Debriefing the Dead (The Dead Series Book 1)

by Kerry Blaisdell

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Kerry Blaisdell

  Debriefing the Dead

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  I thought I’d gotten everything,

  until my fingers brushed against something hard, wrapped in cloth, and oddly warm to the touch. I grabbed it and heaved myself out of the crate, then examined the bundle. It felt like a rock, heavy and solid. Most of the items in this crate were broken pottery shards, from vases and the like. Hard, maybe, but not heavy. Careful not to touch the item’s surface, in case it was valuable after all, I turned it over and shook the covering loose.

  Sure enough, it was a rock. Plain, gray, ordinary. About half the size of an American football, shaped like an irregular pyramid, with jagged edges and flat-but-rough surfaces. The only unusual thing about it was its warmth. Like Claude Rousseau. Which is maybe why, against my better judgment, I reached out and touched the very tip of the rock’s pyramid.

  And then it shrieked at me, the agony of centuries piercing my ears till I thought my skull would burst, electric shocks searing through my fingers, hand, arm, ripping through my whole body, gripping my lungs and squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. I flung the rock away, covering my ears and dropping to the floor, shaking, gasping for air, while still it screamed, on and on and on and on, until I lay huddled on the concrete, red fire burning in my head, blackness filling my soul.

  Then everything went silent.

  Praise for Kerry Blaisdell

  “DEBRIEFING THE DEAD is everything I want in a book: a smart, wise-cracking heroine on a witty, sexy, can’t-guess-the-next-twist ride. Trust me, Kerry Blaisdell is your new obsession. I’m a huge fan!”

  ~Lenora Bell, USA Today bestselling author

  ~*~

  “Filled with quirky characters, gorgeous locations and madcap mystery, it’s easy to overlook that at the heart of Kerry Blasdell’s delicious, rollicking romp of a story is a whip-smart protagonist whose love for her family leads her to strike a bargain with the angel of death. Archeology meets international intrigue in this dazzling debut by an author to watch.”

  ~Teri Brown, award-winning author

  Debriefing

  the Dead

  by

  Kerry Blaisdell

  Book One of The Dead Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Debriefing the Dead

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Kerry Blaisdell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2045-8

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2046-5

  Book One of The Dead Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my family, without whose support I could never have written it:

  ~*~

  To my husband,

  you have been amazingly patient over the years,

  even when it looked like all I ever did was sit and write.

  ~*~

  To my children,

  thanks for all the times you wore headphones,

  or accepted yet another fend-for-yourself-night for dinner, so I could get a few more words in.

  ~*~

  To my mother,

  who always said I could and should do

  whatever I wanted, and then helped me figure out how.

  ~*~

  And last but not least, to my father,

  who wrote down those first stories for me,

  until I could do it for myself.

  I miss you every day and wish you could read

  your little girl’s stories now!

  Chapter One

  “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”

  ~The Bible, 1 Peter 5:8

  I smelled Death on the two men who walked into my shop that day. I should have listened to my nose.

  Of course, death is an everyday part of my life, which is probably why I ignored it. I’m a dealer in rare artifacts, particularly those that haven’t been acquired through, um, normal channels. Okay, I’m a fence, and before that, I robbed graves. But only those already being robbed, by “professional” archaeologists. And frankly, I know as much or more as they do about the care and preservation of ancient relics.

  In any case, my shop, Hyacinth Finch’s Boutique des Antiquités, now stocks items that are either stolen, or are being stolen back, by one or another of my usual clients, members of the Marseille elite who enjoy stabbing each other in the back, art-collection-wise. They pay well, and leave me to live my life the rest of the time, so I guess you’d call it a symbiotic relationship.

  But these guys weren’t from my client base. Until they arrived unannounced in my office above the shop, and sat, uninvited, in the chairs in front of my desk, I’d never seen them before. Which made their interest in this exact batch of goods even more suspect.

  “Who are you again?” I asked, more to buy time than anything else.

  The one on the left smiled genially. He was larger than his companion, not exactly fat, but taller and more…spread out, for lack of a better description. His dark blue eyes were rimmed with thick lashes, and his hair was oiled into a slick black shell. His tanned skin cracked and peeled in places, like he’d had one too many sunburns, and he had a heavy French accent, but as it was late August, and we were in southern France, neither was exactly remarkable. I myself spoke fluent French, but he’d begun in Franglish, and I hadn’t corrected him.

  “Mademoiselle Finch.” He leaned forward, the flimsy wooden chair legs groaning and spreading under his bulk, making it look as if he had six legs instead of the usual two. “Je vous assure, nothing would please me more than to provide our bona fides. But the time, it is lacking.” He glanced at his companion, equally dark and oily, but not as talkative. Oily Two smiled, close-mouthed, and gave a Gallic shrug. We’re all pals here, right?

