Tombs of Endearment

by Casey Daniels

  On bad days (and truth be told, most of them are bad) I pictured me dropping the bombshell—and Quinn laughing his ass off.

  All of this explains why I had to give him credit when Alistair did the bombshell dropping and all Quinn did was eye me carefully.

  “So…” One corner of Quinn’s mouth thinned. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but it was close enough. I curled my hands at my sides. I couldn’t vouch for my temper, not if he laughed. “Vinnie told you the band was in trouble. Vinnie Pallucci. After he was already dead.”

  “Something like that.” Yes, I’m touchy about my Gift. Who wouldn’t be? That would account for my voice being caustic. That, and the fact that Quinn had that same look in his eyes he’d had when he instructed the patrolman to cart Belinda away.

  I sighed my frustration. “I went on a ghost hunt, all right? I wasn’t sure anything would happen, but the ghost hunters…well, they contacted Vinnie’s spirit.” Yes, I left out the part about Dan entirely. This was not the time. “If you need proof…”

  I fished the digital recorder out of my purse, and found it soaked with slime. I’m not a techno-junkie, but I knew what was what when it came to equipment casualty. I shoved the recorder back where it came from. “What difference does it make, anyway? Even if I played the recording for you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Maybe it makes plenty of difference.” Quinn looked me up and down. “Maybe it explains—”

  “What the fuck is going on around here?”

  Gene Terry had arrived, and even though he was being detained over at the main door, his voice echoed like thunder through the warehouse. I turned just in time to see him stomp one sneaker-clad foot against the wet concrete. His cheeks were as red as the flashing lights on the police cruiser outside the door. His eyes bulged.

  Quinn didn’t give the situation a chance to get any more out of control than it already was. He motioned the cop to let Gene in. The moment the agent was near enough, he dropped the briefcase he was carrying and raced from bandmate to bandmate. “Are you guys all right? Nobody’s hurt? Nobody’s bleeding?”

  “My damned glasses are broken again.” Alistair’s expression was sour.

  “We nearly died, Gene.” Pete started up with the waterworks again.

  “And damn, but I am bleeding!” Mike looked down at the scrape on his arm and then over at the paramedics who were shuffling around near the door. “Somebody want to come over here and take care of this?”

  “And she…” Ben pivoted to include me in the conversation. “She knew all about it. Before it happened. She told us, Gene. She told us she talked to Vinnie. He’s the one—”

  “Is that so?” The agent whirled around, and I guess I couldn’t blame him for being mad. His meal ticket had nearly been blown to smithereens. That would tend to make a guy a little testy. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded. “First you’re with Vinnie when he dies, then you’re at the Rock Hall when Al has a light fall on him. Now you’re here when somebody’s shooting? Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?”

  I set him straight with a sneer. “I wasn’t at the Rock Hall when the light fell. I was there after the light fell. And yes, I was with Vinnie when he died. And I was here for the shooting. But that’s the whole point, don’t you see? That’s what I came to warn you about.”

  “I allowed you access to the band because you told me you were writing a book. If you think you can disrupt—”

  “Pepper? Disruptive?” Surprise, surprise, Quinn really did have people skills after all. As smoothly as if he’d been corralling angry agents all his life, he closed in on Terry, put a hand on his arm, and took him aside. “Don’t worry about her. She’s harmless. A little crazy, but harmless. For now, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover and a lot of questions to ask. We’ll talk about Ms. Martin’s wild imagination another time. Let’s start at the beginning. Who knew Mind at Large would be recording here today?”

  They talked as they walked away, and I knew I wasn’t missing anything because I already knew Gene Terry’s answer. Who knew? Everybody! I’d seen the recording session mentioned online and in the morning’s Plain Dealer.

  Left to my own devices and with the cops who were swarming the place too busy to worry about me, I decided to do a little sleuthing. There was no use trying to talk to the band again. They were each too engrossed with their own troubles to worry about mine. There was no use looking around the warehouse, either. The cops would find whatever evidence the shooter might have left behind, and besides, I wasn’t about to go exploring the place on my own. I had my standards as well as my common sense. Even if I don’t always show it.

  I kicked around the warehouse, eavesdropping on the roadies (who said nothing of interest), the cops (who said nothing useful) and even Crazy Belinda (who had one of the uniformed cops cornered near the door and was telling him how disappointed she was because once the shooter vanished, she missed this chance to join her true love in the arms of death).

  I was just about to give up and ask somebody if I could leave when I realized I was standing near Gene Terry’s briefcase.

  He wasn’t a suspect, but I was bored.

  And who knew what kind of secrets a guy like him carried around?

  I used my foot to nudge the briefcase closer. It was one of those big, old-fashioned ones, the kind with two zippered compartments, one on either side of a middle section that just snaps closed, and it wasn’t snapped. That’s practically an invitation to look inside, right?

