The Chick and the Dead

by Casey Daniels

  "Bob is…" Didi shrugged. "Bob is Bob. He's always been here. You know, helping around the house. Fixing things, cutting the grass."

  "He's related?"

  "To us?" Didi shook her head. "He lived across the street when Merilee and I were kids growing up. He's a couple of years older than us. When Merilee left for California, Bob sold his house and moved in here to keep an eye on things."

  "And he's been here ever since." This did nothing to help me figure out why Bob would go all the way to Garden View to steal a camera and then throw it away. I wracked my brain for the right questions that might lead to some sort of helpful answers. "Does he know?" I asked Didi. "I mean about you and So Far the Dawn? Does Bob know you wrote the book?"

  She squeezed her eyes shut, like she was thinking hard. "He may have seen me working on it," she finally said. She pointed in the direction of the empty lot across the street. "He lived over there. You know, back when there was a house on that property. Our bedroom windows were right across from each other, and that's where I wrote the book, in my bedroom. I worked on it in the evenings when I got home from work and at night, before I went to bed. I used to see him looking out his window toward our house. A lot. You know, just watching."

  I didn't know, but I could imagine, and imagining it… well, it gave me the willies.

  I pushed the thought to the back burner. "Okay, so if Bob didn't know, who did? You said you talked about the book."

  "Sure I did. I talked about the book to plenty of people."

  "Like…"

  "Like Susan Gwitkowski. She was my best friend. We worked in the steno pool, and we had lunch together every day. She'd ask how the story was going, and I'd tell her what I'd written the night before."

  "Then why didn't she say something when Merilee published the book?"

  There was that shrug again. Not that Didi's stonewalling mattered. No sooner had I asked the question than I knew the answer.

  "You'd lied to Susan Gwitkowski, right? Just like you lied to me. About stuff that didn't really matter. Then when something really did matter, when the book was published and Merilee was praised as the Second Coming, Susan must have figured you'd been lying about the book like you did about everything else. That Merilee really was the author and that you'd just been pretending."

  "It's possible."

  It was more than possible. I knew it because Didi wouldn't look me in the eye.

  Just like Dad never would.

  Here was another thought to throw me for a loop. Rather than deal, I grabbed my facial cleanser, my toothbrush, and my toothpaste and headed for the bathroom.

  When I got back, Didi was standing at my window.

  "There is someone else," she said. "Someone who knows for sure. He'll tell you I wrote the book." She looked at me over her shoulder, and I wondered why she didn't sound—and look—more excited. "I mean, if he'll talk to you."

  "And you kept this little tidbit to yourself all this time, why?"

  Didi turned and sat back down on the bed. "I thought you'd find the manuscript I put in the attic and then it wouldn't matter. I didn't want to involve him."

  "Because…"

  "Because I based Palmer on him. You know, the hero of So Far the Dawn."

  "And… "

  "And I told him about it, of course. I mean, he was a special person and I was so happy to be able to do something special for him, and I knew he'd be happy, too, to think that I'd put him in a book, and every woman who read the book would fall in love with Palmer, and no one would know that Palmer was really him. No one but us. It was our little secret, and that made it so exciting. I even dedicated the book to him."

  I flipped open the paperback copy of SFTD that was on the table near my bed and read the words on the first page.

  To my dear parents. And in memory of all the courageous men and women who fought to keep this Union whole.

  I looked up at Didi. "Yeah, right. You dedicated the book to him all right."

  She jumped to her feet and spun to face me. "That's Merilee's dedication. Not mine," she said, and though I can't say for certain what righteous indignation is, I'd say Didi's voice was as close to it as I'd ever heard.

  "Don't you get it?" she asked. "Merilee changed it. My dedication was written to Thomas. I even gave him a copy of the first page with the words written there, so he could see them and know the book was just for him."

  A spark of hope glimmered in the darkness that was my investigation. "And this Thomas guy… he's still alive? He'll verify that?"

