Читать книгу High-Heeled Alibi - Sydney Ryan - Страница 8

God, even the man’s feet were beautiful.

And Bitsy had seen enough bare feet to know they should’ve been, at least, unsightly. At a minimum, amusing. These feet, though, stuck out beneath the sheet like a final curtain call, naked, proud, without wrinkles, thickened, yellowed skin pads or oddly crooked toes. Smooth, sculpted, these feet did not reveal the many miles walked, only the fine-grained desire of many miles more wished for.

At the ankles, a white cloth began and spread wide and long across a large, unmoving body.

Above was the face, tanned and crowned by a bleached cap of hair. A small circular scar puckered the skin above the right collarbone, saving the man from total perfection. Otherwise, the jawline was not too square, not too soft. The lips tipped at the corners, teasing. The dark brows arched, then dipped deep toward the nose, finishing the face with an air of “to hell with you.” The eyes were closed, but they had to be blue, the blue of night secrets.

Bitsy stared at the man, following his features one by one and thinking of dreams she’d had not so long ago.

The man was beautiful.

Beautiful and dead.

She turned away, clicking her tongue against her teeth in a dismissive note. The sound echoed across the silent room, the gurgling and whirring of the taps turned off for the night. Emotion had no place here. An occasional retching was allowed. Obligatory solemnness was expected. But emotional control was the cornerstone of the profession. And what had called her to her current circumstance.

She snapped on one pair of latex gloves from a waiting wheeled table, and then another. She stepped back, surveying the still figure on the metal stretcher. He must’ve just arrived. The skin was supple. The deceptive flush of life had only begun to pale. The eyes would require blue stipple work around the lids. The right lid had opened a crack in the inside corner, but a pinch of cream worked underneath, then firmed with Number 6, would take care of the problem. Of course, the head would incline slightly to put the carotid suture in shadow.

She stepped closer, drawing back the sheet at the neck, looking for the suture. When Uncle Nelson had suggested her cosmetology training would be useful in the family business, she knew it was exactly the type of work she’d been looking for. Few people understood her choice. Their reactions ran from macabre fascination to hardly concealed repulsion. It didn’t bother her. She’d come home, seeking peace and quiet. At the moment, she only asked from life no more surprises. People could say whatever they wanted about her job, but one thing was certain. There were no surprises.

Bitsy looked up. Two blue eyes looked back at her.

Shock threw her body back. The cart she slammed into skittered across the room. Instruments clattered to the floor. The eyes, the exact shade she’d imagined, blinked.

She backed away, her hands reaching behind her, patting the air, searching for something solid to grasp and support her. Even above the room’s always bitter odor, she could smell her shameful scent of fear.

Control. Her mind repeated the command, seeking to quiet her racing heart.

The eyes staring up at her blinked again, slowly, like a newborn babe.

Spasmodic muscle contracture. It was not uncommon in corpses. Some had been known to rise right up in their caskets. As if to prove her point, the body before her sat up.

She found the counter, fought to stay standing. The sheet fell away from the man’s upper torso, revealing a bronzed span of muscled chest. Frantic fear beat against Bitsy’s breastbone. Her mouth opened in a silent protest as her mind moved into overdrive, attempting to calm her. Okay, okay. Major cadaveric spasm. She gripped the counter’s sharp edge.

The corpse’s gaze narrowed, focusing. He rubbed his forehead. Closing his eyes against the harsh overhead light, he moaned. Bitsy ran out of rational explanations.

“You’re dead.” Her held breath whooshed out with the words.

The man squinted one eye open, letting out another soft groan. His body shuddered at the room’s cool temperature. His nose sniffed the chemical smell. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he gave Bitsy a thorough once-over. She pulled tight the lab jacket she’d slipped on against the room’s coolness, but her leather miniskirt and fishnet stockings were still visible. She watched the man’s gaze lift to take in her skull earrings, the white foundation, black lipstick, her hair dyed jet-black and streaked with silver.

He wet his lips and swallowed as if his mouth were dry. His voice came out a croak. “Something tells me this isn’t the Pearly Gates.”

“This is Memorial Manor,” she said with as much dignity as possible for someone with a bride of Frankenstein beehive. She’d been dressing when the phone had rung. Gwen’s son had tripped over the shreds of his mummy costume and needed stitches. Could Bitsy fill in at the funeral home for a few hours? Uncle Nelson never left it unattended on Halloween. Bitsy had zipped a skirt over her bodysuit and fishnet stockings and rushed right over.

