The Chick and the Dead

by Casey Daniels

  "I've taken up enough of your time," I said, and when I realized I was clutching my purse with both hands and looking as guilty as hell because of it, I slung the purse over my shoulder and headed for the door. "You really have been a great deal of help."

  "But I really haven't." Susan followed me, and when we got to the front door, she opened it and stepped aside. "Something tells me you wanted to hear me say that I think Didi wrote So Far the Dawn. I'm sorry. I wish I could. Heck, back when Judy was living with me, I used to dream that I'd find something that proved Didi hadn't been lying, that she really was the author. That way, Judy could have gotten all the royalties and she would have had enough money to get the hell out of here."

  As sentiments went, hers had all the warmth of a January day on the shores of Lake Erie. I shook off the bad vibes and stepped into the afternoon sunshine. "I understand," I said, even though all I really understood was that Susan was selfish. "But, really, you've helped more than you can imagine."

  Before she realized that more than you can imagine really meant that I had swiped the address book and that I was deceptive, a fibber, and a burglar to boot, I hightailed it out of there.

  I was halfway back to Ohio City before my heartbeat slowed to a rate that was almost normal, and that's when it hit me:

  The trip to Susan's wasn't completely wasted. I had something I hadn't had before.

  I mean, aside from a guilty conscience.

  I had a sample of Didi's handwriting.

  What's that saying about all work and no play?

  In my case, it was more like all work and all work. I'd spent the day working at solving Didi's case, and as much as I would have liked to hunker down with the purloined address book and figure out what it meant and if it had anything to do with So Far the Dawn, I didn't have the luxury.

  I walked into the house and straight into Merilee's why-aren't-you-done-doing-what-you're-supposed-to-be-doing wrath.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon, all of the evening, and most of the night addressing gala invitations.

  By the time midnight rolled around, I was almost done. But as tempting as it was to think of finally finishing, my hand was cramped and my right arm ached. I couldn't write another name or address. I dragged myself to bed, but though I was dog-tired, I couldn't sleep.

  Oh, it's not that I didn't try.

  It's just that I kept getting woken up by noises that sounded like they came from somewhere above my head.

  Like somebody was up in the attic poking around.

  I finally dropped off to sleep somewhere around three, and by the next morning when I woke up, I'd convinced myself that I'd imagined the noises.

  The dark circles around my eyes told me otherwise.

  I was in no shape to look through Didi's address book because if I did that, I'd have to read. And my eyes were too red and too tired for that. If I took on the address book, I'd also have to think. And no way that was going to happen, at least not until I had a couple of gallons of coffee in me and a few hours to get my act together and my head back in the game.

  Until then, it was time to satisfy my curiosity. If I had to attend the damned gala, I was entitled to know what I'd be wearing.

  Just as Ella promised, the gown was hanging in my closet. I unzipped the bag it came in and peeked inside.

  It goes without saying that I am not easily impressed.

  Call it inherent good taste. Or maybe it's just the last traces of my upbringing. When you have plenty of money to spare, it's hard not to expect the best and be disappointed by anything but.

  Which explains why when I finally saw the dress, I fully expected to turn my nose up.

  Big surprise.

  At first sight of the dress, my breath caught. When I touched it, my skin tingled and my heart raced.

  Eager for a better look, I stripped the bag off and held the gown at arm's length, checking out the golden silk, the wide skirt, the heavy, cream-colored lace at the low-cut neckline and elbow-length sleeves.

  Except for my wedding gown (which really didn't count since I ended up not having a wedding and so never wore it), the gala gown was the most beautiful dress I'd ever owned. I couldn't help myself; I knew the hand of Fashion Fate had been at work when Trish died. In the dress, she would have looked like a broomstick that had been all dolled up.

  Me? I was going to look like a princess.

  I couldn't wait to prove it, so I yanked my T-shirt over my head and stepped out of my lounge pants. It wasn't until I had the gown off the padded hanger that I realized it wasn't the only thing in the bag. There were also a crinoline hoop and a petticoat.

  Oh yeah, and a corset.

  I eyed the weird undergarments suspiciously, but facts were facts and there was no denying that thanks to the size of my bustline, if I was going to get the gown to fit, I'd have to wear the corset.

  I grumbled, but I suppose in the great scheme of things, my brush with old-fashioned undergarments wasn't a total waste of time. After all, Quinn had mentioned that he thought corsets were sexy, and since I was all about appealing to his sense of sexy…

  I slapped the corset on and fastened the straps and buckles along the front of it.

  The laces at the back were another matter.

  I reached behind me, grabbing for the laces and tugging them as best I could, and appreciating—not for the first time, I might add—how nice it would be to have a servant. No wonder that back in the day, women had lady's maids. The angle was all wrong. I could have used a little help getting the laces tied.

  "Damn," I grumbled, and tried again, grappling with the laces while I cursed a blue streak.

  I guess because of all that cursing, I didn't hear my bedroom door creak open.

  I suppose because I was so busy concentrating on the laces, I didn't realize that someone had come up behind me.

  Not until it was too late, anyway.

