emma Marsden’s gravel, but who’s keeping score?). He wasn’t. Second best, he would have been sitting in his favorite chair in the living room and getting up to glance out the window. But no, he wasn’t home. He’d been home, though, because somebody had turned out all the lights I’d left on when I headed out late that afternoon. It’s a fate thing—light-leaver-oners always do seem to mate up with light-turner-off-ers.

  I hate coming home to a dark house.

  My cat was right at the door when I came in. The days when I would have had to snatch him up by the tail as he raced outside to a world forbidden to indoor cats are long gone. John Maynard Kitty is about as old as the economist he was named after.

  He nudged his head at my calf, and croaked. His mews deepened into croaks about three years ago. I picked him up, gently with old bones, and turned on the foyer light. He blinked and dug his claws ever so delicately into my shoulders. He did not like being left in the dark.

  I turned on the lamps in the living room. The maid service had come, not Joel. They had turned off all the lights, not even leaving on the smallest lamp for my kitty. And they’d rearranged the furniture in the living room again, which pissed me off. I did not like cleaning crews. I much preferred the lone cleaning professional who likes to be paid in cash, takes longer to do the work but does a better job, and who doesn’t wear a uniform. But Joel is in charge of the cleaning service, and we have other things to argue about. If it was l
eft up to me, we wouldn’t have one. Of course, if it was left up to me, we wouldn’t clean.

  I don’t mind a clean house, if only people would let my stuff alone.

  I moved the furniture back where I wanted it, because, yes, I had actually put it that way for a reason, and picked Maynard up and carried him into the kitchen. He can walk, of course, but these days he prefers being carried, so long as it is me who is doing the carrying.

  I poured dry kibble in a bowl and mixed it with real tuna fish—StarKist, white tuna, packed in oil. Maynard has started losing weight, and it worries me. The vet says his teeth are okay, but he really scarfs down the tuna and I am trying to fatten him up. I am waiting on the result of blood work to see if he has a thyroid problem. He has lost way too much weight, especially since he eats a lot of junk food, courtesy of me, and should therefore be pudgy. Maynard and I have long been crazy about potato chips (salt and vinegar my favorite, sour cream and onion his). The vet visit turned into a senior wellness checkup, long overdue I guess, but the bill came to two hundred and thirty-five dollars. Which would not have been a problem if I had gone to work for Clayton Roubideaux, instead of Emma.

  On the other hand, that was a BMW in my driveway.

  I had a new CD of Brazilian music, which I put in the player. I felt so good that I started up the gas grill outside, and headed for the laundry alcove off the kitchen. The hamper was overflowing. And, if left to Joel, it would take days to get it done. One thing you can say about me is that I am efficient. Whereas Joel would sort the laundry into seventy-three little piles that were not even allowed to touch each other, much less be washed together, I just washed everything in cold water. I opened the top of the washing machine, stuffed in a full load, and set the dials. What took Joel at least eight to ten loads, I could do in three. Sometimes two, if there weren’t a lot of towels. Was Joel ever going to be surprised.

  He was late—around eight-thirty, and he hadn’t bothered to call, which he usually did, but I wasn’t mad. We both have those kinds of jobs. Cops don’t work regular hours, and neither do private investigators. And Joel, moving up in the rank of detectives, often worked late to clear the paperwork from his desk. He likes to leave a clean desk before he leaves the office. I find this odd, since it’ll just get messed up again the next day, but there is no need to be critical.

  Dinner was ready by the time I heard Joel’s key in the lock. One load of clothes was in the dryer, the other sloshing through the wash, and I was curled up on the couch smoking one of the cigars I had found in Emma Marsden’s glove compartment. I mean, my glove compartment. I had planned, when I saw them, to return them to her tomorrow, but later I had gone out and brought them into the house. I thought that Joel and I could have a celebratory smoke after dinner.

  He didn’t say hello when he came through the door, but I was used to that. Joel isn’t overly vocal, and he comes home looking grim until he transits from the world of work to the comforts of home.

  “Hey, baby!”

  He stood at the edge of the living room, blinking. Well, the lights were bright. I tend to turn all of them on.

  He only glanced at me and frowned, and I realized he was looking for the owner of that beautiful car in the driveway. He didn’t know he was looking right at her.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Just me.”

  “Just you?”

  “Me and Maynard Kitty.”

  “Then whose car is parked in our driveway?”

  “Mine.”

  “Lena, there’s a BMW sports car in the driveway, are you totally oblivious?”

  Actually, he didn’t really say “are you totally oblivious,” but clearly he was thinking it.

  “I know, I know, it’s mine! Ours! You can drive it whenever you want, I’ll share it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “You bought a car?”

  “Right, with the jingling change right out of my pocket. Or did you think I got a loan? And who in their right mind would loan me money?”

  “Is this something where the dealer lets you drive it home to try it out?”