  Didi worked over her lower lip with her teeth. "I don't know," she said. "I mean, not about him being alive. I know he's still alive. And I know he would like to tell you all about the book and the dedication and all, but… well, he has so much at stake. Don't get the wrong idea about him! He's a wonderful person. But…"

  Didi's protest and her voice faded. It was just as well; she didn't need to say any more. From what she'd already said, it wasn't hard to fit the pieces together.

  "You were in love with him."

  It wasn't a question, so I guess I didn't actually expect an answer.

  Which was why I was surprised when she raised her chin and looked me in the eye. "Thomas Ross Howell was my boss. And an honorable man."

  "And you were in love with him."

  "He was married."

  "And you were in love with him."

  Didi turned her back on me. "Really, Pepper, you don't think a man of his status—"

  "Hey, you said it yourself. You said you knew your way around when it came to guys. If he was one of them—"

  "He wasn't."

  "But you dedicated your book to him."

  "He was a good person. I idolized him. I hoped to someday meet and marry a man just like him."

  "And I just fell off a turnip truck." Tired of arguing and getting nowhere, I plunked down on the bed. "I'll go see him."

  Didi didn't respond, and all it took was one look around the room to see why. She was long gone, and it was just as well. I knew what she would have asked.

  Was it smart to go see this Thomas guy?

  Heck, I didn't know. In fact, all I did know was that the sooner I talked to him and to Susan Gwitkowski, the better. Because the sooner I talked to them, the sooner I might be able to uncover the truth.

  Not Didi's version of it.

  Or Merilee's.

  Just the whole truth and nothing but.

  Because something told me that until I did, there was no way I'd ever really be able to help Didi. And helping Didi…

  Suddenly and for reasons I couldn't explain, helping Didi had become important to me.

  I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my nose, but I didn't turn out the lights. Aside from keeping the shadows of Trish's murder away, maybe the lamp helped shed some light on my own motivations, because after a few minutes of lying there thinking, it finally dawned on me.

  I knew why I wanted to make sure that Didi got the justice she deserved.

  After all, when my relationship with Joel Panhorst crashed and burned, heartbreak and me, we were on a first-name basis, and being up close and personal with heartache like that… well, once you are, it's not hard to recognize it in someone else.

  Even when that someone else was a ghost.

  It looked like Didi and I were soul sisters of sorts.

  There was no way I was going to sleep, not with so much on my mind, so I grabbed my copy of So Far the Dawn and settled down to read.

  I'd always been a sucker for a good love story.

  "Who did you say you were?"

  When I waited for his secretary to step out to lunch and ducked into his office, Judge Thomas Ross Howell was busy reading from a fat, dull-looking book. He glanced up at where I stood in the doorway, looked down at the book, and put one finger on the page to mark his place. "Martin? Pepper? Do I know you?"

  He didn't ask me to come in or to sit down, but I did both anyway. On foot, I could easily be escorted out of the building. Thi
s way, he'd have to lift both his leather guest chair and me to toss me out on my keister, and though he looked like he could do it, something told me Howell wouldn't take the chance of rumpling his thousand-dollar suit.

  At eighty, Thomas Ross Howell was still as fit and attractive as he'd been in the ten-year-old photos of him that I'd found at the library that morning. He was tall, athletic, and as tanned as if he'd just stepped out of the Florida sunshine. His iron gray hair was thick and he sported a stylish cut. The Rolex on his left wrist glimmered in the light of the lamp on his desk. So did his gold cuff links.

  "You don't. Know me, that is." I smiled like the fact that I'd snuck into his office without an appointment and unannounced was no big deal. "There are some things I'd like to talk to you about."

  The judge's brows dipped over his eyes. "I don't discuss cases. Not outside the courtroom and certainly not with a plaintiff. So if that's what you're—"

  "It's not about a case."