  A hand went around my neck, and I let out a screech of surprise that was muffled by the wall where I found myself with my nose mashed against the tattered wallpaper. I twisted and turned. Or at least I tried. But the grip around my neck was impossible to shake off. There was no way I could see who had a hold on me.

  I kicked and squirmed. I grunted and threw an elbow that connected with nothing but thin air, so busy fighting that it took a moment or two to realize that suddenly it was getting harder to breathe.

  The reason hit, and I froze in horror.

  Crucial mistake.

  While I was busy panicking, my assailant got the upper hand. The laces on the corset tugged and tightened.

  And ever so slowly, the air was squeezed out of me.

  Chapter 16

  "Pepper!"

  The way I figured it, my assailant must have succeeded. I was a goner.

  Me being good and dead, that was the only thing that would explain why I heard Quinn's voice calling me.

  At the same time I decided to go with the flow and see where the concept of heaven took me in regards to the city's yummiest Homicide detective, I reminded myself that the dead (or at least the ones I was personally acquainted with) couldn't make use of their bodies.

  Which meant that the paradise I thought of when I thought of Quinn wouldn't exactly work.

  Call me shallow, but it was enough to make me realize I wasn't ready to die. At least not until I lived long enough to find out if when it came to Quinn, heavenly meant a whole lot more than angel wings.

  "Pepper!"

  I heard his voice again, I swear I did. It sounded like it came from far away, and hey, maybe I was limp, trounced, and unable to breathe, but I knew that in my current predicament, far away wasn't going to do me any good.

  The sounds of footsteps pounding up the stairs, though, did.

  As suddenly as it started, the attack stopped. My assailant let go, turned, and scrambled out of my room.

  And me?

  I did what any sensible woman would do in the same situation. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing.

&n
bsp; That's exactly where Quinn found me when he raced into my room. He dropped down on the floor next to where I lay and gathered me in his arms.

  Was I talking heaven?

  If I wasn't before, I sure would have been then. It felt heavenly to have him hold me.

  And being able to breathe again was a big plus, too.

  "What the hell—?" He looked away from me long enough to shoot a look around the room, and I guess he didn't see anything unusual because he looked right back at me again. "What the hell happened here?"

  "I don't—" My words staggered along with my jerky respiration. When Quinn propped one arm around my shoulders, I sat up and gulped in breath after precious breath. "Somebody came up behind me." I managed the words between gulps. "I was trying on—"

  I guess I didn't need to point out what I was trying on. One look at the way Quinn's eyes widened, and I knew he was taking a gander at the corset and at my breasts where they showed just above the lacy edging. I also knew it wasn't easy for him to pull his gaze away. Big points for him (and tough luck for me), he kept his head and his professional distance.

  "Just like Trish."

  Talk about insult to injury! My spine stiffened, and I pegged him with a look that told him my pride was hurt along with my ribs.

  He rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean the way you look in that thing. I meant the attack. It's exactly what happened to Trish."

  "That doesn't make me feel a whole lot better."

  "It's not supposed to." He stood and offered me a hand up. I'm not exactly sure how I managed since my legs were mush, but I got to my feet. I turned my back to Quinn, and he knew what I wanted. He loosened the laces on the corset, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  When he was done, Quinn tossed me my T-shirt. "Who was it?" he asked.

  I shrugged. Which he didn't see since I was pulling my T-shirt over my head at the time. "I dunno," I said as I poked my head out of the neck hole. "My back was turned. It could have been anybody."

  "Anybody with the strength to overpower you."

  "Which means what, I'm a candidate for the Women's World Professional Wrestling League?"

  "You're not exactly a small woman." He was talking about my height and maybe about my bra size, but let's face it, I had just had a near-death experience. I wasn't exactly thinking straight. Because it seemed a better option than breaking down in tears, I chose to be offended.

  "My dress size has nothing to do with—"

  "You're right. It doesn't." He tossed me my lounge pants, but I wasn't in the mood to slip them on. I bunched them on my lap and watched while he yanked his cell phone off his belt, hit the walkie-talkie button, and asked for uniformed backup to search the house for my attacker. That taken care of, he dropped down on the bed beside me.

  "So what are you up to?" he asked.

  "I guess I'm up to being a plus-size woman."

  The look he gave me simmered with impatience. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

  I crossed my arms over my chest. "It's what you said."

  "I'm sorry. All right?"

  He didn't sound sorry. I let him know it by looking away.

  Quinn rose to his feet. "Let's try this again, okay? From the top. I stopped in to ask Merilee a couple more questions about Trish. Just to double-check my facts. And no sooner am I in the front door than I hear the sounds of a scuffle from up here. And you. Grunting and groaning and swearing like a sailor."

  Was I?

  Grunting and groaning and swearing, that is?

  It was so not attractive; it made me cringe. Unfortunately, I couldn't discount the possibility. Getting nearly crushed to death was all the excuse I needed.

  "I came up here and found you… well, I'm not exactly sure what happened but I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that the person who killed Trish also attacked you."

  "Looks that way." I plucked at the lounge pants.

  "You want to tell me why?"

  I couldn't. Not exactly.

  Number one, because I didn't know.

