Dead Man Talking Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epigraph

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  “There’s no savoring the Pepper Martin series—you’ll devour each book and still be hungry for more!”

  —Kathryn Smith

  PRAISE FOR THE PEPPER MARTIN MYSTERIES

  Night of the Loving Dead

  “Gravestones, ghosts, and ghoulish misdemeanors delight in Casey Daniels’s witty Night of the Loving Dead.”

  —Madelyn Alt, national bestselling author of Where There’s a Witch

  “Sass and the supernatural cross paths in the entertaining fourth Penelope ‘Pepper’ Martin series mystery . . . Pepper proves once again that great style, quick wit, and a sharp eye can solve any mystery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Pepper is brazen and beautiful and this mystery is perfectly paced, with plenty of surprise twists.”

  —Romantic Times

  “[A] well-plotted paranormal mystery that . . . shares some answers [to questions] that fans have had since we first met this entertaining character, and adds several surprising twists along the way.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “Entertaining and amusing . . . will keep readers laughing.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  Tombs of Endearment

  “A fun romp through the streets and landmarks of Cleveland . . . A tongue-in-cheek . . . look at life beyond the grave . . . well worth picking up.”

  —Suite101.com

  “[A] PI who is Stephanie Plum-meets-Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw . . . It’s fun, it’s ‘chick,’ and appealing . . . A quick, effortless read with a dash of Bridget Jones-style romance. [Martin is] a hot redhead who always manages to look good . . . and suffers the emotional catastrophes that every woman can relate to.”

  —PopSyndicate

  “With witty dialogue and an entertaining mystery, Ms. Daniels pens an irresistible tale of murder, greed, and a lesson in love. A well-paced story line that’s sure to have readers anticipating Pepper’s next ghostly client.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “Sassy, spicy . . . Pepper Martin, wearing her Moschino Cheap & Chic pink polka dot sling backs, will march right into your imagination.”

  —Shirley Damsgaard, author of The Witch’s Grave

  The Chick and the Dead

  “Amusing with her breezy chick-lit style and sharp dialogue.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Ms. Daniels has a hit series on her hands.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Poor Pepper Martin! It looks like demanding ghosts are going to be a recurring problem for this funny and offbeat character. Outlandish situations [and] characters . . . drive this humorous plot as Pepper beefs up her sleuthing skills.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Ms. Daniels is definitely a hot new voice in paranormal mystery . . . intriguing . . . well-written . . . with a captivating story line and tantalizing characters.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “[F]un, flirtatious, and feisty . . . [A] fast-paced read, filled with likeable characters.”

  —Suite101.com

  Don of the Dead

  “Fabulous! One of the funniest books I’ve read this year.”

  —MaryJanice Davidson, USA Today bestselling author

  “There’s not a ghost of a chance you’ll be able to put this book down. Write faster, Casey Daniels.”

  —Emilie Richards, USA Today bestselling author

  “One part Godfather, one part Bridget Jones, one part ghost story, driven by a spunky new sleuth . . . A delightful read!”

  —Roberta Isleib

  “[A] humorous and highly entertaining expedition into mystery and the supernatural.”

  —Linda O. Johnston

  “A spooky mystery, a spunky heroine and sparkling wit! Give us more!”

  —Kerrelyn Sparks, USA Today bestselling author

  “[F]unny and fast-paced; her sassy dialog . . . her bravado, and her slightly off-kilter view of life make Pepper an unforgettable character . . . The only drawback is waiting for book two!” —Library Journal (starred review)

  “[A] tightly plotted story with a likeable amateur sleuth.”

  —Romantic Times

  “[A] fun cozy with a likeable heroine and a satisfying plot.”

  —Suite101.com

  “Fans of ‘Buffy’ ought to enjoy this one . . . [O]riginal, funny, and shows plenty of scope for future books (all of which I aim to read) . . . [A] highly enjoyable debut.”

