Tombs of Endearment

by Casey Daniels

  Maybe it was starting to sink in. The color drained out of Joel’s face. “You mean you’re going to make Simone suffer for what I did? That’s unconscionable, Pepper.”

  I was cheered by the thought. “It is, isn’t it?” For the first time since Joel Panhorst ambushed me, I smiled with all sincerity. I gave him a biff on the arm. “Buck up, chum. It’s not like I’m trying to ruin your life like you ruined mine. It’s just that…well, heck! I couldn’t give that ring back even if I wanted to. You see, the minute you told me the wedding was off, I sold it.”

  Tan or no tan, the color drained from Joel’s face. Like a walleye pulled from Lake Erie, his mouth opened and closed in silent horror. “S-s-sold?”

  “Hell, yes! What else was I supposed to do? My dad was in jail. The man who was supposed to love and cherish me made it clear his reputation was more important to him than I was. My family’s assets were gone. But then…” I think Joel was too horrified to notice my wide-eyed, innocent expression, but I gave it my best shot, anyway. “But then, you know that part, don’t you? After the Martin family reputation and bank accounts were kaput, so was any interest you ever had in me. That’s why you dropped me like a bad habit.”

  “But…but sold? You sold my grandmother’s ring? Maybe it isn’t too late to get it back. Where did you take it? What jeweler?”

  Laughing, I grabbed my lunch bag and my purse, and this time when I marched away, Joel was too stunned to stop me. “No place you’d ever shop. No place you ever heard of, either. Stopped at the first jewelry store I could find,” I said. “Got a fast couple thousand for the ring, too.”

  “Couple thousand?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “For a three-carat diamond?”

  On my way by, I slapped him on the back. “Hey, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.”

  “But Pepper…”

  I was already past Joel, and I could afford to respond to the desperation in his voice. I turned.

  “But Pepper,” he said, “that ring is a family heirloom!”

  My smile was firmly in place when I left him with my parting shot. “Lucky for me, it’s not my family!”

  The authoritative tone of my voice crackling in the air, I walked away as quickly as I could. After all, I didn’t want to ruin the moment, and it would have been a real shame if Joel caught wind of the fact that even as the sarcasm was still dripping from my lips, my newly bolstered self-esteem was plummeting.

  But then, discovering that the man she was once engaged to has gotten over her and gotten on with his life while hers was as still and stagnant as pond water has a way of doing that to a girl.

  So did finding out that the woman who was now the woman in his life was prettier, wealthier, far more successful, and wasn’t stuck working in a cemetery.

  She was probably better in bed, too.

  My self-confidence made a splat sound when it hit rock bottom.

  There was a trash can near the front door of the office building. Right before I went inside, I wadded up the sticky note where I’d written Quinn’s phone number.

  I threw it away.

  Chapter 6

  I spent the rest of that morning reminding myself that Simone the Size Zero Successful Attorney was welcome to Joel.

  This was the God’s honest truth. I knew it in my heart of hearts.

  But try as I might, it was a little harder to convince the rest of me. Especially my ego.

  Still, I managed to get by. I deflected her motherly but nosy questions about the man in the pin-striped suit and made it through my meeting with Ella. I slogged through my practice freed-slaves tour. As far as I could tell, no one at Garden View was the wiser about what had really happened out by the picnic table that morning: Pepper Martin had been hit over the head with the ugly truth. Her life was going nowhere. Her job was the object of ridicule, far and wide. Her love life was nonexistent.

  And she wasn’t willing to take a chance on changing any of it.

  Why?

  The answer is simple enough.

  The visit from Joel had been a sobering reminder that when I put my heart on the line, it invariably ends up getting smashed, mashed, and bashed.

  By the time lunchtime rolled around and I pulled out my salad and a bottle of low-fat dressing I kept in the refrigerator in the employee break room, I knew I needed a time-out from feeling sorry for myself—and there’s nothing like a little detecting to take my mind off my troubles.

  Salad bowl and plastic fork in hand, I closed my office door, logged onto the Internet, and Googled Vinnie Pallucci’s name. I had yet to formulate a plan, so I really wasn’t sure what I was looking for. What I got, however, was thousands of hits, from sites that featured Vinnie Pal’s baby pictures to ones that recounted his three divorces. In detail. But it was one of the newest listings that caught my eye.

  The Granddaddy of Rock, an entry from the Rock Hall site said. The life and times of Mind at Large with music legend Vinnie Pallucci.

  I clicked over to the proper page, scanned the information, and for the first time since Joel asked for his engagement ring back, my mood brightened.

  Because it looked like Vinnie Pal was scheduled to be in town long before Halloween and the big Mind at Large concert at the Rock Hall. In fact, as part of the Hall’s community and music education efforts, he’d be spending the next three Wednesday evenings in a classroom setting, talking about the group and its influence on modern rock.

  In an effort to prove to myself that my life wasn’t as pathetic as I feared, I took my calendar from my purse and checked it against the dates listed for the class.

