The Chick and the Dead (31 page)

"What did you do?" I asked her. "Take advantage of Susan's greed?"

"She's common." Merilee tossed her head. "For a couple hundred dollars—"

"She told you I knew Didi had been pushed. From this bridge. That's how you… " I glanced at Bob. And the gun. It was hard to decide which was scarier. "That's how you knew about the bridge. Why you faked the note from Quinn that told me to meet him here."

"Stupid." Bob's laugh was anything but warm and fuzzy. He yanked me closer to the railing.

"Kill me if you want," I said, at the same time I hoped they didn't take the comment seriously. "That doesn't change a thing. I know exactly what happened to Didi. And Quinn knows, too. I told him everything." Okay, so I lied. What did they call it on the TV cop shows? Exigent circumstances?

This was exigent, all right.

"I'll bet Susan's the one who told you Didi and Judge Howell were supposed to meet here that night. That's how you knew where Didi was." I thought back to the scene I'd witnessed. "That explains the scraping noise I heard when she stood here at the railing, too. You figured she had a copy of her manuscript in her suitcase. And that's what you were after."

Because of the lack of light and the wisps of fog that blew around us, I may have been imagining things, but I could have sworn Merilee's face went pale.

"You think you're so smart! But you're making all that up. You have to be. There's no way you can know for sure. And what makes you think anyone would believe your crazy story? After all, Didi did leave a suicide note."

Disgusted, I shook my head. "It's the only convincing thing you ever wrote," I told her. "And the cops never picked up on the fact that Didi didn't have a pen with her. You didn't know that, either, did you? If you were a real fiction writer, you would have thought through your plot and left one behind. You know, a sort of clue."

"If I was a real fiction writer?" Merilee's voice was shrill. "You mean if Didi was a real fiction writer?

You call that trash she wrote fiction?"

"Millions of people do."

"Millions of people are wrong. I'm the scholar in the family. I'm the real writer. She wasn't educated enough or smart enough. She wrote about stupid Opal and stupid Palmer. She made up history."

"But she had the imagination."

Merilee laughed, and shivers shot up my spine. She nodded, and Bob tucked away his gun long enough to wrap his arms around me. He lifted me into the air, but there was no way I was going to make it easy for him to move me closer to the railing.

I kicked and I squirmed and I screamed, but as I probably mentioned before, he was a big guy and pretty beefy. The railing got closer. So did my view of theCleveland skyline. Bob lifted me higher. All the while, Merilee's voice pierced the night. "No, you're wrong. I'm the one with the imagination. After all, I made it look like a suicide and everyone believed me. They'll think the same about you, of course." She plucked a piece of paper from the nether regions of her voluminous cape, and right before Bob swung me over the side of the bridge, she stuck it under my nose. "You see, I've written your suicide note, too."

"And I think I've heard all I need to hear."

Do I need to say how relieved I was to hear Quinn's voice coming out of the fog?

"Drop her," he told Bob.

"Don't tell him that!" I screamed.

Lucky for me, Bob was so surprised, he spun the other way before he did anything. When he dropped me and raised his hands, it was onto the sidewalk. Into a puddle.

I cursed, and on my hands and knees, maneuvered around two uniformed officers who appeared out of nowhere and slapped handcuffs on Bob. What Quinn was doing during all this, I can't say. I'd like to think he was making a move to help me. Something tells me that he was darting in Merilee's direction instead.

Once I realized I wasn't going to die with a splat in theCuyahogaRiver , I saw why. Merilee could move pretty quick for an old lady. She had scrambled up onto the railing.

"I'm not going to jail," she told Quinn and the universe in general. "You're not going to take away my reputation."

"You don't have a reputation." By this time, I was on my feet. I stood on Merilee's right; Quinn was on her left. Neither one of us was close enough to grab her. "You took credit for Didi's work. You killed her, too."

When she turned to look at me over her shoulder, Merilee was smiling. "You bet I did," she said. "Just like I killed Trish. I lived in a blaze of glory. And now I'm going to die the same way." She moved but I moved faster. Right before she jumped, I grabbed a fistful of her cape. Quinn moved in the same instant. Between the two of us, Merilee wasn't going anywhere. Anywhere except prison.