  I bent to take a closer look. Imagine my surprise when I did—and saw a gun.

  I thought I was playing it cool, but I guess Quinn must have seen me jump. When I looked around to find him, he was looking my way.

  He excused himself from Gene Terry. “Now what?” he asked.

  “I know who did it.”

  “You do.” It was nice of him to buy into my theory so quickly. Or was that a note of skepticism I heard in his voice? He crossed his arms over his chest. “Want to let me in on the news?”

  Gene Terry was watching us. I put a hand over my mouth.

  “It was him,” I mumbled.

  “It was…” Quinn bent closer. “Who?”

  “Him.” I turned my back on Gene, the better to disguise the fact that we were talking about him. “There’s a gun. In his briefcase.”

  If Quinn was half the classy guy I imagined him to be, he would have been a little more gracious. This definitely would not have involved calling Gene Terry over.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed. But it was already too late.

  “Miss Martin says you have a gun,” Quinn informed the agent.

  Gene gave me a dirty look. “Miss Martin needs to mind her own business.”

  Since the dirty look wasn’t aimed at him, Quinn wasn’t intimidated. “Do you have a gun?”

  “You’re damned right.” Terry scooped the briefcase off the floor and opened it so Quinn could see. “It’s a Glock 9 mm, and yes, it’s licensed. We get a lot of crazy fans.”

  I was not paranoid. This criticism was aimed at me. Just in case I missed the significance, though, Gene went right on.

  “This particular crazy fan…” He was shorter than me, but he moved in close and raised his chin so I didn’t miss his glare. “…better stay clear from now on. No more wild accusations. No more contact with the band. I’m hiring extra security. That ought to take care of any threats. And it better mean I never see you anywhere near Mind at Large again. If I do, I’ll be in court faster than you can say restraining order.”

  “Aren’t you going to arrest him?” I asked Quinn practically before Gene had walked away.

  “For…?”

  “He’s got a gun.”

  “He does.”

  “And somebody was just shooting at us.”

  “But not him.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “Pepper…” Quinn put both hands on my shoulders and turned me toward where the crime scene techs were hard at
work. “See those bullets they’re digging out of the concrete? They came from a rifle,” he said. He patted me on the back before he walked away. “If you’re going to play detective, get your facts right.”

  “Get my facts right.” Watching Quinn head into the recording studio to talk to the witnesses there, I grumbled the words. It didn’t help my mood to realize that he was right. I couldn’t have been getting my facts right because if I was, this whole case would be making more sense. More than none, anyway.

  A chill raced up my spine, but believe me, it had nothing to do with how I was feeling. Which was hopeless and defeated.

  My clothes were soaked. My hair was a mess. I hated to think what kind of shape my makeup was in. The good news was that I’d been to the mall the weekend before and the new outfit I bought was still in the shopping bag that was still in my backseat. I could head back to Garden View, get cleaned up, and get back to work.

  My real work.

  There were only so many times I could use the excuse of the County Archives to account for my absences.

  Chapter 15

  How many ways could I say I was glad when that day was over?

  I didn’t even try, I was just glad it was. Dirty clothes in the shopping bag and me feeling as if I’d been wrung out and hung up to dry (or more accurately, like I’d been witness to more catfighting than on the women’s mud wrestling circuit, been shot at, been chewed out by a pissed-off talent agent, and been humiliated by a man I would love to love), I drove home in a daze. I parked my car and for a couple of minutes, I just sat there, appreciating the quiet and the being alive.

  The downtime gave me a chance to think and thinking…well, it actually improved my mood. Because it didn’t take me long to realize there was an upside, even to a day like that. For one thing, in an effort to forget everything I’d been through (see above), I’d forced myself to keep busy when I got back to Garden View, and I’d actually gotten some honest-to-gosh work done. This was a plus because Ella not only noticed, but announced to everyone within earshot that I was living proof that the work ethic was very much alive. As the dearly departed don would remind me if he was on this side and not the Other, this was what was known as a bargaining chip. Or at least it would be if Ella remembered her high praise and cut me some slack the next time I disappeared because I was doing something I shouldn’t have been doing on Garden View time.

  The best part of it all was that once I’d gotten cleaned up, freshened my makeup, and changed out of my grimy clothes and into skinny black pants, a black cardigan, and a tawny-colored tank top that brought out the auburn highlights in my hair, I looked fabulous.

  Good thing, too.

  I wouldn’t have wanted to look like hell when I finally hauled myself out of the car, rounded the corner of my apartment building, and nearly ran smack into Joel.

  Goodbye, good mood. Hello, annoyance.

