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  PRAISE FOR THE PEPPER MARTIN MYSTERIES

  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

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

  —Darque 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 The More the Terrier

  “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

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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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.

  WILD WILD DEATH

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

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2011

  Copyright © 2012 by Connie Laux.

  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 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.

  ISBN: 978-0-425-24582-8

  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.”

  I don’t know if there’s some publishing rule against

  dedicating two books in a row to the same person,

  I only know that without Leslie Wey,

  this book would not exist.

  Thank you, Leslie, for welcoming me into your home,

  introducing me to all your wonderful

  friends (furry and human),

  and showing me around New Mexico.

  You, girlfriend, are the best!

  Acknowledgments

  Is there really a curs
e on Cleveland sports teams?

  Years of disappointing win/loss records and dashed hopes here on the north coast make people think so, and there’s even a legend to back them up.

  It all starts with a Native American chief named Joc-O-Sot, who lived from 1810–1844. The chief performed in Wild West shows and while on a trip abroad, he became ill. He desperately wanted to return to his people and be buried in Minnesota, but he only got as far as Cleveland before he died. Local tales say that he haunts the city and that he’s the one whose curse keeps the Cleveland Indians from winning a World Series.

  Is it true? I can’t say, but I do know that on a visit to Joc-O-Sot’s grave, I commented that I was surprised some rabid baseball fans haven’t dug him up and taken him out of town. I was only kidding, of course, but the idea struck a chord and became the basis for Wild Wild Death. With any luck, what happens in these pages will be the fictional catalyst that will realign the universe and take care of that pesky curse. If the Cleveland Indians win the World Series anytime soon, I am more than happy to take credit for helping out.

  There is also historical fact behind the labor troubles mentioned in the book. The Streetcar Strike of 1899 began in June, and as management tried to replace striking workers, riots broke out and explosives were planted to destroy streetcars and tracks.

  A writer’s brain plays with facts like these, molds and shapes them to become part of the fiction that turns into a book. Nowhere is this more evident than in my creation of the Taopi.

  There are many different Pueblo Indian tribes living in the Southwest. Taopi is not one of them. They, too, are an invention of my imagination as is a pueblo on Wind Mountain. In fact, I didn’t know there was a town in Minnesota called Taopi until after I had created my fictional tribe, or that the town was named in honor of an Indian chief who once lived there. Coincidence considering how Joc-O-Sot figures into this story? I can’t say. With the help of Jody Coffman, a Taos Indian I met while visiting the Southwest, I have tried to incorporate the customs and beliefs of real Pueblo peoples into the story. Any mistakes are the fault of a girl from Cleveland who doesn’t get to New Mexico nearly often enough. I’m also grateful to Jody and her mother-in-law, Judy Coffman, for introducing me to the wonders of frozen avocado pie. Yes, I know… sounds terrible, right? Do yourself a favor, find a recipe online, and give it a try.

  It was on a trip to New Mexico back in 2009 that I first visited Bandelier National Monument and the remarkable pueblo ruins there. It is truly an incredible place and I enjoyed scrambling up into the ancient pueblos and getting a glimpse of how the inhabitants lived many hundreds of years ago. As interesting as the entire place was, the memory that remains clearest to me is that of the kiva. As we entered the area, it was late in the afternoon and there were few tourists visiting. That may have been because of the weather. Dark clouds gathered overhead and thunder growled, echoing off the steep cliffs. As we approached the sacred kiva, I knew we were not alone. The spirits of the pueblo’s ancient inhabitants were surely all around us. In researching the Pepper Martin mysteries, I have visited many haunted places and participated in paranormal investigations, but nowhere have I felt the presence of spirits as distinctly. New Mexico is known as the Land of Enchantment. Bandelier is proof.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Prologue

  I t’s tough to decide what to wear to a body snatching.

  On one hand, there’s the whole thing about being inconspicuous and blending in with the shadows. On the other…

  Truth be told, in my heart of hearts, I feared the night might end with questions, accusations, and yes, mug shots. If that was the case, I didn’t want to go down in history in the Cleveland Police Department arrest records archives looking like some frumpy reject.

  I compromised, and even though it was a sticky night, I chose jeans for practicality along with a black jersey T. Good camouflage and flattering lines, and both looked just right with the oversized Jimmy Choo multicolored print tote I slipped on my shoulder. What private investigator for the dead could ask for more? Since it started to rain just as I left my apartment, I grabbed Quinn’s blue windbreaker, too, and shrugged into it. If worst came to worst and I ended up against a wall with hash marks on it, I could always take off the jacket for the pictures.

  Without going into the ugly details, let’s just say that getting over the stone wall that surrounded Garden View Cemetery wasn’t the most graceful thing I’ve ever done. It was also more exercise than this girl is used to, and by the time I finally had both feet on the ground of the place I used to work, I was breathing hard. As much as I hate to admit it, I may have been sweating, too. Well, just a teensy bit. No matter. Within a couple minutes, I was outside the marble mausoleum where Chester Goodshot Gomez rested in peace—but hopefully not for long.

