There was also the little matter of justice.
Would Didi understand about that?
I didn't know and I didn't mention it, because frankly, I wasn't sure I understood it completely myself.
What I did know was that royalties or no royalties, name on a book or not, Didi's restless spirit was doomed to roam the earth as long as her murderer remained at large.
Call me a sucker.
I couldn't do that to a woman with green goo on her face.
The good news was that there was no lack of suspects.
The bad news?
See above.
The next day as I sat on my bed and made a list, I realized there were a whole bunch of people who might have wanted Didi dead.
Merilee, for one, and it didn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to figure out why. She knew about Didi's manuscript. If she saw the potential to cash in on what was sure to be a hit, she might have been more than happy to have Didi out of the picture.
Weird Bob because…
Well, as far as I could see, he didn't have a motive, but there was no doubt he was weird.
Thomas Ross Howell was high on the list, too, though at this stage of the game, there was no way on earth I was going to mention that to Didi. Even after fifty years, she was obviously still in love with him. Sure, she must have known the truth: If her affair with Howell was exposed, it would have ruined his perfect life. There was no use in me pointing out something so obvious. Especially when it would hurt so much.
I continued with my list, writing down Howell's wife, Tammy, next. After all, she had a stake in this too.
Susan Gwitkowski was there, too. No doubt when she worked with Didi, she'd seen the little black book. If she thought it was her key to riches, she might have been willing to kill for it.
Was I missing anybody?
Probably, especially when I thought back to the scene on the bridge and considered the fact that there were two people present. Sure, one of them had pushed Didi. But the other had given the order.
If only I knew where to begin.
I looked toward my dresser, where I'd hidden the little black book beneath the underwear in the middle drawer. "Heck," I told myself, thinking of all the names inside the book, "it could have been any one of them, and between now and the premiere… " I sighed. There weren't enough days in the weeks to talk to all the men listed in Didi's little black book. I wouldn't even know how to track them down. Unless…
I'd been so busy focusing on the news of Didi's murder and all that it meant in terms of my investigation, I hadn't allowed myself to relax enough to get my brain in gear. It kick-started back to life, and I jumped off the bed.
I yanked open the dresser drawer, scooped up the black book, and went to find what was left of the gala invitations.
There wasn't a lot more I could do until the day of the gala. At least not in terms of my investigation. Of course, that didn't mean I was living a life of leisure. Merilee kept me hopping.
The dry cleaner's, the jeweler's, the florist, the seamstress.
It was no wonder Trish had been worn to a frazzle. Aside from being antisocial, cranky, and a super-duper pain in the ass, Merilee was one tough taskmaster.
But all was not lost.
Thanks to the never-ending demands, I had errands to run each day. And that gave me a lot of freedom.
On the afternoon that I had appointments to pick up Merilee's gala gown and the necklace and bracelet a local jeweler was loaning her to wear with it, I took a detour to Garden View.
Not much had changed since the last time I stopped by. There was still a bevy of reenactors roaming the grounds, and they still gave me the creeps. The good thing, though, was that not one of them looked like Dan the Brain Man.
I put the thought out of my mind and concentrated on my mission. I had a couple of reasons for my visit, one of which was Ella's birthday. It was coming up in just a few weeks, and for all she'd done for me (aside from signing me on as an indentured servant to the Queen of Mean), I wanted to get her something special. I'd gone through the list of usual ideas: bath gel, body lotion, blah, blah, blah. But somewhere between the dry cleaner's and the jeweler's, inspiration had struck like a blast from a Union artillery cannon.
Merilee the Meticulous would never allow anything tacky and modern in her office. If I was going to find the ultimate in birthday gifts, I needed the good, not-so-old-fashioned Internet.
Lucky for me, Ella wasn't around, so I didn't have to explain myself. I said a quick hello to Jennine at the front desk, ducked into my office, turned on my computer, and got to work.
