The Chick and the Dead (18 page)

I'd been staring at the spot where Quinn had recently been, enjoying the scent of his expensive aftershave. I turned to Didi. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, honey, lighten up." I had the feeling that if she could, Didi would have elbowed me in the ribs.

"You're young. There's plenty you don't know about getting a guy."

"And you do?"

She winked. "Sure I do. I had a baby, didn't I? And just so you know it wasn't some kind of stupid accident, the baby's father, he wasn't my first. I knew my way around. I had experience. You know, of the romantic kind."

"You mean sex."

She blushed again. "We weren't as blunt back in my day."

"We're plenty blunt now."

"That's your whole problem." When I looked at her in wonder she rolled her eyes. "You've got to keep some mystery in a relationship. That's how you get a man. And you've got to let him have his way. Tell him he's right even when he's not. Give in."

"No thanks." I'd heard enough. It was time for that shower. "Don't forget, this is the twenty-first century. Women aren't doormats."

"Maybe that's why so many of them are unhappy."

It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Oh please! Are you telling me I should let Quinn be the boss?"

"If you want to get him in bed."

"That's not how it works."

"You know this, right? That's why you've been to bed with him." It was a low blow, and besides, it wasn't true. "The reason I have not been to bed with Quinn," I told her, "is because your friend Gus Scarpetti interrupted us. If it wasn't for him—"

"If it wasn't for him, you would have had your-self a one-night stand. Is that what you're looking for?" Heck, yes!

I opened my mouth to tell Didi this when another question bounced through my head. Was it
all
I wanted from Quinn?

I snapped my mouth shut again.

"Just what I thought." Didi turned away from me, then whirled around again just as quickly. She was back to wearing the apron and the oven mitts. "Take some advice from Mom," she said. "If you're looking for a little backseat bingo… let's face it, you can find any guy for that. But that one…" She looked toward the hallway. "He looks like he's too good to let slip through your fingers. You're going to need to be more careful, Pepper, if you intend to keep him around. Be a lady. Let him open doors for you. Ask for his opinion. You know, about things women don't understand like money and politics. Tell him—"

"Thanks but no thanks," I told Didi, and grabbing another cup of coffee, I headed out the door. By this time, Quinn was nowhere to be seen, and I guess it was the fact that he hadn't stuck around to say goodbye that sent my temper soaring. That, and Didi's half-baked advice to the lovelorn. I grumbled to myself, and the way I saw it, I had every right.

After all, I was an intelligent, modern woman. I knew what was what when it came to relationships. My love life wasn't so pathetic that I needed advice from a dead woman.

Was it?

"These need to be addressed." With an imperious wave of one perfectly manicured hand, Merilee indicated a stack of white boxes that hadn't been on her desk the night before. "By hand." The boxes reminded me of the ones my wedding invitations had been delivered in. If they did contain invitations and if there were two hundred invitations to a box like there had been in the boxes that had arrived from my wedding planner…

"All of them?" The question squeaked out of me.

When I'd walked into the study, Merilee had been busy writing. Something fascinating about how iron ore was smelted, no doubt. She slapped her pen down on her notebook. "Are you that stupid?" she asked, but she didn't give me a chance to answer. "Of course all of them. They're the invitations to the costume gala at the Renaissance Hotel. You know, the party that will mark the opening of the museum. It's the biggest thing to happen in this town since the opening of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. People are clamoring for invitations." She picked up her pen, indicating that our conversation (such as it was) was over. "Best handwriting."

"The only kind I ever use." I smiled.

She didn't notice because she never looked up. "And finish with the books and get rid of those boxes, too." She waved toward the bookshelves and the boxes I'd begun to unpack the night before. Call me crazy, but unpacking books sounded more appealing than worrying about my best handwriting. I started that way.

"Not while I'm in here working. How could I possibly concentrate?" Merilee's exasperation dripped from her every word. "You can do that tonight. If you're not too tired, that is." I'd taken a shower and changed my clothes, so there was nothing in my appearance to make Merilee suspect my adventure in the attic the night before. Which made me wonder if maybe she had heard some of the commotion after all.

