The Laughing Corpse (2 page)

“Couldn't you just kill lots of animals, instead of just one?” Bert
asked. Bert is a very good business manager. He knows shit about raising the dead.

I stared down at him. “No.”

Bert sat very still in his chair. The prospect of losing a million dollars must have been real physical pain for him, but he hid it. Mr. Corporate Negotiator. “There has to be a way to work this out,” he said. His voice was calm. A professional smile curled his lips. He was still trying to do business. My boss did not understand what was happening.

“Do you know of another animator that could raise a zombie this old?” Gaynor asked.

Bert glanced up at me, then down at the floor, then at Gaynor. The professional smile had faded. He understood now that it was murder we were talking about. Would that make a difference?

I had always wondered where Bert drew the line. I was about to find out. The fact that I didn't know whether he would refuse the contract told you a lot about my boss. “No,” Bert said softly, “no, I guess I can't help you either, Mr. Gaynor.”

“If it's the money, Ms. Blake, I can raise the offer.”

A tremor ran through Bert's shoulders. Poor Bert, but he hid it well. Brownie point for him.

“I'm not an assassin, Gaynor,” I said.

“That ain't what I heard,” Tommy of the blond hair said.

I glanced at him. His eyes were still as empty as a doll's. “I don't kill people for money.”

“You kill vampires for money,” he said.

“Legal execution, and I don't do it for the money,” I said.

Tommy shook his head and moved away from the wall. “I hear you like staking vampires. And you aren't too careful about who you have to kill to get to 'em.”

“My informants tell me you have killed humans before, Ms. Blake,” Gaynor said.

“Only in self-defense, Gaynor. I don't do murder.”

Bert was standing now. “I think it is time to leave.”

Bruno stood in one fluid movement, big dark hands loose and half-cupped at his sides. I was betting on some kind of martial arts.

Tommy was standing away from the wall. His sport jacket was pushed
back to expose his gun, like an old-time gunfighter. It was a .357 Magnum. It would make a very big hole.

I just stood there, staring at them. What else could I do? I might be able to do something with Bruno, but Tommy had a gun. I didn't. It sort of ended the argument.

They were treating me like I was a very dangerous person. At five-three I am not imposing. Raise the dead, kill a few vampires, and people start considering you one of the monsters. Sometimes it hurt. But now . . . it had possibilities. “Do you really think I came in here unarmed?” I asked. My voice sounded very matter-of-fact.

Bruno looked at Tommy. He sort of shrugged. “I didn't pat her down.”

Bruno snorted.

“She ain't wearing a gun, though,” Tommy said.

“Want to bet your life on it?” I said. I smiled when I said it, and slid my hand, very slowly, towards my back. Make them think I had a hip holster at the small of my back. Tommy shifted, flexing his hand near his gun. If he went for it, we were going to die. I was going to come back and haunt Bert.

Gaynor said, “No. No need for anyone to die here today, Ms. Blake.”

“No,” I said, “no need at all.” I swallowed my pulse back into my throat and eased my hand away from my imaginary gun. Tommy eased away from his real one. Goody for us.

Gaynor smiled again, like a pleasant beardless Santa. “You of course understand that telling the police would be useless.”

I nodded. “We have no proof. You didn't even tell us who you wanted raised from the dead, or why.”

“It would be your word against mine,” he said.

“And I'm sure you have friends in high places.” I smiled when I said it.

His smile widened, dimpling his fat little cheeks. “Of course.”

I turned my back on Tommy and his gun. Bert followed. We walked outside into the blistering summer heat. Bert looked a little shaken. I felt almost friendly towards him. It was nice to know that Bert had limits, something he wouldn't do, even for a million dollars.

“Would they really have shot us?” he asked. His voice sounded
matter-of-fact, firmer than the slightly glassy look in his eyes. Tough Bert. He unlocked the trunk without being asked.