  Number two—and more importantly—because I couldn't get into the whole thing about how I was working for a ghost who might (or might not) have written a famous book and how the fact that I was investigating the possibility that she might (or might not) have written the book might (or might not) have had something to do with someone pushing a wardrobe over on me, a photographer getting mugged at the cemetery where I worked when I wasn't working at the local version of the Bates Motel, and me getting squeezed like a Florida orange headed for the juice carton.

  "I don't know why," I told Quinn. It was easier that way.

  For a minute, I thought he was going to buy into the whole thing, too. That's how long it took him before his patience gave way.

  "You expect me to believe that?" His question echoed through my pitifully small room. "You really expect me to believe—"

  "I don't know what you believe. I only know that I don't know what happened. You asked why someone would want to—" It wasn't easy to say the words, but I choked them out anyway. Just so he'd know that I wasn't a weenie. "I don't know why someone would want to kill me the way they killed Trish. It doesn't make any sense. I haven't done anything."

  "Just like you didn't do anything the last time someone tried to kill you."

  I didn't have to ask what he was talking about. For all Quinn knew, my close encounter with the wardrobe in the attic was an accident. Which meant he had to be talking about Albert, the muscle-bound punk who'd visited my apartment when I was working Gus's case.

  "You did save my life that time. And this time. I appreciate it."

  A muscle twitched at the base of his jaw. "And you're going to show your appreciation by stonewalling me."

  It wasn't a question, so I was not technically obliged to answer. "I'm not stonewalling," I told him anyway. After all, I owed him. Because of the whole saving-my-life thing. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

  "And you don't know why anyone would want to jump you."

  "I don't know why anyone would want to jump me." I managed to look him in the eye as I delivered this out-and-out lie. "Unless, of course, it was you. But then, if it was you, I don't think that's exactly the kind of jumping on we'd be talking about."

  "You're not going to distract me."

  "I wasn't trying," I said, because of course I was, and I wasn't going to admit that I wasn't succeeding. "I'm just saying that if you wanted to jump my bones—"

  "Which I'm planning on doing one of these days if you'd ever not be in mortal danger long enough for me to have a chance."

  "Then maybe—"

  "Then maybe, nothing." When I made a move in his direction, Quinn moved to the door. "I'll tell you what, Pepper, I'll give you some time to think about this whole thing. Maybe if you're willing to let me in—"

  I looked around my bedroom and lowered my voice. "You're already in, Detective."

  "That's not what I mean and you know it."

  Outside, I heard a car pull up to the front of the house. I had no doubt it was the black-and-white Quinn had called for backup.

  "You want to talk, let me know," he said. "If not, then I guess I've been getting the wrong signals all along."

  "But—"

  He held up one hand to stop my protest, and it was just as well. I wasn't being honest with him.

  Except for the whole bit about wanting him to jump my bones.

  The doorbell rang, and Quinn headed out into the hallway. "I'll tell you what," he said. "I'm going to be at that gala of yours. Not that I want to be, but my lieutenant, she figures it's an opportunity for me to ask some questions, talk to some people. Maybe get some answers and finally make sense of what's going on here. You want to talk…" The downstairs door opened, and he called to the uniform officers and told one of them to come up and take my statement.

  "Save a dance for me," he said.

  But before I could tell him that I would—even if I wouldn't be talking—Quinn was gone.

  "J
ust the way he looks at you practically makes me melt like an ice cube in the sunshine."

  Not only didn't I know Didi was in my room, I didn't know how she knew who I was thinking about.

  I closed the copy of So Far the Dawn I wasn't reading because I was too busy daydreaming (even though it was night) about Quinn.

  "You saw him come up here this morning."

  Didi was in her pajamas and had a towel wound like a turban around her head. There was green, gooey facial mask spread over her cheeks, nose, chin, and forehead. She nodded, and she didn't even look embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping.

  Another thought occurred to me. "If you were here, then you must have seen who attacked me."

  "Sorry." She wrinkled her nose, and the goo glistened in the light. "I didn't show up until I heard all the noise, and by then it was too late. I knew something was wrong, and then I saw that cop…" She shivered. "He's Tab Hunter handsome."

  I didn't know who Tab Hunter was. I didn't care.

  "Quinn is gorgeous, all right," I told her. "He's also royally pissed at me."

  "Because you won't tell him about your investigation. Or about my book."

  "I can't tell him about the book. Not without telling him about you. I can't tell him about how I think someone's been snooping around in the attic. Or about Weird Bob and how he had a camera that belongs to the photographer back at the cemetery. Mostly I can't tell him why someone wants to kill me because I don't know why someone wants to kill me."

  "Unless we're close to finding out something someone doesn't want us to know."

  I didn't have to ask what she was talking about. As if we'd choreographed the move, we both looked at my purse.

  "Your little black book," I said, and even before the words were out of my mouth, I was reaching for it.

  Away from Susan's sumptuous library with its paneled walls and plush carpeting, the book looked older and more tattered than ever. Carefully, I opened it.

  "You knew the names," I said, reminding Didi of the way she'd recited them back at Susan's. "You said—"

  "Anderson, James. Antonucci, Tony. Barkwill, David." Didi went through the beginning of the alphabetical list again.