Supernatural Born Killers Read online

  I hotfooted it down the hallway to Ella’s old—now my new—office and unlocked the door. This office was slightly larger than the one I’d occupied (notice I did not say worked in) when I was the cemetery’s one and only tour guide and for that, at least, I was grateful, even if I wasn’t all that crazy about having added a whole bunch of responsibilities to my job description.

  Tours. Yeah, I still did them. Along with the monthly newsletter, public relations, press liaison, and oh yeah, the Garden View Speakers’ Bureau, if I ever had a moment’s peace and could actually get to it.

  “No time to worry about any of it,” I reminded myself, shooting past my desk. “No time for anything but newsletters.” That advice actually might have been easier to follow if there weren’t two huge vases of flowers on my desk. The pink and white roses along with the tasteful card wishing me luck that night were from Quinn Harrison, the Cleveland homicide detective I’d once thought was the man of my dreams. That fairy tale went up in smoke the day I confessed that I talked to the dead and he dumped me.

  So why the flowers?

  Well, Quinn was back in my life. Sort of. Ever since he’d had his own little brush with the Other Side a few months earlier, we’d been reconnecting (in a nonphysical sort of way). One of these days if he ever finally opened up about what happened to him the night he got shot, and how he was a ghost for a few minutes and showed up in my apartment to provide me with a vital clue to the case he was investigating, we might actually move what was left of our relationship off dead center.

  Dead center.

  Don’t think I didn’t recognize the irony.

  My sigh rippled the silence of the office.

  Then…another sigh was only appropriate…there was Jesse Alvarez.

  My gaze swung to the vase on the other side of the desk. It was a wild concoction of sunset-colored flowers studded with curlicues of ribbon in greens and purples and golds that burst throughout the arrangement like fireworks. Kind of like I’d smashed my way into the Pueblo Indian world Jesse occupied, and he’d pounded past my defenses—and into my bed.

  I’d met Jesse on a ghost-related trip to New Mexico that summer and again, I’d been fooled. See, when I met him, I thought my happily ever after had stepped out of the dry desert air and straight into my heart. But after my case was wrapped up and I asked Jesse to come back to Cleveland with me…

  Well, there’s no use rehashing what I didn’t want to hash in the first place. Let’s just say things didn’t work. The good news? At least thinking about it didn’t hurt as much now as it had when it all first went down, which meant that when the flowers from Jesse arrived and all the card said was Good luck with the new job instead of I miss you, Pepper. Give me another chance, it didn’t sting. At least not much.

  But then, I’d hardly had the chance to brood, what with working fourteen hours a day to get ready for the sponsorship bash.

  Yeah, the one I was missing because I was standing in my office thinking about my love life.

  I shook myself out of my thoughts and whirled toward the table across from my desk where the newsletters were stacked. I actually might have gotten over there without incident if I hadn’t stepped into a puddle in the middle of the floor.

  My peep-toe slingbacks slipped out from under me and I stifled a screech and threw out an arm. Lucky for me, I caught on to the edge of my desk. It was the only thing that kept me from falling flat on my face.

  When my breathing slowed to nearly normal, I checked out the dinner plate–sized puddle on my floor.

  No drips coming from the ceiling. No water flowing from the vases on my desk.

  And really, did I care where the water came from? I reached across my desk for the fast-food napkins I’d picked up that day with the lunch I never had time to eat, mopped up the puddle, and tossed the napkins in the trash.

  While I was at it, I figured I might as well take a moment to refresh my lipstick and check my hair, so I took care of that, too. Finished, feeling refreshed and looking fabulous, I already had the newsletters in hand when I stepped toward the door—

  And nearly slipped again thanks to another puddle on the floor.

  My eyes narrowed, I shot a look around the office. Sure, it was bigger than my old digs, but there was no place for anyone to hide. “Nobody here,” I told myself. “No leaky pipes. No ghost cats peeing on my floor.” Just to make sure, I looked behind the door and under my desk.

  No nothing.

  Time for an executive decision, and mine was that the puddle wasn’t hurting anything but the old green linoleum. By the next morning it would be evaporated, and I wouldn’t have to go searching for paper towels.

  I locked up my office and the administration building and started back to the reception the way I came, on the road lined by hundred-year-old trees and streaked with the long shadows thrown by the monuments on my right and the setting sun beyond. I was just about to turn to make my final approach toward the memorial when a flash of color caught my eye.

  Red and blue.

  That was my first impression.

  A man in a baggy, brighter-than-navy-blue suit, holding a bouquet of red roses.

  Don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not like I’m a sucker for schmaltz. I didn’t stop and get out of the car because the sight of the man looking wistfully at one of the grave markers tugged at my heartstrings. I am way more of a realist than that. What I did know was that if he was supposed to be at the reception, he was headed in the wrong direction. And if he was here just to visit a departed loved one…well, the cemetery gates were about to be locked and would remain that way until the end of the party. If he was going to get out of Garden View before dark, he’d have to do it fast.

