I thought about the best way to answer and decided almost instantly there was no use even trying. What Dan had done was provide me with the EVP—that’s electronic voice phenomenon, a term used by paranormal investigators to explain the ghostly sounds they sometimes record—that enabled me to get my investigation on the right track.
Quinn’s Burberry raincoat was tossed on a living room chair. He picked it up, but he never took his eyes off me.
I may have been in shock from the news of Dan’s call, but I’m not stupid. I knew Quinn was waiting for me to tell him who, exactly, Dan was. I might have done it, too. If only I could figure it out myself.
See, Dan Callahan was just another of the big question marks in my life, a brain researcher who wasn’t, who knew more about ghosts than he should have even though he said he didn’t. Get it? He’d been MIA for months, and now, out of nowhere, he was back. Just like that. And just like that, I was supposed to find the words that made sense of it all?
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts as I struggled for an explanation that would appease Quinn and help me sort through the tidal wave of emotions that swamped me. “Dan’s this guy I know,” I said.
“I’m this guy you know.”
“I don’t know Dan like I know you.” I didn’t say it to satisfy any caveman tendencies Quinn might have. Unfortunate or otherwise, it happened to be the truth. “Dan and I are just friends. Not even friends. We’re acquaintances.”
Was I imagining the spark of satisfaction that flared in Quinn’s impossibly green eyes? I think not. He headed for the door. “Dan said he’s going to be out of town for a couple weeks, but he’ll give you a call when he gets back.”
“OK.” It seemed like a perfectly stupid thing to say considering the enormity of all Quinn had just told me. “Did he say anything else?”
“Well yeah, he did.” With his hand on the doorknob, Quinn paused and turned to me. “He said that now that you’ve had a chance to think about everything he did for you, maybe you’ll trust him and you two can finally be open and honest with each other. Call me nuts, but I don’t think a guy who leaves another guy—me—a message about being open and honest with you is exactly ready to be open and honest with you. If you know what I mean.”
So much for my trying to dodge the bullet with the ol’ we’re just friends story. I wasn’t sure how I was going to explain what I didn’t understand myself, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to. My phone rang again.
Yeah, I was a little fast picking it up. And a little disappointed when I realized the voice on the other end was Ella’s and not Dan’s. I listened to her launch into what she had to say at the same time I watched Quinn watch me. He thought it might be Dan, too, and when I nodded and automatically responded to something my boss said with a “Yes, Ella,” I saw some of the stiffness go out of his shoulders.
When Ella was done and I hung up, Quinn opened the door.
“I’ve got an FOP meeting tonight,” he said, and explained with, “that’s the Fraternal Order of Police. I’m giving a report about finances and...well, stuff you wouldn’t be interested in. Tomorrow night?”
It took me a moment to realize what he was asking.
“Tomorrow night? You mean you want to—”
“See you again?” Quinn laughed. “You don’t think I’m going to hold that being-cranky-in-the-morning thing against you, do you?”
“And Dan?”
His chin came up a fraction of an inch. “You said you were just friends.”
“We are.”
“Which means that if I show up here tomorrow night, say about seven, we could—”
“I won’t be here.” I looked at the phone in my hands. “That was Ella. Now all three of her girls have the flu and she thinks she’s coming down with it, too. She’s supposed to go to a cemetery conference, and there’s no way. I have to go in her place.”
“So no date tomorrow night?”
“No date tomorrow.” My head was already reeling through the possibilities of what I’d need to pack and whether I needed a quick trip to Nordstrom for any last-minute outfits, and how I’d get to the airport in time. “By tomorrow night, I’ll be in Chicago.”
3
“Isn’t it fabulous? I mean, just look around. It’s...it’s breathtaking!”
Didn’t it figure? I was three-hundred-and-some miles from home and still, I’d managed to hook up with an Ella clone. The middle-aged, middle-sized woman had introduced herself earlier as Doris from Detroit. Now, I watched as she twirled like a ballerina in her sensible, low-heeled boots so she could take a good look all around the frozen landscape where we stood. “It’s the most beautiful cemetery I’ve ever seen,” she said, her words choked with emotion and her breath forming a cloud as it escaped from behind the red scarf she had wound all the way up to her chin. “Aren’t you feeling like the luckiest girl alive to be here in Ella’s place, Penelope?”
I glanced down at the conference name badge that hung around my neck and groaned, vowing that I would make the necessary adjustments to it as soon as I got ahold of a thick black Sharpie.
If I didn’t freeze to death first.
Unlike the groups of people who had just gotten off the tour bus with us and whose conversations I could hear, I had little (more like nothing) to say about the concept of Victorian cemeteries, nineteenth-century funerary traditions, or the benefits of granite over marble for the building of monuments. All I could manage through my chattering teeth was, “It reminds me a lot of Garden View.”
