Night of the Loving Dead
Casey Daniels
* * *
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
“There’s no savoring the Pepper Martin series—
you’ll devour each book and still be hungry for more!”
—Kathryn Smith
PRAISE FOR THE PEPPER MARTIN MYSTERIES
Tombs of Endearment
“A fun romp through the streets and landmarks of Cleveland... A tongue-in-cheek...look at life beyond the grave . . . Well worth picking up.”—Suite101.com
“[A] PI who is Stephanie Plum-meets-Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw . . . It’s fun, it’s ‘chick’, and appealing . . .A quick, effortless read with a dash of Bridget Jones-style romance. [Martin is] a hot redhead who always manages to look good . . . and suffers the emotional catastrophes that every woman can relate to.”—PopSyndicate
“With witty dialogue and an entertaining mystery, Ms. Daniels pens an irresistible tale of murder, greed, and a lesson in love. A well-paced story line that’s sure to have readers anticipating Pepper’s next ghostly client.”—Darque Reviews
The Chick and the Dead
“Amusing with her breezy chick-lit style and sharp dialogue.” —Publishers Weekly
“Ms. Daniels has a hit series on her hands.”
—The Best Reviews
“Ms. Daniels is definitely a hot new voice in paranormal mystery...Intriguing...Well-written...with a captivating story line and tantalizing characters.”—Darque Reviews
“[F]un, flirtatious, and feisty...[A] fast-paced read filled with likeable characters.”—Suite101.com
Don of the Dead
“Fabulous! One of the funniest books I’ve read this year . . . Pepper is a delight.”
—MaryJanice Davidson, USA Today bestselling author
“‘Spirited’ Pepper Martin brings a delightful new dimension to sleuthing. There’s not a ghost of a chance you’ll be able to put this book down. Write faster, Casey Daniels.”
—Emilie Richards, USA Today bestselling author
“One part Godfather, one part Bridget Jones, one part ghost story, driven by a spunky new sleuth . . . A delightful read!”
—Roberta Isleib
“[A] humorous and highly entertaining expedition into mystery and the supernatural.”—Linda O. Johnston
“A spooky mystery, a spunky heroine, and sparkling wit! Give us more!”—Kerrelyn Sparks
“[F]unny and fast paced; her sassy dialogue . . . her bravado, and her slightly off-kilter view of life make Pepper an unforgettable character . . . The only drawback is waiting for book two!”—Library Journal (starred review)
“[A] tightly plotted story with a likable amateur sleuth.”
—Romantic Times
“[A] fun cozy with a likable heroine and a satisfying plot.”
—Suite101.com
“Fans of Buffy ought to enjoy this one... original, funny, and shows plenty of scope for future books (all of which I aim to read) . . . [A] highly enjoyable debut.”—MyShelf.com
Titles by Casey Daniels
TOMBS OF ENDEARMENT
THE CHICK AND THE DEAD
DON OF THE DEAD
NIGHT OF THE LOVING DEAD
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
NIGHT OF THE LOVING DEAD
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Connie Laux.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without
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eISBN : 978-1-440-66018-4
BERKLEY ® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group
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In loving memory of
Mary Cihy Morrish,
who liked nothing better than
a good ghost story.
1
At the risk of sounding way too full of myself, I’ll admit it right now—I’m used to guys checking me out. It comes with the territory when you’re five-foot-eleven, boast a cascade of carroty-colored hair, and have a sense of fashion that’s cutting-edge but never crosses the line.
A 38C bust doesn’t hurt, either.
That’s why when Doctor Hilton Gerard’s gaze slipped from my face to the peachy cashmere sweater I was wearing with black pants and Miu Miu booties with four-inch heels, I never even flinched. Big points for me, because used to it or not, that took a lot of guts.
Why?
Well for one thing, from the moment I walked into his office and saw the way Doctor Gerard ogled me, I knew he was a dirty old man. And for another . . . well, there’s no getting around the truth, even when it isn’t so easy to admit, and the truth is simply this: the reason I was sitting across from the doctor’s desk at the Gerard Clinic was because a dead woman who used to work there had flimflammed me into getting embroiled in another investigation. Her name was Madeline Tr
emayne and yes, I did say she was dead. In fact, I’d met her at her grave.
