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  PRAISE FOR THE PEPPER MARTIN MYSTERIES

  A Hard Day’s Fright

  “This lighthearted mystery is full of humor, suspense, and drama. The mystery kept me guessing. And there were plenty of twists and surprises to keep me hooked along the way. Mystery and fantasy fans alike should enjoy this fast-paced, fun tale.”

  —SciFiChick.com

  “Mystery readers who appreciate a touch of the supernatural should embrace this terrific addition to an absorbing series with its likeable characters and situations fraught with an equal dose of danger and hilarity.”

  —Bitten by Books

  “A Pepper Martin paranormal amateur sleuth is always a fun read…Another delightful urban fantasy.”

  —Alternative Worlds

  “This was absolutely one of the most delightful books I’ve read in a while! It has humor, mystery, the supernatural, and a touch of romance…Casey Daniels provides the perfect story. Don’t miss this one!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Tomb with a View

  “With wit and a wink, Casey Daniels entertains her fans with a fun, lighthearted paranormal whodunit.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Pepper is my kind of sleuth, comfortable in her own life to be able to bounce back from life’s twists and turns, enjoying life to the fullest. Don’t miss Ms. Daniels’s Tomb with a View if you love learning about historical people and events beyond your typical history books.”

  —TwoLips Reviews

  Dead Man Talking

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

  —Kathryn Smith, USA Today bestselling author

  “My favorite ghost hunter, sassy Pepper Martin, is back in another hauntingly good mystery.”

  —Shirley Damsgaard, author of The Seventh Witch

  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

  “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.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  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.”

  —PopSyndicate.com

  “With witty dialogue and an entertaining mystery, Ms. Daniels pens an irresistible tale of murder, greed, and a lesson in love. A well-paced storyline 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 Seventh Witch

  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

  “Ms. Daniels is definitely a hot new voice in paranormal mystery…Intriguing…Well-written…with a captivating storyline 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, New York Times 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, author of Asking for Murder

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

  —Linda O. Johnston, author of Hounds Abound

  “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 dialogue…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] fun cozy with a likeable heroine and a satisfying plot.”

  —Suite101.com

  “Fans of Buffy ought to enjoy this one.”

  —MyShelf.com

  Titles by Casey Daniels

  DON OF THE DEAD

  THE CHICK AND THE DEAD

  TOMBS OF ENDEARMENT

  NIGHT OF THE LOVING DEAD

  DEAD MAN TALKING

  TOMB WITH A VIEW

  A HARD DAY’S FRIGHT

  WILD WILD DEATH

  SUPERNATURAL BORN KILLERS

  Supernatural

  Born Killers

  CASEY DANIELS

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL,

  England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin

  Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community

  Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive,

  Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books

  (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  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.

  SUPERNATURAL BORN KILLERS

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

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Connie Laux.

  Cover illustration by Don Sipley.

  Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  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 ofr />
  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.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58957-1

  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.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is

  stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the

  author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  For Anne and Chris

  Mrs. and Mrs. Manby

  happily ever after.

  Acknowledgments

  First things first…when I put the word out to readers that I needed a super title for this book, Nissa Collins came up with one that is perfect. Thank you, Nissa, for your super help!

  I also would like to thank the world’s greatest brainstorming group: Jasmine Creswell, Diane Mott Davidson, Emilie Richards, and Karen Young. We spent many a rainy hour in Cleveland talking about how to work through this case with Pepper. Their ideas and insights (as always) were invaluable.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Prologue

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join together this man…”

  I’d bet dollars to doughnuts the minister had done this a couple hundred times before. He knew how to draw out the drama (not to mention earn the three hundred bucks I knew he’d been paid to perform his duties), and both his chins quivering, he paused, looked at the groom standing on his left, then swiveled his gaze the other way.

  Right at me.

  “…and this woman…”

  He raised his salt-and-pepper eyebrows, daring me to say a word. Or make a move.

  As if.

  It had been tough enough walking down the aisle between the tasteful white chairs set up on the flagstone patio with its sweeping view of Lake Erie. I mean, what with being poured into, mashed inside, and trussed up in a white satin concoction the likes of which until that morning I had not imagined even existed outside of animated movies about fairy-tale princesses.

  Skirt a mile wide.

  Strapless.

  Sweetheart neckline.

  Nipped waist.

  I am not (and this is important to point out) anybody’s idea of a Big Girl, but last minute does not leave a bride with many options. No Egyptian mummy had ever been wrapped as tight. Or with as much froufrou.

  Twenty pounds of bridal gown and a train as long as a football field might make for a va-va-voom entrance, but try moving around in it. Or breathing, for that matter.

  Beads, lace, sequins. In a shaft of setting sunlight that glanced off the lake, I sparkled like RuPaul at an awards ceremony. If I moved too quickly—if I even could—I’d blind half my relatives.

  “…. in holy matrimony.”

  The minister droned on, and I sucked in a breath. No easy thing considering the underwire in my built-in bra picked that moment to poke a particularly sensitive spot. I squirmed, and maybe the minister thought it was just a case of wedding-day jitters. Instead of giving me time to collect myself, he grabbed my right hand and plunked it into my groom’s.

  My groom.

  The words shot a tingle up my spine.

