The Chick and the Dead (10 page)

I looked at the mob gathered at the gates. "And the city's okay with this? Jim approved it? Ella doesn't mind?"

"What can anybody do? City gave 'em a permit. I suppose they figured it was better than having to arrest everybody for trespassing. You know and I know, they're not going to go away. In the meantime, I got to stand out here and make sure they don't get in the way of any funeral processions or of anybody here to visit their loved ones." As if he didn't understand any of it—that made two of us—he shook his head again, and again raindrops flew in all directions. "You, of course"—he grinned—"are welcome anytime."

"Thanks, Nate." I eased my foot off the brake. "Want me to bring you some coffee on my way out?"

"Got a thermos!" He pointed over his shoulder to where he'd been standing. "But thanks, anyway." I waved goodbye and headed for the office, noticing as I did that there were more visitors than usual in the cemetery. Considering that it was a weekday, that seemed odd. Considering that it was raining, it was odder yet. Until I realized that many of them were wearing hoop skirts and poke bonnets. Or Civil War uniforms.

Ghosts?

My heart skipped a beat, and for one crazy second I worried that this whole Gift thing had gotten way out of control.

Until I saw that many of the women in their long dresses were carrying cameras. And a couple of the guys in uniform were listening to their iPods.

More reenactors.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't too hard to figure out that they weren't as interested in the dead as they were in the living. Like the folks outside the gate, they were hanging around hoping for a glimpse of their idol.

Surprisingly, though, none of them were gathered at the Bowman mausoleum. In fact, the only one I saw over there was Rick Jensen, the photographer who took my picture a few days earlier. I waved. He didn't see me. I continued on to the parking lot closest to the office. There were no surprises there. The usual group of paparazzi was waiting around. With one exception. I didn't see the Dan who might not have been Dan.

I didn't see Didi anywhere, either, and rather than go looking for her in the rain, I decided to pop into the office.

The first person I ran into was Ella. Her outfit was the same color as the leaden clouds outside. Gray skirt. Gray jacket. The only thing that jazzed it up was her sparkling pink earrings and the strings of multicolored beads around her neck. She smiled. "You're here to work on the new tour."

"Yeah." For once, it was the truth—even if it wasn't the whole truth. "I have to pick up some things in my office. That's okay, isn't it?"

She patted my arm. "
Mi casa es su casa
," she said, and laughed. "You know you can stop in anytime, even if you're not officially on the payroll. And actually, I'm glad you came by today. I've got some fabulous news."

I wrinkled my nose and looked around warily. "Don't tell me Merilee is hiding out somewhere nearby." She thought I was joking. "Now, Pepper, don't you be that way. Miss Bowman isn't used to the glare of the public spotlight. That's why she acted a little funny the other day. She's really a very gracious and kind person."

Good thing I was busy opening my office door and switching on the light—I didn't have to agree or disagree. Inside the office, I rummaged around on my desktop for the notes Ella had provided for the new tour. I gathered some books from the shelf across the room, grabbed a map of Garden View, and got set to leave.

Ella was waiting just outside the door. "It's all going so well," she said, and even after I flicked off the overhead lights, her smile lit up the place. "And today we've got another opportunity to shine. Merilee is going to be interviewed on Channel 5. The noon news. They've asked me to come along. Want to join us?"

I looked down at the jeans and open-toed heels I'd paired with a tank the color of coffee and a lightweight sweater of the same shade. "I'm not exactly dressed for TV."

"Don't worry about that. You won't be on camera. Come on, Pepper. It will be a blast," she said. Which made me wonder about her definition of fun. "Merilee's giving them three minutes. Really, that's a long time for news, a whole segment. Then they've got me scheduled for one. You know, to talk about everything ISFTDS has planned for the summer. The museum opening and the costume gala and the book discussion groups we've scheduled at local library branches." She gave me a wink and a playful elbow to the ribs. "While I'm at it, I'm planning to put in a good word for Garden View, too. Things are working so smoothly here." We were walking down the hallway by then, and she glanced around and beamed her approval.

