Casey Daniels - Dead Man Talking

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.

As 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-”