But that, as they say, is another story. Or at least it’s another part of this story, and not something I had time to worry about. Right then and there, the only thing I had the luxury of thinking about was what Madeline had told me about Doctor Gerard. He was a successful psychiatrist from a wealthy and socially prominent family who had devoted his life to making sure Chicago’s homeless and indigent had dignified, state-of-the-art, and (most importantly) free mental health services. He’d built this clinic with his own money, and for more than twenty years, he’d kept it open because he was smart and economical and he worked like a dynamo at fundraising and grant writing. Some days, he was down in the trenches with his employees getting his hands dirty. Others, he was schmoozing on the Gold Coast, convincing the city’s movers and shakers to open their hearts—and their checkbooks—for the sake of the poor and mentally ill.
Oh yeah, Doctor Gerard, he was Mother Teresa in a tweed suit, all right.
But remember what I said about Madeline? Talking to the dead can be a big ol’ pain in the ass. Believe me when I say this. But thanks to Madeline, I had the inside track, and I knew what the society pages and the news stories didn’t report, and what they didn’t report was what brought me to the Gerard Clinic in the first place. Not the bit about how Doctor Gerard had a secret set of books and siphoned money from the clinic to build a sweet little bungalow for himself in the Bahamas. Hey, I might not condone it, but I had a felonious gene or two in my own family; I understood.
No, what brought me to the clinic on that frosty winter afternoon was something else Madeline had told me. She was Doctor Gerard’s assistant. At least while she was alive, anyway. She knew a whole lot about what was up around there. Like that the doc was conducting a special study with some of his homeless patients, and that this special study of his was looking more and more like it wasn’t on the up-and-up.
Why would I care?
Honestly, I wouldn’t. Not usually, anyway.
Except for three things. Or I should say three people: Dan and Ernie. And Stella, of course.
Really, there’s no time to explain about them. For the record, let me say that I barely knew Ernie or Stella, and we had just about nothing in common, what with them being homeless and all, but I felt a weird connection to them, anyway, and an obligation, too, seeing that I was the one who was responsible for Ernie’s disappearance, and Stella’s murder.
I guess I owed Dan, too, on account of how he’d once saved my life and how another time, he’d provided me with a key piece of evidence that helped me solve not one, but two murder investigations. I first met Dan in a hospital ER where he said he worked only I found out later he didn’t. He claims to be a brain researcher, and I knew for a fact that he was mixed up in the whole Doctor Gerard/clinic thing. Dan is the only guy I know who shows up out of nowhere to issue dire warnings about how dangerous it is to talk to ghosts and disappears just as quickly. (Oh yeah, and by the way and not incidentally, he is also one of the best kissers I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting lip to lip.)
“So, Miss Martin...” The good doctor’s voice snapped me back to the matter at hand. He was a thin man with high cheekbones, a long nose and dark, wavy hair shot through with silver. In spite of—or maybe in defiance of—the fact that his office was nothing more than a fifteen-by-fifteen square with utilitarian metal furniture, a pitted linoleum floor, and cinder-block walls, he was wearing a tailor-made suit, a crisp white shirt, and a tie I recognized as Italian silk and expensive. Joel—my ex-fiancé—had one just like it.
The doctor thumbed through the forms I’d filled out as I sat in the waiting room, side by side and way too close for comfort with what seemed like the entire homeless population of Chicago.
“You’ll have to forgive me for being so forward,” he said, “but you don’t look like one of our usual clients. You say you were referred here?”
“That’s right.”
I knew what was coming and reminded myself that this was no time to lose my nerve. Or spill my guts. Not if I intended to find out what was really up at the Gerard Clinic and in the bargain, keep Dan from joining my dad in the federal pen.
“May I ask who recommended you talk to me?”