"Between our usual security staff and the extra help we've hired, we're taking care of all the traffic inside the cemetery," she said. "And the city police are handling the crowds outside the gates. Everyone's working together and everything is falling into place. The publicity we're getting from all this is invaluable. The mayor has already called to thank us. The press is saying nothing but nice things. There is no way in the world we can't spin this into the PR coup of all times. Why, if it keeps up—"

"Ella!" Her face pale, her voice tight, Jennine screeched around the corner from the outer office. "Ella, you won't believe what just happened. Somebody found that photographer, Rick Jensen, over near the Bowman memorial. He's on the ground and he's bleeding. It looks like he's been mugged!"

When we got over to the pink and gray granite mausoleum, Rick Jensen was sitting up on the ground. Robert E. Lee stood next to him. The general had a cell phone in his hand.

"I called 911," the reenactor told us. "They said they'd be here pronto." From Rick Jensen's ashen complexion and the blood that was trickling from the wound at the back of his head, I'd say pronto was a good thing.

"Oh my goodness!" Her face screwed into an expression of concern, Ella wrung her hands and paced back and forth in front of the injured photographer. Seeing the blood and the way Rick's eyes were glazed over, I knew her maternal instincts had kicked in. She was torn between administering first aid and a little comfort and the thought of what getting down on the wet ground with Rick would do to her outfit—and her impending TV appearance.

I saved her the trouble and knelt down next to Rick myself. "What happened?" I asked him. He pressed a hand to his forehead. "Like I told this guy…" He looked up at Robert E. Lee. "One second I was standing here waiting to see if I might get lucky and Miss Bowman might come by so I could snap some pictures, and the next second, wham. Something hit me on the back of the head." I glanced around. There was a foot-long piece of marble on the ground nearby. It looked like the tip of an angel's wing. I knew one of our angel statues wasn't far away, and something told me that when I checked, I'd find that her wing had been broken.

"Did you see anyone?" I asked Rick.

He made an attempt to shake his head, but it must have hurt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Not a soul. And I didn't hear anything, either."

"Did they take your wallet?" This question came from Ella, and I couldn't blame her for being concerned. News of a robbery inside the cemetery would damage all that good PR she'd worked so hard to establish.

Rick patted his pants pocket. "That's the funny thing," he said. "My wallet's here. So is the cash I'm carrying. A couple hundred bucks. The only thing missing is my camera." I'm not sure why that struck me as odd, but I guess after hanging around with the local mob, I was beginning to think like one of the bad guys. If I had gone to all the trouble of clunking Rick on the head, I would have left the camera and gone for the cash. After all, cash didn't leave a telltale trail. Sure, the camera could be pawned, but why take the chance? Hot merchandise was evidence, evidence that could eventually be used to pin the crime on the perp.

Leaving Rick in the care of Ella and the general, I rose to my feet and walked around the perimeter of the mausoleum. Nothing looked unusual, except for the flowers Merilee had left three days earlier. When she presented them, I could have sworn she'd left them directly in front of the mausoleum door. Now the urn was moved to one side. There were holes in the arrangement. Like some of the flowers were missing. I turned back to Rick. "Have you been here every day?" I asked him.

"Just about." From out on the street, we heard the sounds of an ambulance siren. Help was on the way, and if these paramedics were as efficient as the ones who'd come to help me the day I bonked my head on Gus Scarpetti's mausoleum, I knew they'd get Rick loaded onto the ambulance and to a hospital in no time flat. If I was going to learn anything from him, I had to do it fast.

"Has anybody been messing with these flowers?" I asked.

"Anybody? How about everybody?" The ambulance pulled up, and two paramedics jumped out. They hadn't turned off the siren, and I hurried closer to Rick because I didn't want to miss a thing he said. "Everybody who?"

"All those crazy Merilee Bowman fans," Rick said. "They keep coming by, snipping flowers. You know, taking souvenirs."

"And you took pictures of them while they were doing it?"

"Sure. Some of them. Not that any of the photos are worth anything. I just thought, you know, that I might be able to do a little freelance business. That there might be some newspaper somewhere that might want to do a piece on how crazy fans can be." Rick gave me what was almost a smile. "Lucky thing Miss Bowman never did show up, huh? When that creep took my camera, he didn't get any pictures that were valuable."