  By the time I caught up with the man, I was breathing hard. High heels. Lumpy ground. Newsletters to deliver. I think it was safe to say he didn’t notice I was in a hurry. His head bowed, the man concentrated on a single pink granite gravestone and the information carved into it: Gladys Moritz, 1920–1993.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and when he never moved I figured he didn’t hear me so I tried again, a little louder this time. “Excuse me, the cemetery is closing. If you stay here too long—”

  “Not to worry.” The man’s words escaped on the end of a sigh. His head was bowed and his shoulders were stooped. His gaze stayed on the grave, but from his profile, I could see that his dark hair was touched with just a sprinkling of gray. He had chiseled features that included a strong, square jaw and a straight nose. “I’m headed over to the reception. I just wanted to stop here for a moment. When I come to Garden View, I always visit her.”

  One of our guests, and I knew better than to rush him. People who feel hurried are not likely to pull out their checkbooks at the end of the evening.

  I stepped closer to the neatly tended grave. “Was Gladys a relative of yours?” I asked.

  “Gladys?” There was a certain wistfulness in his voice I found intriguing, and I watched as he bent and laid the bouquet of flowers on the grave. “Never met her. But you know, they say Gladys was the woman who—”

  Finished with the flowers, he stood and for the first time, he glanced my way, and his voice caught over a breath of astonishment. “Lana?”

  The sun shone from directly over my right shoulder so I guess I could forgive him for mistaking me for someone else. “Not Lana. I’m Pepper.” I stuck out my hand. “Pepper Martin. I’m community relations manager here at Garden View.”

  “How silly of me!” When he reached out a hand, the sun glanced off the lenses of his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. His smile was both apologetic and friendly, his voice was airy. “It was the red hair, of course. For just that one instant, I thought—” Whatever it was, he shook the thought away. “I’m being rude. It’s very nice to meet you, Pepper. I’m Milo Blackburne.”

  I might be overworked and overstressed, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t paying attention to the night’s guest list. When it came to philanthropists we were doing our darnedest to
court, Milo Blackburne was at the top of our list.

  And I’d just been handed an engraved invitation to bring him into the Garden View patron fold.

  I looked at the bloodred roses on the headstone and put my best community relations manager foot forward. “You were telling me about Gladys.”

  “Gladys? Yes, of course.” He gave his shoulders a little shake. “There’s a lot of history in Cleveland,” he said. “But then, you work here at Garden View. You surely know that.”

  True, though this wasn’t the time to point out that I really didn’t much care. Up close and personal time with Blackburne, that’s what mattered. When Ella heard about this, she’d be so jazzed, she’d dance right out of her sensible shoes!

  “Gladys Moritz played a part in a very important piece of that history,” Blackburne said. “But then, you probably know that, too. Community relations manager, did you say? I’ll bet you’ve brought people here to her grave on tours.”

  I hated to confess I hadn’t, but lucky for me (and those dreams of dollar signs I saw dancing in my head), Blackburne didn’t hold it against me. In fact, he laughed. “Well, I suppose there are those who wouldn’t agree with my take on history. But Gladys here…” He leaned nearer, not so much as if he was sharing a secret as that he was so excited to be telling me the story, he could hardly contain himself. “She was the original model. You know, for Lois Lane.”

  I thought I was pretty good at covering up for the things I didn’t know, but this time, I wasn’t fast enough.

  Blackburne stepped back and his glasses flashed at me with each unhappy shake of his head. “Lois Lane? You know, Superman’s—”

  “Girlfriend! Yes, of course.” I fast-forwarded through all I knew of Cleveland history. It didn’t take long. “Superman was created here in Cleveland back in the 1930s.”

  “That’s right.” Apparently, Blackburne forgave my momentary lapse. His smile was as bright as the glare off his glasses. “By two teenagers named Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. Since then, people have said that Joanne, the woman who was eventually Siegel’s wife, was the model for Lois. But I have my own theory. I’ve done my research.”

  He paused here in a way that made me think I should be impressed by this. Truth be told, I was. Research and I did not get along.

  “Gladys lived in the same neighborhood as Siegel and Shuster,” Blackburne said. “They all went to the same school. One of these days, perhaps you’ll allow me to show you some photos of her as a young woman. Then you’ll see what I see—an amazing resemblance between her and the Lois of the original stories. I will admit, I have always had something of a soft spot in my heart for Lois. Until…” It must have been a trick of the sunlight; I could have sworn Blackburne’s cheeks darkened. “Until today, that is.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Or was I? Did I just not want to think about it? That might explain why when he let his gaze slide from the top of my head to my shoes and all the way up again, I pretended not to notice.

  A second later, I decided I was reading too much into the look. Of course Blackburne was impressed by what he saw, but not in a creepy sort of way. If he was, he wouldn’t have bowed from the waist, his smile sheepish. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you to tears with all this talk of Superman. I often have to remind myself that not everyone shares my interest in the subject and Superman’s connection to Cleveland. Needless to say, I’m something of a fan.”

  This, I understood. I had been known to get carried away a time or two myself. At least when it came to things like shoes and purses and the other necessities of life.