Needless to say (but I'll mention it anyway), things got pretty crazy after that. Merilee was hauled onto solid ground by the team of firefighters Quinn had brought along just in case. Bob was carted away in one black and white patrol car.

Merilee went kicking and screaming to theJusticeCenter in another.

Quinn and I were left on the bridge alone.

"Lucky for you I got your message," he said, and though he sounded hard-nosed, when he saw me shiver, he slipped off his trench coat and draped it over my shoulders. "You want to explain how the hell all that happened?"

"I told you. I got suspicious. Working at the museum. I knew Merilee didn't write the book."

"And you knew Merilee and that goon of hers killed her sister, how?" Just as Quinn asked the question, Didi popped up out of nowhere right behind him. "You can tell him if you want," she said.

"Nah." I shook my head. "Even if I did, he wouldn't believe me."

Quinn turned and looked at the nothing over his shoulder. "Who the hell are you talking to?" My only answer was a smile.

"All right, I give up." He breathed a sigh of one hundred percent exasperation and reached into his pocket to pull out a small beige card. "Here," he said, pushing the card into my hand. I knew exactly what it was, and I didn't bother to look at it. "What good does it do me to have your card?" I asked. "I have called. Plenty of times. Are those lab results back yet?"

"No, but something tells me that now we know exactly what they're going to prove." He reached for his raincoat, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for his car. "And the card…" He glanced over his shoulder at me. "That's my home number on the back. When you're ready to talk, give me a call." Didi and I watched him drive away. "You think I did the right thing?" I asked her.

"I don't know. He's not exactly the patient type. And he is awfully cute."

"I wasn't talking about Quinn. I was talking about Merilee. Do you think I should have let her jump?" Didi looked over the side of the bridge, her expression so thoughtful, I wondered if she was thinking of what it had been like as she watched the world slip past her and knew she was headed for her death.

"I never would have jumped on my own, you know," she said. "I wouldn't have done that to Judy."

"And Merilee?"

"Merilee is going to have her reputation yanked out from under her." There was no denying that. I'm not a vindictive person, but I knew exactly what it meant. For Merilee it would be a fate worse than death.

I had no idea how long it took labs to do whatever
it was labs did. I only knew that it was too long. The results of the tests on Didi's manuscript and Merilee's copy of
So Far the Dawn
never arrived until the day of the premiere.

After what had happened on theHopeMemorialBridge that rainy night, I wasn't the least bit surprised by them. The rest of the world, though…

Because of its IMAX theater, the new and improved version of
So Far the Dawn
premiered at the city's Great Lakes Science Center, and thanks to the notoriety of the event plus the fact that the author thought to be responsible for the book was being held in the county jail for the fifty-year-old murder of her sister as well as the recent death of Trish Kingston, the place was packed to the rafters and buzzing with excitement.

When Ella walked out on the stage, it took a minute for the crowd to quiet down. I had to give her credit. Ella was as cool as the color of the minty gown that flowed around her ankles. No easy trick, considering that she was still recovering from the shock of Merilee's arrest and the shock-on-top-of-shock that resulted from the letter detailing the official lab results. We'd each been handed a glass of champagne as we entered the theater, and Ella held hers in trembling hands. When word first came down about the test results, Ella had herself a good cry, but if I knew nothing else about my boss, it was that she was one tough lady. Her voice was froggy, her eyes were red, but she knew the
So Far the Dawn
show had to go on. She cleared her throat.

"I have an important announcement about a book—and a movie—we all love," Ella said. "It has recently been determined beyond the shadow of a doubt that the handwritten manuscript of
So Far the Dawn
displayed in the museum and attributed to Merilee Bowman is nothing more than a copy. The paper she used was never manufactured until ten years ago. Between that and a scientific handwriting analysis…

well, the results are conclusive: Merilee did not write the book." Do I need to point out that, at this, the crowd went bonkers?

They would have gone even crazier if they'd known what I knew: Didi was on stage right next to Ella. In a pink strapless gown with a matching gauzy stole, she looked like a million bucks. Or maybe that was because of the smile that lit her face.