"I don't need much sleep," I told her. "As a matter of fact, last night—" The sigh she heaved was of epic proportions. "Do you see me working here?" I did. But I didn't move, and Merilee looked at me over the rims of her glasses. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah. As a matter of fact, there is." I piled the invitation boxes in my arms. "You can tell me why you didn't mention that Trish was murdered."

As if I'd slapped her, Merilee jumped. "How do you—Oh, that policeman. Yes, well." She set down her pen and scooted back in her chair, her hands clutched together on the desk. "I couldn't tell you. Because I didn't know myself. Not until that nice policeman arrived here this morning." She glanced toward the doorway, but I was one up on her. I knew that Quinn was already gone. "I hope he doesn't make a nuisance of himself," she said.

Funny, I was kind of hoping he did.

Not that I was going to share that little fact with Merilee.

Instead, I watched her face, hoping something in her expression would help me make sense of the situation. "Aren't you worried? She was killed. Right here in the house. Doesn't that make you nervous?"

"Those reenactors have been in and out. And the workers…" Her lip curled at the very thought. "There are some who don't speak English, you know."

"Always a good indicator of guilt." The irony was lost on Merilee, so I decided to stick with facts.

"You're the one who found her, aren't you? What did you see when you got to the room?"

"See?" She looked at me as if, like so many of those workers, I'd suddenly started speaking another language. "I saw Trish. That's what I saw. Trish, lying on the floor right there next to her bed. She was breathing her last. It was…" Merilee's voice bubbled with emotion. She looked away, and when she looked back, her expression was blank, as if she'd built a wall around her feelings. No way was she going to let me see beyond it. "Are you happy now? You've made me remember a particularly disturbing event. I'll never be the same."

"Neither will Trish."

"Perhaps you
should
get those empty boxes out of here before you begin the invitations. I'll need them again when I leave forCalifornia , so we want to put them somewhere nice and safe. How about where they came from? Downstairs in Bob's workshop." Merilee picked up her pen and started to write. Her smile was sleek and as sharp as a knife. "Don't forget to wash your hands before you touch any of the invitation envelopes."

I knew a brush-off when I got one. Just like I knew there was nothing to be gained from pressing her any further. Besides, whether Merilee realized it or not, I had learned a couple of useful things. I was pretty sure that Merilee had heard the noise in the attic the night before and that she knew I had something to do with it. She just hadn't cared enough to see what it was all about. And I'd learned that she didn't want to talk about Trish.

Call me crazy, but I didn't think it was because the memory of Trish's grisly death offended Merilee's sensibilities. As far as I could see, Merilee didn't have any.

I set down the invitations and grabbed a few of the empty boxes, wondering as I did what all this meant in terms of Trish's murder. And how (or even if) any of it affected my investigation.

"Who would want to murder Trish, anyway?" I grumbled the question to myself while I traipsed through the hallway and into the kitchen, juggling the boxes and opening the basement door. "She wasn't worth murdering."

I realized just as I said the words that because of the Gift thing, Trish might actually have heard me.

"Sorry," I said, clumping down the steps. "But it's true. I hope you're having more fun there on the Other Side, because I'll tell you what, over here, you were just about as exciting as oatmeal. You were as meek and as mild as—"

But she wasn't. At least not that last day at the TV station.

Now more than ever, I wondered what the change in Trish meant and if the comment she'd made to Ella about how things were turning around for her could have had anything to do with her death. Except Trish's murder wasn't what I was supposed to be investigating.

"Sorry," I told her again. I set the boxes down on the basement floor and kicked them across to where there was a door with a sign on it that said, Bob's Work Room. Keep Out. "It's not that I don't care, but that's what the cops are for. Don't worry, Quinn's on the case. I don't know a whole lot about him, but I know him well enough to know he doesn't give up. He'll solve your murder." By the time I was finished with this weird monologue, I was at the door of the workroom. I half expected it to be locked, but when I tried the knob, it turned in my hand.

