Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

  What was The Union? What were Bob and Larrimer keeping from me? What was I?

  Two days later, surprisingly hale and healthy, I poured myself into a slinky black dress with little halter straps, the sweetheart neckline making me look like boob central.

  Earlier, I’d gotten nowhere with the “What am I” when I’d asked Larrimer and reacted poorly to his “provocative.” When I’d threatened to ask Bob, he shot me one of those “you poor sap” looks. He knew I no longer trusted Bob, not the way I’d always done. Which sucked. So I tabled the conversation. At the moment, we had bigger fish to sauté.

  Finally, we were about to follow a strong lead on Dave.

  Mr. UPS had delivered The Dress, overnighted, courtesy of Larrimer. I seriously didn’t understand the man at all. Larrimer, a fashionista? Boggled my mind.

  I twirled. The dress was stunning. I ran my hands down the soft black velvet, reminded of Sargent’s Madame X, minus her nose. I laughed, took a breath. Would Larrimer like it on me? Crap. I was all nerves.

  A faux-diamond choker hid the bullet wound’s bandage, the earrings matched. All Larrimer, my personal shopper.

  “Ouch.”

  The clasp had caught in my hair, which now reached below my ears, curly hair, Lorde-like hair, wild and savage. My heart stuttered. Was it because of my magic? Dave’s shocking my wrist? Ah, yes, my hair, just another weird thing to add to my bizarro bouquet.

  Once I’d slipped into my strappy heels, I took a final peek in the mirror. Holy shit. I looked regal. Who was that woman?

  “Almost ready?” Larrimer called from downstairs, frustration tinting his voice.

  “Coming!”

  My gun slid into my thigh holster, and I dropped the skirt. Invisible. Confirmed the pocket I’d slit to reach the gun worked. Perfect. Ditto for my right thigh, with my knife.

  Things felt smooth, like well-oiled gears. Good.

  I snatched my bag, and when I stepped off the stairs into the living room, Lulu and Bernadette gasped in unison.

  “Do I pass muster?” I asked.

  “You rock, Clea.” Lulu and Grace bounced around like Mexican jumping beans. “Wow.”

  Bernadette crossed her arms and nodded, as if to say “as it should be.” Then Larrimer strolled into the room, graceful as liquid glass.

  He’d combed his midnight hair straight back. Bronzed face against the white collar, tall and broad, lean and mean, he wore his tux as if he’d been born in the thing. I swallowed. Hard. Gods, he was sex on a stick.

  I did a pirouette.

  He took me in, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, those damned blue eyes ice-hot. “You look nice.”

  Nice. Nice?

  I insisted on driving, which I knew would annoy him. I wanted him to react to me, to show some, any, emotion. Nope, sealed tight. That stoic façade had to go.

  Freezing rain pelted the truck as we headed down the driveway. Careened, more like it.

  “Clea.” Larrimer’s low voice cracked like a whip.

  “No worries.” Just as I said it, I realized the truck disagreed, unwilling to stop at the end of my ice-coated driveway. I pumped the brakes and prayed no car appeared as we skittered onto the two-laned road.

  “The hell.” Larrimer said.

  Finally, some emotion, just not the one I craved. “Sorry. Sometimes, the ice. It’s challenging.”

  “Challenging. We could have been killed.”

  “But we weren’t,” I said, deadpan. “Cheers to us. And to finding a killer.”

  We turned onto the curved drive of the Cranadnock Country Club.

  “Do you have a plan of attack?” I chewed my lip. Remember to reapply lipstick!

  “Nope.”

  “Well, that’s just swell,” I said. “Mine’s to schmooze.”

  “Try to be nice.”

  “I’m always nice.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re a wisenheimer.”

  “Who says ‘wisenheimer’ anymore?’”

  “Obvious, isn’t it?”

  I pulled into a space on the outer rim of the lot. “Prepping for a quick getaway.”

  “Good.”

  I laughed. “Of course, I’m not sure there are any quick getaways in Midborough. Look, tonight, don’t go all He-Man.”

  He leapt out and opened my door. “I’m that clumsy?”

  “You’re never clumsy, just intimidating.”

  He laughed softly as he slid my shawl across my shoulders. A shiver raced down my spine, of the uber sexy kind. That laugh. I heard it so seldom.