The man massaged his forehead. His hands were broad, big-knuckled. “What’s Memorial Manor? A halfway house to heaven?” His speech was thick. He paused to wet his lips again. “Your people must not have talked to my many fans. They’d definitely have me first in line to fire and damnation.”

“You’re not dead.”

The man’s mouth lazily lifted at one corner. “That’s a relief. Now, maybe you could tell me where the hell…sorry, poor choice of words. Where am I exactly?”

“Memorial Manor is a funeral home.”

The man pointed a finger at her. “But you said I’m not dead.”

“You were,” she tried to explain. “Now, you’re not.”

“Either I’m dead…” The man swung his long legs across the narrow gutter on the side of the gurney. “…or I’m not.” He stood up quickly as if needing the floor’s firmness beneath his feet. The sheet almost slipped away from his body. Before he caught it, Bitsy endured a vision of golden maleness.

She averted her head. “Believe me, you’re alive.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now, explain to me what I’m doing here and how I got here?”

The slur was gone. He spoke with the strength that defined him physically. Bitsy looked back, relieved to see the sheet securely gathered and tucked in tight at his waist. “There must’ve been a mistake.”

He arched one brow.

“A big mistake,” she offered.

He studied her with keen, assessing eyes. “You work here?”

She nodded. Her skull earrings swayed.

“And your job title would be?”

She went for a delicate laugh. “Haven’t you ever seen Vera the Vampire Vixen before?”

“No. And yet until now, I believed I’d lived a full life, which, according to you, I’m about to continue.”

“Heck, I saw three of them tonight already on my way here from the house. Vampire vixens were more popular than I expected this year.”

The man kneaded his forehead as if warding off a migraine. “Who would’ve guessed?”

“I’ll admit we do get carried away, but around here, Halloween is like a national holiday.”

The man stopped rubbing his brow. “And where exactly is ‘around here’?”

“Canaan, California.”

The man still looked blank.

“About twenty miles south of San Francisco,” Bitsy explained. “The City of Death.”

“The City of Death?” the man repeated.

Bitsy nodded. Her skull earrings swung. “We’ve got seventeen cemeteries, one million corpses and a funeral home on almost every corner. We’ve got more famous residents here than Los Angeles—except ours are all dead.”

The man looked at her as if waiting for the punch line.

“Tina Turner’s dog was buried in a fur coat at the Pets Rest Cemetery.”

The other corner of the man’s mouth quirked, his smile complete. And devastating. “It’s Halloween. I’m in Canaan, California, City of Death,” he repeated. He studied her, his large palm still shading his face, making the angled lines longer, bolder. “You’re a mortician?”

“Restorative artist,” she corrected.

The man stared at her a second more before breaking into a spontaneous laugh, his teeth flashing white. Something seized inside Bitsy and tightened. Yearnings remembered, desires denied. She smiled back tentatively. Alive, the man was deadly.

“Okay, what am I doing here?” His laughter stopped.

Bitsy’s hesitant smile remained. “The report of your demise is greatly exaggerated?”

Clutching the sheet at his waist, the man began to pace, sidestepping the large drain in the middle. Despite his size, he moved with an unanticipated grace. He stopped and aimed a finger at her. Bitsy pressed tighter to the counter.

“Let’s go over this once more. You’re Vera the Vampire Vixen.” His finger jabbed his bare chest. “I’m Lazarus.” His one hand clutched the sheet while the other panned the room. “And this is Memorial Manor, where they obviously strive to put the ‘fun’ in funeral.”

Unable to give the man the logical explanation he demanded, Bitsy said nothing. The slim glint of a scalpel on the floor near him caught her attention. She took a sideways step toward the instrument fallen from the cart. She was sure there was a reason for what had happened, and the man seemed harmless…but bottom line, he was a man. A half-naked, very alive man. It was more than enough of a combination to make Bitsy wary.

She inched her body along the counter, closer to the scalpel.

“And tonight’s Halloween,” the man continued.

“Trick or…” She slid her foot toward the knife.

“Treat,” the man finished as he swooped down and snatched the scalpel. Bitsy jerked her head up and met the man’s dark-blue eyes.

He tested the blade with the pad of his thumb. Her breath stilled, a dreaded helplessness coming over her. The silence was long, magnifying their aloneness. As Gwen had called over her shoulder as she’d hurried out the door earlier, “It should be nice and quiet until I get back. There’s only you and one in the icebox.”

The “one in the icebox” looked at her now as his thumb rhythmically smoothed across the edge of the scalpel.