  "I don't give interviews. Not unless I've talked to your editor or your producer first."

  "I'm not a reporter."

  "Then you should know I don't hand out donations, either. Except through the trust my wife and I have established."

  "I know. About the money you give to the orchestra and the Art Museum and all. That's great. Really. But I'm not looking for a handout. I just thought—"

  He reached for his phone. "Security will have you out of here in a matter of seconds. So if you think you can get away with trying to rob—"

  "No. No. No robbing!" I rushed to disabuse him of the notion, pointing to myself and the conservative brown pantsuit and white blouse I'd hoped would help me blend in at the county courthouse. "Do I look like a robber? I don't want your money. I just want to talk."

  "I don't talk to people I don't know."

  "But it's important."

  "Then you should request an appointment."

  "So you could refuse to give it to me?"

  He smiled and lifted the phone receiver, and though I had hoped for a diplomatic approach and a little small talk to put the judge at ease, I knew that if I didn't play my trump card, my one and only chance to find out what he knew was going to slip through my fingers.

  "It's about Didi Bowman," I said.

  The phone at his ear, Howell froze. Slowly, he put the handset back in place. "I don't know who you're talking about."

  "I think you do. Didi… er… Deborah Bowman. You knew her. Back in the fifties."

  I'd caught him off guard, but I should have known the surprise wouldn't last. A man didn't get to be a powerful judge and city leader if he didn't have balls.

  Like we were passing the time of day at one of the many fund-raisers he sponsored and talking about nothing more important than the weather, Howell chuckled. "You expect me to remember someone I met nearly fifty years ago?"

  "Yeah, I kind of did. You see, I think Didi was more to you than just someone you once met."

  Howell's eyes were as blue and as cold as a glacier. From across his desk, his gaze pinned me and turned my blood to ice water. "And that's supposed to mean what?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "It's not supposed to mean anything. I don't have time for that kind of crap. I just think you and Didi must have been more than just acquaintances. Otherwise, she wouldn't have been in love with you."

  Howell moved pretty fast for an old guy. He was out of his chair and around the desk before I ever even saw him coming. "Now listen here, young lady…" He stabbed one finger at me. "If you think you can just waltz in here and start flinging accusations…"

  "I'm not flingin' a thing." I did my best to act like I wasn't scared shitless. Which I pretty much was. I waved aside his angry protest. "She just said—"

  "Don't be ridiculous! Didi didn't just say anything. She's been dead since 1956."

  I stood. "I thought you said you didn't know Didi."

  He turned away from me and marched around to the other side of the desk. He was buying time and I knew it, but at this point, there wasn't much I could do about it. I was still counting on Howell's information and his help. And nobody knew better than me that right about then, I was toeing the fine line between All right, let's talk and Slap the cuffs on this woman and make sure I never see her again.

  "What do you want?" he asked.

  "Just information. Honest. It all has to do with Didi's sister, Merilee, and that book of hers."

  "So Far the Dawn?" There was no amusement in Howell's laugh. "Is that all anybody in this town can talk about? I'm sick to death of hearing about the damned book. If you're another one of those crazed fans looking for some sort of insight, all I can tell you is that I don't know a thing. Yes, I knew Didi Bowman. There. Are you happy? Since you apparently already know we were acquainted, I see no point in denying it. But you've got your information all wrong, Miss Martin. Didi Bowman was a secretary in my law office. That's all she was to me. An employee and nothing more."

  Was it true?

  The question ate away at my bravado. After all the lies I'd heard from Didi and the way she'd denied any sort of relationship with Howell, maybe I should have known better than to march into the office of one of the city's most prominent leaders and start pointing fingers.

  But maybe even the world's best liar couldn't fake the pain I'd heard in Didi's voice when she talked about Thomas Ross Howell.

  I held on to the thought because it was the only thing that gave me courage, and right now, I needed all the courage I could get.

