Don of the Dead (4 page)

"You got that right."

"But I'm proving to you that I'm not. By showing you this here birthmark."

I still didn't get it. I guess the spacey look on my face spoke volumes.

Gus made a sound like a growl. "Once you check into it, you'll find out that birthmark is real and then you'll know I'm not one of them there figments because your mind couldn't make up something that you don't know nothing about.
Capisce
?"

I did. I think. "You mean that when I know the birthmark is real, I'll know that you're really a—"

"A ghost. Yeah."

The fact that it all made so much sense only made me feel shakier than ever. I dropped back into my chair. I propped my elbows on my desk and cradled my chin in my hands. I tried to work through the whole thing logically but I couldn't get from Point A to Point B because I couldn't get past Point A.

"What's up with that, anyway?" I asked Gus. "How come I'm the only one who can see you?"

He looked up at the ceiling. Like he was praying for patience. "Don't you get it? You fell. And hit your head on—"

"On your mausoleum." The blood drained from my face. It left me feeling chilled. "You mean because I smacked my head on your grave—"

"You're the only one lucky enough to be able to see me."

"It's weird."

"I don't make the rules. And let me tell you, I don't like it. Used to be better in the old days when I had final say."

"Then who does?" It wasn't like I thought I could talk whoever was in charge into changing anything. But somehow, I hoped I might be able to get a better handle on how it all worked. "If somebody can make me see you, then somebody can make you go away. Right?"

Gus laughed. Not like it was funny. More like he'd never heard anything so stupid. "Let me tell you the way I understand things." He sat back down and leaned forward, pinning me with the sort of look I imagined had intimidated more than one mobster in its day.

"Most of the dead are just that. Dead. They're here. They're gone. Over and done with. You know what I mean?" He didn't wait for me to say that I pretty much did. "But then there's me," he said, "and I've got what you might call some unfinished business."

"And the unfinished business is why you've been hanging around for thirty years?"

He pointed his index finger at me and brought his thumb down on it. Like he was shooting a gun. He winked. "You got it, baby. The way I understand this thing, I can't leave until all the unfinished business in my life is settled. And let me tell you something, I'm sick to death—you'll excuse the expression—of hanging around this place. Nothing but a bunch of stiffs and not one of them interesting."

"And you're looking to pass on. Or pass over. Or go to the light or whatever they call it."

"The light?" He waved like the suggestion was an annoying insect. "That whole bright white light thing?

It's for
babbos
. You know, dopes. The kind who believe in all that sappy stuff. Not me. When I go out, honey, I'm going to go out in style." He tipped his head back and smiled. "I'm going to make my exit to the strains of Sinatra singing 'My Way.'"

"So finish your unfinished business and leave!"

"You don't think I would have done that before now if I could?" Anger flared in Gus's eyes. He rose to his feet and when he reached across my desk, I thought he was going to slap me. Instead, he grabbed for the stack of magazines I'd just gathered up.

His hand went right through them.

"See?" He plunked back down in his chair. "How can I take care of things for myself when I can't do a thing? And when nobody can see me? Or hear me? Nobody but you."

There was some unspoken message in what Gus said. I wasn't sure what it was, I was only sure I didn't like it.

The next second, the truth dawned. I shook my head and sat back in my chair, distancing myself from the whole thing. "Oh, no. Whatever it is, I'm not going to help. I wouldn't know how if I wanted to and besides, I don't want to. You're the great criminal mastermind. Why don't you just—"

"Like I said, I can't." Gus's voice was as low and just about as friendly as the purr of a hungry lion. "You think I like asking for help? You think I wouldn't rather go to my friends? Or my son? A good
consigliere

, that's what I need right about now. Instead, I get a little girl with no brains and a big chest."

"Hold on there, pal. I might be young, but I'm not a little girl and I'm not dumb. I'll have you know, I'm a college graduate."

"College is wasted on girls. They should stay home, get married, and have babies. Besides, if I had to guess, I'd say you majored in something like homeec . Or was it art history?"

It was art history.

I wasn't about to admit that to Gus. Just like I wasn't going to tell him that at the time I declared my major, I never thought that I might actually have to use my overpriced education as a springboard to making a living. After all, my life had been laid out before me like my mother's had been before her. I had a tradition to uphold, and generations ofLivingston (her maiden name) women who served as my role models.

First, college.

After all, it was expected, and besides, it gave me a place to make just the right contacts and Mom something to talk about when her friends at the tennis club asked about her only child.

Then, an engagement. But only, of course, if it was what Grandmother Livingston liked to call "the right match."

Three cheers for me, mine was as right as they came. It arrived in the form of JoelPanhorst , who just happened to be on the brink of being named a partner in one of the most prestigious financial firms in the area. Was Joel the man of my dreams? I hate to admit it, but yeah, I was nuts about him.

