Jayne Castle - After Dark

A new worry descended on Lydia. She could not afford to lose this job. "I wonder what Shrimpton will say when he gets back from vacation tomorrow and finds out what happened."

"Are you kidding? Shrimp will probably give you a raise." Melanie chuckled. "What better publicity for Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors than the discovery of a murder victim in one of the exhibits?"

Lydia groaned. "That's the sad part, isn't it? If this makes the evening papers, there will probably be a line of people around the block tomorrow morning."

"Uh-huh." Melanie's expression turned serious again. "I thought the police questioning was strictly routine. Are you really a suspect?"

"Beats me. I'm still sitting here behind my desk, which means no one's arrested me so far. I take that as a positive sign." Lydia drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. "But the cops knew about my flaming row with Chester in the Surreal Lounge last month."

Melanie frowned. "Not good."

"No. Fortunately, Detective Martinez also seems to be aware of the fact that Chester had a lot of disgruntled clients and more than a few enemies on Ruin Row. It'll take her a while to sort out all the possible suspects. It's going to be a long list."

Melanie shrugged. "I doubt the police will spend too much time on the case. Chester Brady wasn't exactly a high-profile victim or an upstanding member of the community. He had several brushes with the law, and his name was compost with the Society of Para-archaeologists."

"True. I imagine the only people at his funeral will be the folks he ripped off. They'll attend just to make sure he's actually dead."

"Probably hold a celebration at the nearest bar after-ward."

"Probably." Lydia sighed. "I don't think there will be any family at the graveside, either. Chester once told me that he had no close relatives. He was always saying that was one of the things he and I had in common."

Melanie snorted softly. "You and Chester Brady had nothing at all in common. He was a classic loser, always looking for the big score and always screwing it up whenever he came close to getting it."

"I know." Not so very different from her at all, Lydia thought glumly. But she refrained from saying that aloud. "It's weird, but I think I'm going to miss him."

Melanie rolled her eyes. "I don't see how you can summon up any sympathy for the little jerk after the way he stole your first client away from you last month."

"He just looked so pathetic lying there in that sarcophagus, Mel. The blood and everything." Lydia shuddered.

"It was awful. You know, Chester was pond scum, but I'm surprised that he actually made someone mad enough to murder him."

"Among his other glowing qualities, Brady was a thief. That tends to irritate folks."

"There is that," Lydia conceded. "And as a parting gift to me, on his way to the afterlife he managed to sabotage the sweet deal I had going this morning."

"Think you've lost the client who came to interview you today?"

"For sure. The poor guy had to spend an hour with the cops because of what happened. He was polite about it, but I got the impression that Mr. London is not accustomed to tolerating that kind of inconvenience. He's a rich, successful businessman from Resonance City. When he phoned earlier he made it clear he prefers to keep a very low profile. He wanted all sorts of assurances about discretion and confidentiality. Thanks to me, he'll probably wind up in the evening papers."

"Not real discreet or confidential," Melanie agreed.

"Considering the circumstances, he was amazingly civil about the whole thing." Lydia propped her chin on her hands. "He didn't say anything rude, but I know I'll never see him again."

"Hmm."

Lydia cocked a brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, really. It just occurred to me to wonder why a rich, successful businessman who likes to keep a low profile would contact a para-archaeologist who worked in a place like Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors."

"When he could have had his pick of university consultants from the Society of Para-archaeologists?" Lydia asked grimly. "Okay, I'll admit I sort of wondered about that, too. But I didn't want to push my good luck, so I refrained from posing such delicate questions."

Melanie leaned across the desk to pat her arm. "Hang in there, pal. There will be other clients."

"Not like this one. This one had money, and I had plans." Lydia held up her thumb and forefinger spaced an inch apart. "I was this close to giving my landlord notice that I would not be renewing my lease on that large closet he calls an apartment."

"Bummer."

"Yeah. But maybe it's all for the best."

"What makes you say that?" Melanie asked.

Lydia thought about the too casual way London had asked her if she had murdered Chester. "Something makes me think that working for Emmett London might have been almost as stressful as finding dead bodies in the Tomb Gallery."

AN HOUR LATER Lydia emerged from the stairwell on the fifth floor of the Dead City View Apartments.

She was gaining stamina, she thought as she walked down the dark hall to her front door. She wasn't panting nearly as much after the five flights of stairs now as she had in the first week after the elevator had stopped functioning. Better than a gym workout, and much cheaper.

It was important to stay positive.

She slid the amber key into the lock, gave it a small pulse of psychic energy, and opened the front door.

Her pet dust-bunny, Fuzz, drifted toward her across the floor. If she had not been anticipating his greeting, she would not have seen him until he appeared at her feet. None of his six paws made any sound on the tile floor of the postage-stamp-size foyer.

Fuzz's daylight eyes were open, glowing a brilliant, innocent blue against his dull, nondescript fur. He was fully fluffed, making it impossible to see his ears or his paws. He looked like something that had just rolled out from under the bed.

"Hey, Fuzz, you are not gonna believe the day I had." Lydia scooped him up and plopped him on her shoulder. "Oomph! Been into the pretzels again?"

The sturdy weight of the little beast always surprised her. One tended to forget that the. scruffy, unprepossessing exterior of a dust-bunny concealed the sleek muscles and sinews of a small but serious predator.

"Chester Brady got himself murdered in my new sarcophagus. The one I told you I got for Shrimp's museum super cheap from the University Museum because they had two hundred extra ones in the basement. Plus they owed me, on account of I found a couple of dozen of their best examples in the first place."

Fuzz rumbled cheerfully and settled into a more comfortable position on her shoulder.

"I know, I know, you never did like Chester, did you? You were in good company. Still, it's strange to think that he's gone."

Several months ago she had stopped worrying about whether or not her one-sided conversations with Fuzz were an indication of deteriorating mental and psychic health. She'd had more pressing matters to occupy her attention. Chief among them had been finding a job and stabilizing her personal finances after the disaster.

Besides, as far as everyone else was concerned, she had cracked up big time after her Lost Weekend. Given the diagnosis she had gotten from the shrinks following the incident, talking out loud to a pet seemed pretty close to normal.

The disaster in the Dead City six months ago had not only destroyed her career at the university and wreaked havoc on her personal finances, it had also left phrases like "psychic dissonance" and "para-trauma" sprinkled liberally about in her medical records.

The doctors had recommended that she avoid excessive stress. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done when one was trying to forge a new career on the ruins of one that had crashed and burned.