“Aren’t you the fortunate one, to be working in a cemetery like that!” A man named Grant stepped close and muscled in on the small talk. Or maybe he was just trying to keep warm. “I’ll tell you what . . .” He was either distracted by my name badge or my chest. Either way, when he finally looked up and into my eyes, his cheeks were pink. So were the tips of his ears where they showed below his stocking cap. “I’ll tell you what, Penelope, back in Peoria, we’re plenty jealous of that cemetery where you work. It’s that famous.”
I didn’t so much smile in response to this announcement as I did grit my teeth. When my face froze in the expression, Grant took it as a good sign. He stepped closer. I stood my ground. Although it was only the first stop on our tour of Graceland Cemetery in the heart of Chicago, I was quickly learning that, leopard-print lining aside, my Dolce & Gabbana tall patent boots didn’t provide much in the way of warmth. There was no use trying to move when I couldn’t feel my feet.
“We’ll have a lot to talk about at the conference dinner tonight.” Grant winked. Or maybe the twitch was simply a reaction to the icy wind that howled through the cemetery. “Just imagine how exciting the week is going to be. Discussing cemetery business and nothing else! Like dying and going to heaven, huh?” Funny guy that he was, Grant emphasized this by poking an elbow into my ribs.
“And Penelope’s even giving a talk.” Although this tour was the first item on the week’s agenda, Doris, it seemed, had already been through the conference program with a fine-tooth comb. “Reactions to the Resurrectionists in the Planning and Design of the Urban Cemetery. Isn’t that right, Penelope?”
“It’s Ella’s talk. I’m just going to read it.” I thought it wise to make this distinction before anyone actually thought I knew who—or what—these Resurrectionists were or why they cared how cemeteries were designed. “She couldn’t be here. She’s—”
“Sick. Yes, I know. I talked to her before I left home.” Doris patted my arm. Her mittens were pink and thick and wooly. They looked warmer—but not nearly as pretty—as the black cashmere gloves that matched my black three-quarter-length wool jacket. “Ella and I are old friends. We see each other at conferences like this every year. I’m sorry she’s not going to be here. We’ve had some good times, I’ll tell you that.” Doris chuckled. “Someday, you have to ask her about the time we got locked in the cemetery in Sheboygan. That story will make you howl!”
Fortunately, before I had any hope of respond
ing, our tour guide called us to order. Her name was Stephanie and she was young, squat, and perky. She obviously loved her job. I had no doubt that someday, she would grow up to be just like Ella and Doris. “I promised a little history, so here goes,” she said. “Graceland, as many of you probably already know, was established in 1860. It was originally outside the Chicago city limits in a town called Lake View. The old city cemetery was in what’s now Lincoln Park. Bodies were removed from there when it was determined that cemetery was a health hazard because of overcrowding and waterborne diseases.”
Doris leaned closer. “Such fascinating stuff!”
More politically correct than the “Ew!” I whispered.
“Those bodies were brought here and reburied, and eventually, the city swallowed Lake View and Graceland, too,” Stephanie went on. “The cemetery now covers one hundred and nineteen acres and includes many famous monuments. We’re going to see a lot of them this afternoon, but I thought we should start here, with the largest and one of the most famous—the burial site of Potter and Bertha Palmer.” She waved a hand over her shoulder, directing our attention to what looked like a Greek temple.
I’d never been to Greece, and believe me, I don’t remember much of what I learned as an art history major back at college. I’d never been to Chicago before, either, and even if I had, I sure wouldn’t have hung around this place. There was no explanation for why I took one gander at the Palmer memorial and was smack in the middle of a déjà-vu experience.
The pillars that surrounded the open-sided platform . . .
The two huge sarcophagus (sarcophagi?) inside...
Even the way the anemic afternoon sunshine filtered through a layer of leaden clouds and outlined the bony branches of trees...
I could have sworn I’d seen it all before.
Or maybe my brain was playing tricks on me, shutting down right before I froze up like a margarita.
The shiver that snaked over my shoulders had less to do with the cold than it did with me coming to my senses. Just because I was flash-frozen didn’t mean I had to look it, I reminded myself. Before the cold could wreak any more havoc and chap my lips, I opened my purse and felt around inside for my lip gloss.
What I pulled out instead was a postcard. One I’d forgotten I had.
My mind blinked back to the night the autumn before when I left my former fiancé’s most recent engagement party and found the postcard on the street. Sure, I glanced at it then, but I had better things to think about, and the postcard wasn’t important; I could have sworn I’d tossed it. Not so. It looked as if I’d transferred it out of my Jimmy Choo evening bag (a sweet little satin clutch with a short leather shoulder strap) to my everyday purse along with my lipstick and my mascara and such. Apparently, it had been hiding at the bottom of my purse ever since.
Now, I looked at the picture on the postcard, then over at the imposing Palmer monument.
Oh yeah, they were one and the same.
That’s when I remembered the single word scrawled across the back of the card, “Help.”
I may have groaned. I don’t remember. I do know that a couple people turned away from Stephanie to glare at me for interrupting. I also remember that before I stuffed the postcard in my pocket, I looked over at the Palmer memorial one more time, and that when I did, I saw something I hadn’t seen before. Or I should say, someone.
