The Chick and the Dead

by Casey Daniels

  Like a dog.

  Have I mentioned that I'm a redhead?

  I know, I know… there's the whole stereotype thing. Redheads are hot-tempered. Redheads are quick to judge. Redheads don't give anyone the benefit of the doubt.

  Well, put me in a pigeonhole.

  Because it's all true.

  In my case, anyway.

  All it took was that one moment and the hint of condescension that wafted around Merilee the way the smell of menthol did around Trish, and the bubble of Merilee's celebrity burst. At least for me. Free of the spell that seemed to have entranced everyone else, I crossed my arms over my chest and stepped back, watching as Ella introduced Merilee to Jim and the rest of the senior staff.

  Had this elegant, silver-haired egocentric stolen Didi's manuscript and taken the credit for Didi's work?

  For the first time since Didi told me her tale of woe, I wanted to believe it. And not just because I wanted to help Harmony or because I was hoping to share in a little chunk of those tens of millions of dollars.

  But if I had learned anything from my investigation into Gus Scarpetti's death, it was that nothing is that easy. Especially when it comes to private investigation for the dead.

  It didn't matter whether I liked Merilee or not (and as I watched her bask in the adoration of her fans and accept it as if it was her due, I decided that I definitely did not). I had to look at the situation objectively. After all, it was Merilee's name on the covers of all those millions of books, not Didi's. It was Merilee who had the credentials, too. From what I'd learned during my research earlier that morning, nobody knew the American Civil War like Merilee did. She had been trained as a librarian, and early on in her career had taken an interest in the War Between the States and had made it her mission to learn everything there was to know about it. Even before SFTD was published, she was considered an expert.

  But I had also learned something else: Though she dangled the promise of someday in front of her millions of fans, Merilee had yet to produce another book.

  Did that mean anything in terms of my investigation?

  Sure. If I believed the gossip on the dozens of chat boards I'd looked over that morning, it meant:

  (a) Merilee was really dead and the woman who would be attending the premiere in Cleveland was a body double.

  (b) Merilee couldn't write another book because SFTD was the greatest book ever written and she couldn't compete with herself.

  (c) Merilee was an alien who had been sent to this planet to prove that Earthlings are culturally imperfect. After all, who but a member of some super-human race could have produced a book that was perfect down to every last period and comma?

  And

  (d) She was working on it. At least that's what the "letter to our loyal members" signed by Ella on the ISFTDS Web site said. Merilee was a perfectionist and she was working on not just another book, but a SFTD sequel. When she was satisfied that it was good enough, she'd let the world—and the dozens of publishers clamoring for the rights with their pens poised over their checkbooks—know.

  I was chewing over all this as Ella, Jim, and the superstar in question made their way down the line toward me, and it occurred to me that this was, in fact, the most salient argument to support Didi's claim.

  Merilee had made a boatload of money on her first book. Why on earth didn't she bust her ass to write another one?

  "And this, of course, is Pepper. She's the tour guide here at Garden View." Ella got around to me sooner than I expected. I shook myself out of my thoughts and found Merilee Bowman directly in front of me. She was waiting for me to bow and scrape and kiss her ring, but I decided a more direct approach might better serve my purpose.

  "So," I said, "when are you going to publish a So Far the Dawn sequel?"

  At my side, Trish Kingston blanched and urped. I think she swallowed her lozenge. Ella closed her eyes, and I could tell she was praying for patience. Jim realized the photographers were nearby again. He sucked in his gut.

  Merilee took my question in stride. She smiled in a grandmotherly sort of way and reached for my hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm so pleased you're anxious to read the sequel," she said. Her voice was soft and as cultured as sour cream. "So many of my dear, dear fans have asked me that question over the years and I can only tell you what I've told them. When it's ready." Her eyes twinkled like the diamond at her neck. "When it's ready," she said again, louder this time and in a singsong voice that fooled those around us into thinking she was sharing a secret. "Please remind me." She patted my hand. "When it comes out, remind me, and I'll sign a copy just for you."