What was not to like?

Joel was good-looking. Joel was charming. Joel was going to make my dream of being a full-time CCW

come true. That's Country Club Wife, and I was all for it. It would have been my parents' life, only kicked up a notch. A little more exciting. A little more interesting. A lot more stylish.

I was ready, willing, and able, and would have gone along for the happy ride if my life hadn't gone down the dumper when my dad's status officially changed from renowned plastic surgeon to just-another felon.

That pretty much explained it all, didn't it? With Dad up the proverbial river, my social contacts had withered, my engagement had crumbled, and, suddenly, my resume actually mattered. Unless tennis and suntans counted, I had no job experience to speak of. I had few usable skills.
Presto
… here I was in the deadest of all dead-end jobs.

I got rid of the thought before it got the best of me, and got myself back on track.

"A degree is a degree," I told Gus, firmly ignoring all thoughts of my country club aspirations. "And women don't just get married and have babies anymore. Haven't you been paying any attention these last thirty years? We have careers. And real lives. And although I can't speak for other women, I can speak for myself. I'm smart enough to—"

"To take care of what I need you to take care of." Gus's smile was predatory.

And I knew I'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book. "Great, get me to admit that I'm smart just so—"

"So you can help me out." He nodded and smiled. "I always knew you would. Even if I had to—"

"Make me an offer I couldn't refuse?" I couldn't help myself, the opening was too good to pass up. It wasn't until the words were out of my mouth that I wondered if I'd said something I shouldn't have.

I was pretty sure of it when fire flared in Gus's eyes. "That was my line, you know. Way before that movie came along. That was my line and they stole it."

"Yeah. Right." I looked at the clock on the wall and got up. "I've got a meeting to get to. With Jim. He's my boss's boss."

"Bosses." Gus nodded. "Yeah, I understand that."

"Then you'll understand that if I'm late, he'll have my head."

"Heads? Nah! We never would have taken any heads. Too messy."

"It's just a figure of speech." I grabbed for the file where I kept a calendar of all the upcoming tours. I held it to my chest like a shield. "Look," I said, "I'd like to help you but I can't, so I think you'd better just go away."

Gus shrugged. "Wish I could, baby doll. But I can't. Not until this thing is resolved."

"But I wouldn't know where to begin."

"It's not like I wouldn't help you out."

"But—"

He held up one hand. "It is time for me to impose my will and just so you know, I don't take no for an answer."

"But—"

"I don't take no buts, neither. You don't like it. I don't like it. But you're the only one who can do this thing."

I could stand there and argue with this brain blip. Or I could try to move on. My sigh was a sure sign of surrender. "What do you want me to do for you?"

Gus stood and went to the door. He couldn't open it so I did that. He stepped back so I could walk out.

"Honey," he said, "you're going to find out who really murdered me."

Did I want to stick with the tried and true and
stay with Pretty in Pink? Or was I looking to shake things up? Maybe I needed something a little more dramatic for my date with Dan the Brain Man.

I was deep in thought while I glanced through the selection of lipstick tubes in my top desk drawer.

ParisNights? I twisted the tube and checked out the color.

Pink Passion? I held the two side by side.

Red Hot—

"So what kind of name is Pepper, anyway? Sounds like a schnauzer."

Gus's question snapped me out of my thoughts. I'd been hoping he'd get bored and go wherever it was he went when he wasn't hanging around my office. No such luck. He'd been sitting in my guest chair ever since I got back from my meeting with Jim, Ella, and the rest of the cemetery administrative staff, and I glanced at him over the stacks of newspapers piled between us. If he noticed I was irritated by the canine reference, he didn't let on.

"It's a nickname," I said. "Short for Penelope."

"Pen-el-op-e." He drew out each of the syllables, and I couldn't tell if he liked the sound or if he was making fun of a name that was too long and way too old-fashioned. "To give you a name like that, your parents, they must think they're pretty high-falutin.'"

Against my better judgment and certainly against all reason, he'd already talked me into raiding the cemetery archives for all the info I could find about him. He wasn't about to Dr. Phil me into a heart-to-heart about my family.

I refused to answer, hoped he got the message, and decided on Paris Nights. I put the tube within easy reach so I could toss it into my purse when the time came to close up shop and head out for the evening.

According to the clock on the wall opposite from where I sat, that was in exactly sixteen minutes.

Sixteen minutes… a drive home, where I could leave my car in my reserved space so I didn't have to fight for a parking place near the restaurant… a quick walk toMangia Mania…

And then I'd have Dan Callahan all to myself. And Dan Callahan was the yummiest guy I'd met since—

"You're not listening to me. You need to get down to work here, honey. You're supposed to be thinking about me, not about how soon you can go home."