  My calendar was empty. My life was as pathetic as I feared.

  But for once, my lack of a social life worked to my advantage.

  I grabbed my credit card and signed right up.

  I was headed to the School of Hard Rock, and a chance for a little one-on-one with Vinnie Pal.

  I’m not sure what I expected. Hippies, I guess. Love bead–laden, barefoot, and smelling of pot and patchouli.

  Which was why I was surprised when I walked into the classroom at the Rock Hall designed to seat a hundred or more and found twenty or so nicely dressed, middle-aged men and women who looked like the friends my mom and dad played golf and tennis with at the country club. (That was, of course, before the feds put the cuffs on Dad, every one of their so-called friends vanished, and Mom fled to Florida to put a couple of thousand miles between herself and her disgrace.)

  Imagine my surprise ratcheting up a notch when I realized one of them wasn’t as stylishly frumpy as the others. It was the long-haired, skinny woman I’d seen cleaning Damon’s exhibit the day I met him. She had a seat front row and center, and she was sipping from a cup that said City Roast on the side of it.

  Yeah, yeah, I know. It was what we in the trade call a clue. Or at least what I should have/would have called a clue if I’d been paying attention. As it was, I was a little late and more than a little preoccupied feeling conspicuous. Earlier in the day I had decided that it was probably best not to look like I was there to try and find a way to destroy the reputation of a man who owned a half dozen Grammys, but by the time I thought of it, I was dressed and out of my apartment and it was already too late. In black pants, a brilliant green sweater, and stilettos that added three inches to my height, I stood out in the crowd.

  I excused myself past a couple seated on the aisle and found a chair in the center of a row. I got myself settled just as a hall employee walked to the front of the room to give a brief overview and introduction.

  “I always hated school.”

  I wasn’t surprised to find Damon in the empty chair next to mine. This was the first he’d shown himself since the day I signed up for the class, and that was fine with me. With a little time and a whole lot of you-go-girl pep talking, I was finally far enough removed from the sting of Joel’s visit to act as if the only thing on my mind was my case. Anxious to present my plan, I pretended I was rummaging through my purse when I answered him
.

  “Doesn’t matter if you like school or not. This is perfect!”

  “Vinnie’s going to be here?”

  “He’s the guest of honor.” Even if the place wasn’t crowded, there was only so long I could keep looking through my purse and mumbling and not attract attention. I pulled out a notebook and a pen and scrawled a message to Damon.

  I’m going to try and talk to him after class.

  “That’s good.” Damon didn’t have to worry about being overheard. He stretched his legs out in front of him, his arm thrown across the back of the empty chair to his left. Our nearest neighbor was a woman two seats down, and though Damon wasn’t close, he was apparently close enough. She shivered and slipped on a sweater decorated with pumpkins and teddy bears in witch hats. “What are you going to say to him?”

  This was a question I’d been asking myself ever since I plunked down my hard-earned dollars for the class. I didn’t have a fleshed-out plan, but I had the beginnings of one.

  I’m going to start by telling him I think he’s the most fabulous singer in the whole world.

  Damon made a face. “He’s not.”

  A little flattery may get me a long way.

  “Or it will swell his head bigger than ever.”

  He deserves it. He’s a star.

  “He’s a fraud.”

  I have to tell him I’m a fan. It’s the only way.

  “Then what?”

  My shrug pretty much said it all, but I added, I have to talk to him. Alone. I underlined this last word. I have to show him—

  “Ladies and gentlemen…” The man at the front of the room made a sweeping gesture toward the door. “Vinnie Pal! Mr. Vinnie Pallucci!”

  I’m not much for standing ovations, but it was join the crowd or miss my first chance for a look at Vinnie Pal.

  Who didn’t look like the guy I’d seen on the poster out in the lobby at all.

  I gave myself a mental slap. The first guy through the door was big, black, and as beefy as a professional wrestler. He was dressed in a dark suit and he was wearing Ray-Bans. He yanked them off and scanned the crowd.

  Security. Of course. Apparently, the coast was clear. The security guy waved toward the hallway.

  That’s when the real Vinnie Pal walked in.

  There’s a difference between seeing a photo of a star or watching him prance around on stage at the MTV Music Awards and seeing him from just a few feet away. While most of the crowd was clapping politely and some folks were snapping pictures, I took the opportunity to give Vinnie Pal the once-over.

  He was shorter than me, wearing jeans that looked as if they could stand a good washing and, in spite of the chilly weather outside, a gray, short-sleeved polo shirt. His gut bulged over his belt. Considering his age, I suspected that his dark hair was more a product of chemistry than it was of genetics. You’d think a guy who had his bucks would spring for a better stylist. A shampoo wouldn’t have hurt, either. Vinnie Pal’s hair hung limp over his shoulders.

  “Black magic, huh?” The crowd was loud, so I didn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing me. I turned to Damon. “He doesn’t look like a sorcerer.”