"Bob?" I inched the door open, and when there was no answer to my inquiry, I breathed a sigh of relief. No Weird Bob to deal with. I felt along the wall for a light switch, flicked it on, and stepped inside. The room was exactly as advertised. I was in the basement, and there were no windows. The only light in the place came from a fluorescent fixture that hung over a worktable. The cement-block walls were covered with shelves, the shelves were chockfull of old glass jars that were filled with things like screws and nails and bits and pieces of wire. The place was hardly bigger than my bedroom, and at the same time I wondered why Merilee had thought it was a good spot to store the boxes, I knew I wasn't a total jerk. I couldn't just drop the boxes and leave. Weird or not, that wouldn't be fair to Bob. I'd have to stack them in one corner.

One of those huge plastic garbage cans stood at the far corner of the workbench, and I wouldn't have given it a second glance except as I nested one box into another, I saw something caught under the lid and hanging over the side. The something in question was long and curling and shiny. I stopped and set down the boxes. I myself did not own a camera, but if I did, it would be digital. High-tech yearnings aside, I knew a lot of people still used 35mm cameras, and 35mm cameras required film.

If Bob was a photographer, I didn't want to know what kinds of pictures he took. Still, I was curious, so curious, I plucked the film out of the garbage can and held it up to the light. No wonder Bob had trashed it. What images I could see were blotchy and distorted, and most of the film was completely blank.

As if it had been exposed to the light.

"Junk," I mumbled to myself, and convinced of the fact, I lifted the lid to put it back where I'd found it. That's when I saw that there was a camera at the bottom of the garbage can. This did not look like junk, and just to make sure, I fished it out of the trash can. The camera looked to be expensive, and as far as I could tell, it was in perfect shape. I turned it over in my hands, and the light glinted off the words engraved on the bottom of the camera.

"Rick Jensen," it said. "
National Inquisitor
."

Lucky me, I had plenty of time to try and unravel
the mystery of how Rick Jensen's camera had ended up in Weird Bob's workroom.

Like the whole afternoon while I addressed gala invitation after gala invitation. And the entire evening when I finished unpacking Merilee's traveling library and stashed almost all the boxes in the basement. I say
almost
because one of them never made it into the workroom. I squirreled away the camera and the exposed roll of film in that one and tucked the box in my closet.

By the time bedtime rolled around, my hands were cramped, my brain was fried, and I was no closer to figuring out an answer to this little mystery.

"Why would Weird Bob mug Rick Jensen and steal his camera?" I asked my own reflection in the mirror that hung over the dresser in my bedroom. By now, I knew not to be surprised when someone else answered.

This time, that someone else was Didi. Though I couldn't see her reflection, her voice came from right behind me.

"Who's Rick Jensen?" she asked.

I spun around, all set to explain. I would have done it, too, except I was too shocked. I pointed at Didi's head.

"What the hell are those things?"

She touched a hand to the pink plastic cylinders lined up in rows along her scalp, her hair wound around them. "They're rollers, of course, silly. You know, to curl my hair. You don't use rollers?" I looked at the rollers and the plastic picks that were poked through each one and then wedged against Didi's scalp. "There's no force on earth that could make me do that to myself. Besides, my curl is natural. So is the color."

"Lucky you." She peered into the mirror, and though I couldn't see her there, she checked her roots. Satisfied, she plunked down on my bed. She was dressed in plaid pajamas and fuzzy slippers the same color as her rollers. "Aren't pajama parties the best?"

"I didn't know we were having a pajama party, and besides, they call them sleepovers these days." Didi giggled. "Then aren't sleepovers the best?"

"Not when you're sleeping over in this house of horrors." I slipped out of my jeans and grabbed the flannel lounge pants at the foot of the bed. When I saw Didi staring at my butt I did what any self-respecting woman would. I got defensive. "What? What's wrong?"

"Those are underpants?"

It was my turn to laugh. "Underpants? You sound like a second grader. Yes, this is underwear. It's called a thong."

"Guys must love them."

Guys weren't something I wanted to think about because thinking of guys made me think about Quinn and thinking about Quinn…