The Chick and the Dead

by Casey Daniels

  "And you're looking mighty good." Quinn gave me a careful once-over, his gaze stopping at my low neckline. "No wonder those olden days are considered so romantic."

  "Don't get any ideas. Something tells me women back then didn't really show this much skin." I shifted my shoulders, trying not to feel so squashed. "I wouldn't even be this exposed if I tried on my gown in time to get it to the seamstress for alterations."

  The sparkle in Quinn's eyes throttled back to a slow simmer. "Someone made an attempt to kill you while you were trying on the dress the first time, and we never found any evidence as to who it was. I imagine that was enough to make you reluctant to try on the gown a second time."

  "I'll say," I told him, but I didn't mention the fact that I'd been too busy to try on the gown because of other things, too. Like communicating back and forth with msman, who, according to his latest e-mail, still—glory and hallelujah—had not found a buyer for the original manuscript page. Unfortunately he also said the price I had offered (more than I could afford) was a little low.

  The question popped out of me before I could stop it. "I don't suppose you know how I can raise five thousand dollars in cold, hard cash, do you?"

  Quinn's gaze dropped to my chest, and a smile inched up the corners of his mouth. "I'm not going to state the obvious."

  "You bet you're not."

  "So why do you need that kind of money?"

  I'd debated about telling him. Not about the money, of course. Before the words spilled out of my mouth, I hadn't realized I was going to mention the money. But there were other things, things I would need Quinn's help with eventually. Was now a good time to take him into my confidence? Probably not, but I knew that if I waited for the perfect moment, it would never come.

  "There's something I want to buy," I said. "An original manuscript page. From So Far the Dawn."

  He barked out a laugh. "You of all people! Don't tell me you're turning into one of these—"

  "Freaks?" I lowered my voice so the freaks around us wouldn't hear. "Not a chance. But listen, I think there's something strange going on. About the book. About the manuscript displayed at the museum." She was all the way across the room chatting with the mayor and the anchor from one of the national news programs, but I glanced over my shoulder at Merilee and lowered my voice anyway. "I don't think she wrote it," I told Quinn.

  Something told me Quinn wasn't surprised often, and even when he was, I had a feeling he didn't let it show. Which is why I took it as something of a compliment when he rolled back on his heels, looked from Merilee to me, and whistled low under his breath. "Who—?"

  "It was her sister, Didi. At least I think it was. Maybe. I'm pretty sure." I was. I think. "Anyway, I found someone online who claims to have an original page from the original manuscript. If I can buy it and you can get it… I don't know… tested or dated or whatever it is they do to check the age of things… and if you can get the writing on it compared to the sample of Didi's writing that I have… then we can prove it. And then everyone will know that Didi really wrote the book."

  Even when Quinn was caught off guard, I found out he didn't let it get the best of him. He got right down to business, narrowing his eyes and shooting me a look. "And you know all this, how?"

  I shrugged. Was I stalling? Or trying to distract Quinn and get him to look at my chest? Either way, it worked. Both ways, it was better than having to confess how I really knew what I knew. Or at least what I thought I knew I knew.

  "It really doesn't matter how I know, does it? What matters is that if Didi really wrote the book, then she should get the credit. And the big, fat royalty checks."

  Even Quinn couldn't argue with logic like this. He nodded. "Then let's talk to this Didi and see what she has to say."

  "We can't." Technically correct since we didn't have the Gift. "She's dead."

  "Then how—"

  "Can she get the money?" It was better to head him off at the pass than let him ask the obvious question: Then how do you know?

  "Didi had a daughter," I explained. "She's dead, too, but her daughter had a daughter. Which means Didi has a granddaughter. Which means that if I can prove Didi wrote the book, Harmony—her granddaughter—can cash in on—"

  Quinn was a quick study. He didn't need to hear any more. He cut off my explanation with a look designed to intimidate. "Which means you're talking a lot of money. And a lot of money explains why someone tried to kill you. It also tells me that the day you were attacked in your bedroom, you knew exactly what was going on, you just weren't talking. Looks like for the second time since I met you, you've stuck your nose where it doesn't belong."

