WEDNESDAY MORNING



The safe swung open, and Catherine tried not to look impressed. The fact that man in front of her knew about it galled her slightly; the added insult that he had the combination didn’t help either. Eight years she’d lived in the townhouse and had never known about this little cubby . . .



“I don’t mean to rush you, Mrs. Willows, but time is of the essence,” he murmured, catching her distracted glance. She nodded guiltily and held out her gloved hands, taking the files he piled into them and carrying them over to the bed.



“Catherine. You can call me Catherine. And you know Sam’s in Las Vegas right now—“ she murmured. Mr. Peppermint sighed.



“Yes, but I’d be willing to bet that he’s probably got someone keeping an eye on this townhouse.”



“And me—go ahead and say it,” Catherine sighed. She laid out the files in careful order across the bedspread, but didn’t open them, and looked over her shoulder. Mr. Peppermint was back in the exterminator jumpsuit, his dark framed glasses once again giving him a completely geeky demeanor. She flashed a grin. “So where’s the wife?”



“She’s . . . sitting this one out,” came the absent reply as he carried another load of files around to the other side of the bed. Catherine nodded, watching him lay out the folders neatly.



“Was she really pregnant?”



“Not this time. All right, we need to start scanning each page and then we’ll get the files back in the way we took them out.” He paused and looked across the bed at her, his expression serious. “This has to be quick, and I hate to say it, but there may be some material here that’s pretty horrific . . . Catherine.”



She surprised herself by nodding tightly. “I know. What can I do to help?”



He gave her a handheld scanner. “Start at the top of each page and sweep down quickly; they’re specially modified and have memory built in to them.”



It didn’t take long to get the hang of it, and Catherine forced herself to work carefully. She was aware of how empty the townhouse seemed, and how completely focused the man across from her was. The whole situation was definitely unnerving, so she spoke softly to break the silence. “Who’s going to get this information?”



“The proper authorities, through reasonable channels,” came the soft reply.



“Ah. And you think there’s enough here to bring my father down?”



“Catherine—“ Mr. Peppermint looked up at her thoughtfully. “You know there is, and further, that it’s necessary. I understand that the Senator is your father, but this . . . “ he trailed off, waving at a photo of a grinning teenage boy scantily dressed in nothing but a low-hanging towel.



Catherine winced. “Yeah. I guess I’m not thinking so much of him as I am of my daughter, and how this could . . . hurt her.”



“That’s why this is a two-part process,” Mr. Peppermint soothed her. “You and your daughter distance yourselves from the Senator, and start making new lives for yourselves while the authorities build the case against him.”



Catherine closed a file and opened another, looking at collection of unfamiliar financial statements. She sighed. “It’s so much easier to say than do. Washington is a small town, despite what anyone wants to admit, and I’ve got a lot of connections here. I don’t know how easy it will be to pull back from that.”



“Change is never easy,” came the soft murmur, “but in the end you’ll be securing justice for a number of the Senator’s other victims.”



After that, they scanned the rest of the files quietly. Catherine restacked her folders and waited as Mr. Peppermint finished up then stacked his. He carried his pile back to the safe and set them inside, then looked at her. She picked up her own and brought them back. Lightly she smiled. “How long have you been doing this?”



“A few years,” Mr. Peppermint replied gently. “Long enough to still get a great deal of satisfaction out of securing justice.”



She smiled at him wistfully. “Sounds . . . fulfilling.”



“It has its moments,” he agreed. “And now, I get to spray noxious-smelling chemicals all over this place so the housekeeper will know I did my job.”



Catherine grinned at his enthused expression. “Geez, you really get into this, don’t you?”



Mr. Peppermint smiled, “No point in doing things if you can’t have some fun along the way.” He lowered his voice and added, “Not that I advocate killing insects; they’re highly useful and rarely do even a percentage of the damage that homeowners claim they do.”



Catherine tried hard to keep from laughing, but it was difficult; Mr. Peppermint looked so earnest behind his heavy glasses. She nodded instead, and waved a hand around the bedroom. “Spray away then. I’ll go see about getting us into Dad’s office on the Hill.”

WEDNESDAY MORNING



Sugar Daddy slumped on the vinyl sofa of the waiting room and clutched the cooling Styrofoam cup in his hand. He felt grit under his eyelids along with a weariness that ached right down to the bone. Around him, the little sounds of the hospital echoed, and he listened to them absently as he waited.



Waiting. It was something he’d done a lot in his life; all through his previous career and this one too, although not for stakes quite this high. He thought back to the night before, far back, when he’d felt the warm weight of Heather stretched out on him, sleek and slightly damp.



Some times good things happened, and he remembered feeling humble and happy in their halcyon moment of post-coital bliss. She’d cried a little in his arms, and her whispers had done a lot to bridge the years of the crazy holding pattern of their relationship.



“I wanted you. I wanted this just once; just in case, Jim.”



“Don’t go through with it. Heather, it’s too damned much of a chance.”



“I have to,” she’d murmured against his bare collarbone, and he clung to her, wanting to draw out the moment forever.



And she’d  . . . died, after that. Gotten up, dressed herself, taken the little dissolving tablet and dropped to the carpet in a curled heap, her dark hair like a fan over the acrylic Dupont broad weave.