  “We’ve got to find something concrete,” I said, my voice unintentionally sharp.

  “At your service, ma’am.” He air-kissed my hand, then took it in his.

  He wore thin leather gloves, black and buttery soft. “You really do hate skin to skin.”

  His face was in shadow. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Secrets make the world go round, little Clea.”

  “Secrets enable you distance.”

  “The way I like it.”

  With Larrimer’s duplicate invitation, we walked into the gala, no problem. While Larri… Remember to call him James. A niggle… Lipstick! Once I’d swiped my lips with Killer Coral, I checked out the ballroom.

  Little had changed since the last 4-H meeting I’d attended twenty years ago. Pine-paneled walls, wood floors, a blazing fireplace, and a curtained stage. Not the glitz of Boston or New York, but it would do.

  The emotional vibe of the room was raucous. I’d have trouble filtering out individual feelings. Nothing for it.

  Larrimer held out his arm, and I took it as we entered. At least a dozen people I knew mingled inside. What would he think when I was assaulted by…

  “Hey, Clea!” Jeb Barlow beelined toward us.

  Here we go.

  “Who’s that buffoon?” Larrimer nodded toward Jeb.

  “You disdain most people, don’t you?” I draped my shawl across the back of a chair.

  “Most are users. Exploiters.”

  I turned. “Hi, Jeb.”

  He kissed my cheek. “You look lovely.”

  “Thanks. You clean up nice, too.”

  He beamed. “Want to dance?”

  “Not quite yet. We just got here. Raincheck? Meet my friend, James Larrimer.”

  Jeb pumped Larrimer’s hand, then he nodded sagely. “So what is it you do?”

  Larrimer gave him a crooked smile. “I’m an engineer. How do you know Clea?”

  “High school.”

  “Ah.” Larrimer shot his pearly whites at Jeb, who beamed. “So what’s your line of work?”

  “I sell feed. King Brand. It means quality, for sure.”

  Larrimer grew solemn. “You must have known Dave Cochran.”

  Jeb crossed his arms. “Well. I knew him well. One of my best customers. A good man.”

  That do-se-do continued all night—introductions, chitchat, mentioning Dave—with Susie Dinkins and Ted Le Blanc and Peppy Zakowsky. People from grammar school and high school, from performing at parties and babysitting and a million other places. And yet, I didn’t really know them, or they, me. I’d called one or two “friend,” years ago. Now, they were just acquaintances. For all that I’d spent mere days with Larrimer, and he remained an enigma, I felt closer to him than any other in the room. I’d always wanted to fit in, yet I was different, a touch too idiosyncratic to blend.

  Not to mention, one of them may have murdered Dave. A hundred tiny cuts. I zapped the image away.

  Larrimer inhaled it all like a fine Merlot, a Sphinx-like smile playing around his damnably handsome mouth. The women, on their part, inhaled him like so much eye candy, birthing a green-eyed monster I didn’t know I possessed.

  Froggy Balder took my hand. “Over at the VA, we still miss Tommy and his jokes.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So what are you working on?”

  Froggy always was a nosy soul and fascinated with my FBI work. “Oh, this and
that.” I smiled.

  He wagged a finger. “Meaning secret stuff.”

  “Of course!” I hooked an arm through his skinny one. “C’mon. Let’s dance.”

  He led me onto the floor. “Yeah, yeah. And you pretending you’re a farmer.”

  “I don’t pretend. I am a farmer.” Froggy squeezed me tight, and I gasped, almost suffocated by his aftershave. I leaned back, trying not to inhale the fumes. “Pretty shocking about Dave Cochran, wasn’t it?”

  Froggy frowned. “A real shame.”

  Kip Alvarise tapped Froggy’s shoulder, and I was handed off to a barely familiar selectman. He was tall, handsome and knew it. Word was, he imagined himself a player.

  “You’re looking glamorous this evening,” he said.

  “Thanks, Kip.” We made small talk until I mentioned Dave.

  “That Cochran,” he said. “I heard he was up to something not so good.”

  “Really? I didn’t think he was the type.”

  Kip shrugged. “Lotta people don’t fit the type, do they now?”

