The Chick and the Dead (30 page)

Bob planted himself in our path, his arms crossed over his dirty denim shirt. "What are you two doing here?" he asked.

When it came to my walk on the not-so-honest side, Rick might have been ready to speak up. But when it came to facing down Bob, who looked from one of us to the other with his mouth pulled into a thin line and an I'm-gonna-call-the-cops look in his eyes, Rick was a little less articulate. He turned to me for the answers.

I had taken the momentary opportunity to turn the other way, and feeling both men's eyes on me, I whirled, gave Bob a smile, and pointed toward the Opal mannequin. "I told you so," I said to Rick. "I told you her dress was green. You said—"

"I said blue." Bless Rick, not only was he a good sport, he was a quick study. He slapped his forehead.

"Of course. I should have remembered. Green. You were absolutely right."

"And so was the mayor." I looked toward Bob, letting him in on the story. "The mayor said green, too, and I've got to tell you, after he won that
So Far the Dawn
trivia contest back at the gala, I knew not to mess with him. He insisted green, who was I to argue? I sure am glad we volunteered to come over here and check it out. Everyone back at the party will be glad to have it cleared up." I sidestepped my way to the door, and when Bob didn't move, I flattened my skirt and inched around him. "I heard the mayor bet five bucks on the side with the police chief. He'll be thrilled to hear the news," I told him.

"But…" Bob wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, but I have to give him credit. My story was as flimsy as they came and he knew it. He took a careful look around the room.

But hey, since everything looked just like it had when we walked in, there wasn't much he could say. He looked me up and down, too, and as hard as it was to stand there without barfing when he checked out my body, I clutched my empty hands together at my waist, raised my chin, and gave him an Opal-like glare.

"See you later, Bob," I said, and with Rick scurrying behind me, I made it out the front door without incident.

It wasn't until we were back in the car that he dared to speak. "What the hell did you do with—"

"The manuscript pages?" I grinned and reached under my skirt. "Looks like these big ol' hoops come in handy for something after all."

I paced all night and all of the next morning, my mind bouncing around as my libido had been between Dan and Quinn. Did Dan know about the Gift? About the ghosts? What were his warnings all about?

And where the hell was Quinn when I needed him?

I didn't expect to find an answer to my Dan questions. Not immediately, anyway, and since it was pretty clear I wasn't going to find him until he wanted to be found, I concentrated on the Quinn part of the equation. When my pacing didn't produce a phone call from him, I called the police station. He wasn't in.

And did he receive the package I'd left for him?

The cop who answered the phone couldn't say. Or maybe he just wouldn't. Either way, between that call and the three more I made that day, the five I put in for Quinn the next day, and the trip I made downtown to theJusticeCenter so I could talk to him in person the day after that, I learned cops are a closed-mouthed bunch.

DetectiveHarrison , they told me, was working a case. He'd get in touch when he was able. In an effort to keep positive thoughts and good karma or blessings or whatever I was going to need to produce the outcome I was looking for, I tried not to hold any of this against Quinn. I went through the motions of my job, fetching and carrying for Merilee, answering phone calls, and scheduling the appointments that were coming at us fast and furiously now that the date of the premiere was approaching.

There were luncheons to attend, book discussion sessions at both the city and the county libraries, and one overcast day, a signing at a local bookstore, where thousands of fans lined up for hours in the rain just for the chance to have dear, dear Merilee sign their copies of
So Far the Dawn
. By the time that was over and we arrived back inOhioCity , Merilee (always fragile to hear her tell the tale) went right to bed, and I was duty-bound to call the governor, with whom she was supposed to have dinner that night. Merilee would be there, I told the secretary to his secretary's assistant (the only person I could get through to). But she would be a tad late. After all that autographing, her hand ached and she needed her beauty rest.

I was in the study and had just hung up the phone when I saw that there was a piece of paper resting on top of a stack of books on one corner of the desk.

For Pepper
, the note said, and I recognized the handwriting. It was the same as that on the sign on the door of the workroom in the basement.
Someone named Quinn called. He wants you to meet him.
Tonight. He says the bridge. Eight o'clock
.