She thought of Gwen, the sudden emergency, the too obviously gorgeous corpse. Halloween. Comprehension came, along with relief and annoyance as Bitsy realized exactly what was going on.

Trick or treat.

“Give me that.” She seized the instrument so quickly the man didn’t have time to react. “It’ll have to be sterilized.” She aimed the knife at his chest. “Lanie put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“Excuse me?” To his credit, the man was convincingly confused.

“And Gwen is in on it, too, isn’t she?” Bitsy jabbed the knife in the air, underscoring her words.

“Who’s Lanie? Who’s Gwen?”

“You know damn—” Bitsy stopped. Giving up swearing was part of her control program. Besides, she wasn’t mad at the man. He was probably one of the many out-of-work actors who came to California like lambs to the slaughter. She couldn’t blame him for taking advantage of an opportunity to make a few easy bucks. She hoped he’d charged Lanie a small fortune.

“You know.” She gave the space between them a stab with the scalpel. “All I’m trying to do is lead a nice, normal life, but that cousin of mine can’t let things be.”

The man’s gaze scanned the room and returned to Bitsy. “This is normal?”

She ignored his comment. “Tell me this. What’s the crime in waking each morning, working each day, going to bed each night…alone?” The scalpel punctured the air again.

The man took a step back. “Thousands of people do it every day.”

“Exactly,” she agreed with an approving flourish of the scalpel. “Thousands, millions, gazillions. Is there anything wrong if I’m one of them?”

“Is there?” The man repeated.

Her voice dropped. “I’ve known passion. I have.” She leaned in toward the man. “Believe me, I’ve ridden that roller coaster.”

The man stared back at her. “Three minutes of thrills? Thirty minutes of wanting to throw up?”

Bitsy smiled, her frustration deflated. She slipped the scalpel into the lab jacket’s pocket and held out her hand. “Bitsy Leigh, currently crazed, but, on a good day, calm, controlled cosmetician and upstanding citizen of Canaan.”

The half-naked man took her hand. The charming smile returned. “Bitsy? Is that short for something?”

“Momma said it was supposed to be Betsy but Daddy didn’t put on his glasses when he filled out the hospital paperwork. Daddy always joked it could’ve been worse. Batsy or Bootsy or, God forgive, Buttsy.”

The man studied her a second as if trying to decide if she was putting him on. He made his decision and broke into a low laugh, his hand still holding hers, his skin warm. Bitsy liked the silvery sound of his laughter tempering the room’s many edges. Her hand stayed in his.

“What is—” As she started to ask his name, the sound of a car pulling into the upper parking lot stopped her. She dropped the man’s hand. “I’ll bet that’s Lanie and her partner in crime, Gwen. Okay, ladies, now it’s your turn for a little trick or treat.” She marched toward the door.

“Bitsy?” The man called after her.

She turned, a finger to her lips. “Stay right here. Don’t make a sound. I’ll pay you half the amount you charged Lanie.”

She was gone before he could stop her. He crossed the room and stepped out into the hall to follow her when, from behind, he heard the whispered summons:

“Michael.”

BITSY STRODE PAST THE ROOMS of tile and porcelain, linoleum and chromium steel to the stairs. The main floor was pickled oak, chintz, spongy carpet and muted lighting. The knocker sounded twice at the front door. She crossed the reception area that always smelled of cedar and opened one of the wide, carved double doors. Two policemen stood in the perpetual soft glow of the entryway. One officer was tall, dark, Latino. His partner was older, bald, short and fleshy. They eagle-eyed her attire. The older policeman commented with an abrupt grunt.

Bitsy folded her arms so that the lab jacket covered the top of her leopard-print bodysuit and tipped back her head in appraisal. She definitely had to give Lanie and Gwen an A for effort. She nodded approval. “I’ll bet you guys didn’t have an easy time renting authentic-looking costumes on Halloween?”

The taller cop’s brow furrowed.

“Nice touch.” Bitsy tapped the badge pinned on his chest. Both policemen pulled back. The young cop rested his hand on his holster.

“Ma’am, we’re canvassing the area in response to a bulletin the station received earlier.”

“Excuse me just a minute.” Bitsy wiggled between the two men to the generous, curved porch and leaned over its railing. She peered left and right, looking for her cousin and Gwen snickering somewhere in the shrubs lining the circular drive. The bushes were still, their evergreen gone black in the night.

“Ma’am?” The tall officer attempted again, his voice thinner.