"So Far the Dawn memorabilia." I mumbled while I Googled the words, congratulating myself for being a genius and figuring I'd be done with my search in just a matter of moments.
Like I knew there were so many crazy collectors out there?
I glanced at page after page of sites devoted to SFTD kitsch and, overwhelmed, decided the best place to start was at the beginning—sofarfrenzy. com, the home of Opal dolls, Palmer pictures, and what was purported to be the original front door of the house used in the scene where Opal first meets Charleton Hanratty.
Not a So Far the Dawn lunch box in sight.
"Shit." I hit the back arrow and went on to the next site, and then the one after that.
I could have bought a replica of the nightgown Opal wore on her wedding night, a duplicate of the musket Palmer carried in the war, any number of porcelain figurines, collectible plates, and Christmas ornaments.
"You think there would be one damned lunch—"
My eyes scanned the screen, and my words dissolved into a gurgle of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
For sale. Newly posted, the listing on dawn-dazed.com read. Original. Valuable. First page from original So Far the Dawn manuscript. Age authenticated. Some damage from writing on page. If you're a serious collector, you've got to own it! Truly one-of-a-kind.
"I'll say," I mumbled, and if I had a fifty, I would have plunked it down and bet it on the spot.
That's how sure I was that I knew the identity of the lister who called himself msman.
I didn't hesitate. Calling myself Numberlfan, I composed an e-mail, and in it, I just about begged for a look at the page. I told msman I was the most avid So Far the Dawn fan on the planet. I swore I admired Opal and confessed that I'd been in love with Palmer since the moment I'd first read the book. I'd seen the movie dozens of time, I said. I knew every line of dialogue by heart. I wanted that manuscript page, I told him, and I wanted it bad. Price (I made sure I said this in a paragraph of its own so there was no way he could miss it) was no object.
Some of what I told him was actually true. At least when it came to the part about how much I wanted to get my hands on the manuscript.
Most of it, of course, was bullshit.
Did I care?
Not even a little. After all, if msman was who I thought msman was and if the page was real…
My heart was beating fast, and when I hit the send button, my fingers were crossed.
I was so jazzed by the possibility of actually seeing an original manuscript page that wasn't one of the "original" manuscript pages in the display case at the museum, I never did find a lunch box for Ella. I told myself I'd look again another day, and with hopes higher than they had been since the day Didi spooked her way into my life, I continued on with the second half of my reason for my visit to Garden View. Back in my car, I cruised over to the new section.
Lucky for me, when I got to the Bowman mausoleum, I saw that nothing had changed there. There were a few people hanging around, and Rick Jensen was still waiting for the perfect photo op.
I parked my Mustang. "Hey!" I called to him, and lifted a cardboard box out of my trunk. "I've got a present for you."
When I opened the box and showed him what was inside, Rick's eyes lit. "My camera! Where did you—? How did you—?"
"It's kind of a long story," I told him, even though it really wasn't except for
the part about how I never would have been in Weird Bob's workroom if it wasn't for a certain ghost. "Where I found it doesn't matter except that it might mean something in terms of who mugged you. I think I know who did it, but I can't go to the cops. Not yet. Not until I get you to confirm a couple of things for me. I want you to think really hard, Rick. I bet if you do, you'll remember seeing the person around here. Big, beefy guy. Kind of old. Long ponytail. He's always dressed in jeans and a grubby denim shirt."
I'll give Rick credit. He tried. He stood quietly for a minute or two, his eyes closed, his forehead puckered as if he was going through a mental list of each and every person who'd visited the mausoleum.
Finally, he shook his head. "Sorry. I don't remember ever seeing anybody like that, but then, there have been a lot of folks ogling this place. Damn, but I wish one of them had been that Merilee Bowman! If I could get just one good picture of her, I could really make a name for myself. But as far as the guy you're talking about…" He was deep in thought again.
"Maybe yes," he finally said. "Maybe no. I'm leaning toward the mo."