Tonight?

At the prospect, my heart raced and my imagination soared.

Tonight, I'd—glory and hallelujah—finally know for sure!

If the tonight in the message was really tonight.

This thought made my heart stop cold, and my soaring imagination plummet to the ground. Because the message wasn't dated.

I shot for the door hoping (for the first and only time since I'd set foot in the Bowman house) to run into Weird Bob, and fortunately I didn't have to look far. I found him in the kitchen, and I didn't bother with niceties. "When?" I waved his note to me in the air. The way I figured it, it was the only explanation he deserved. "Why didn't you tell me he called? When? And why did you leave the message there? I might never have found it. I might not—"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, lady." Bob was making a sandwich. He licked mayonnaise off the knife, then stuck the knife back in the jar, and I made a mental note to myself to avoid the mayo at all costs. "That call came in this morning. I hope it makes sense to you because it sure don't to me. Doesn't that Quinn guy know? There are plenty of bridges in this town."

There were, but I knew exactly which one Quinn was talking about. And if it seemed a little strange that he'd want to meet me outdoors on a night as drippy as this?

Like I said, cops weren't exactly chatty. I was sure Quinn had his reasons, and I for one couldn't wait to find out what they were.

With that in mind, I checked the clock that hung above the stove. It was already after seven. Yeah, I was only a couple of minutes away from the bridge, but I wasn't taking any chances. I raced upstairs for a raincoat and called Quinn to leave a message on his voice mail that I'd be there. In spite of some people's opinion, I wasn't dumb. I also took the time to redo my makeup, run a comb through my hair, and change my clothes, too. If I was going out to meet Quinn, I wasn't going to do it looking as if I'd just spent the day opening books for Merilee so she could scrawl her dear, dear signature on the first page. Jeans and a lightweight sweater?

I thought not. Not for a meeting this important or a guy this hot.

I opted for black pants instead, a black tank, and a darling cropped jacket I'd gotten online for a song. A coating of Paris Nights on my lips, and I jumped in my Mustang. With any luck, before another hour was over, I'd find out if the papers I'd left with Quinn for testing were what I hoped they were: Didi's original, handwritten copy of
So Far the Dawn
.

And the sequel.

TheHopeMemorialBridge is a major artery leading from the east side of town to the west (or from the west to the east, depending on which way you're headed). There are four lanes, two in each direction, and a sidewalk along each side of the street. Spectacular views aside—the downtown skyline in one direction and the industrial valley in the other—there is no place to park. Always sensible (at least when it comes to getting my hair wet and taking the chance of streaking my mascara), I decided not to leave my car at one end of the bridge and walk to look for Quinn. Instead, I cruised betweenOntario andLorain Avenue a couple of times.

I didn't see Quinn or anyone else.

At least I didn't think I did.

It was a little hard to tell. After a day of rain and sky-high humidity, the temperatures had cooled considerably. Fog wafted along the street in front of the car and collected in pockets along the railing that looked down at the river.

"Yeah, the bridge. That was a bright suggestion." I grumbled the words while I made another pass, checking out both sides of the street and wondering what on earth Quinn had been thinking. My window was fogged, and I turned on the defroster. "You couldn't have picked a nice little coffeehouse in some trendy neighborhood like Tremont? Or a cozy little bar in the Warehouse District?" Maybe he could have, but he didn't.

I was just about in the center of the bridge, heading back east and thinking that I'd do an illegal U-turn at Jacobs Field and make another pass, when the fog parted, and I saw a man waiting on the sidewalk. I cursed Quinn's flair for the dramatic, wheeled the car as close to the sidewalk as I was able, punched the gearshift into park, and put on my flashers.

"Quinn?" I got out of the car, and thank goodness it wasn't raining. I didn't have to spoil the effect of my outfit with something as fashion-lacking as a windbreaker. As I rounded the car, I wondered if that was good news or bad. A cold wind blew in from the north, over the lake, and I shivered. "You couldn't have found someplace a little dryer? And warmer?" I stepped up onto the sidewalk. "You couldn't have—" I took one look at the man waiting for me, and words failed. It was just as well. Whatever I was going to say, it would have been blown away on the next blast of chilly air.

