Dead Man Talking (3 page)

When I didn’t answer right away, she apparently considered the subject blessedly closed. “You’ve heard about Dominique, of course,” Mrs. Lamb said.

It wasn’t a question. “I heard she graduated from Wellesley, but it’s been a few years and—”

“Wellesley, yes. She married a doctor, you know. They’re living in Manhattan. Upper West Side near the park. And your other friends? Tiffany and Madison and Sydney? What are they up to these days? My goodness, you girls were inseparable, weren’t you?”

We were. Until my dad was declared a felon and the friends who were supposed to be my bridesmaids and my life-long buddies abandoned me, just like my fiancé had. I shrugged like it was no big deal, and I was still
scrambling to come up with something to say that would make it sound as if none of it mattered when Jim stepped forward.

“You will all get to know each other better over the next couple months,” he said, looking back and forth between me and the line of well-dressed ladies. “But let me do a quick introduction. Pepper, you seem to already know Katherine Lamb, and this”—he turned toward the fluffy little woman in pink—“this is Mae Tannager.” From there he pointed down the line, starting with the big woman. “And this is Lucinda Wright. Gretchen Hamlin, and—”

“Bianca?” I’d been so busy talking to Mrs. Lamb, I hadn’t noticed the woman who stepped out of the limo last. Now, I stared in awe. I would recognize those perfect high cheekbones, the pouty lips, and the incredible dark eyes anywhere. She was taller even than me, pencil thin, and elegantly dressed in camel-colored pants and an unstructured jacket in shades of burnt orange, taupe, and a startling aqua that matched the color of her silk asymmetrical tee.

Bianca needed only one name because anybody who had ever flipped through a copy of
Vogue
, or
Elle
, or
Cosmo
recognized her at once. She was one of the first African American supermodels, and she’d lived the kind of life most of us—well, I—only dream about. She had homes in Paris, London, and Monaco. She’d married a movie star, but the romance fizzled, and when she jetted to Tahiti to forget her troubles (paparazzi in tow), she’d met a guy from Cleveland who just so happened to have more money than God. He was twenty years older. She was in love and was welcomed with open arms into the closed community of North Coast society.

These days, Bianca devoted her time to various local charities and—way more important—to
La Mode
, a
women’s boutique over on Larchmere, in one of those neighborhoods that’s shabby, chic, trendy—and too expensive for me to shop in. Just thinking about my last trip past
La Mode
made me wonder if they ever got my nose prints or my drool off the front window.

My hand outstretched, I closed in on Bianca even before I realized I was moving. “It’s an honor to meet you,” I said, right before I felt like a complete fool, so I added, “Well, you know what I mean.”

She laughed. Her teeth were perfectly straight and blindingly white. She was kind and gracious. I knew she would be. “It’s nice to meet you, too. You must be Pepper.”

She knew my name! I was so flabbergasted, I could only gape. Not a good look for me, so it was just as well that while I was doing it, Jim stepped over. His cheeks were flushed; he was clearly smitten. “Bianca has graciously agreed to be part of the team,” he said.

“Team?” I glanced from Jim to Ella. “We’re a team?”

Ella smiled. “We’ve worked so hard on getting all the pieces in place, and it’s going to be fabulous and such good publicity and—”

“Team.” I fastened my eyes on Ella as I said this, the better to get her to stick to the matter at hand. “What kind of team are we? What are we going to be doing?”

Ella’s smile was a mile wide. “Why, you’re going to restore the cemetery, of course! It’s brilliant PR, Pepper. Instead of you here working with just any volunteers . . .” When she looked around at the limo ladies, Ella’s eyes sparkled. “All these wonderful women are involved with the Historical Society, and they all understand the importance of cemeteries in preserving local history. They’ve agreed to be part of the team that’s going to work on restoring one of the Monroe Street sections this
summer. You know, deciding what to do as far as landscaping, and how to fix the damaged headstones, and how we can all work together to get publicity for the cemetery so that people realize what a worthwhile cause it is and donate to help with the rest of the restoration.”

