The Chick and the Dead (12 page)

"Well, doesn't that just take the cake!" Didi perched on the arm of the chair where Ella was sitting. Gift or no Gift, Ella must have sensed her presence. As if she was suddenly cold, she chafed her hands over her arms.

Didi was too angry to notice. Or to care. "The nerve of that Merilee," she growled. "How can she say she has the first handwritten draft when I was the one who handwrote the first handwritten draft in the first place?"

"How can she?"

I was echoing Didi's question. Like Ella could know that? Her face scrunched up. "How can she donate the manuscript? Well, it's hers, of course. But I see what you mean, Pepper!" She grinned and pointed a finger my way. "How can she bear to part with something so valuable and so personal? That just proves it, doesn't it? It just proves that in your heart, you're as much an
SFTD
lover as the rest of us. You know how difficult it will be for Miss Bowman to give up something so wonderful. But don't you see, just the fact that she's willing to donate the manuscript to the museum proves what a terrific person Merilee is."

"How can she have the draft?" I asked the question again, and at that point, I didn't care what Ella thought I was talking about. I needed answers and I needed them fast. Before I could get talked into something I knew was the mother of all bad ideas.

Didi pouted. "She's had fifty years to copy it," she said. "And besides, whatever she says she has, it's not going to matter. Not once you're in the house."

"Why? What's in the house?"

Ella eyed me carefully. As if she was worried about my sanity. "What's in the house is what's in most houses," she said. "Except for the museum on the first floor, of course. Upstairs are the bedrooms, and you'll have your own and your own bath. I haven't been there myself, but I've heard the restoration is fabulous. You may have your own sitting room, too."

"Not what I meant." I looked away from Ella and toward Didi.

"It's the manuscript," Didi said. "The real original, handwritten copy of
So Far the Dawn
. My original, handwritten copy. Merilee never knew it existed. I hid it, you see. In the attic. Right before I died. I knew it wasn't smart to have only one copy so I kept one in my bedroom. That was the one I typed to send to publishers inNew York . The other one, I tucked away. Just in case, I don't know, just in case there was a fire or something and the typewritten one got damaged or destroyed. If it's true and the house hasn't been lived in since then, the manuscript should still be there, right where I left it. And finding it… that will be as easy as pie. Like I said, it's in the attic. There's a loose floorboard right under the windows that look out at the front walk. Tip up the board, lift it up, and voilà! That would prove everything once and for all, wouldn't it? The original manuscript. No way can anybody believe Merilee after they see it." This was making too much sense. I can't say I was happy about it. "Why didn't you tell me this before?" Ella rose. "I just found out myself, Pepper. After I heard about Trish. Miss Bowman called to say what a terrible inconvenience it all was and—"

"How much?" I got up, too. Not because I felt I had to challenge Ella, it was just that with her standing, I couldn't see Didi. "We've never discussed my fee. Not in dollars and cents."

"You know Harmony will be generous."

"You know Miss Bowman will be generous."

"Come on, Pepper. It's the only way."

"Please, Pepper. It would be such a help."

I was being tag-teamed.

By the living and the dead.

I tried one more desperate attempt to ignore their pleas.

"It's not going to work," I told both Ella and Didi.

"Of course it will." Ella smiled and rounded her desk. She picked up the phone and even before she hit the buttons, I knew she was calling Merilee with the news.

"We're all set now, kiddo." I turned at the sound of Didi's voice. Just in time to see her walk through Ella's office wall. The next thing I knew she was outside the window. She waved. "See you at home!"

I've never liked history.

I know that might seem like a weird statement considering that back in college, I majored in art history, but the art history thing… well, it wasn't because of the history. Or, for that matter, because of the art. Truth is, I found out early on in my college career that art history wasn't as impossible as some other subjects, like chemistry or biology. It wasn't as boring as English, either, with all those useless similes and metaphors. Besides, I never intended to actually do anything with my education. Art history was a means to an end. It was all about doing what was expected (as in getting through, degree in hand), making the right contacts, finding the right man.