  Like most girls, I’d dreamed of this day for as long as I could remember, and of the man who’d be standing at my side in front of the altar. The dewy-eyed relatives and smiling guests, the candlelight that swayed in a soft lake breeze, the flowers in shades of white and champagne…it was perfect. Far more perfect—in an attempt to keep a particularly irritating bead from poking me in the ribs, I lifted one shoulder, then the other—than the gown that should have been the gown I’d pictured in my mind all these years and was, instead, an off-the-rack number that was the only last-minute dress the bridal shop had in the right length for a woman my height.

  “And do you…”

  Apparently while I was busy considering all this, I’d missed something important, because when I snapped to, I found a platinum-and-diamond band on my finger and the minister giving me the sort of penetrating look that said I needed to pay attention.

  “And do you,” he said, a little louder this time since I’d missed this part of his spiel the first time around, “Penelope Martin, take this man to be your wedded husband to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love, comfort, honor, and keep him for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him so long as you both shall live?”

  Did I?

  I swallowed that sand in my mouth and did my best to force the traditional I do past the lump in my throat.

  “Well, do you?” the minister asked again.

  “I…” My voice broke over the words. “How can I not?” I asked him, and really, thinking back to the way it all started, I knew there really was no other answer.

  There was no way I could possibly say no.

  No way in hell.

  The last formal dress I wore (before the wedding gown that ate Cleveland) was black. Boatneck, elbow-length sleeves, hem that hit right above the knee. It was not the zingy little number I’d anticipated wearing to the annual Garden View Sponsorship Cocktail Party. That was more in the way of a plunging neckline and halter top, but as Ella had reminded me over and over (and over) since I took her place as the cemetery’s community relations manager, I had an image to project. And protect. Since she had arrived at the reception wearing an orange-and-green flowy outfit that reminded me of a tropical drink that had taken one too many spins in a blender, I wasn’t exactly sure what that image was supposed to be.

  Alas, by then, it was too late. Black boatneck would have to do.

  What with all her talk of proper dress, Ella had forgotten to mention that by the time our three hundred invited guests arrived, I’d be feeling the exhaustion of working long hours for three solid weeks, finalizing plans for this fund-raising soiree, talking to the caterer, arranging for flowers and the kind of tasteful music that could only be provided by a harpist who (it turned out) was so high maintenance, she made even me look like a raw beginner. Run ragged was putting it mildly, and our guests had only just begun to arrive.

  “Wine, cheese, fruit tray, little spinach pies, shrimp cocktails, glasses, napkins, newsletters.” Under my breath, I ticked off the list of what I knew should be set artfully on the linen-draped tables on the patio outside the imposing sandstone monument where President James A. Garfield rested in peace ever since I helped him avert a national crisis that was bound to lead to all-out war with Canada.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself, what with talk of ghosts, and all.

  And I was forgetting—

  “Newsletters!” I looked at the blank spot on the table closest to where the small white plates were stacked beside napkins the same shade as the clear evening sky, and my heart sank. Damn! I’d been in such a hurry to leave the administration building and get over here to the other side of the cemetery to get things set up, I’d
left the copies of the latest issue of the Garden View newsletter in my office.

  Though it would have aptly described the situation, I bit off the word I was tempted to mutter, smiled from between clenched teeth at the patrons who were lining up for their appetizers and wine, and scrambled to the other side of the patio where Ella, the newly appointed Garden View administrator, was personally welcoming each guest.

  “Have to go back to my office.” I stood behind the man at the front of the reception line, and catching Ella’s eye, I mouthed the words and pointed over my shoulder and back toward the administration building. “Be right back!”

  I’d left my car parked in front of the nearest mausoleum, and getting into it, I mumbled another curse; the primo spot was bound to be gone by the time I got back.

  And I didn’t have the luxury of worrying about it.

  I wheeled the Mustang down the tree-lined avenue that was bordered on each side by the graves of the rich, the famous, and the common folk who made Garden View their final resting place. Whizzing past statues of angels and two-story-high obelisks, flashy mausoleums, and a smattering of plain-Jane, flat-to-the-ground grave markers, I made it to the administration building in record time, fished my keys out of my sparkly evening bag, and hurried inside.

  Deadly quiet.

  Why do those two words always seem to latch onto each other? And why did they occur to me when I had newsletters to worry about, and not a minute to devote to thinking that over the last few years since I whacked my head on a mausoleum and discovered I could talk to the dead, I’d been righting wrongs and investigating mysteries for those Garden View residents who weren’t at peace?

  “No time for you if you’re around,” I called out, just in case any of the disembodied happened to be waiting to waylay me. Yes, I know, this sounds heartless, but hey, what’s that old saying about not judging another person until you walk a mile in her Jimmy Choos? See, on TV and in the movies, this whole I-see-dead-people thing looks like a pretty glamorous gig. In real life…well, okay, I admit it, in real life, I’d met ghosts I liked and even one I’d fallen in love with. Then again, there was the one who’d tried to steal my body. Her, I still haven’t forgiven. In terms of weighing the positive against the negative, I guess I was lucky; I’d run into more good ghosts than bad. But that doesn’t make my walk on the not-so-quiet side of death any easier. Ghosts with mysteries are ghosts who get me embroiled in murders, kidnapping, and the like, and honestly, at that moment, I didn’t want to take the chance of encountering any of them. I simply didn’t have time. Not when the people we hoped to schmooze that night to contribute to the cemetery’s coffers were waiting back at the Garfield memorial to be charmed by the likes of little ol’ me.