  She snapped her fingers, and out of nowhere, Trish produced a business card and pressed it into my hand. It was damp around the edges and it featured a photo of Merilee—in color—along with a post office box address in California and a line that told me to drop Merilee a line anytime. I love to hear from my many, many fans!

  I pocketed the card, and when the crowd moved forward, I was swept along with them.

  "Your parents' mausoleum isn't far," I heard Ella tell Merilee. "But we'd better drive. That should help keep everything orderly. You can drive over in the limo, and we'll follow in a staff car."

  "The flowers?"

  The question was meant for Trish, and she scrambled to the front of the crowd to provide the answer. "Ordered," she said. "Red roses. Pink orchids. White fuchsia."

  Merilee's back was turned to the photographers when her top lip curled, and she grumbled a question meant only for Trish's ears. "How the hell can fuchsia be white?"

  Trish didn't get the joke.

  I did, but I wasn't laughing.

  We looked like a funeral, the limo in front and a long line of cars behind it. I had gotten separated from Ella, and I rode over to the Bowman family grave site with the guys from the grounds crew. I waited until they were out of the Jeep and headed toward where everyone—including the photographers and three television crews—waited in front of a pink and gray granite mausoleum. It was, in fact, the only mausoleum nearby. We were in the new section, not far from Didi's grave, and there where the gravestones were simple rectangles flush with the ground, the mausoleum stuck out like a sore thumb. I'd seen it before, of course, but I'd never paid much attention except to wonder who had the balls to dress a grave like a two-hundred-dollar-an-hour whore in a section where every other burial was as modest as a nun.

  Now I knew. Merilee. She was the one responsible for the spires, the stained glass window, and the weeping angel who sat atop the whole shebang like the bride on a macabre wedding cake.

  Didn't it just figure?

  I had already started to join the group gathered around the door of the mausoleum when I realized Didi was walking beside me. She was dressed in black again. Her face was covered with a long black veil. Her stockings had seams up the backs of them.

  Call me a softie, but I was uneasy thinking that Didi and Merilee's parents were spending their eternity in the Garden View equivalent of the Taj Mahal while Didi herself was tucked away in a dark, mossy corner. I scrambled to come up with some small talk, but Didi beat me to it.

  "My parents were originally buried back near my grave," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Until Merilee decided that wasn't the impression she wanted to make. She had this mausoleum built twenty years ago, and she paid a fortune for it. What do you think?"

  "I think you should know that I wasn't talking about the money I'd like to earn for taking your case," I said, and even I was surprised that the tiff I'd had with Didi back in the office was still on my mind. "When I said I didn't know we were talking tens of millions, it wasn't because I suddenly saw dollar signs flash in front of my eyes. What I meant is that's an awful lot of money, and the more money that's involved, the more dangerous this investigation is likely to be. If Merilee did steal your book, she's going to fight like hell to make sure no one uncovers the secret."

  "Of course, silly." Didi clicked her tongue. "I could have told you that."r />
  We were on the fringes of the crowd, and I knew I couldn't chance another comment. I watched Trish disappear along the side of the mausoleum and reappear carrying an urn that was as tall as she was and twice as wide. It was rilled with red roses, pink orchids, and the infamous white fuchsias.

  Staggering under the weight, Trish made her way to where Merilee waited, and with Trish walking backwards and Merilee looking regal and serious, they marched to the door of the mausoleum. With a grunt, Trish lowered her burden to the ground, and Merilee touched her hand to the closest flower petal.

  "My family was very dear to me," she said. She paused when a camera flashed. "It's a privilege for me to be able to visit them here today. My dear mother, Louise, and my dear father, Gerard. I have so many fond memories of them and of my wonderful years here in Ohio."

  "Are you glad you came back, Miss Bowman?" A reporter called out the question from the back of the crowd.