This was not something I wanted to hear. Not when I was so sure of myself, my theory, and the undeniable evidence I'd discovered in Weird Bob's workroom. I tried again. "Are you sure? Come on, Rick, this is pretty important. Think! This guy, he always smells like cigarettes."
"Now I know he hasn't been around here." Rick shook his head. "I was a smoker myself. Quit a three-pack-a-day habit not a year ago. Believe me, I'd remember the smell of smoke." He breathed deep, as if he could smell it and was enjoying every cancer-inducing molecule. "What I wouldn't give for a Camel unfiltered." He wiped the smile of nicotine desire off his face.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm pretty sure the guy you're talking about was never here to see the mausoleum."
"But he might have been the one who clunked you on the head."
What was it called on those TV courtroom shows? Leading a witness?
Oh yeah, I was leading Rick, all right. Hopefully to remembering Bob's involvement in the mugging.
Unfortunately, the only place I was leading him was nowhere at all.
He was sure of himself when he said, "I told you, somebody snuck up from behind me. Big guy or no big guy, I didn't see a thing."
I was still holding the box that contained the camera, and I looked from Rick to the long curl of film at the bottom of the box. Maybe there was more than one way to prove Weird Bob's involvement. "You didn't see anything," I said, "but maybe your camera did." I fished out the film. "Will this prove anything?"
He sized up the film. "It's been exposed. It's toast."
"But you could try, couldn't you? I mean, develop it or something?"
Rick wasn't so sure, and I think he would have said so if I didn't play the sympathy card.
And bat my eyelashes at him.
"I found your camera," I said, thinking back to the lessons in the not-so-gentle art of persuasion I'd learned from Gus. "I brought it back to you. The least you can do—"
"You're right." When I offered it, he took the box out of my hands. "I don't know what you think I'm going to find on this film. I've told you, I've told the folks here at the cemetery who asked, I've told the cops. Nothing unusual happened the day I was mugged. I don't remember taking any pictures that were special that day. That's for sure. In fact, when I think back on it, I don't remember much of anything at all except—"
"Except… " I leaned forward, eager to hear more.
Rick looked away. "You're going to think it's crazy," he said.
I didn't bother to point out that as the world's one and only Gifted cemetery tour guide, I was getting used to the fact that pretty much nothing was crazy.
Or maybe everything was.
This wasn't the time to get philosophical.
"Tell me anyway," I said instead. "Maybe between the two of us, we can figure out what it means."
Rick's hands were big. He wrapped them around his camera. "It's just that…" He blushed. "I feel so goofy admitting it. I mean, hell, I'm no psychologist, but even I know it's probably got some weird mental health implication or something. You see, my grandmother, she was a drinker. She used to whack me around when I was a kid. You know, when she was drunk. She thought she was fooling us all, that we didn't know when she was hitting the bottle. Yeah, like we were that stupid!" He made a sour face. "She used to try to cover up the smell of the booze on her breath."
Rick looked so uncomfortable about confessing all this, I might have felt sorry for him if I wasn't so busy wondering what it all meant.
"I think that's why every time I think back to the day I was mugged, I have the same weird memory," he said. "You know, like the fact that I was knocked on the head is getting all mixed up with what happened to me when I was a kid and Grandma was hanging with Jack Daniel's. That's got to be why every time I think about the mugging, I have the same sensory experience. I'll bet some psychologist would make a big deal out of that, huh?"
"Depends what sensory experience you're talking about."
"Like I said, it's crazy." Uncomfortable, Rick cleared his throat. "Every time I think about getting whacked on the head, I think about Grandma. You see, that's how she covered up the smell of the liquor. That's what I think about when I think about getting whacked. Menthol cough drops."
Chapter 18
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
As she looked over the ballroom of the Renaissance Hotel and the crowd of costumed partyers milling around the buffet tables where candles twinkled and champagne flowed, Ella's face was aglow.
Mine…
Let's just say that my interest in the scene was a little more scientific.