See, the man on the sidewalk wasn't Quinn. Or even Dan Callahan.

It was Weird Bob.

Call me a chicken. Or maybe I've just got a whole lot more common sense than most folks give me credit for. I stopped dead in my tracks. Right before I backed away.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked him.

Bob didn't answer. He didn't need to.

The answer came from right behind me.

"We can't have you ruining everything, can we?"

Was I surprised when I turned and found Merilee not three feet away?

Honestly? Not a whole bunch. Like the old saying goes, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…

This investigation had been quacking at me practically from Day One.

"If I'm supposed to be surprised, I have to tell you, I'm not," I said. What I was, though, was cold. I hugged my arms around myself. "It was all because of the manuscript, wasn't it?" Merilee was swaddled in an elegant purple cape trimmed with fur. It was a little out there when it came to fashion, especially for early summer, but hey, she'd been born and raised inCleveland . Like the rest of us, she knew how unpredictable the weather could be.

She tugged at her leather gloves. "I told you," she said, "I don't like surprises."

"I'll bet Trish didn't, either." I heard a noise behind me and glanced over my shoulder to see that Bob had moved a bit closer. Instinct told me to take another step toward the railing. Caution advised otherwise. There was a lot of nothing between that railing and the river far below. I wasn't taking any chances. I held my ground.

"That is what this is all about, isn't it?" I asked Merilee. "Trish found the manuscript in the attic. I don't know how. Maybe she was plain nosy."

"Maybe she was just a pain in the ass." Merilee's words were as cold as the breeze. "Maybe she should have minded her own business."

"Instead, she was minding yours. Trish is the reason the boxes had been moved away from the window. She's the reason the manuscript wasn't there when I looked for it. But she wasn't dumb. As soon as she realized what she'd found, she must have put two and two together. She knew your handwriting plenty well, and she knew that manuscript wasn't written by you. Let me guess, when she told you the news, she didn't show you the whole thing, did she? She didn't need to. She stashed the manuscript over at Garden View—you know, it was in your dear, dear parents' flower urn the whole time—and showed you just a couple of pages, right? Just to prove she had it. And boy, I'll bet when you saw those pages, you just about peed your pants."

"Please!" Like she smelled something bad, Merilee sniffed. "There's no need to be crude." Bob moved again, and me? I gauged the distance between where I was standing and my car. I might actually have made a run for it if the fog didn't lift for a moment. The light of a street lamp glinted against something in Bob's hand. A gun.

I knew I wouldn't make it to the Mustang, so I pretended a bravado I didn't feel. "That's what Trish was talking about, wasn't it? When she told Ella that things were looking up for her. They were looking up, all right. She was blackmailing you. That explains why she was acting so weird that day at the TV station. And how she was able to afford
to
get all dolled up." I thought back to the gala and what Thomas Ross Howell had told me about getting rid of the manuscript page in his possession. "It explains why I found ashes in the fireplace in your study, too. After you got rid of Trish, you had to get rid of the pages. The most permanent way was to burn them."

"That's one way to take care of a problem." Merilee nodded, and though I knew it was a signal to Bob, I couldn't move fast enough. Before I knew it, he had one hand clamped on my arm. The quacking got louder. At least inside my head. If I didn't want Merilee and Bob to see that I was shaking, I would have slapped my forehead. Without a lot of options, I played my trump card, glancing from Merilee to where Bob's fingers were wrinkling my new jacket.

"Just like Didi," I said.

Though she tried to cover it with a toss of her head, I saw Merilee's eyes widen. "Didi? Why are you always yammering about Didi?"

I shrugged. No easy thing when Bob's hand was a vise around my arm. "Maybe because you killed her?"

Merilee's gaze was as emotionless as a snake's. "So Susan was right. You do have this crazy notion about my poor, unfortunate sister."

Susan.

It made sense, of course. I'd talked to Susan at the gala, and Merilee must have seen us. It was only natural she'd wonder why.