  “What does a sorcerer look like?”

  I shook my head. “Not like that. I thought he’d be…I don’t know…scary. Or at least tough and edgy. He looks like somebody’s old, drunk uncle.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  I had no doubt of that. But before I had a chance to say any more, Vinnie put both arms in the air, a signal to the crowd to settle down.

  “Thank you! Thank you very much!” he called out, as loud and as enthusiastic as if he was center stage in some arena and there were thousands of fans screaming for him. He took a seat in front of the room. “You’re fabulous!” He glanced around. Was it my imagination? I could have sworn that when he saw the skinny lady with the coffee cup, he paused to give her a second look.

  I leaned in close to Damon when I spoke, and with a tip of my head, indicated the cleaning woman in the front row. “Who is she?”

  Damon looked. But not for long. He shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “But Vinnie has. He knows her.”

  We didn’t have a chance to discuss it further. Vinnie went right on studying the crowd. When he came to the spot where Damon was sitting, his eyes narrowed and lit with interest. I wondered if there was something about his black magic that made it possible for him to see Damon. Until I realized that he wasn’t looking at Damon at all. Vinnie was staring at me. I slid Damon a sidelong look that told him I suddenly had a plan and sat up a little straighter. The posture played hell with my back muscles, but it gave Vinnie Pal a good look and allowed me to give him a smile.

  It wasn’t easy to hold the pose, but it was worth it. Time and again while Vinnie droned on and on about the first years of being a member of Mind at Large, his gaze returned to me. He was older-than-middle-aged, overweight, and like I said, the hair left a whole lot to be desired.

  Every time he looked my way, I twinkled like a star-struck groupie.

  Class ended with the promise to continue with the band’s history the next week, and with Vinnie occupied shaking hands and signing autographs, I finally had a chance to relax.

  “You’re not going to throw yourself at him, are you?”

  It was the first thing Damon had said since right after class started, and I couldn’t blame him for sounding pissed. Dead or alive, rock stars are all about causing a scene, and Damon didn’t like sitting there—invisible—while Vinnie Pal took all the credit for Mind at Large’s success. Not that Damon’s part in the group’s rise had been entirely forgotten. In the question and answer session that followed class, the skinny lady had asked about Damon. Twice. Both times, Vinnie had prefaced his answer with a shake of his head.

  “Sad,” he’d said, “that Damon wasted his life like that. He had potential. He could have made something of himself.”

  “He sings in his grave.” There was a murmur in response to this comment from the woman. “He shines. Like a sun. And the worms feast on his heart.”

  Vinnie made a face. Like anyone could blame him? Big points for him, he managed a smile. “You’re right, some people are like fireflies. They shine bright, then flicker out. Damon did some good work—”

  Damon grumbled a curse.

  “—but his talent never had a chance to mature.”

  Thinking it better not to bring up the fact that Damon might be feeling a little touchy about all this, I grabbed my purse, clutched my notebook to my chest, and stood, waiting for the people nearest the aisle to clear out. After all that talk about Damon and worms—yes, just thinking about it made me queasy—I wasn’t surprised to see the skinny woman wait for her chance for a little one-on-one with Vinnie. They exchanged a few words before she hightailed it out the door.

  I watched her go, then, my teeth clenched around my words, I turned to Damon.

  “I’m not going to throw myself at Vinnie,” I told him, careful to keep my voice down. “When I smiled at him during class, I was just being friendly. I’m going to need to keep being friendly if there’s any hope of talking to him in private.”

  I looked at Vinnie, old and bloated and tired.

  I looked at Damon, young, gorgeous, and as sexy as any dead guy I’d ever met.

  “This would be easier if you weren’t around,” I told him, and I didn’t give him a chance to argue. As I took my place in line to meet Vinnie, I shooed Damon to the door.

  I can’t say for sure if he left or not, I only know that when it was my turn to step into the glow of Vinnie’s fame, Damon was nowhere around.

  Vinnie stuck out his hand, and when I shook it, he held on to mine a little too long. “So, what’s a hot little chicky like you doing here?” As pickup lines went, it was lame, but when I had to, I could simper with the best of them.

  It worked. Vinnie looked me up and down. I guess he approved because his smile got as wide as his waistline. “You a rock
and roll fan?”

  “I’m a Mind at Large fan.”

  “Come on.” He tried for modest, but years in the spotlight had eliminated any chance of that. “We were big before you were ever born.”

  “You’re still big.” How I managed to make it sound like I was talking about Vinnie’s reputation and not his stomach, I don’t know. “I have every one of your CDs,” I added. “I know the lyrics to every song you’ve ever written. Especially the new stuff. You’re a genius.”

  Vinnie didn’t disagree. He signaled to the bodyguard who was over near the door tapping his foot and looking at his watch that we’d be another minute. “So…” He skimmed another look from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes, pausing at where I had my notebook pressed to my heart. “You ever meet a rock singer before?”