Dead Man Talking

The little pink woman was followed by another, taller woman with a broad chest and a scowl on her face. That woman was followed by another, and-

“Mrs. Lamb!” I knew the fourth woman who emerged from the limo. She lived just a couple doors down from where we used to live before-

Anyway, Mrs. Lamb was the mother of my best childhood friend, Dominique. Domi and I were inseparable through our high school years, right up until college when we went our separate ways. We’d kept in touch, until-

There was no use going over it again. I found myself fingering the phone message from my dad and told myself to get a grip. It was a good thing I did. Just at that moment, Mrs. Lamb recognized me (it’s hard to forget a five-foot-eleven redhead) and came around to the other side of the limo.

“Pepper!” Her smile was pleasant enough, but I couldn’t help noticing the way Katherine Lamb’s gaze raked over me from head to toe, checking out my hair, my makeup, my clothes. Her smile wilted a bit when she said, “So, the rumor I heard is actually true. You really do work in a cemetery?”

“Not this cemetery.” I thought it best to set the record straight. Garden View is way classier than Monroe Street. “I’m just sort of here on loan.”

“Yes. Of course.” Mrs. Lamb touched a hand to one diamond earring. “And how is Barb?”

I was tempted to tell her that she could find out herself if she would just pick up the phone and call my mom. But it was early in the morning, and I am never at the top of my game before noon. Besides, like it or not, my hand strayed again to the pocket where I’d tucked my dad’s message. Of course Katherine Lamb hadn’t called my mother. Like all Mom’s other friends, Mrs. Lamb was embarrassed and appalled by my dad’s lack of good sense. Not to mention his carelessness at getting caught.

When I didn’t answer right away, she apparently considered the subject blessedly closed. “You’ve heard about Dominique, of course,” Mrs. Lamb said.

It wasn’t a question. “I heard she graduated from Wellesley, but it’s been a few years and-”

“Wellesley, yes. She married a doctor, you know. They’re living in Manhattan. Upper West Side near the park. And your other friends? Tiffany and Madison and Sydney? What are they up to these days? My goodness, you girls were inseparable, weren’t you?”

We were. Until my dad was declared a felon and the friends who were supposed to be my bridesmaids and my life-long buddies abandoned me, just like my fiance had. I shrugged like it was no big deal, and I was still scrambling to come up with something to say that would make it sound as if none of it mattered when Jim stepped forward.

“You will all get to know each other better over the next couple months,” he said, looking back and forth between me and the line of well-dressed ladies. “But let me do a quick introduction. Pepper, you seem to already know Katherine Lamb, and this”-he turned toward the fluffy little woman in pink-“this is Mae Tannager.” From there he pointed down the line, starting with the big woman. “And this is Lucinda Wright. Gretchen Hamlin, and-”

“Bianca?” I’d been so busy talking to Mrs. Lamb, I hadn’t noticed the woman who stepped out of the limo last. Now, I stared in awe. I would recognize those perfect high cheekbones, the pouty lips, and the incredible dark eyes anywhere. She was taller even than me, pencil thin, and elegantly dressed in camel-colored pants and an unstructured jacket in shades of burnt orange, taupe, and a startling aqua that matched the color of her silk asymmetrical tee.

Bianca needed only one name because anybody who had ever flipped through a copy of Vogue, or Elle, or Cosmo recognized her at once. She was one of the first African American supermodels, and she’d lived the kind of life most of us- well, I-only dream about. She had homes in Paris, London, and Monaco. She’d married a movie star, but the romance fizzled, and when she jetted to Tahiti to forget her troubles (paparazzi in tow), she’d met a guy from Cleveland who just so happened to have more money than God. He was twenty years older. She was in love and was welcomed with open arms into the closed community of North Coast society.

These days, Bianca devoted her time to various local charities and-way more important-to La Mode, a women’s boutique over on Larchmere, in one of those neighborhoods that’s shabby, chic, trendy-and too expensive for me to shop in. Just thinking about my last trip past La Mode made me wonder if they ever got my nose prints or my drool off the front window.

My hand outstretched, I closed in on Bianca even before I realized I was moving. “It’s an honor to meet you,” I said, right before I felt like a complete fool, so I added, “Well, you know what I mean.”

She laughed. Her teeth were perfectly straight and blindingly white. She was kind and gracious. I knew she would be. “It’s nice to meet you, too. You must be Pepper.”

She knew my name! I was so flabbergasted, I could only gape. Not a good look for me, so it was just as well that while I was doing it, Jim stepped over. His cheeks were flushed; he was clearly smitten. “Bianca has graciously agreed to be part of the team,” he said.

“Team?” I glanced from Jim to Ella. “We’re a team?”

Ella smiled. “We’ve worked so hard on getting all the pieces in place, and it’s going to be fabulous and such good publicity and-”

“Team.” I fastened my eyes on Ella as I said this, the better to get her to stick to the matter at hand. “What kind of team are we? What are we going to be doing?”

Ella’s smile was a mile wide. “Why, you’re going to restore the cemetery, of course! It’s brilliant PR, Pepper. Instead of you here working with just any volunteers…” When she looked around at the limo ladies, Ella’s eyes sparkled. “All these wonderful women are involved with the Historical Society, and they all understand the importance of cemeteries in preserving local history. They’ve agreed to be part of the team that’s going to work on restoring one of the Monroe Street sections this summer. You know, deciding what to do as far as landscaping, and how to fix the damaged headstones, and how we can all work together to get publicity for the cemetery so that people realize what a worthwhile cause it is and donate to help with the rest of the restoration.”

One look, and I knew if anybody could help, it was these ladies. Sure, they were all a little older than middle aged. Absolutely, they looked as if they’d never stepped foot in a cemetery before (except for funerals) and that they wouldn’t know what to do to restore a headstone if they had to. Heck, I didn’t, either.

But I’d known women like these all my life. They were the movers and shakers of the city, mild-mannered housewives (for the most part) who, thanks to the force of their personalities, their family names, and the big, big bucks they had, could move mountains.

And we were going to be a team!

I found myself smiling at the same time I smoothed a hand over my white blouse. If I was working with Bianca all summer and I could impress her enough…

The thoughts that sped through my head were crazy, sure, but crazier things had happened in my life. Like my family losing its fortune, and Joel dumping me, and me talking to ghosts. Why was it any crazier to imagine that if I worked hard to impress Bianca, there might be a job at La Mode in my future?

No more cemeteries!

No more ghosts!

Days filled with fabulous fashions, elegant fabrics, cultured and very rich clients who came to me for advice and respected my opinions and listened when I recommended styles and put together colors like nobody else could.

I did my best to control the bubble of excitement that would have made me look too unprofessional, and reminded myself that as team captain-I mean, I assumed I was team captain since I was the one with cemetery experience-I needed to be cool, collected, and in control.

I would have been, too, if that ghost in the pin-striped suit didn’t show up again right behind Bianca.

I rolled my eyes, and instantly regretted it. The fashion consultants who worked at La Mode would never be so gauche.

Instead, I concentrated on what Jim was saying, on how he was explaining that Mae and the other women would be working over in Section 10 where a couple prominent early settlers were buried. I was listening. Honest. It would have been easier if that pin-striped spook didn’t hover around behind Bianca, his chin up and his shoulders steady, even though he never once met my eyes.

He moved away, toward the overgrown walkways, marching toward the back corner of the property where