I wish I could have been as sure as Rick was that the assault at the Bowman memorial didn't net the mugger anything important, but no matter how many times I tried to work it through in my head, I always ended up exactly where I'd started: It all seemed just a little too convenient. The flowers had been messed with.

Rick took pictures of the folks messing with the flowers.

Rick's camera was missing.

Of course, though my logic was flawless and my reasoning impeccable, none of it meant squat. At least not to me.

And none of it did diddly in terms of proving that Merilee Bowman was not the author of
So Far the
Dawn
, either.

And that—I reminded myself—was what I was supposed to be doing.

"But of course it was difficult."

Merilee's voice seeped through my consciousness and interrupted my train of thought. I looked across the TV studio to the set where she was being interviewed. This afternoon's appearance was a first of its kind, according to Ella. On our way downtown to meet up with Trish and Merilee, Ella had pointed out that Merilee was as shy as a spring violet and had only agreed to this interview because it was an opportunity to publicize the
SFTD
museum, and thus help with the fund-raising. That afternoon Merilee was resplendent in a red silk suit. Her silvery hair was swept up and away from her face. Since she was sans picture hat, I had the opportunity to take a good look at her for the first time.

If I squinted and used my imagination, I could see the resemblance between Didi and Merilee. Both their eyes were blue. Both their complexions were flawless.

But that was pretty much as far as my imagination was able to take me. Sure, at seventy-seven, Merilee was years older than Didi, who, according to her headstone, had entered into her not-so-eternal rest at the tender age of twenty-four. But even without the added years, it was hard to believe the two women were related.

Didi's figure was lush; Merilee was as skinny as a green bean.

Didi's lips were full; Merilee's were thin, and even the coating of scarlet lipstick she'd slathered on before the cameras rolled couldn't keep her mouth from looking like a slash against her pale face. Didi was the liveliest dead person I'd ever met. She was bubbly and friendly and sometimes even funny. Merilee was none of those things. Sure she was elegant. Hell, she had money, and money could make even the plainest woman look like a queen.

But underneath it all—the silk and the diamonds and the ego that knew no bounds—that's exactly what Merilee was—plain. A plain little librarian who was obsessed with the Civil War and who just happened to have written the world's most famous book.

Maybe.

I told myself not to forget it and turned my attention back to the interview.

"Anything of any real value is always difficult to accomplish," Merilee was saying. "I remember staying up nights, worrying about what Opal would say to Palmer. Wondering how Palmer would react. These characters, you know, they take on a life of their own. Before long, even the person who created them comes to think of them as real."

"As so many millions of your readers have!" The reporter, a perky thing with blindingly white teeth and blond hair, scooted to the edge of her chair. She leaned forward, her eyes bright. "When can your fans expect another book?"

"When it's ready." In a whisper, I repeated the words along with Merilee.

"How did you know she was going to say that?" Ella bent her head close and whispered. I shrugged in reply. "Call me psychic. Why hasn't she finished another book?" I asked Ella. I figured as president of the fan club, she might have the inside track. "If this is writer's block, it's the longest lasting case on record."

"Shhh!" A woman with a clipboard, who was standing between us and the set, turned and put a finger to her lips.

Chastised, Ella stepped back. I knew I wouldn't get another word out of her. In front of us, the director gave the reporter the high sign to wrap things up. After a commercial break, it would be Ella's turn to go in front of the cameras. I watched her smooth a hand over her skirt and comb her fingers through her hair. She was nervous, but I had confidence in her. Ella was always cool under fire. Not so Trish Kingston. In my one and only encounter with her back at the cemetery, I'd learned that Trish was as jumpy as a cricket on a hot sidewalk. She was afraid of Merilee, and who could blame her?

Miss Congeniality, Merilee was not. Yet when I looked around, Trish wasn't toeing the edge of the set as I expected her to be, waiting for Merilee's next orders, hanging on Merilee's every word. In fact, Trish was nowhere to be seen.