“With Harold Gaynor's name in our appointment book and in the computer?” I got my gun out and slipped on the holster rig. “Not knowing who we'd mentioned this trip to?” I shook my head. “Too risky.”

“Then why did you pretend to have a gun?” He looked me straight in the eyes as he asked, and for the first time I saw uncertainty in his face. Ol' money bags needed a comforting word, but I was fresh out.

“Because, Bert, I could have been wrong.”

T
HE BRIDAL SHOP
was just off 70 West in St. Peters. It was called The Maiden Voyage. Cute. There was a pizza place on one side of it and a beauty salon on the other. It was called Full Dark Beauty Salon. The windows were blacked out, outlined in bloodred neon. You could get your hair and nails done by a vampire, if you wanted to.

Vampirism had only been legal for two years in the United States of America. We were still the only country in the world where it was legal. Don't ask me; I didn't vote for it. There was even a movement to give the vamps the vote. Taxation without representation and all that.

Two years ago if a vampire bothered someone I just went out and staked the son of a bitch. Now I had to get a court order of execution. Without it, I was up on murder charges, if I was caught. I longed for the good ol' days.

There was a blond mannequin in the wedding shop window wearing enough white lace to drown in. I am not a big fan of lace, or seed pearls, or sequins. Especially not sequins. I had gone out with Catherine twice to help her look for a wedding gown. It didn't take long to realize I was no help. I didn't like any of them.

Catherine was a very good friend or I wouldn't have been here at all. She told me if I ever got married I'd change my mind. Surely being in
love doesn't cause you to lose your sense of good taste. If I ever buy a gown with sequins on it, someone just shoot me.

I also wouldn't have chosen the bridal dresses Catherine picked out, but it was my own fault that I hadn't been around when the vote was taken. I worked too much and I hated to shop. So, I ended up plunking down $120 plus tax on a pink taffeta evening gown. It looked like it had run away from a junior high prom.

I walked into the air-conditioned hush of the bridal shop, high heels sinking into a carpet so pale grey it was nearly white. Mrs. Cassidy, the manager, saw me come in. Her smile faltered for just a moment before she got it under control. She smiled at me, brave Mrs. Cassidy.

I smiled back, not looking forward to the next hour.

Mrs. Cassidy was somewhere between forty and fifty, trim figure, red hair so dark it was almost brown. The hair was tied in a French knot like Grace Kelly used to wear. She pushed her gold wire-framed glasses more securely on her nose and said, “Ms. Blake, here for the final fitting, I see.”

“I hope it's the final fitting,” I said.

“Well, we have been working on the . . . problem. I think we've come up with something.” There was a small room in back of the desk. It was filled with racks of plastic-covered dresses. Mrs. Cassidy pulled mine out from between two identical pink dresses.

She led the way to the dressing rooms with the dress draped over her arms. Her spine was very straight. She was gearing for another battle. I didn't have to gear up, I was always ready for battle. But arguing with Mrs. Cassidy about alterations to a formal beat the heck out of arguing with Tommy and Bruno. It could have gone very badly, but it hadn't. Gaynor had called them off, for today, he had said.

What did that mean exactly? It was probably self-explanatory. I had left Bert at the office still shaken from his close encounter. He didn't deal with the messy end of the business. The violent end. No, I did that, or Manny, or Jamison, or Charles. We, the animators of Animators, Inc, we did the dirty work. Bert stayed in his nice safe office and sent clients and trouble our way. Until today.

Mrs. Cassidy hung the dress on a hook inside one of the dressing stalls and went away. Before I could go inside, another stall opened, and
Kasey, Catherine's flower girl, stepped out. She was eight, and she was glowering. Her mother followed behind her, still in her business suit. Elizabeth (call me Elsie) Markowitz was tall, slender, black-haired, olive-skinned, and a lawyer. She worked with Catherine and was also in the wedding.

Kasey looked like a smaller, softer version of her mother. The child spotted me first and said, “Hi, Anita. Isn't this dress dumb-looking?”