  It was hard to argue. Especially when he was right. So when had that ever stopped me? "My nose is exactly where it belongs," I told him. "Because I know Harmony. Or at least I've met her. The money is rightfully hers, and that means she deserves it. I also know that something isn't right in the world of So Far the Dawn. The wrong person is taking credit for a book that millions of people love. Is that enough for you, Officer? If not, consider this. Everyone thinks Didi committed suicide, but she was really murdered, maybe because of the manuscript. And Trish Kingston—you remember her, the woman whose death you're currently investigating?—was involved in the mugging of that photographer over at Garden View. I don't know about you, but I think that means that the mugging might ultimately have had something to do with Trish's murder."

  I'd gotten this out as quickly as I could, before Quinn could tell me I was nuts and try to stop me. I ran out of air and sucked in a deep breath.

  "So you see," I said, "I've got this moral obligation—"

  "To get yourself killed?"

  "That's not what I was going to say."

  "It's what's going to happen! Damn it, Pepper—" Quinn controlled his temper. It wasn't easy. He scraped a hand through his hair and looked around. We were standing at the edge of the dance floor, and a crowd was gathering around us for the first waltz of the evening. Rather than risk being overheard, he grabbed me by the elbow and escorted me to the perimeter of the room, where floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city's Public Square

  .

  "Stay out of it," Quinn said.

  I couldn't explain that it was already too late for that. But then, where was it written that I owed Quinn an explanation? For anything? "It's too late for that," I told him. "I'm in it. Up to my neck. But I can get out of it fast. Or at least I can clear up the thing about the manuscript. All I need to do is buy the page. And get it to you. And you'll get it tested and—"

  "I'm not making any promises." The way he said it told me he wasn't kidding. The way he looked at me, though… well, I was nothing if not a good judge of people. Quinn's lips said one thing, his eyes said another. He wasn't making any promises, but he'd do this. For me.

  "I'll look around. I'll ask some questions. If your story holds water, we'll take the next step."

  I was relieved, and not just because I'd found someone to help fund the buy. I had an ally. Quinn. Somehow, just knowing he was on my side and watching my back made me feel as if the weight of the world had lifted from my shoulders. Side, back, shoulders. Nearly all my body parts were covered.

  Nearly.

  I stepped closer and smiled up at him. A good move when it came to flirting. Not such a good idea considering the hoop skirt. I thwacked it into submission before it could do Quinn any damage. "We'll buy the manuscript?"

  "We'll buy the manuscript. If—"

  There was that knife-edged look again, cutting to the bone, relentless and waiting for me to cry uncle.

  I caved, and in the great scheme of things, who could blame me? I almost had gotten myself killed.

  Over a stupid manuscript. And tens of millions of dollars that in no way, shape, or form belonged to me. The smart thing to do would have been to leave the job to the professionals in the first place.

  "I won't do a thing," I told Quinn. "I promise. Not until I hear what you've uncovered."

  "Nothi
ng." He looked at me hard. Like he wasn't sure I understood the meaning of the word. "I mean it, Pepper, nothing about this manuscript and nothing about this death that you think is a murder. And why do you think it, anyway, if you say that everyone thinks it was a suicide?"

  He didn't wait for me to answer the question. "Never mind," he said. "You can explain about all that later. And about why you think Trish Kingston was involved in mugging a photographer. You realize that's crazy, don't you?"

  I did. "I do," I admitted. "But you see, right before he got whacked, Rick, the photographer, he smelled menthol. And Trish, she was always sucking on cough drops and—"

  "Enough." Quinn's eyes were glazing over, and he stopped me before things could get worse. He looked toward the dance floor. "Let me talk to some people and see what I can find out."

  "And I'll—"

  "Do nothing." He said it like he figured I wasn't going to argue, and I wasn't. I had my own personal cop on the case, and for once I could sit back and let him do all the work.

  I clutched my hands at my waist. "Don't worry, Officer, I'm going to stay right here and mind my own business. Like a proper young lady should."