  Merilee touched a hand to the diamond at her throat. "I've been so fortunate in my life. It's such a privilege to be able to give back to the people who supported and encouraged me all those years ago. If only…"

  I heard a sniff, and I thought for a moment that Merilee was going to show some honest-to-gosh emotion, but as it turned out, it was only Trish.

  She unwrapped another Halls and popped it in her mouth.

  "If only my parents could see me now." Merilee's smile was bittersweet. "They'd be so very proud. They were the ones who told me to always follow my dream. I did, and it has taken me to wonderful places. Family." She sighed. "My dear mother and my dear father. That's what's really important in life. Success, money, achievement—none of it matters as much as my dear, dear family."

  "Will you be back to visit them before you leave town?" a reporter called out.

  "Will you ever publish your memoirs and tell us what it was like during those years you wrote So Far the Dawn?" another one asked.

  It wasn't that I was feeling left out, I just didn't like the fact that all this talk about Merilee's dear, dear family had left out one vital bit of information. "How about your sister, Didi?" I made sure I talked loud enough for everyone in the crowd to hear me. "You gonna visit her grave while you're here? You know, the plain, ordinary grave that's over there in the shadows?"

  Ella's eyes went wide.

  Trish gulped and coughed when the lozenge got stuck in her throat.

  Merilee's expression hardened to stone. Her eyes narrowed, she scanned the throng in front of her, and hey, who could blame them? They may never have heard of Didi Bowman, but these reporters were no dummies. They knew aggravation when they saw it, and not one of them could risk getting on Merilee's bad side. The crowd parted in front of me like the Red Sea before Moses, and Merilee's blue eyes met mine. "What did you say?" she asked.

  There was nothing to be gained from cowering behind the phalanx of photographers so I stepped forward. "I asked about your sister." I looked toward the reporters to fill them in. "Her name was Deborah. Deborah Bowman. Aka Didi. She died right here in Cleveland, back in the fifties when she was pretty young. I don't think a lot of people know about her, even though she's buried not far from here. Her grave, it's not nearly as fancy as this one." I glanced back toward the guest of honor. "I just wondered, you know, if you were going to visit her, too."

  I had to give Merilee credit. I knew she was surprised—and not in a good way—because I saw those elegant hands of hers curl into fists. But in just a moment, she was once again as cool and as calm as ever. "Of course I'm going to visit my dear, dear younger sister," she said, turning the smile of a dowager angel toward the cameras. "The very next time I stop at Garden View. Which brings me to an announcement I thought I'd save for another time. I've been thinking about my own mortality. Well…" She blushed on cue. "After all, a woman of my age must. I've decided that while I'm here in Cleveland, I'll be meeting with the wonderful folks here at Garden View to design and plan my own mausoleum."

  This was news. To the reporters. To the photographers. To the Garden View staff. They all reacted just as Merilee knew they would.

  The reporters tripped over one another asking questions about the mausoleum's placement and design.

  The photographers fought to get to the front of the crowd for the best picture.

  Ella smiled as if she'd just been handed a million bucks, and I swear, Jim was so happy, his shirt buttons just about popped.

  Any and all thoughts of Didi were lost in the excitement.

  "Sorry." I said it to Didi, but when I turned to her, she was already gone. It was just as well. I might as well have been talking to myself.

  The place had gone gaga, and no one would have paid the least attention to me even if I'd stood on top of the nearest headstone and declared that I could see and talk to ghosts.

  Of course, that wasn't why I suddenly felt awful, like my credit card had been rejected at Saks.

  I could see the writing on the wall, and call me paranoid, but something told me that Merilee could, too.

  With the promise of a series of visits from the world's most famous author, the stage was set. From now until Merilee got her robin's egg blue self back on a plane and headed home, Garden View was going to be a zoo. There would be no time for tours. I didn't need it spelled out. I knew that no tours equaled no tour guide.

  Which meant that as of right then and there, I was officially out of work.

  I knew it was coming, but the reality hit harder than I expected. Rather than risk anyone knowing it, I decided to walk back to the office. I'd already started that way when I felt a chill shoot up the back of my neck.