She turned to the men. Their faces solemn, they were obviously intent on carrying out this charade to its conclusion. She stepped between them and paused at the door. Might as well give Lanie her money’s worth. She gestured for the men to enter.

The partners glanced at each other. “After you,” the tall one insisted to Bitsy. The two men followed her into the foyer, where she shut the door and faced them. Clasping her hands in front of her chest, she spoke in the hushed tones generated by the surroundings. “How can I help you?”

“Ma’am, as I was saying,” the tall cop tried again, “we received an APB earlier this evening about a man named Michael James—”

She nodded comprehension. “I have him ready for you.”

“He’s here?” The short cop finally spoke.

Bitsy’s expression stayed somber. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, gentlemen, but he’s not exactly going anywhere now, is he?”

The puzzled look between the policemen continued much longer this time.

“I’ll get him for you,” she offered and turned toward the hall.

“Ma’am, we’ll go with you. We don’t want anyone hurt.”

She stopped beside a crushed-velvet sofa and faced them. “How thoughtful, Officer.” Her voice was as smooth as the short officer’s hairless dome. “But cremains are as light as a feather.”

“Cremains?” the bald cop blurted.

Bitsy fought a smile. She cast her gaze downward as if in contemplation. “There is one problem. Usually by the time the cremains are released, the family has chosen an appropriate urn.”

“What does she mean cremains?” the same cop demanded.

“But not to worry. We do have the ever-efficient double-layered brown bag. Let me check if the cremains have cooled and gone through the blender.” She stepped briskly toward the hall.

“Cremains, Hector?” the cop questioned his partner. Bitsy allowed herself a smile.

But when she turned back, her features were respectfully pious. “Gentlemen, I understand. We’re all professionals. Yet, no matter how many times our chosen paths bring us face-to-face with death, it’s difficult to think of anyone, even a stranger, as anything but brimming with life.”

“Hector,” the cop said out of the side of his mouth, “what the hell is this broad talking about?”

Hector made a shushing motion with his hand. The other hand still rested on his holster. “Ma’am, are you telling us the man we’re looking for is dead?”

Bitsy smiled patiently as her upturned palm made a semicircle. “Look around you, gentlemen. You wouldn’t exactly come here looking for a live body.”

“What we came looking for,” Hector said, “was a man, early thirties, blond, about six foot two, two hundred-ten pounds, athletic build.”

Bitsy crossed herself. “May he rest in peace.”

Hector attempted to understand. “You’re saying this man—

“The dearly departed.” She couldn’t resist.

“The dearly departed,” the cop repeated through thin lips, “was cremated?”

Bitsy raised her hands, steepled her fingers and closed her eyes. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” She opened her eyes to the men’s wonderfully confounded expressions. “Is there a problem, officers? That is the man you came here looking for, isn’t it?”

She had planned to let the “policemen” squirm until they could report to Lanie this little glitch in her plan, but the two men looked so bewildered, she didn’t have the heart to prolong their suffering. She might as well tell them now that she had caught on to her cousin and Gwen’s questionably funny Halloween prank before the men had even knocked on the front door.

“Did the APB say the suspect was dead?” The short cop demanded of his partner.

“Okay, guys, you can give it up,” Bitsy interjected. She would tell them the truth, go get Michael James or whatever his name was with his heart still steadily beating, and they could all be on their way to her cousin’s boyfriend’s costume party.

“It said possibly armed and dangerous. It didn’t say possibly armed and dead,” Hector said disgustedly. “It wouldn’t surprise me if those SFPD desk jockeys got their wires crossed and sent us out on a manhunt for a corpse.”

Bitsy felt a first frisson of doubt. “Fellas, it’s okay,” she assured them. “I know what’s going on.”

“I’m glad someone does,” Hector said. “All I know is earlier this evening, we received an all-points bulletin from the San Francisco Police Department telling us to comb the area for a fugitive possibly headed for this locale.”

The short cop snorted. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on. They didn’t want to send a car to claim the body. I say we FedEx this poor bum’s ashes right to the commissioner.”

“A fugitive?” Bitsy’s skepticism echoed off the dark-paneled walls. “Possibly armed and dangerous?”

The older cop huffed another disgusted breath. “Not any longer.”

Bitsy studied the two men. She slowly smiled. “You guys are good. For a moment, you almost had me believing you’re real cops.”

Hector looked down at her. “Ma’am,” he said, pointing to the patch on his shirtsleeve. “We’re members of the Canaan City Police Department.”