  "Don't get too proper on me." Quinn's eyes glittered in the light of the crystal chandeliers. "I want you alive, but I don't want you boring."

  I was still enjoying the thought when he turned around and walked away.

  I'd been so busy talking to Quinn, I hadn't registered the fact that the crowd had quieted down. As soon as I turned toward the dance floor, I saw why. The mayor had moved behind a microphone at the front of the crowd, and he held up both hands, asking for silence.

  "Ladies and gentlemen!" His Honor was a tall, thin man with a salt-and-pepper beard, and like Quinn, he hadn't tried to blend in with the SFTD crowd by wearing a costume. He was dressed in a tuxedo, a fancy red cummerbund, and a dazzling white shirt. "This evening, I have the honor to introduce you to one of this city's most respected women." He glanced to his left to where Merilee waited in a dress that was an exact replica of Opal's sapphire blue ball gown.

  Interesting, since Didi was standing right behind her in the exact same dress.

  I looked from her, to Merilee, to Elizabeth, who was watching the proceedings from the sidelines and whose expression made it clear that she wasn't happy that there were three Opals present.

  I turned away from her, and across the floor, my gaze met and locked with Didi's. She grinned. That's me. She mouthed the words and pointed toward the mayor. That's me he's talking about.

  It wasn't. At least as far as the mayor knew.

  "Tonight's guest of honor is not only a star," he was saying. "She's an institution."

  Didi nodded enthusiastically.

  "Her blockbuster novel, So Far the Dawn, has sparked our imaginations like no other."

  At this, there was a smattering of applause, and Didi gave me the thumbs-up.

  "It has been translated into dozens of foreign languages, made into one of the all-time classic movies…"

  More applause, and Didi blushed.

  "… and it has certainly solidified what we here in Cleveland have always known. That we live in a place that is as vital and prosperous now as it was back during the War Between the States. We have one person to thank for all the honor she's brought to our city and all the pleasure she's brought into our lives."

  Didi stepped up next to the mayor and beamed a smile at the crowd.

  "Ladies and gentlemen…" he said, and oblivious to the ghost on his right, he turned and gestured to his left. "Merilee Bowman!"

  The place (as they say) went wild. The orchestra played "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," and a group of men dressed as soldiers and standing close to the front led the crowd in a few hearty "huzzahs." (I wasn't sure what it meant, but it sure sounded like a compliment.) It wasn't until the commotion died down that I realized Didi was no longer on the podium. I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck, but there wasn't a sign of hide nor ghostly hair of her.

  At least until I turned around.

  I saw a whirl of blue velvet over near the windows where I'd so recently spoken to Quinn, and squeezing my hoop to get through the crush, I headed that way.

  I found Didi staring out the window, her shoulders heaving. When she turned to me, her face was stained with tears.

  "That applause should have been for me," she said. "But instead, look at her!" We both looked to where Merilee—head high and face beaming—was making the last of her bows before she took her place at the center of the dance floor with the mayor. "It's my book, Pepper. Those are my characters. They speak the words I put in their mouths and they do the things I wanted them to do. It's wrong. It's unfair. It's—"

  "We're going to get it cleared up." I'm not sure why I thought saying it would help. I'd been trying for weeks to clear up Didi's problem, and yet it was a classic case of so far, no good. "Quinn is going to help us and Quinn—"

  "You promised him you wouldn't do a thing." Didi's pout was monumental. She didn't give me a chance to tell her I didn't appreciate the fact that she'd apparently been listening in to my recent conversation with my favorite boy in blue. "He told you not to do anything until he gets back, and believe me, I know the way these things work. What men want, men get. You told me you got all the murder suspects in one place so you could interview them, but you're going to let him take over, aren't you? Not that I blame you or anything. Men are smarter than women. They know more about the ways of the world. They should be in charge. That's how things are supposed to work. It's the way things have always worked. But…" She sniffled. "We're just women. I guess there's nothing we can do."

  If ever there was a time I wished I could grab a ghost and give her a good, hard shake, that was it.

  But I couldn't.