Yes, I had every intention of stringing the good doctor along, so no, this wasn’t the time to tell him about Madeline. For now, I needed to sound helpless and just a little needy. That wasn’t too much of a leap. If I was going to help Ernie, Stella, and Dan, I needed to get accepted into Doctor Gerard’s study.
Yeah, yeah, I know, this wasn’t the smartest plan. It was harebrained, and if what happened to Ernie and Stella was any indication, it might be dangerous, too. But that wasn’t going to stop me. I guess the stubbornness goes along with the red hair. It also serves me well as the world’s one and only private investigator to the dead.
Like I was embarrassed, I giggled when I answered. “It’s that whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing. You know, all those complicated new laws that say no one can know what goes on between a doctor who’s conducting a brain study and his test subjects. Oh!” If years of dating had taught me nothing else, it was how to blush on command. I put one hand to my flaming cheek. “I guess I’ve already told you more than I intended. Now you know I’ve been part of a study.”
Doctor Gerard nodded. “That’s very interesting. A study. But your forms say you’re not in therapy at the moment. That you never have been. You’re a little old for a schizophrenia diagnosis.” He looked me up and down, and good thing I was trying to get on the doctor’s good side, or I might have pointed out that I’d just had my twenty-sixth birthday and that hardly qualified as a little old. “How did this researcher find you?”
“Head injury.” I pointed to my skull and instantly felt like an idiot. As if a guy with that many diplomas on his wall needed help finding my head. “I guess my brain scans were a little weird.”
He looked at me over the frames of his tortoiseshell glasses. “A little weird? Or a lot weird?”
I wrinkled my nose. “There was some talk about occipital lobes. And aberrant behavior.”
“Which manifests itself as . . .”
“Voices.” I shrugged. “People who talk to me. And sometimes . . .” I looked away like I was embarrassed and this wasn’t a complete put-on. I’d never actually come right out and explained the whole thing to anyone. Not anyone who was alive, anyway. “I see the people, too. You know, the ones who talk to me.”
Doctor Gerard’s eyes lit with interest. “You didn’t mention that on your intake form.”
I didn’t have to fake an anxious smile. “There really isn’t a place to put it.”
“Well, this is quite unusual.” He rose from his chair and came around to the other side of the desk. He perched himself on the edge, my file folder still in his hands. I suspected he didn’t forget much of what he saw, but even so, Doctor Gerard paged through the papers in front of him. “So, Penelope—”
“It’s Pepper, please.” I knew we had to get that out of the way, or I’d be so fixated on the whole Penelope thing, I’d get all turned around. Whenever someone uses my real name, I always figure we’re talking about somebody else.
“Pepper.” I could tell by the spark in his eyes that he wasn’t a man who liked to be corrected. “Are you hearing any voices now or seeing anyone who isn’t really here?”
“Not unless you’re not really here.” I tried for a smile that hit the wall of Doctor Gerard’s stodgy expression. When it fell flat, I shook my head. “No voices.”
“And you’re not taking any medication for your condition.”
I got out of my chair, too, and stationed myself behind it, my fingers clutched against the back. “It all just started, you see, and when it did . . .” This time, I didn’t have to go far to look convincing. I’d been living with my special “Gift” for just about a year and even I didn’t understand it. My shoulders slumped. “When it first happened, I
thought I was crazy.”
“Of course you did.” He nodded in a way designed to comfort the glassy-eyed, blank-expressioned people out in the waiting room. “Would you like to tell me about it?”
I didn’t, but I reminded myself that if I chickened out and kept my mouth shut, I wouldn’t find out what I wanted to know. “It started back in Cleveland,” I said. “That’s where I live. I hit my head on the step of a mausoleum.” And because I knew this was already sounding crazy, I added, “I work at a cemetery.”
Doctor Gerard nodded. “Garden View Cemetery. I remember seeing that on your intake form. What happened to you at the cemetery, Pepper?”
I had never said the words out loud. Not to Ella, my boss who was also my friend. Or to Quinn Harrison, the cop who had saved my life a couple times and who I had nothing in common with except that he wanted my body and I wanted his. I hadn’t even told Dan the whole story, and Dan was, after all, the main reason I was there.
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