One look, and I knew if anybody could help, it was these ladies. Sure, they were all a little older than middle aged. Absolutely, they looked as if they’d never stepped foot in a cemetery before (except for funerals) and that they wouldn’t know what to do to restore a headstone if they had to. Heck, I didn’t, either.

But I’d known women like these all my life. They were the movers and shakers of the city, mild-mannered housewives (for the most part) who, thanks to the force of their personalities, their family names, and the big, big bucks they had, could move mountains.

And we were going to be a team!

I found myself smiling at the same time I smoothed a hand over my white blouse. If I was working with Bianca all summer and I could impress her enough . . .

The thoughts that sped through my head were crazy, sure, but crazier things had happened in my life. Like my family losing its fortune, and Joel dumping me, and me talking to ghosts. Why was it any crazier to imagine that if I worked hard to impress Bianca, there might be a job at
La Mode
in my future?

No more cemeteries!

No more ghosts!

Days filled with fabulous fashions, elegant fabrics, cultured and very rich clients who came to me for advice and respected my opinions and listened when I recommended styles and put together colors like nobody else could.

I did my best to control the bubble of excitement that
would have made me look too unprofessional, and reminded myself that as team captain—I mean, I assumed I was team captain since I was the one with cemetery experience—I needed to be cool, collected, and in control.

I would have been, too, if that ghost in the pin-striped suit didn’t show up again right behind Bianca.

I rolled my eyes, and instantly regretted it. The fashion consultants who worked at
La Mode
would never be so gauche.

Instead, I concentrated on what Jim was saying, on how he was explaining that Mae and the other women would be working over in Section 10 where a couple prominent early settlers were buried. I was listening. Honest. It would have been easier if that pin-striped spook didn’t hover around behind Bianca, his chin up and his shoulders steady, even though he never once met my eyes.

He moved away, toward the overgrown walkways, marching toward the back corner of the property where the iron fence separated the cemetery from a neighborhood pocked with boarded factories and tiny houses.

“So what do you think?”

Jim’s question snapped me out of my thoughts. Since he was looking at me, I was afraid he was talking to me, too.

“I think . . .” I grinned in what I hoped was an embarrassed sort of way and pointed toward the Porta potti that was all Monroe Street had to offer in the way of amenities. As if I wouldn’t let myself burst first before I ever set foot in it. “If you’d all excuse me for just a moment . . .” I sidled toward where I’d seen the ghost vanish into the undergrowth. “I’ll be right back.”

I knew what I was about to do was a big ol’ mistake.
Believe me. At this point in my investigating-for-the-dead career, I knew I was better off leaving well enough alone.

Which means I should have simply ignored the guy.

But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t. Not when I saw how lost and lonely he looked.

I hate it when ghosts do that to me, but facts were facts and this was one fact I couldn’t ignore. I had to find out what was up with this guy. I did the only thing I could think to do, the one thing I’d never done before in my years of ghostly investigations—I went after him.

2

A
s soon as I was sure no one was watching, I ducked into the undergrowth. It was tough getting through the tangle of bushes and tall grass, but it wasn’t hard to keep tabs on my newest ghostly nuisance. I followed the pinstripes.

While he floated easily over it all, I sidestepped a yawning hole in the ground, hopped over a fallen headstone, and maneuvered past a creepy mausoleum with an open, leaning door and a roof that was half caved in. By the time he stopped, we were hemmed in by overgrown lilac bushes. The pastoral mood was ruined by the sound of booming hip hop music coming from a house across the street.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

He must have known I was following him. That’s why he wasn’t surprised by me or by my questions. He stood stock still, his shoulders back and his arms tight against his side.

I stepped closer. “You must want something or you wouldn’t be hanging around.”

He scraped a hand over his firm, square chin.

I poked my thumb over my shoulder, back toward the way I came. “I’ve got work to do. If you’re just going to stand there—”

“I need your help.”

His teeth were gritted and his jaw was so tight when he said this that if ghosts had bones, I would have heard his grinding together.

I waited for more.