  —MyShelf.com

  Titles by Casey Daniels

  TOMBS OF ENDEARMENT

  THE CHICK AND THE DEAD

  DON OF THE DEAD

  NIGHT OF THE LOVING DEAD

  DEAD MAN TALKING

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  DEAD MAN TALKING

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Connie Laux.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14521-0

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,


  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  There really is a Monroe Street Cemetery in Cleveland, but thanks to the work of a dedicated group of volunteers, it is not nearly in as awful a shape as I portray it in Dead Man Talking. This book is dedicated to the members of the Monroe Street Cemetery Foundation, the Woodland Cemetery Foundation, the Ohio Cemetery Alliance, and to all the other hardworking people all over the country (and the world) who help preserve our past and the memories of the people who have gone before us by restoring and maintaining our cemeteries. Cemeteries are truly museums without walls. Visit one near you, and volunteer to help. What you do will be remembered and appreciated for generations to come.

  1

  The ghosts were waiting for me when I arrived at Monroe Street Cemetery that morning.

  I figured they would be. They’d been hanging around my office at Garden View Cemetery ever since the day a couple weeks earlier when my boss, Ella Silverman, informed me that instead of leading tours through Garden View that summer, I would be spending my time working on a restoration project at Monroe Street.

  Back at Garden View, I’d pretty much been able to ignore this pack of annoying spooks, and I knew why. They were buried here at Monroe Street, and far from where they were resting (but not at peace), they didn’t have nearly as much ghostly oomph. Here they were as lively as the dead are likely to get and way pushier than ghosts have any right to be.

  Then again, I guess I couldn’t blame them. Thanks to their daily visits to my office, they’d had a chance to look around Garden View, and they were bound to be

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a cemetery geek. Not like Ella. But I do know that in the hierarchy of burying grounds, Garden View is at the tippy-top. Its three hundred acres are as swanky and pristine as Monroe Street is . . . well, far be it from me to judge, but it’s hard to escape the facts. This one-hundred-and-seventy-five-year-old, thirteen-acre patch just to the west of downtown Cleveland was nowhere near as elegant—or as well maintained—as Garden View. The city-owned Monroe Street had been neglected for years, and it showed. From where I stood, I could see the overgrown paths and shaggy lawn. Oh yeah, and the few hundred vandalized and toppled headstones thrown in just for good measure.

  But of course, if Monroe Street were perfect, it wouldn’t need to be restored, I wouldn’t have been there in the first place, and the gang of irritating ghosts wouldn’t have been all over me like—

  Well, like ghosts on the world’s one and only private investigator for the dead.

  “My hat is missing.” A tall, thin guy, who probably hadn’t looked any better alive than he did dead, rubbed the top of his bald head. “They say you solve mysteries. They told me you could find it.”

  “As if she’d waste her time on you!” A woman in a canary yellow gown and one of those big honkin’ picture hats elbowed him out of the way and stepped into my path. “I haven’t heard from my beau. Something terrible must have happened to him. Else he never would have abandoned me. You must find him. They say you have the Gift, and—”

  “News flash!” I said this nice and loud so Mr. Hatless and Ms. I-Should-Have-Looked-in-a-Mirror-Before-I-Wore-Yellow-with-My-Waxy-Complexion

  “Aunt Lulu’s ruby necklace was nowhere to be found after she passed,” a woman wailed.

  “My brother told Ma I was the one who ate the last of the cherry pie,” a man moaned.

  “There’s money missing from the collection plate.” This from an elderly man in a clerical collar.

  “Which ain’t nearly as important as my problem.” A flapper pushed to the front of the crowd. “There’s liquor missing from the speakeasy, and if the boss finds out, there will be hell to pay.”

  At the sound of such language, Ms. Yellow swooned.

  The preacher tsk-tsked.

  And me?

  I knew if I didn’t take control, these annoying ghosts would spend the summer bugging the crap out of me. With the restoration project already on my plate, that was more than I could handle.

  “You’re not listening. None of you are listening!” I stomped one Juicy Couture ballet-flat clad foot against the ground to emphasize my point. “I don’t waste my Gift on dumb stuff,” I told them, even though I shouldn’t have had to. “So let’s make two lines. Those of you who are looking for lost necklaces and missing boyfriends and money and such . . .” I waved to my right. “You get over here. If any of you were murdered and need me to actually use my Gift to find your killer so you can finally go into the light . . .” I gestured to my left.