  “What exactly was Dave into?”

  “Don’t know. I’d like to, though.” He gave me a sly wink.

  “Me, too.” I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “Who might have some info?”

  “I’ll have to think about that one.”

  I offered him a blazing smile and pondered Kip’s words as I watched Larrimer waltz Lucy McGraw, all the while expecting Lucy’s thong to make an appearance, given the mile-high slit in her sequined dress.

  Kip frowned.

  “What?” I asked, concerned I’d pushed too hard.

  “You, ah, you remind me of my wife when she… before… Aw, damn.” His face crumpled.

  I tilted my head. “Kip?”

  “I’m okay.” His eyes stirred to life. “I just miss dancing with her. She’s got MS, but we’re doing good.”

  I twirled with many I knew, some I didn’t, and a bunch of town muckety-mucks prone to preening. With each dance, I asked about Dave, but Kip’s gold was the only nugget I mined.

  From my brief encounters with Larrimer, he wasn’t getting very far either.

  Larrimer danced the way he wore a tux. He glided across the hardwood, leading his partners with effortless grace. With all my ballet training, my body did fine. My head? I felt awkward and out of place. I was sure my Killer Coral was gone, having the lousy habit of chewing my lips while on the hunt. The fashion show was fun, all sequins and velvets and satins, but my gala costume had begun to constrict and my high heels killed. The worst was the chatter, dislikable gossip, superficial town blather that drilled holes in the skull. Folks whirled around the room, sipped champagne— the evening’s one positive—ate, and acted in no way suspicious that I could see. Well, hell.

  While I made frequent trips to the ladies’ room to chat up the women, Larrimer made small talk with dozens of couples, often with me acting as arm candy. Definitely a new role for me, one I didn’t much care for, except for the steel of Larrimer’s forearm beneath my fingers.

  The gun strapped to my thigh was the only thing in this disagreeable world that felt normal.

  After a fast dance, with Jeb sweating like a leaky hydrant, I strolled over to Larrimer, who rested an elbow on the bar and surveyed the room.

  “Gods, I’m bored,” I said.

  “Not having fun, are we?” He smiled as he stared at a blonde with a dress cut to her navel.

  I snorted. “It’s all those flashy babes holding your attention.”

  “No.” Eyes fierce with heat caught mine. “I like watching you.”

  I shook my head, ready with a snappy retort, when a fresh breeze announced new arrivals. The room’s atmosphere changed, the air thickened, electrified. All heads swiveled to the entryway.

  “You feel that?”

  “I do,” he said, eyes tracking to the entrance.

  A group spilled into the hall, led by a portly man in a tux with a crooked nose and a rolling gait. Two curvy women flanked him, a blonde and a redhead, each with a matching glam “do.” The three men around him—two brunette bruisers and a tall, fit blond—seemed like satellites, until I caught the blond checking out the room. He was no satellite.

  I knew power when I felt it.

  Larrimer took my hand in his, wrapped an arm around my waist, and whirled me across the ballroom, close to the newcomers.

  “Finally,” he said.

  “I know. They’re different.”

  Strong fingers caressed my waist. “That’s not what I meant.”

  I glanced up, but he was watching the new arrivals. “I wish you’d take off your gloves.”

  He peered down at me, eyes a cosmos of darkest blue. “Not tonight, but soon.”

  When, I almost said, because we weren’t just talking about gloves. We finished our twirl, and Larrimer led me back to the bar, ordered me a Coke, then strode purposefully across the ballroom.

  As he bowed over the redhead’s hand, then guided her onto the floor, I itched to do the same with Blondie.

  The portly man’s lips pinched as Larrimer stole away the redhead. Then Blondie rested a hand on Mr. Portly’s shoulder, leaned in, and spoke. Portly nodded and arrowed across dance floor toward me.

  And off we go.

  r. Portly took my hand. He smelled of cigar smoke, but it wasn’t unpleasant. His bespoke tux was a thing of beauty, but I’d swear his bowtie was a clip on.

  “Might I have the honor?” His accent was all Boston Brahmin. A put on. His vibe shouted “small.”

  I smiled up at him. “I’d be delighted.”

  “Call me Roberto.” He held out his hand.