  All I had to do was figure out which of the keys I stole from Ella fit the mausoleum door.

  Long story. For now, let’s just say I’m not cut out for a life of crime. Especially when it comes to stealing from fluffy, lovable Ella. I swear, the guilt was what made my hands shake and my heart beat a jackhammer rhythm. Then again, thinking that Dan Callahan’s life depended on me and what I was about to do didn’t do much for my composure, either.

  The very thought made me feel as if I’d chugged a Slurpee. Or maybe that frozen-stomach sensation came when I heard the crunch of car tires against the road that wound through this section of the cemetery with its century-old mausoleums and headstones that stood as tall as my five feet eleven inches. Security, and yes, I was on a first-name basis with the entire crew. Something told me that did not mean they’d take it kindly if they found me lurking there in the middle of the night.

  I darted to the far side of Goodshot Gomez’s mausoleum, flattened myself against the marble wall, and waited for the white patrol car to cruise by. They were on a forty-five-minute schedule so I knew exactly when they’d be back. By the time they were, I planned to be long gone.

  Keeping the thought firmly in mind, I clenched my pocket-sized flashlight between my teeth and tried key after key in the rusted lock on the mausoleum door. When one finally fit and the ancient lock clicked open, I took a second to congratulate myself. Right before I stuck my head into the mausoleum.

  “Hello?” Okay, it might have been crazy for anybody else to peek into a musty tomb and call out a greeting, but in my world, it’s just common courtesy. “Hello? It’s me, Pepper.”

  No answer. And no sign of Goodshot.

  So far, so good.

  Not that I have anything against Indians or anything. It’s just that this was not the moment to run into the former Wild West show star who’d died in a tragic accident in Cleveland and—

  How do I know? About Goodshot?

  Well, like I said, I used to work at Garden View, and not just answering phones or selling plots or anything like that. I was the one and only full-time tour guide at the historic cemetery, and I’d brought plenty of people past this mausoleum.

  I knew Goodshot’s story, all right. It went something like this.

  July 17, 1899

  “I don’t know, fellas…” With a slow look around at the buildings that ringed them like the rocky cliffs of an arroyo, Chester Goodshot Gomez took a long draw on his Cuban cigar and released the smoke in a series of O’s that weren’t as lazy as they were just plumb weary. “All this talk of streetcar riots and unions and management scrapping with workers…” He shook his head, his eyes on the spot not twenty feet away where a man in a dark cap stood square in the center of a set of streetcar tracks that glinted in the afternoon sun like twin butcher kn
ives. The man was handing out flyers and urging the folks who passed to support his cause and avoid riding something he called the Big Consolidated Line.

  “We’ve only been in this town for a day, and I’m tired of the bickerin’ already.” Goodshot took a last puff on his cigar, tossed the butt onto the sidewalk, and ground it under the heel of his leather boot. “Heard someone talkin’ this morning. Those union types, they used explosives last night to demolish some streetcar tracks not too far from here.” Chester sighed. “I can’t help but think… life, it was never so complicated back on the pueblo.”

  “It might not have been complicated, but you’re forgettin’, my friend, you always said as how it was plenty boring.” Thad Jenson, tall and lanky, slapped Goodshot on the back. “Ain’t like you to talk like you’s hankerin’ for what’s past.”

  “Yeah, what’s got into you?” With his thumb and forefinger, Rawley Moran snapped his Stetson back on his head and tipped his craggy face to the sunshine that poked its way between the shadows of the two buildings across the wide, public green space from where they stood. He laughed, coughed, and pounded his chest. “You gettin’ homesick in yer old age?”

  “Nah!” It was true, or at least Goodshot liked to think it was, so he sloughed off the comment like it was nothing more than a fly bite. “Just ponderin’, is all. Thinkin’ about how cities is—”

  “Big? Excitin’? Filled with pretty women?” Thad caught the eye of one such lady as she passed and she giggled, the sound as delicate as the clink of champagne glasses. But then, like so many city ladies, she probably wasn’t used to the sight of two cowboys and an Indian out on the street together. Thad grinned, and Goodshot couldn’t blame him. He’d caught a whiff of the woman’s lavender scent, too. “A visit to the nearest saloon will change your mind and get you back to thinkin’ about what’s really important in life.” The young cowboy looped an arm through Goodshot’s.

  “Like tonight’s show,” Rawley added, falling into step beside them.

  To Goodshot’s way of thinking, they were probably right. The show was what mattered. But then, Colonel Brady’s Wild West Stampede of Rough Riders and Ropers was the place he’d called home ever since he left the New Mexico Territory. He’d been young then, restless and bored growing corn and tending sheep the way his ancestors had done for a thousand years. He craved adventure, excitement, and in all the days he’d spent traveling and the nights he’d performed, he’d had no complaints. Hell, to his way of thinking, his life was just about perfect.