  “It’s nice that someone remembers her,” I said, glancing down to where the flowers caressed Gladys’s name. “I bet Gladys would like that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Blackburne shrugged. “All this attention from a nobody like me.”

  “We both know that isn’t true.” I kept my voice light, the way I would have if the subject had come up back at the cocktail party. Milo Blackburne was one of the city’s movers and shakers. Old money, and lots of it. Deep pockets when it came to things like the orchestra, hospitals, and a whole host of charitable causes. I knew if Ella had caught wind of his Gladys/Lois obsession before this, she would have been all over him (figuratively speaking, of course, since Ella is not that kind of girl) to get him on the list of cemetery patrons. The way it worked out, that task had fallen on my slim and perfectly tanned shoulders. Since Ella had had enough faith in my abilities to not only call me back from what I thought was going to be a permanent layoff but to promote me, too, the least I could do was make the most of the situation.

  I offered Blackburne a ride back to the reception and as we walked over to my car, I scrambled to make the sort of small talk a man like him might appreciate. “You’re doing something special. I mean, for Gladys. There aren’t many people who would bring flowers to a woman they never met.”

  Big points for me; the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. “I like to think so. You know, you’re going to think it’s crazy for me to even say it, but I like to think that the dead have a kind of grapevine. That they talk to each other. You know, about people who were kind to them in this life, and the ones who remember them now that they’re gone, too.”

  He had no idea how true that was!

  We kept up that sort of chatter all the way back to the memorial, and when I walked back into the reception and I introduced Ella to Milo Blackburne, she just about fainted from excitement. I signaled her to play it cool and excused myself so that I could put the newsletters where the newsletters should have been all along.

  After that…

  Well, I quickly learned that at events such as these, things are not easy for a community relations manager. Schmoozing is a required skill, and I schmoozed for all I was worth. Lucky for me, Milo Blackburne knew everyone in sight. Mover and shaker, remember, and when I ran into him a time or two (or three) at the reception, he was more than willing to introduce me to the other members of the country club set and tell them what a worthy cause Garden View was and how he was planning on donating, and donating big.

  After that, was there any way I could say no when he came over to say good night and asked if I’d have lunch with him sometime soon?

  More money than Bill Gates, and Blackburne was still the shy, retiring type. He looked at his Italian leather wingtips before he dared to glance up at me again. “I don’t mean to sound too personal,” he said. “I hope you understand. I just thought we could meet somewhere casual. The Ritz, perhaps. And talk about my donation to the cemetery.”

  See what I mean about not being able to say no?

  We set a date for the following Wednesday and when Blackburne left, I turned and nearly ran right into Ella, who was glowing like a Christmas tree.

  “What?” I asked her.

  “He likes you,” she purred.

  “I don’t want him to like me. I only want him to contribute to the cemetery.”

  “Of course.” Ella’s cheeks were a shade of pink that didn’t go with her tropical outfit. She hid a smile. “But the fact that he likes you—”

  “Is completely irrelevant. He’s not exactly my type.”

  “Rich isn’t your type?”

  I did not dignify this question with an answer. Instead, I bustled around, helping the caterer with cleanup, saying good night to the prima donna harpist, and collecting the issues of the newsletters that hadn’t been picked up. I was just stashing them in my car when a big, shiny black Jag rolled by and Milo Blackburne waved.

  And yes, I was busy, and tired, to boot.

  That must have been why I could have sworn I heard him call out, “Good night, Lana.”

  There are still times when I catch a glimpse of Quinn and my whole body sizzles as if I’ve touched a power line.

  This was not one of them.

  Yeah, even through bleary eyes I could see that he looked great standing there near the door to my apartment building. Dark suit. Blinding shirt. K
iller tie.

  But it was late, and I was dog-tired.

  Then again, if he suggested a martini at one of the nearby cafes, I just might perk up.

  “You’re not going to believe it.” Quinn pushed off from the wall where he was leaning and he was talking even before I was out of my car. “I tried calling to tell you, but you didn’t answer your phone.”

  So much for the obvious signals sent by a little black dress and a sparkly evening bag. Not to mention the dark smudges of exhaustion I feared might be under my eyes.

  I unlocked the door to the lobby and pushed it open. “I was a little busy.”

  “But I called, and you didn’t answer your phone.”

  I got my mail out of the box just inside the door and turned toward the stairs. “Busy,” was all I said.

  Something told me Quinn would have taken the steps two at a time if I wasn’t dragging up them in front of him. The way it was, he was so close behind me, his breath brushed my neck when he asked, “Too busy to talk? To me?”

  By the time I got up the energy to actually glance over my shoulder at him, we were at the second-floor landing. “Sponsorship reception.”

  “Oh yeah. That. I—”

  “Forgot?” If I’d been with anyone else, I might have gone for a withering look here. There was no use wasting the effort on Quinn. He wouldn’t notice, anyway, and even if he did, he is not the withering type. “You sent flowers.”

  “I did, and you know I meant it when I wished you good luck with the evening. But that was before—”