With that in mind, I took a quick look around. Kurt and Elizabeth were across the room, she in her blue velvet dress, he in his uniform, bickering about which of their pictures (twenty feet tall and hanging at the far end of the ballroom) was better/more attractive/more professional.
With any luck, they'd keep themselves so busy, I wouldn't have to deal.
The rest of the crowd was another matter. From across the massive ballroom, I caught sight of Thomas Ross Howell, resplendent in tuxedo. He had a short, silver-haired woman on his arm (obviously his wife, Tammy) who must have spent the equivalent of one month of my rent on her green gown. Yeah, it was that spectacular. And who was I to criticize? I was a big believer in the if-you've-got-it-flaunt-it theory.
At the same time I proved it by twinkling at President Lincoln, who walked by, looked me over, and gave me a wink, I wondered if Howell knew that David Barkwill, construction mogul, another of Didi's former boyfriends—and fellow murder suspect—was just a few short feet away getting himself a glass of punch.
He might not know, but I sure did. As dazzling as the whole scene was, I hadn't forgotten my primary mission. I had plans to talk to both Howell and Barkwill, as well as to the rest of the men from Didi's little black book who'd responded to my personal invitation in my best handwriting.
As soon as I shook Ella.
Easier said than done.
Her eyes sparkling like the slick sheen of her rose-colored gown, Ella wound one elbow-length-glove-clad arm through mine. "Oh, Pepper. It's as if I stepped into a scene from So Far the Dawn. Like a dream come true!"
I tugged at the side of my gown and at the corset beneath it that was pinching my boobs. "Only if you dream about being a masochist," I told her.
She thought I was kidding and laughed. "You look like a princess in a fairy tale," she said.
She was right, and in keeping with the whole got-and-flaunt theory, I wasn't ashamed to admit it. The gold silk gown with its miles of creamy lace edging looked fabulous with my hair and as old-fart, old-fashioned, old-time as the style of the dress was (snug waist, wide skirt, and all), I really did look good in it.
Of course, the off-the-shoulder styling didn't hurt. Neither did the fact that my breasts were pressed, smashed, and mashed against the low-cut neckline. But how I looked and how I felt, those we
re two different things.
When a man excused himself to get around me, I stepped to one side. My hoop skirt swayed and I slapped a hand on either side of it to keep it from taking off down the dance floor and swinging me along with it. "How the hell did women ever function when they were bundled up in clothes like this?" I hissed. "Between the corset and the pantaloons and this damned hoop—"
"Now, now." Ella scolded me, but she was smiling while she did it. "A proper lady never uses such language."
"I've got news for you, I'm no proper lady."
"That's pretty much what I'm counting on."
The comment came from right behind me, and I didn't have to turn around to know it was Quinn. For one thing, Ella looked that way and blushed from the more-modest-than-mine neckline of her gown all the way to her forehead. For another, Quinn's voice tickled its way up my spine and left a tingly sensation behind. Fire and ice and raw sexual energy.
Not a bad combination.
Not that I was going to let on. At least not this early in the evening.
When I turned to him, I hoped he'd attribute the fact that I was trembling to the crazy wobbling of my hoop.
Nice try.
Because when I turned to him, and saw that he was wearing a tux…
Well, let's just say that eye candy took on a whole new meaning.
I looked from the tips of Quinn's spit-polished shoes to the top of his head. Top to bottom was A-OK, and everything in between was mighty fine, too.
"Detective." I nodded my hello. "I didn't expect to see you all dressed up."
"Expecting to see me undressed?" His eyes sparkled in a way meant just for me.
A fizz bubbled through my veins.
"I think it's time for me to greet the members of ISFTDS who are here," Ella said. Giggling, she . patted me on the arm and disappeared into the costumed crowd.
"Well, that will give her something to talk about at the office tomorrow," I said, even though I knew Ella was too sensible to spread gossip. "You're feeling mighty pleased with yourself tonight."
The Chick and the Dead Page 20