All of which I'd done.

None of which had made even a little bit of difference when the expected changed overnight into the unexpected. As for the right contacts and the right man, I may have mentioned before that they turned out all wrong.

But back to the history…

Like it or not, my job as tour guide at Garden View meant that I had history thrust in my face every day. I knew more about the city ofCleveland , its residents, and, yes, its history than I could have ever thought possible. Way more than I ever wanted to know or cared about. That's why when Ella mentioned that the Bowman family home was located inOhioCity , I was able to make sense of the whole thing. Back in the day (and don't ask me when, I only know that it was a long time ago),OhioCity was just that. A city of its own. The area is just west of downtownCleveland , right across theCuyahogaRiver that splits the city in two. Eventually, of course, the inevitable happened.Cleveland gobbled upOhioCity and it became just another of its many neighborhoods.

These days,OhioCity is an odd mix of Victorian mansions, pricey condos, light manufacturing, charming restaurants, and not-so-charming rundown houses with boarded-up windows and cracked sidewalks. As I drove around looking for the Bowman home, I was reminded of Harmony's neighborhood. Except that Harmony's side of town was—and always had been—home to the workingman. In other words, utilitarian was the name of the game. Ambience definitely was not.

On the other hand,OhioCity had once been where the movers and shakers lived. Obviously, some of them still did. On every street, at least a couple of grand old Victorian mansions had been lovingly restored to perfection.

I stopped my car in front of one of them and got out to watch as a team of workers put a sign in place on the front lawn:

SO FAR THE DAWN MUSEUM

Looked like I was in the right spot.

The background of the sign was marine blue, the same color as half the turreted house behind it. The other half of the house… well, let's just say that when the workers who were scrambling over the property finally got around to painting it, it would do the old house a world of good. From what I could see, the Bowman family home had spent the last however many of its years as a gray and grungy hulk. Its front steps sagged and its shutters hung off the windows like the skin around a middle-aged woman's eyes.

Once the work was finished, though, it was clear that the museum would be a showplace. The house had a wraparound front porch, a stained glass window on the second-floor landing, and—from what I could see—a garden in the back that hadn't been touched in years. Even as I watched, a team of workers was stepping through the thigh-high weeds, assessing the damage and talking about what could be saved and what would have to go.

Go.

The single word was like a beacon in the night, and not for the first time since I'd agreed to Ella's plan, I thought about chucking the whole thing.

I could go.

Now.

I should go.

Now.

Before I had to deal with Merilee.

Except that dealing with Merilee was exactly what I needed to do if I was ever going to prove Didi's claim to the So
Far the Dawn
throne.

Right?

Doubts filled me, and though I tried to ignore them, there were too many. Instead of dwelling on them—and making my stomach any sicker than it already was—I reminded myself that if I could get in and find the manuscript Didi said was in the attic—fast—I could just as quickly tell Merilee the Merciless that I'd changed my mind and I was quitting.

It was that thought and that thought alone that gave me the courage to get a move on. I got my suitcase out of the car and headed up the front walk.

Not as easy as it sounds, considering that there were boards and paint cans piled everywhere along with a whole bunch of scaffolding that was being assembled and, oh yes…

More reenactors.

When a fellow in a Union cavalry uniform tipped his hat and made a showy bow, I nodded hello. I sidestepped a woman in a wide hoop skirt who was chatting on her cell. Across the street there was a vacant lot, and someone had set up a small white pup tent. I glanced that way, watching as three Confederate soldiers sat outside the tent playing cards with two guys in Union uniforms.

One of the Union officers looked awfully familiar, shaggy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and all. I dropped my suitcase and did a double take, automatically stepping in that direction.

"Dan?"

"Why, no, ma'am." The cavalry officer standing nearby thought I was talking to him. He stepped forward and looked me up and down. "My name's Joe, but I'll tell you what, if you want me to change my name to Dan, I'd be willing. But only if you'll meet me for a drink later."