I was sitting near the middle of the pack in an aisle seat right next to Harmony, who'd brought along her foster parents, Doug and Mindy Miller. I leaned closer to the girl and raised my voice so she could hear me over the hubbub.

"Your grandmother is loving every minute of this."

In keeping with her newfound wealth, Harmony sported a rhinestone-studded ring in her eyebrow. She laughed. "Whatever! You mean she
would be
loving this. You know, when I found out they thought she wrote it, I read the book. My grandmother must have been pretty cool." I turned my attention back to the stage and to the woman who had lived—and died—in her sister's shadow. "Yeah," I said. "She really is."

By this time, Ella was holding up a hand for silence, and though it took a while coming, things finally settled down. A voice called out from the back of the theater. "Then who did write the book?" Ella cleared her throat again.

"The truth is finally out," she said, and I swear, it must have been sheer coincidence because as she did, she looked to her right, exactly at the spot where Didi was standing. "We have an original copy of the manuscript, and its authenticity has been verified thanks to the age of the paper and a sample of the author's handwriting we were able to obtain." At this, she smiled in my direction. "The real author of
So
Far the Dawn
is none other than Merilee's sister, Didi Bowman. It's Didi we have to thank for the story that has captured our hearts and our imaginations. Ladies and gentlemen…" Ella raised her champagne glass and, as one, the crowd got to its feet. "Here's to Didi Bowman."

"Didi Bowman!"

The name echoed off the high ceiling, and at the risk of sounding like a softie, I have to admit, the moment sent tingles through me.

I could tell it did the same for Didi. With tears in her eyes, she bowed and waved at the crowd, and as we downed our champagne, she blew kisses at the audience.

Maybe my champagne was too strong?

I looked from my glass to Didi, and even as I watched, she got fuzzy around the edges. Like a TV

picture fading, the color of her gown got paler, her face blurred. After a moment, the only color I could see was a soft pink, like the sky immediately before sunrise.

Right before she winked out, Didi looked my way. "Thank you," she said, and when she turned to walk offstage, Kurt Benjamin was waiting in his Union officer's uniform. She wound her arm through his, waved, and the two of them disappeared into a wispy haze of pink light.

"Hey!"

The sound of Harmony's voice caused me to shake myself out of my daze. I saw that the rest of the audience was seated and the lights in the theater had gone down. She tugged at my sleeve. "The movie's going to start."

It did, and did Harmony wonder why I had tears in my eyes as the
So Far the Dawn
title rolled across the screen?

I could always say I had a soft spot for women in gowns and guys in uniform. Oh yeah, and horses. By the time it was all over, it was late into the night. No longer secretary to the world's über-est über-author, I no longer had the benefit of limo service. I'd driven to the premiere and parked in a lot near the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, next door to the Science Center, and even though Harmony offered me a ride in the jazzy silver Jaguar she'd rented for Doug and Mindy (with the promise that they'd have one of their very own soon), I decided to walk to my car. The night was warm, and I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself. I needed a little downtime. I watched the moonlight glint off the lake and the distinctive pyramid-shaped Rock Hall, and took a look at the huge billboard outside the museum. STILL ROCKIN' AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, it said, and it featured two pictures of the same rock group. One of the photos showed five old guys with pouchy stomachs and wide grins that flashed a message that said they were lucky to have lived through the sex and drugs and rock and roll years. The other photo showed four of the same guys—plus one different one—and it must have been taken decades earlier. In that photo, the rockers were kids with shoulder-length hair and a gleam in their eyes that said the sex and drugs and rock and roll… well, that's what it was all about. I wouldn't have paid any attention.

Except for the guy who was in the old picture but not in the new one. The photo was ancient history, but facts were facts. And fact is, this guy was to die for.

He had long, dark hair, wavy and sleek. His eyes were dark, too, his chest was bare, and he was poured into a pair of leather pants tight enough to ignite every fantasy I'd ever had. I smiled my approval. Right before I shivered in a sudden chilly breeze that brought with it a sweet and pungent aroma it was hard to place at first. Until I remembered the frat parties I'd attended back in college.