  I set down the shopping bag. It was heavy because the dirty clothes in it were wet, and I didn’t want to clutch it in two hands and look as if I was trying to disappear behind it. Besides, I figured it wouldn’t hurt for Joel to see the Nordstrom name on the side of the bag. Maybe then he’d remember that nobody knew fashion like Pepper Martin knew fashion. Not even Simone Burnside, girl attorney.

  “Pepper!” For a guy who was hanging around outside my door, he looked awfully surprised to see me. “I didn’t think you’d be home this soon.”

  “So you were going to, what, camp out here until I showed?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Just like the last time I saw him, Joel looked like a million bucks in a suit that didn’t come off the rack, a shirt that I bet had his initials embroidered inside the collar, and a tie that was the exact same color as the tank I was wearing.

  We matched.

  I shuddered, and found comfort in the thought that I looked good on a shoestring. No way Joel could claim the same resourcefulness. He had the Panhorst millions to play with.

  Naturally, thinking about Joel’s family made me think about Grandma, and thinking about her made me think about her ring. It didn’t take a detective—to the living or to the dead—to figure out what Joel wanted.

  I cut to the chase. “No. I told you—”

  “You didn’t sell the ring to a jeweler, Pepper.” Joel was pretty quick on the uptake. Or maybe he was just itching for a fight. “Sure, that’s what you told me the last time we talked, but really, you should know me well enough to give me a little more credit. Your story is a total fabrication. How do I know? You forgot, that diamond is registered, and according to the registry, there’s no record of a transaction.”

  “Oh, aren’t you the clever one!” This was a good way of covering and better than the Damn, you figured it out that threatened to leave my lips. My smile was as sleek as the move I used to scoop up the shopping bag from the sidewalk. With the backside of one hand, I nudged Joel aside and moved toward the door. “Thanks for stopping,” I said, my voice as breezy as the look I gave him. “Tell Simone I said hello.”

  “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? It’s all about Simone. She’s more successful than you. She’s richer. She’s prettier.”

  I couldn’t deny the richer or the more successful part. But prettier was a low blow.

  Especially since it wasn’t true.

  I’d already walked past Joel, and I looked at him over my shoulder. “I bet she stinks in bed.” I didn’t wait for Joel to confirm or deny. Who was I kidding? He wasn’t about to besmirch Simone’s reputation. Not in front of me. As much as I hated to admit it, this was actually admirable.

  But that didn’t mean I had to put up with it. Or with Joel. Not for a moment longer.

  I dug into my purse for my keys, and once I found them, I clutched them in one hand and turned long enough to raise my chin and give him a super-size glare. “I’ve been reading up on restraining orders,” I said, even though technically what I’d been doing was being threatened to have one issued against me. “I know enough of the law to know that you can’t bother me anymore.”

  “And I know that you can’t refuse me. Not when it comes to the ring. It’s mine, Pepper.” Joel’s eyes shot fire. “I want it back. Right now. And don’t try to bullshit me about—”

  “Selling it to a jeweler? You’re right.” I wondered if my smile looked as sheepish as I intended, and I guess maybe it did, because Joel’s chest puffed up. My words were as sure and precise as if he had written them out for me and I was reading the confession. “There is no record of the sale of the diamond to a jeweler because I didn’t sell it to a jeweler.”

  I stuck my key in the apartment building door. “I pawned it,” I said, turning the key and pushing the door open. “Got a hot two hundred fifty bucks for it, too.”

  “Two-fifty.” Joel’s jaw dropped. His skin was ashen. It was an image I hoped to carry with me for the rest of my life. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

  There was a window in it, and just to make sure he didn’t miss my parting shot, I tapped on it.

  “Gotcha!” I said, and before he recovered, I raced up the stairs.

  My keys were still in my hand and so when I got to my apartment door, I was all set to unlock it. Except I didn’t need to. Unlock it, that is.

  My door was already open.

  I had been feeling pretty full of myself. After all, I’d had the last word in the last conversation with the last ex-fiancé I hoped to ever have. But one look at the splintered wood of my doorjamb and the way the door hung from one hinge as if it had been kicked, and it was hasta la vista time for my self-confidence. An icy claw of fear gripped my insides. My knees quaked. I really didn’t need to push the door open, I knew what I’d see, but holding on to the doorknob helped keep me from falling to the floor in a heap. Besides—and here I swallowed hard and gave myself a stern talking to—there was an off chance that I was being overly imaginative, paranoid, or both.

  Or not.

  Just as I suspected, my apartment was trashed.<
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  I looked at the couch that had been turned over and the chair that was lying on its side in the living room. From where I was standing, I could see into my bedroom, and I realized that all the drawers had been yanked out of my dresser. There were clothes everywhere and magazines ripped and tossed all around. Even my kitchen cupboards had been torn apart. There was a trail of dishes between the kitchen and the bathroom, and silverware mixed in with the scattered pages of the morning’s paper.