"No. Thanks." I turned to him and offered what I hoped was an apologetic smile. "I didn't mean you. I was talking about that man across the street." I turned back that way. "The one playing—" There were three Rebels playing cards with one Union officer now.

Do I need to point out which of them was gone?

Baffled, I shook my head. "Shit."

Joe chuckled. His eyes were wide with pretended amazement. "Ma'am," he said, "this is the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-three. No proper lady talks like that!"

"I've got news for you, Joe." I grabbed my suitcase and headed up the front steps, carefully stepping around cracked boards and a box of spilled nails. "I'm no proper lady. You want proof, stick around. Something tells me that before I get out of here, I'm going to be using plenty of four-letter words."

Of course I didn't realize I was being delusional
. Not at the time. That's what makes a delusion delusional, right?

When I stepped inside the Bowman home, I actually expected some sort of welcoming committee. Who could blame me?

After all, I'd agreed to fill in for Trish on short notice and, let's face it, that automatically put me into the above-and-beyond category. Add to that the fact that Ella had done the seemingly impossible and found someone—anyone—willing to put up with Merilee for the better part of the summer, and I was thinking that a brass band and a dozen roses would have been just about right.

Short of that, I was ready to settle for Merilee waiting to greet me at the door with one of the construction workers (preferably a cute, muscular one who was not currently attached) to carry my suitcase to my room.

No wonder I was surprised when I pushed open the front door and there was nobody around.

"Hello?" I set my suitcase down on the marble floor of the entryway and leaned forward, peeking into the rooms beyond. Ahead of me was a hallway that led to the back of the house. It was cut in half by a stairway. To my left was what must have once been the living room and, across from it, a room of similar proportions with built-in china cabinets in two of its corners. The ceilings were spanking-new white, and the chandelier at the top of the staircase gleamed like it was a recent addition. The walls were papered in high Victorian kitsch: maroon and purple flowers against a black background, accented with green vines and gold leaves. There was scaffolding, paint cans and lumber stacked all around. Between that and all the vegetation going on, it was hard to see a clear way through to anywhere. Even when I thought I could, I found the path blocked with furniture and museum displays covered with white canvas tarps. Like shrouds.

Of course I made the connection instantly, and I can't say I was especially happy about it. Me and the whole life-after-death thing… well, I guess I was just predisposed to think that way.

"Hello?" Don't ask me why I bothered, but I tried again, convinced that if only they knew I was here, someone would make an effort to acknowledge my presence and remind me that what I was doing was fabulous and phenomenal and that he (or she) would be forever grateful. "Anybody here?"

"You Pepper?"

The sound of a man's voice came at me from out of nowhere, and I jumped and gulped down a gasp of surprise. I took another look around, just in time to see him step onto the landing at the top of the steps. The man in question was tall and broad. He was dressed in a dirty blue denim shirt and jeans that were torn at the knees and frayed at the bottoms. Like a worn blanket, his face was creased in a thousand places. His salt-and-pepper hair (more salt than pepper) was long and stringy. It was pulled back in a ponytail.

Okay, so maybe my imagination was working overtime, what with me thinking I'd seen Dan Callahan across the street and all. Still, when the man moved out of the shadows and positioned himself to look down at me over the railing that ran the length of the landing, I have to admit, my stomach clutched. The stained glass window was directly opposite from where he stood, and the red light filtering through it stained his hands.

Was it a simile? Or a metaphor?

Either way, it sure looked like blood to me.

I forced my morbid thoughts and my gaze away from his hands just in time to see him lean forward and study me from behind thick tortoiseshell glasses. From where I stood, his eyes looked as if they were two sizes too large.

"Yeah. I'm Pepper." My own voice sounded small and breathless. I told myself it was because of the tall ceilings and not because I was anxious.

"Miss Bowman, she says you're staying up here." The man jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "First door on your left."

I smiled. And waited for him to come down the steps to take my suitcase. He didn't.