  They shuffled and shambled. They stalled and hemmed and hawed. But in the end, they formed the lines. I should say line. One. On my right.

  “All rightee, then,” I said, with a ta-da gesture to my left. “None of you have anything important for me to investigate. Nothing that involves you crossing to the Other Side, anyway. So how about you just get a move on.” I shooed them. “I’ve got enough problems without a bunch of annoying spooks spooking me.”

  Big surprise, they actually listened. One by one, they drifted off among the tumbled headstones and overgrown paths of Monroe Street and disappeared.

  Except for one guy who’d been lurking at the back of the crowd. I’d noticed him not because he was as pushy as the other ghosts, but because he wasn’t. While they competed for my attention, he kept his distance. While they chattered, he kept his mouth shut. And while the rest of them scattered off into the nowhere where ghosts go when they aren’t hanging around to bug me, he stayed. But he never looked at me.

  Chin up, shoulders back, chest out like a soldier on parade, he paced back and forth on the small, clear path between the cemetery driveway and the overgrown tangle of weeds that was all that was left of the once-pristine grounds of Monroe Street.

  Interested in spite of the good sense that told me not to be, I looked him over.

  This ghost was a middle-aged man in a charcoal pin-stripe suit. Narrow stripes, narrow lapels, narrow tie. The only thing big about the guy was the black plastic frames of his glasses. That, and his shoulders. He wasn’t tall, but he was stocky and broad, and not as handsome as he was rugged looking. Maybe it was my imagination, but I also thought he looked a little lost.

  Did Pepper Martin know to keep her mouth shut? You if you weren’t murdered, I’m not interested you don’t understand?” I asked. “Because if there isn’t—”

  He stepped behind a tall-standing headstone and vanished into thin air. Just like that.

  “So much for ghosts.” I brushed my hands together, ridding myself of the thought as well as the responsibility of taking care of so many ectoplasmic pests, and it was a good thing I did. Just as that last ghost vanished, my boss Ella pulled up in her minivan and parked behind my Mustang.

  “Yoo hoo!” She rolled down the window and waved. Like I’d miss the only other living person anywhere around?

  I waved back. “What are you doing here?” I asked. When she stepped out of the van and struggled to lift not one, but two overloaded tote bags, I headed that way. I grabbed one tote from her and went toward the canopy tent that had been set up as a workspace, since there was no office or administration building at Monroe Street. “I thought you had a staff meeting this morning.”

  “Isn’t it just like you to be thinking about Garden View, even when you have so much else to do!” Finally at the tent, Ella hoisted her bag onto the lopsided card table under it and deposited it with a thunk. “Careful with that,” she said, moving forward to help when I lifted the twin tote. “We don’t want to aggravate that wound of yours.”

  I stretched my left shoulder and felt a little pang in my side. “It’s fine,” I told her because she was already worried and there was no use making things any worse. Ella is the single mother of three teenaged girls. Worry is her middle name.

  Not that I could blame her for her concer
n. She wasn’t

  Even after a couple months, the thought of nearly losing my body to the ghost who wanted to keep it for herself still sent heebie-jeebies up and down my spine. My solution was simple: I’d think about something else.

  What’s that old saying about being careful what you wish for? No sooner had I decided to put everything that had happened to me in Chicago the winter before on the back burner than Ella reached into the closest tote bag and pulled out one of those little pink message slips.

  “Don’t want to forget to give that to you.” She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, and let’s face it, it should have been. It was. Until I glanced down at the message.

  The words were carefully written by Jenine, the woman who worked the front desk back at Garden View and answered our phones when we weren’t around to do it ourselves. Give him a call sometime, it said. He’d like you to come out and visit. Jenine’s loose, flowing script was a sharp contrast to the icy claw that gripped my insides when I saw that on the line marked “From,” she’d carefully added, Your dad.

  Ella tried to look casual when she leaned over my shoulder, but since she was a full head shorter than me and had to stand on tip-toe to read the message, her strategy didn’t exactly work. “Important?” she asked, as nonchalant as can be.