  I swallowed down my misgivings. "Funny that you remember what year she died. I mean, since Didi was an employee and nothing more to you."

  Howell sighed. Not like he was giving in. More like he was exasperated. "Miss Bowman's death created quite a stir in the office. That's one reason I remember it. The other is that it happened the same year my son was born. Also…" He looked away and his expression softened. Like he was lost in a memory.

  "You're too young to have ever known her," he said. "Maybe if you did, you'd realize that Miss Bowman was… how can I put this diplomatically? She was hard to forget."

  "A hot little number, huh?"

  He tugged at his suit coat and shook himself back to the present. "There were some who thought so."

  "But not you."

  Howell looked at me hard. "Maybe you missed the part about me saying my son was born that year. My daughter was three years old at the time. So you see, I was happily married." He glanced toward the photo on his desk of an elegant, silver-haired woman. "I still am."

  "That's nice." I smiled. "And I'm not trying to contradict you or anything, I'm just trying to make sense of the situation. See, what I don't understand is, if all that is true, why Didi dedicated her book to you."

  There was a dimple in Howell's chin. He rubbed one finger over it. "Look, I don't know where you're getting your information, but—"

  "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

  "And you think I can help you, how?"

  "Because I think you know what I'm talking about. She dedicated So Far the Dawn to you, didn't she? She showed you the first page of it and her writing was on it. It was long before Merilee published the book. And when she did, what did you think? Did you think that Didi had just stolen a page of Merilee's book and pretended to be the author just to impress you?"

  Howell studied me with an intensity I imagined he'd used on more than one opposing attorney over the years. I shifted from foot to foot.

  "What are you getting at here?" he asked.

  It was time to lay my cards on the table. At least some of them. "I think Merilee didn't write that book," I told him. "I think Didi did, and I think you once saw the original copy of her manuscript. If you're willing to talk about the fact that you saw the manuscript and that Didi wrote it, we might be able to prove that she's really the author. See, if she is, then the wrong person has been getting rich on the royalties for a lot of years."

  "You're talking about Didi's daughter. You think Judy should get the money."<
br />
  I shook my head. "Judy's dead. Has been for a few years. But Judy, she had a daughter. Maybe you didn't know that. Judy's daughter. Didi's granddaughter. If we can prove—"

  "Hold on! Right there." Howell barked the command. "How old are you?"

  The question caught me off guard. "Twenty-five," I told him. "But I don't see how that—"

  "Out!" His cheeks flushed with an ugly, dark color, his voice trembling with barely controlled emotion, Howell pointed toward the door. "Get the hell out of my office. Who do you think you're dealing with, little girl? You're crazy if you think you can pull some sort of shakedown scam on me. I know exactly what you're up to, and let me tell you this, you'll never prove a thing. You think you can grab a share of my money and my family's prestige, think again and remember this: If I ever see your face again, you're going to hear the words restraining order so fast, your head will spin."

  "Excuse me?" Baffled by his sudden mood swing, I stared at him in wonder. "What are you talking about? I only want to know if Didi ever showed you the original manuscript. If she told you that the character of Palmer was based on you. I only wanted to know—"

  I guess Howell didn't give a damn what I wanted to know.

  Before I could say another word, he grabbed my arm, dragged me out into the hallway, and slammed his office door behind him. Even through the closed door, I heard his voice as he called security and told them there was an intruder outside his office.

  Time to beat a hasty retreat.

  I made it outside without incident, thank goodness, and while I hurried away from the courthouse as fast as I could, I wondered what the hell had happened up there.

  What difference did it make to Howell how old I was?

  And why did he think me being there had anything to do with what he called a shakedown and a chance to snaffle up his money?

  Unless…

  I had just started across a street against the light when the truth hit. I stopped in my tracks in the middle of the intersection, and when a couple of car horns blew and a driver leaned out of his window and asked me if I was some kind of crazy, drugged-out freak, I heard the sounds as if they came from a million miles away.