There was a woman standing just beyond the memorial, looking down at one of the gravestones near her feet. She wasn’t wearing a coat.
I’ve been known to be slow on the uptake about any number of things (as I have proved with my engagement to Joel and perhaps even by taking so long to realize my night with Quinn was one of those maybe-it-never-should-have-happened events), but when it comes to my Gift, believe me, I was starting to get the message loud and clear: the woman at the grave was a ghost.
I groaned again. And grumbled, too. I actually thought about getting back on the tour bus where it was nice and warm and telling the driver I was sick and needed to return to the hotel, pronto.
I didn’t. And here’s why:1. By this time in my career as investigator for the dead, I knew I couldn’t just walk away. Believe me, I’d tried this before and it never worked. If I left now, I’d only find myself back here again. I wasn’t going to take the chance that next time, it might actually be colder.
2. I’d already investigated three cases for those who rested but not in peace, and I knew the score. If I ignored them, they would bug me.
3. Ghosts mean trouble. Always. But even dealing with a ghost is better than facing the inevitability of a boring conference, and this conference had all the makings of being as dull as watching paint dry. I didn’t want to be threatened, shot at, beat up, or followed by menacing hit-man types (all of which happens when I’m on a case), but at least being threatened and shot at and blah, blah, blah keeps me awake and interested. Reactions to the Resurrectionists in the Planning and Design of the Urban Cemetery definitely does not.
4. Well . . . this one is the hardest to explain. It had to do with Damon Curtis, my most recent client, who, in addition to teaching me that love between the dead and the living is not the most feasible of arrangements, had made me realize that life was to be lived. Even among the dead. Sure, it sounded like some weird version of a Hallmark card, but what Damon said was true, and I had finally come to accept it: I had to take every opportunity and pursue every adventure (hence the encounter with Quinn). I had to grab the proverbial bull by the horns, and in my case, that meant accepting my Gift and making the most of it.
Did I like the conclusion I came to? Not one bit. But like it or not, the ability to talk to the dead was as much a part of me as my red hair and my unerring fashion sense. I had a skill no one else had. The flip side, of course, was the responsibility that came along with it.
Before I could convince myself otherwise, I slipped away from Doris and the rest of the cemeteries-are-great crowd, skirted the back of the group, arced around, and make a wide swing behind the Palmer memorial. I was nearly to the other side of it and closing in on my newest close encounter of the woo-woo kind when I hit a pocket of air so cold, it made the frosty Chicago weather feel like a summer day.
I stopped, frozen by the chill and strangely ill at ease. Fear prickled up my spine. It settled on my shoulders. I’d faced bad guys who were out to kill me, and rock-and-rollers with mayhem in their hearts. I’d once nearly gotten myself thrown off a very high bridge. And I’m not going to lie: every one of those times, I was scared shit-less.
But not like this.
This was the kind of fear that lives in nightmares. It was gnawing and inescapable and even if I turned my back on it and ran for the tour bus, I knew it would follow me. I had no choice but to wait it out, and for what seemed like a long time, I stood stock-still and listened to the silence press against my ears while my heart slammed against my ribs. A creepy sensation crawled along my skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps behind. If it wasn’t frozen solid, the hair on the back of my neck would have stood on end.
Too afraid to look and too afraid not to, I swallowed around the lump in my throat and dared a glance over my shoulder. I was just in time to see something slink behind a tree twenty feet away.
Man or woman, human or animal, I couldn’t say. I did know it was big and black and it wasn’t solid. It looked hazy, like a shadow, and like a shadow, it was gone in an instant.
Once it was gone, the air warmed to just below freezing, and before it could get colder again—and before that shadow could come back and totally freak me out—I hurried over to where the woman waited.
Maybe she didn’t see the shadow. Or maybe, being ectoplasm and all, she simply didn’t get frightened. She never flinched. She didn’t say a word, either. All she did was watch me as I got nearer.
I saw right away that with a little fashion advice, a complete makeover from the cosmetics counter at Saks, and a visit to a reputable aesthetician for some serious moisturizing, she actually might
be pretty. She had fine porcelain skin, pale hair, and eyes that were blue and misty. The effect, sadly, was lost thanks to the fact that her hair was pulled back severely from her face. The shapeless black skirt did nothing for her slim figure and the white button-down shirt didn’t help. Neither did the white lab coat that hung from her shoulders. The chunky black loafers were so eighties. And the Coke-bottle glasses . . . well, maybe not everyone can afford Lasik, but, really, is there any excuse for pretending to be back in the Dark Ages before contacts were invented?
She looked me up and down, studying me as closely as I was watching her. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t imagining it when her top lip curled.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said.
Not the best way to begin a conversation. Especially when I was already cold and bored. It was no wonder I snapped back. “What, you don’t have some kind of ghostly Internet over on the Other Side? You weren’t told to look for the best-dressed woman in the cemetery?”
Night of the Loving Dead Page 4