“Now, Kasey,” Elsie said, “it's a beautiful dress. All those nice pink ruffles.”

The dress looked like a petunia on steroids to me. I stripped off my jacket and started moving into my own dressing room before I had to give my opinion out loud.

“Is that a real gun?” Kasey asked.

I had forgotten I was still wearing it. “Yes,” I said.

“Are you a policewoman?”

“No.”

“Kasey Markowitz, you ask too many questions.” Her mother herded her past me with a harried smile. “Sorry about that, Anita.”

“I don't mind,” I said. Sometime later I was standing on a little raised platform in front of a nearly perfect circle of mirrors. With the matching pink high heels the dress was the right length at least. It also had little puff sleeves and was an off-the-shoulder look. The dress showed almost every scar I had.

The newest scar was still pink and healing on my right forearm. But it was just a knife wound. They're neat, clean things compared to my other scars. My collarbone and left arm have both been broken. A vampire bit through them, tore at me like a dog with a piece of meat. There's also the cross-shaped burn mark on my left forearm. Some inventive human vampire slaves thought it was amusing. I didn't.

I looked like Frankenstein's bride goes to the prom. Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but Mrs. Cassidy thought it was. She thought the scars would distract people from the dress, the wedding party, the bride. But Catherine, the bride herself, didn't agree. She thought I deserved to be in the wedding, because we were such good friends. I was paying good money to be publicly humiliated. We must be good friends.

Mrs. Cassidy handed me a pair of long pink satin gloves. I pulled
them on, wiggling my fingers deep into the tiny holes. I've never liked gloves. They make me feel like I'm touching the world through a curtain. But the bright pink things did hide my arms. Scars all gone. What a good girl. Right.

The woman fluffed out the satiny skirt, glancing into the mirror. “It will do, I think.” She stood, tapping one long, painted fingernail against her lipsticked mouth. “I believe I have come up with something to hide that, uh . . . well . . .” She made vague hand motions towards me.

“My collarbone scar?” I said.

“Yes.” She sounded relieved.

It occurred to me for the first time that Mrs. Cassidy had never once said the word “scar.” As if it were dirty, or rude. I smiled at myself in the ring of mirrors. Laughter caught at the back of my throat.

Mrs. Cassidy held up something made of pink ribbon and fake orange blossoms. The laughter died. “What is that?” I asked.

“This,” she said, stepping towards me, “is the solution to our problem.”

“All right, but what is it?”

“Well, it is a collar, a decoration.”

“It goes around my neck?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “I don't think so.”

“Ms. Blake, I have tried everything to hide that, that . . . mark. Hats, hairdos, simple ribbons, corsages . . .” She literally threw up her hands. “I am at my wit's end.”

This I could believe. I took a deep breath. “I sympathize with you, Mrs. Cassidy, really I do. I've been a royal pain in the ass.”

“I would never say such a thing.”

“I know, so I said it for you. But that is the ugliest piece of fru-fru I've ever laid eyes on.”

“If you, Ms. Blake, have any better suggestions, then I am all ears.” She half crossed her arms over her chest. The offending piece of “decoration” trailed nearly to her waist.

“It's huge,” I protested.

“It will hide your”—she set her mouth tight—“scar.”

I felt like applauding. She'd said the dirty word. Did I have any better
suggestions? No. I did not. I sighed. “Put it on me. The least I can do is look at it.”

She smiled. “Please lift your hair.”

I did as I was told. She fastened it around my neck. The lace itched, the ribbons tickled, and I didn't even want to look in the mirror. I raised my eyes, slowly, and just stared.

“Thank goodness you have long hair. I'll style it myself the day of the wedding so it helps the camouflage.”

The thing around my neck looked like a cross between a dog collar and the world's biggest wrist corsage. My neck had sprouted pink ribbons like mushrooms after a rain. It was hideous, and no amount of hairstyling was going to change that. But it hid the scar completely, perfectly. Ta-da.