Bitsy stared at the colored patch, her smile dissolving. At one of the courses she’d taken on self-defense, she’d learned crimes were often committed by assailants posing as policemen. Uniforms, security badges and guns were easy to obtain. There was one way, however, to determine if someone was really a legitimate member of the police force: their uniforms would have departmental-issued patches on the upper sleeve. These patches could not be duplicated. Her gaze met Hector’s.

“You guys are real cops?”

“Ma’am, that’s what we’ve been trying to tell you.”

She didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and ran down the stairs, past the chrome and linoleum rooms, ignoring the policemen’s shouts to stop until she came to the room where the “corpse” had been. She stopped in the entryway, panting.

The room was empty.

She spun around and faced the police right behind her. “He’s gone!”

“Yes.” The short one nodded. “Dearly departed.”

She shook her head. “He’s not dead.”

Again a long, puzzled look passed between the partners. “Ma’am,” Hector began.

“Shh! Did you hear that?” Bitsy looked to the stairs. Above them was the sound of footsteps crossing the oak floor.

“Inside.” Hector pushed Bitsy into the room as both policemen drew their guns.

The footsteps continued to the stairs, down the steps, into the hall at the bottom, periodically pausing as if stopping at each room’s entrance, checking inside. The older policeman flattened himself unseen at the right side of the door, his handgun aimed at the entrance. The tall one positioned himself at the other side, pushing Bitsy behind him. Shielded by his back, she sensed his trained tautness. Her own muscles clutched with terror. The footsteps had stopped at the room next door. They started again, slow, hesitant. The policeman’s shoulders and spine were rigid, his body ready. Bitsy held her breath.

Gwen appeared in the doorway, tiny in the tall jamb. She gasped, her hand flying to the hollow of her throat. “Bitsy?”

Relief seemed to melt Bitsy’s very marrow. She started to step out from behind Hector. “Gwen, thank goodness, it’s—”

Hector pulled her roughly back behind him.

“Hey, let go!” She tried to shake his hand off her arm.

Hector’s partner stepped out from the wall. Gwen, her features frozen with fear, looked from one pointed gun to the other.

“Bitsy?” Her voice was thin, wavering. “What’s going on?”

Bitsy tried to sidestep Hector once more, but his grip only tightened on her forearm.

“At ease, big boy,” she snapped at him. “Put your gun back where it belongs,” she ordered the other cop. “Can’t you see the poor child is terrified?”

“What’s your name?” Hector barked.

Gwen stared at the gun pointed at her heart. Her throat worked but no sound came out.

“Gwen Rinkert,” Bitsy supplied. “She works here.”

The policemen didn’t lower their weapons.

“Go ahead,” Bitsy encouraged. “Tell them all about the ‘corpse’ that came in earlier today.”

Gwen looked from the gun to Bitsy to the police. Trying to avoid looking at the aimed guns, she said, “I came on about nine tonight. The corpse was already here.”

“Was it dead?” Hector demanded.

Gwen’s incredulousness momentarily eclipsed her fear. “Officers, with all due respect, that is the definition of a corpse.”

“He wasn’t dead,” Bitsy contradicted. “Less than twenty minutes ago, he sat up right here.” She pointed at the gurney. “And said, ‘Something tells me this isn’t the Pearly Gates.’ He was blond, blue-eyed, tall. I’d say six-two, like the report. He was well built. He obviously worked out.” She stared at the empty metal bed. “He had a good smile.”

“He couldn’t have gotten too far,” Hector said to his partner. “Get on the radio and see if there’s immediate backup in the area. Call the station and tell them we’re going to need more men. He could be to the border by the time we get done checking every masked person out there.”

By the time Hector had ushered the women upstairs, Bitsy heard the wail of an approaching siren. When the other cop came back from the squad car, Hector pointed at Gwen and said, “I’ll stay here with her until back-up arrives.” His finger swung to Bitsy. “You take her downtown for further questioning.”

“What for?” Bitsy demanded as the older cop grasped her upper arm. “Am I being charged with something?”

“We just want to ask you a few more questions,” the older cop reassured her, steering her toward the front door.

Bitsy glanced over her shoulder as she was ushered out the door. She called to Gwen, “Get ahold of Grey.”

The cop opened the car’s door and she slid into the back of the cruiser with its unique odor of heavy, desperate sweats.

Costumed children came around the far corner, headed to the first house at the end of the street. In the split second before the car door slammed closed, Bitsy heard the night’s calling card.

“Trick or treat.”