He motioned toward the gravestone nearest to where he stood. “My name—”

“Jefferson Lamar.” I tipped my head to read the carving on the stone. “It says you died in 1985.”

“That’s right.” He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and for the first time, his eyes met mine. His were as brown as the dirt at our feet where once upon a time grass had flourished. They were troubled, too.

And I knew better than to get myself mixed up in ghostly troubles, right? In fact, I had a scar on my left side to prove it. Which didn’t explain why I took another step closer. “You know who I am?”

He’d looked away, but now his eyes snapped back to mine. “They say you have the Gift.”

“Well, duh!” I was going for funny, but he didn’t laugh. He was obviously the no-nonsense type, so in a no-nonsense way, I explained. “I’m standing here talking to you, right? Obviously I have the Gift. I wouldn’t be able to see you if I didn’t.”

“Of course.” He smoothed a hand over his tie. It was plain, and black, and boring.

Pretty much like this conversation.

I didn’t even try to control my impatient sigh. “I can only stall that bunch so long,” I said, referring to Jim,
Ella, and the rest of them. Not to mention Bianca. I didn’t want to just disappear and have her think I was a flake. “If there’s something you want to talk about . . .”

“I do.” He hauled in a breath. “And they tell me you’re the only one who can help.”

“But you don’t believe it because . . . what? Because I’m a girl? Because I’m too young? Because I’ve got fashion sense and you think that means I don’t have a brain? If you’ve heard I have the Gift, you also know—”

“You’re good at what you do. In spite of your age. Yes, Gus told me that.”

I was surprised to hear Lamar mention my first client, and naturally, I thought about my encounter with Gus, a mob boss who’d died back in the seventies. Solving Gus’s murder had almost gotten me killed, sure, but it also made me realize that I was a darned good detective. I found out, too, that me and Gus, we were a pretty good team.

Automatically, I found myself smiling. “How is Gus? It’s been a long time.”

“That’s what he said.” Jefferson Lamar shook his head. The gesture was all about wonder. And disgust. “Imagine me spending my time with a criminal like Scarpetti!”

“Sure he was a mob don and all, but deep down inside, Gus is a good guy.”

“Do you think so?” Lamar twitched away the thought as inconsequential. “I’ve learned not to trust the criminal element, and I didn’t want to listen to him. But I didn’t know where else to turn, and Gus, he said you know your stuff.”

I kept right on grinning. “Told you he was a good guy.”

“So you could help? I mean, if I wanted it? If I needed it?”

I was used to ghosts begging me to use my detective skills to help them. This beating-around-the-bush bullshit was getting on my nerves. “Look . . .” I held my temper, but just barely. It’s not for nothing that my parents started calling me Pepper when I was a kid. It was way better than Penelope, my given name. “If you need me to solve your murder so you can cross over—”

“No, no. It isn’t that.” He dismissed the idea instantly. “I wasn’t murdered. I had a heart attack. I died of natural causes, completely natural causes.”

“So it’s the whole cherry pie, missing necklace, runaway boyfriend routine again?” I made a face. “Like I told all those other ghosts, I can’t be bothered. I’ve got a Gift, remember. It’s not something I can just toss around like—”

“But there was a murder. Right here in Cleveland. And I . . .” Lamar fished a huge white hanky from his pocket. He took off his glasses and wiped them clean. He put the glasses back on, then refolded the hanky neatly and put it away. “They said I did it.” His voice was nearly lost beneath the booming bass of the hip hop. “I went to prison.”

“Not prison again!” I’d already groaned when I realized Lamar didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

Or maybe he did. He nodded. “Gus Scarpetti told me about that, too. About your father. He said that when I told you about my prison connection, you’d be less than pleased.”

I laughed. “Gus Scarpetti is not the kind of guy who says somebody will be
less than pleased.
Come on, he said I’d be pissed, right? He said I’d pop like the cork in a bottle of Asti.” I’d already done that, but I never even realized it until I heard my own loud voice echo back at me. I swallowed my temper and controlled the knee-jerk
reaction. “Gus isn’t always right,” I said, daring Lamar to contradict me. “Not about everything.”