I just shook my head. What could I say? Mrs. Cassidy took my silence for assent. She should have known better. The phone rang and saved us both. “I'll be just a minute, Ms. Blake.” She stalked off, high-heels silent on the thick carpet.

I just stared at myself in the mirrors. My hair and eyes match, black hair, eyes so dark brown they look black. They are my mother's Latin darkness. But my skin is pale, my father's Germanic blood. Put some makeup on me and I look not unlike a china doll. Put me in a puffy pink dress and I look delicate, dainty, petite. Dammit.

The rest of the women in the wedding party were all five-five or above. Maybe some of them would actually look good in the dress. I doubted it.

Insult to injury, we all had to wear hoop skirts underneath. I looked like a reject from
Gone With the Wind.

“There, don't you look lovely.” Mrs. Cassidy had returned. She was beaming at me.

“I look like I've been dipped in Pepto-Bismol,” I said.

Her smile faded around the edges. She swallowed. “You don't like this last idea.” Her voice was very stiff.

Elsie Markowitz came out of the dressing rooms. Kasey was trailing behind, scowling. I knew how she felt. “Oh, Anita,” Elsie said, “you look adorable.”

Great. Adorable, just what I wanted to hear. “Thanks.”

“I especially like the ribbons at your throat. We'll all be wearing them, you know.”

“Sorry about that,” I said.

She frowned at me. “I think they just set off the dress.”

It was my turn to frown. “You're serious, aren't you?”

Elsie looked puzzled. “Well, of course I am. Don't you like the dresses?”

I decided not to answer on the grounds that it might piss someone off. I guess, what can you expect from a woman who has a perfectly good name like Elizabeth, but prefers to be named after a cow?

“Is this the absolutely last thing we can use for camouflage, Mrs. Cassidy?” I asked.

She nodded, once, very firmly.

I sighed, and she smiled. Victory was hers, and she knew it. I knew I was beaten the moment I saw the dress, but if I'm going to lose, I'm going to make someone pay for it. “All right. It's done. This is it. I'll wear it.”

Mrs. Cassidy beamed at me. Elsie smiled. Kasey smirked. I hiked the hoop skirt up to my knees and stepped off the platform. The hoop swung like a bell with me as the clapper.

The phone rang. Mrs. Cassidy went to answer it, a lift in her step, a song in her heart, and me out of her shop. Joy in the afternoon.

I was struggling to get the wide skirt through the narrow little door that led to the changing rooms when she called, “Ms. Blake, it's for you. A Detective Sergeant Storr.”

“See, Mommy, I told you she was a policewoman,” Kasey said.

I didn't explain because Elsie had asked me not to, weeks ago. She thought Kasey was too young to know about animators and zombies and vampire slayings. Not that any child of eight could not know what a vampire was. They were pretty much the media event of the decade.

I tried to put the phone to my left ear, but the damned flowers got in the way. Pressing the receiver in the bend of my neck and shoulder, I reached back to undo the collar. “Hi, Dolph, what's up?”

“Murder scene.” His voice was pleasant, like he should sing tenor.

“What kind of murder scene?”

“Messy.”

I finally pulled the collar free and dropped the phone.

“Anita, you there?”

“Yeah, having some wardrobe trouble.”

“What?”

“It's not important. Why do you want me to come down to the scene?”

“Whatever did this wasn't human.”

“Vampire?”

“You're the undead expert. That's why I want you to come take a look.”

“Okay, give me the address, and I'll be right there.” There was a notepad of pale pink paper with little hearts on it. The pen had a plastic cupid on the end of it. “St. Charles, I'm not more than fifteen minutes from you.”

“Good.” He hung up.

“Good-bye to you, too, Dolph.” I said it to empty air just to feel superior. I went back into the little room to change.

I had been offered a million dollars today, just to kill someone and raise a zombie. Then off to the bridal shop for a final fitting. Now a murder scene. Messy, Dolph had said. It was turning out to be a very busy afternoon.