 
Yeah, right.

  “Look,” I said, suppressing a shiver of unease, despite the heat, “even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I could find this particular lot.” I pretended to check a leather-covered log book I had open on my desk. “Where did you say it originated?”

  “Turkey.” Oily One’s smile said he knew I knew that, his yellowed teeth big and sharp behind his dry, cracked lips.

  I ran a finger down a column on the page. Look at me—organized, professional, absolutely-not-lying business woman extraordinaire. “Nope. Nothing’s come in from Turkey.”

  His gaze flicked to the log, then around my office. Books filled wood-and-glass cases along the walls, and papers crowded the floor. The window stood open behind me, letting in the Mediterranean breeze and the slanted late afternoon sunlight. Also, un fourmilion—an antlion—a long, thin-bodied insect with lacy wings, that my seven-year-old nephew, Geordi, would have been fascinated by. He loves bugs. Me, not so much, but I’m a vegetarian, and a live-and-let-live kinda gal, and this guy wasn’t doing anything besides buzzing lazily around my office, looking for ants to trap. At least, that’s what Geordi says they do. I hate ants, so if there were any to chow on, more power to him.

  Oily One and Two didn’t seem bothered by him, but I rather wished they were, so we could hurry this along. The bell on the downstairs door had only rung once since lunch—when these two entered—and it seemed like a good day to close early. One of the perks of being an independent “art dealer” such as myself. The downside is, I can’t afford to alienate potential clients. I have my regulars, but business ebbs and flows, and extra cash is always handy. Especially now.

  I forced a smile of my own. “I want to help you—I do. But I have no idea where to find…something like this.” Technically, this was true. I’m a big believer in technicalities.

  Oily One leaned in closer, waistband straining, hands on his knees, palms up. Open. Friendly. I didn’t buy it, but apparently, the antlion did. It landed on his shoulder, black body silhouetted crisply as it crawled unnoticed over the expensive white of his suit.

  He smiled again. “Surely a businesswoman of your reputation…?”

  “Messieurs. I’m not sure what you’ve heard”—or from whom—“but I am merely a dealer. I buy. I sell. I don’t find.”

  “Vous me surprenez. It is said you are très accomplie at these things.”

  I tilted back in my chair. “You flatter me. I’ve had good luck. And good clients. I can only sell what they bring in. Speaking of which—who did you say referred you?”

  Touché. Point à moi. But he wasn’t giving up. “A shipment from Colossae, in southwestern Turkey—près de la rivière Lycus. A region in which you specialize, non? Perhaps you have contacts. You will make some calls. We will, of course, reward your efforts.”

  He took out a business card and wrote on the back, the movement causing the antlion to take flight, hovering between him and his companion. Oily Two waved it away, then caught my eye and lifted a hand, as though asking if he should squash it. His full-lipped, sharp-toothed grin was creepier even than his friend’s, and I shook my head hastily, noting that the insect—no dummy—was already out of reach.

  His friend passed the card to me, and though our fingers never touched, I suddenly felt…heat…burning off him in sharp waves. I jerked my hand away, taking the card with me. It was as cool as paper usually is, and I gave a mental shake and glanced at the number he’d written, then had to hide my shock. This would be enough for me to take a year off—or pay for Geordi and his mother, my sister Lily, to get really far away from her ex. Some place where he could never hurt them, ever again.

  I flipped the card over. Les Rousseaux was printed on it in plain type, with a cell number below. When I looked up, he smiled. Again.

  “Claude Rousseau.” He indicated Oily Two, who gave a slight bow. “Mon frère, Jacques. We are most pleased to make your acquaintance. If you hear of anything, you will call. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I said, the interview’s end finally in sight. “Of course.”

  They rose to go, their tread surprisingly silent on the stairs, given their combined bulk. I waited until I heard the bell on the front door tinkle one last time. Then I ran down and shot the bolt. I flipped the sign in the window to read Fermé, then pulled down the shade. Next, I went to the back door and locked it as well. Only when I was alone in the dark store, so familiar and comforting in its clutter, did I take a deep breath and blow it out.

  The whole experience bothered me on a number of levels, not the least of which was the timing. You see, I wasn’t exactly upfront with the Rousseaux. Not only would I be able to locate the lot they wanted, I already had it—in storage, where it’d been for several months. The thing is, only two people should have known its origins.

  One of them was me.

  And the other was dead.