  I placed mine in his, gave him my name, and we embraced. I expected us to move, but we didn’t. He stared at my cleavage, and I knew how horses felt at auction. He’d better not massage my withers. Then he pulled me tight, too tight, and his hand crawled from my waist to cup my ass.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Larrimer, who’d materialized from the ether. He smiled, all predatory male. “She’s mine.”

  Roberto took a step back, scared eyes peering up at Larrimer.

  What the hell? We were working.

  “Sorry.” Roberto moved a respectable distance from me. “Mind the dance?” he asked to Larrimer.

  “Not in the least.” Larrimer nodded, and disappeared into the crowd.

  I might never achieve Pavlova artistry, but Roberto moved like a twelve-year-old in dance class, clumsy and uncertain. I caught him shaking his head at the blond man. What was that about?

  “What’s your line of work?” I asked.

  “I own The Fish Dish.”

  One of Dalesboro’s best restaurants. “Yummy.”

  “I am.”

  Ick. He kept turning his head toward the blond, and what I first thought was a hearing aid was a wireless earpiece. Interesting. Expensive.

  Roberto earned a zero as a conversationalist, but he sure had an agenda and was by far the night’s most fertile prospect.

  “You’re fascinating,” he said.

  I wasn’t. Certainly not that night. Even his vernacular sounded phony. “I’m a farmer. I raise cashmere goats, among other things.”

  “You’d never know,” he said.

  Swear to gods he sniffed my shoulder. What? He expected I’d smell like goat?

  “You ever sell ‘em for meat? We serve a mean rabbit, too.”

  My hand jerked, and I covered by flicking an errant strand of my Medusa-mane. I forced my jaw to unclench. “I sell their cashmere.”

  “A shame. If you’re ever interested…”

  His words trailed off and he stumbled. Maybe it was the death stare I stabbed him with.

  Someone caught his elbow, and he spun.

  “My turn,” Larrimer said to Roberto.

  No, I mouthed.

  But Larrimer twirled me away.

  “Dammit, dude, why did you do that?”

  He grinned. “You looked ready to gut him.”

  “Well, yes, I was
.”

  We whirled around the ballroom, and he stole my breath.

  Eyes burned my shoulder, and as we twirled again, I saw the woman from Bronze Printing. When I smiled, her eyes spat hate and she looked away.

  As we neared Roberto’s crew, another young woman, in a slinky midnight-blue number, joined the group.

  I quickly filled Larrimer in on my Roberto haul.

  “I agree,” he said. “Blondie’s the one in charge.”

  “So what’s their deal?” I asked. “Roberto’s a restaurateur. Not exactly I Spy material.”

  “No.” He narrowed his eyes. “Then again, nobody here is. The girl didn’t have much to say, either. Not a lot going on upstairs.”

  “I got yucky vibes from Roberto,” I said.

  “I get those vibes from a lot of folks here. That girl in the blue dress is new. Maybe they’re collectors.”

  “You mean, prostitution?”

  “The type of men who’d buy exotic animals for bragging rights could collect women, too. Same impulse.”

  “Maybe. Except this is Midborough. I mean, really? And where’s that power vibe coming from? If only someone would wear a sign saying, ‘I killed Dave Cochran.’”

  He nodded, eyes alight. “Yes, that would help.”

  The dance ended. “Would you get me some champagne?”

  He tilted his head, a silent question. “Your wish and all that.”

  When he made it to the champagne table, I trotted across the floor and asked Blondie to dance.

  “So, pretty lady, who are you?” Blondie took a proper distance, not too close. I appreciated that. But his scent, faint. I’d smelled it recently. It was antiseptic and… Listerine.

  At Shatzkin’s. The guy we’d passed in the hall wearing a ball cap. Same height and build. It fit.

  Holy moly. Larrimer was on the other end of the room, and while I was jumping out of my skin to tell him, no way was I passing up this dance. Had Shatzkin been silenced because Lulu spotted his hearse?

  I looked up and smiled. He was shorter than Larrimer, but not by much. Handsome in a Nordic way, with chocolate eyes, and he returned my smile with teeth bleached to ultra-white.

  Oh yeah, this guy was the leader.

  “You smell like apricots,” he said. “I watched Roberto. He has the manners of a pig.”