  Like someone was watching me.

  I turned to find Merilee not three feet away, those cold eyes trained on me. "I don't like surprises," she said.

  That made two of us.

  As I went to my office to collect my things, another thought struck.

  It looked as if Merilee had the last laugh after all.

  Chapter 7

  I was officially on vacation, and if I was smart, I would have stopped worrying about Didi and Merilee and how I was going to pay for my rent and my groceries and started working on my tan.

  I would have, too, except that the day after Merilee showed up at the cemetery, it began to rain, and three days later, it still hadn't stopped.

  I was stuck in my apartment, and frankly I was bored.

  I could have gone shopping, of course.

  Only I couldn't afford clothes or, for that matter, the gas to get me to the mall.

  I could have called a friend for lunch.

  But funny how that works… most of my so-called friends had lost contact the day the slammer door slammed behind my dad.

  I could have cleaned or caught up with laundry or even turned on the TV to see what was happening on the soaps, but let's face it, except for the daytime dramas, none of that stuff was much fun. And as for the soaps… well, I had no doubt that if I turned them on, I would have seen multiple glamorous people having multiple wild love affairs. The only thing that would have accomplished was to make me wonder what was wrong with me that I couldn't even get one un-wild love affair going. And that was just plain depressing.

  That left me with two choices: the cemetery, where I could collect some of the research materials I needed for the "Famous Faces" tour, and Didi.

  Fortunately, it was the old two-birds-with-one-stone theory. Unlike Gus, Didi had yet to follow me home. Which meant that I had to go looking for her. Naturally, that meant a trip to Garden View.

  My windshield wipers slapping out the minutes, I drove the few blocks from my apartment and up Mayfield Road

  through the heart of Cleveland's Little Italy. When the cemetery was established in the middle of the nineteenth century, a call went out for stonecutters to provide its monuments, its mausoleums, and its bridges. There was a skilled workforce—ready, willing, and able—in Italy, and the workers moved into the surrounding neighborhood and brought their families and their culture with th
em. The rest, as they say, is history, and these days, the neighborhood featured fabulous Italian restaurants, gorgeous art galleries, and trendy boutiques. Of course, my days of being able to afford to patronize any of them were history, too.

  I guess that's what I must have been thinking about as I headed to Garden View. That would explain why I almost missed the turn into the cemetery.

  Or maybe it was because though I'd worked there for a couple of months, I had never seen a few dozen people milling around outside the gates. A group of them was huddled in plastic ponchos and holding a Welcome, Merilee! sign. When they saw my car, they darted forward. One look, of course, told them I was not the superstar they were waiting for, and their expressions reflected their disappointment. They scurried back to the sidewalk to stand next to costumed Civil War reenactors and vendors who had set up their wares under plastic tarps and were selling everything from So Far the Dawn T-shirts to posters that featured Merilee's dear, dear smiling face.

  When I got to the gate, Nate, one of my favorite fellow employees, stepped out from the shelter of a wooden guardhouse. I slowed my car and pressed the button to roll down my window. "What's going on?"

  Nate was a tall, thin African American who was nearing retirement. He had a grizzled face and an eagle eye that served him well in his job with cemetery security. He was swaddled in an orange slicker, and when he shook his head, raindrops flew in every direction. "I don't understand it," he said. "They've been out here for days. Ever since that Miss High-and-Mighty stopped by. I guess they figure she's going to be back and they don't want to miss her."

  I looked at the mob gathered at the gates. "And the city's okay with this? Jim approved it? Ella doesn't mind?"

  "What can anybody do? City gave 'em a permit. I suppose they figured it was better than having to arrest everybody for trespassing. You know and I know, they're not going to go away. In the meantime, I got to stand out here and make sure they don't get in the way of any funeral processions or of anybody here to visit their loved ones." As if he didn't understand any of it—that made two of us—he shook his head again, and again raindrops flew in all directions. "You, of course"—he grinned—"are welcome anytime."