  ****

  An hour later, I’d left the shop, wandering home via my usual circuitous route, past various markets, plein air or otherwise, where I picked up the parts of my dinner. One of the reasons I prefer Europe to the States is the whole notion of buying your food the day you cook it. I’m not exactly a health nut, but I am a vegetarian, and a sucker for anything fresh.

  Walking and shopping also gives me a chance to process my day. And today, I had a lot to process. It occurred to me the Rousseaux could be cops. La Boutique has been investigated a time or two, but I always come away clean. The thing is, if they were les flics, asking after this lot, then they already knew it was stolen. But it came from Colossae, a site which has never officially been excavated, so how could anyone know part of it was gone?

  I’d “inherited” the catch from my business partner, Vadim, after he died in a boating accident. A lump rose in my throat, hot and sharp, and I swallowed it back down. Though we weren’t “together” romantically, Vadim was more than a partner, he was my friend. His death was so unexpected; even half a year later, I still couldn’t believe he was gone. I’d never even opened the crates he left me, just locked them up to deal with later. But…was my reluctance now because of my grief? Or were my instincts right and something was off?

  Unlocking the iron gate leading to my building’s interior stairwell, I saw my neighbor on his way down. Jason Jones is a little younger than me and a lot taller—at least a foot, and I’m five-five. He tends bar at one of the gay cabarets in Marseille, so he’s frequently on his way out when I’m coming home. In theory, he moved here to pursue a theater career, but in practice, I think he likes the bar better. Rehearsals would mess too much with his “party all night, sleep all day” schedule.

  “Hyacinth!”

  He broke into a grin and finished coming down the steps, then gave a low theatrical bow and pretended to kiss my hand. He wore a black dress shirt, gray slacks, Italian leather shoes, and ridiculously large sunglasses that made him look like a very large insect hovering over my wrist. He can rock a pair of jeans, too, but today he was the perfect image of the playboy bartender, a look he cultivates with great care and uses to great advantage—and he has the tips to prove it. He’s not actually gay, but he doesn’t advertise the fact. However, he’s never once tried to hit on me, which is not as insulting as you might think. I don’t have the best track record with relationships, and with Lily and everything else, I had no desire to start one now.

  As soon as I had the thought, I realized he was lingering over my wrist, turning it up and inhaling deeply. The heat of his breath tickled my skin, his fingers caressed my palm, and my knees wobbled. Apparently, I’m not immune to his charms after all.

  He let go and straightened, examining my face. I couldn’t read his expression behind the shiny glasses, but he must have seen something in mine that made him ask, “What’s up? Something wrong at the shop?”

  “It’s nothing. Not really. Some new clients came in and wanted to chat. Actually…they might be a good fit for Vadim’s last shipment.”

  He flipped the sunglasses up, blue eyes wide. He’s never asked how
I acquire my goods, and I’ve never asked what happens when he disappears for days with some girl he’s met on the metro. He’s entitled to his secrets, too. But he moved in right after Lily left her creepazoid husband and just before Vadim died. I couldn’t burden Lily with my grief, and our parents died more than twenty years ago. If we have other family, I’ve never met them. I don’t trust easily, but it turns out Jason has a strong, relatively safe shoulder to cry on, for which I’m eternally grateful.

  That doesn’t stop him from being opinionated about what I should do with my life. He gave a low whistle. “Are you going to sell it to them?”

  “I…don’t know.” I moved up the steps, so I could look him in the eye without needing a chiropractor.

  “You have to sell it. It’s what Vadim wanted—why he brought it to you, for God’s sake.”

  “I know. You’re right. It’s just—do I have to sell it to these guys?”

  He planted his hands on his hips, glaring. “Hyacinth. It. Is. Time. Let go.”

  His face was close, his breath warm, and despite it all, I found his earnestness vaguely attractive. He filled the narrow stairwell with his long, lean body, and I resisted the urge to back up another step.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll call them.” He stood, unmoving, and I sighed. “What? I said I’d do it. Is something wrong?”

  His gaze dropped to my sandals, then moved slowly up my legs, lingering on my hips, and from there over my chest and the sleeveless blouse that was all I could tolerate in this heat. By the time his gaze travelled up my throat to linger again at my mouth, before finally meeting my eyes, I had goose bumps in several inappropriate places, and was hoping the dark stairwell hid my blush.

  His eyes flashed dark for a moment—almost black—then he gave an odd little shake of his head and took a step back himself. He dropped the sunglasses over his eyes, and when he spoke, his tone was light and friendly as ever. “Just checking it’s really you. You never agree with me in under five minutes.”

  Before I could gather my wits for a decent retort, he gave a mock salute, then buzzed the gate open and vanished up the block. I blew out a breath and finished the climb to my third-floor apartment—second, if you count European style.