  So I didn't.

  Instead, I slanted her a look. "Nothing we can do, huh? Says who?"

  Her expression cleared. "You mean—"

  "I mean we're going to take care of what we need to take care of. And I'll worry about Quinn later." I squared my shoulders and, hoop skirt notwithstanding, glided back into the hubbub of the party. "After all," I reminded her, "tomorrow is another day."

  Chapter 19

  I was as good as my word.

  My word to Didi, that is. Not my word to Quinn.

  I talked to David Barkwill, the construction mogul. I chatted with Michael Javits, who, it turned out, owned most of the used car lots in northeast Ohio. I shot the shit with Ken Paskovitch, the banker, and even managed an audience with Reverend Jack, who—for reasons that escaped me since he looked like he'd been stuffed into his powder blue tux by a taxidermist—commanded his own little crowd of admirers.

  That was a lot of talking and chatting.

  And it got me…

  Well, as much as I hate to admit it, facts are facts, and the fact is, it got me absolutely nowhere.

  After four glasses of punch and four conversations with four old men who did everything from grope me (Reverend Jack, doncha know), to ogle me (the construction mogul), to proposition me (the car lot guru), the only thing I could say for sure was that as far as they could remember—and wasn't it telling that they all remembered even though it was so long ago?—they all had an alibi for the night Didi died.

  That, and that I didn't want to talk to another old guy for a very long time.

  Of course, a private detective can't be picky. At least not when it comes to a case. I still had Thomas Ross Howell to tackle (figuratively speaking, of course), and just as the dancers were finishing what the orchestra leader called the last quadrille (whatever the hell that was) before intermission, I moved to the edge of the dance floor and looked over the crowd, searching for the judge.

  No luck, and I turned to check out the buffet tables. When I did, I happened to glance toward the orchestra—and saw a familiar-looking face behind a bushy mustache and a clarinet.

  "Dan Callahan." I grumbled and made a move toward the orchestra, but my timing was off. A lady in a hoo
p skirt even wider than mine just happened to be dancing by. We met, collided, and ping-ponged off each other. She (no Civil War-era lady, after all) cursed her partner, who was apparently supposed to see me even though he was facing the other way. She cursed me for getting in the way. And as for me, I beat a hasty, head-spinning retreat and ended up over near the tables that had been set up for those who weren't inclined to dance.

  My skirt caught on a table leg, and I yanked it free. "Son of a puppy," I grumbled.

  "You can dress her up, but you can't take her out."

  For the second time that night, I'd been snuck up on, and I didn't appreciate it. Only this time, the voice I heard wasn't Quinn's, and I wasn't left tingling with anticipation. This was a woman's voice, and where Quinn's had poured through me like warm honey, this one left me cold, cold, cold. I regained my footing and turned to find Susan Gwitkowski staring at me, daggers in her eyes.

  "Who the hell do you think you are?" she demanded.

  "Pepper." Always the smart ass, I smiled and stuck out one hand to shake hers. "But we've met. Remember? The day I—"

  "The day you tricked me into letting you into my house and then stole something that belongs to me."

  This was hard to deny. Especially since it was true. I dispensed with the niceties, and since the chair next to where Susan was seated was empty, I dropped into it. "You mean Didi's little black book. The one you're using to blackmail half the male population of northeast Ohio."

  Her breath caught, but I had to hand it to her, she didn't cave. Not right away, anyway. "How do you—?"

  "Know?" I grinned. "Let's just say a little bird told me. You're not denying it?"

  Susan was dressed all in black. Slinky gown studded with beads. Feather boa. Evening bag. Not exactly au courant with the Civil War crowd unless she was playing at being a nineteenth-century hooker. She was sipping champagne (and had four empty flutes on the table in front of her), and she looked at me over the rim of her glass. "You think you're so smart and that I'm going to throw up my hands and confess? That I'm going to feel guilty about what I'm doing? I'll tell you what, there's nothing wrong with taking advantage of a situation. It's justice, that's what it is. It's the least Didi can do for me to make up for leaving me with that brat kid of hers."