  “I don’t think they let BMWs off the lot like that.”

  “Well, this one is obviously … used.”

  “You mean that big son of a bitch dent beside the driver’s door? I don’t care, Joel. How else am I ever going to afford a car like that?”

  He walked over and gave me a kiss, and just looked at me, waiting for an explanation. He looked tired. Not a good day. He is dark, hair and skin tones. Eyes deep brown. He has lost most of that air of world-weariness he used to carry around like the hump on a camel, but there is something sad in his eyes that will never go away.

  “It’s payment, from my new client.”

  “New client? If they can palm you off with a BMW, they can afford to pay you cash.”

  “Palm me off? Joel, you make me feel like that character in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk,’ coming home with magic beans.”

  “You mean Jack?”

  “I do if he’s the one who gets the heat for screwing up.”

  “Nobody ever gives you money, Lena. You always come home with magic beans.”

  “What’s wrong with that, so long as they’re magic?”

  “It’s just not …”

  “Sensible? The norm? What, Joel?”

  “Practical.”

  “Speaking of practical, I cooked. And don’t even start to get that look on your face. It’s my kitchen too.”

  “Is it corn casserole?”

  To his credit, his tone was pleasant. But I never cook corn casserole for Joel anymore, he just doesn’t appreciate it like me and Maynard. It’s an easy dish, creamed corn with potato chips crumbled over the top, baking time a scant twenty minutes.

  “Grilled chicken, dirty rice, and peas.”

  “Sounds good. I’m starving.”

  “We’re out of wine. But I do have cigars. Good ones—Portofinos!”

  “As always, Lena, you surprise me.”

  Buy When Secrets Die Now!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Tracy Hite, Program Manager, Washington, D.C., Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms … for opening the doors and paving the way, for answering questions and making me welcome.

  To Jim Cavanaugh, Special Agent In Charge, Nashville Region, Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms … who was gracious and generous enough to take time out of a busy schedule to answer all of my questions, to advise me on criminal investigation, and to educate me on the workings of the fascinating and hugely underappreciated agency of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

  To all of the ATF agents who give the job their best, then step back to let others bask in the limelight.

  To Gary Cordner, Ph.D., Dean of the College of Justice and Safety at Eastern Kentucky University, who spoke with me at length and answered all of my questions about his impressive law enforcement program. It was a pleasure to talk to someone from home.

  To Gene Lewter, of Fayette County Legal Aide, an attorney with heart, as well as a talented writer, who was always available to advise me on the workings of the legal system—in the courtroom and behind closed doors.

  To Aaron Priest and Lucy Childs, Lisa Erbach Vance and every single person at the Aaron Priest Literary Agency, who take care of the business end and take the weight off my shoulders so I am free to write and enjoy it. Thank you for keeping me out of trouble (a big job, no?) May I never disappoint you.

  To Joy Ritchey, for invaluable help on artwork.

  To Adam Ritchey, the enormously talented graphic artist who created my beautiful cover art. You are every author’s dream.

  To Gina, Maggie, and Shelley, for girl talk, good food, and introducing me to George, a truly amazing dog.

  To Randy, for friendship and backup.

  To Judith Curr, publisher of Atria Books, for being so great and amazing to work with.

  To Amanda Ayers, who is perceptive, creative, and hardworking, and knows the book as well as I do. And to Christina Boys, for all her detail work and in
put.

  To Kay, my partner in research adventures, and to Jerry, for cooking.

  To Victor, for listening, reading, cooking, and dancing.

  To my sister, Rebecca, who knows what to say at every stage of the book, who listens till she falls asleep, and who never lets me down. May we squabble forever.

  To Julien and Arnaud, who have taken me under their wing and taught me soccer, bowling, and football. I can still beat you at Ping-Pong—but for how long, I don’t know.

  To Alan, Laurel, and Rachel, who make me proud … and who know the process better than anyone and are always there for backup.

  And, above all, to Robert, who has captured my heart, and shown me that the last love is the best one of all.

  About the Author

  Lynn Hightower grew up in the South and graduated from the University of Kentucky, where she studied creative writing with Wendell Berry and earned a journalism degree. She is the author of ten novels, including two mystery series, one featuring homicide detective Sonora Blair and the other featuring private investigator Lena Padget. Flashpoint, the first Sonora Blair mystery, was a New York Times Notable Book. Satan’s Lambs, the first Lena Padget mystery, won the Shamus Award for Best First PI Novel. Hightower has also written the Elaki series of futuristic police procedurals, which begins with Alien Blues.

  Hightower’s novels, which have been translated into seven foreign languages, have appeared on the Times (London) bestseller list and have been nominated for the Kentucky Literary Award, the Kentucky Librarians First Choice Award, and the Mary Higgins Clark Award. She teaches at the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program, where she was named Creative Writing Instructor of the Year in 2012. The author lives with her husband in Kentucky.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.