“Mister Morris?”  A voice broke into his reverie and Sugar Daddy looked up at the man in the dark suit. He blinked, and the other man held out a hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss. My name is Leonardo Pertonelli, and I’m from the Resurrection Garden Funeral Home. I’m here to discuss a few arrangements your wife made, prior to this terrible night?”



The man’s voice was urbane and smooth, low-pitched. Sugar Daddy stared a moment longer, then sighed; in that little moment of weakness Pertonelli gracefully sat down next to him on the sofa and settled in.



Sugar Daddy instantly resented the practiced way the man did it. When Mr. Pertonelli leaned forward, the noxious sweetness of his aftershave flooded the personal space between them. He spoke again. “I don’t want to put any undue strain on you at this time; I only need your signature on a few documents here so we can expedite matters and take some of this terrible burden off your shoulders, sir.”



“Documents?” Sugar Daddy managed to keep his voice low, and slightly confused. He shifted the coffee cup from one hand to the other, putting just the right amount of fidget into the gesture. Pertonelli nodded, and held out a clipboard with pages on it. There were little arrow Post-its indicating where to sign.



“Yes, I’m afraid so. The top one is a standard five-twenty-two that releases your loved one from the hospital into our custody. The second page is the authorization to attend to your loved one’s last requirements prior to
viewing and eternal rest, and the last one is the financial agreement for all services rendered at this time.”



Sugar Daddy took the clipboard in one hand and glanced at it, noting the fancy logo of Resurrection Garden in the corner of all three documents: an Art Deco lily in a vase. He blinked a little and moved to set the coffee cup down, but the funeral director was smooth and gestured to take it as he held out a fine marble pen as well.



“It's all been so quick,” Sugar Daddy murmured, “First all the trouble at work, and now she’s gone--“



“These things happen,” Mr. Pertonelli replied urbanely. “Sometimes it’s hard to understand why.”



“She was so healthy,” Sugar Daddy persisted, “Should I let them do an autopsy?”



“Oh no,” Mr. Pertonelli murmured gently, although Sugar Daddy could see the man’s grip on the Styrofoam cup tighten at the suggestion. “The cause of death has already been determined, Mr. Morris, and it would be heartbreaking to cut into your wife for any reason. I don’t believe in mutilating Loved Ones myself. I prefer to keep them whole and perfect, just as the good Lord made them.”



“That sounds beautiful,” Sugar Daddy replied as he slowly wrote out Boris Morris in clear script across the signature lines of all three forms. When he was done, Mr. Pertonelli looked at them and nodded with satisfaction.



“Perfect. Thank you for trusting us with the final arrangements for your wife, Mr. Morris. The viewing will be tomorrow then, in the Azure Room. And please accept my sincere condolences.”



Not trusting himself, Sugar Daddy nodded. He watched the funeral director glide away towards the offices of the hospital and when he was out of site, Sugar Daddy rose up and wandered back through the swinging doors of the morgue. The heavy-set attendant across the room glanced at him briefly, then nodded towards the gurney neatly tucked in the first alcove. “She’s right there Mr. Morris. I’ll have her personal effects for you in just a minute.”



“Yeah, no hurry,” Sugar Daddy mumbled. He wandered over to the body on the gurney and laid a hand on the sheet that covered her while his other hand slipped into his pocket. He bent over a little, and let his shoulders shake.



In the course of his grief, he brought his hand out of his pocket and pulled a tiny spray bottle out. Moving gently, he uncapped it and inserted the nozzle into the pale shell of Miss Lollipop’s ear. He squeezed twice, then recapped the bottle, pulled away the paper label on it and carefully pressed the tiny, flat sided little container behind her ear. It stuck firmly and satisfied, Sugar Daddy gave a sigh.



He spoke in a low whisper to the body. “I hope you can hear me, Heather so I’ll make this quick. Did the insulin and it’s behind your ear now. Pertonelli’s taking you out of here in less than an hour. God I love you, and I hate this whole set-up. I don’t care if you ARE my boss; you’re never pulling this shit again.”



Moving quickly he tugged the drape from her face, bent, and kissed her cold lips. For a long moment Sugar Daddy looked down at her pale, still features.



A little sparkle caught his glance, and he brought a finger up to brush the tiny leak of tears from under the lashes of her closed left eye.



“Love you too,” he whispered, blinking hard, and then he turned to face the approaching attendant.

WEDNESDAY NOON



Sara walked with Jelly Bean along the gravel paths, looking pensive. She patted her curly grey wig and glanced around the cemetery in the bright sunshine. “Hot.”



“Vegas,” Jelly Bean replied softly. He looked adorable in his powdered white hair and thick glasses. Sara tried not to look at his lime green Sansabelt slacks hiked up enough to reveal his thick white socks in his battered Keds sneakers.



She knew she didn’t look much better in her old lady makeup, faded housedress and worn pink sweater, but at least the straw hat Mr. Peppermint lent her kept most of the sun off.



“So . . . let’s just pick a grave at random . . . “ she suggested, and pointed with her chin towards the edge of the memorial park. Jelly Bean squinted in the direction she indicated and sighed.



“Jeez, I can’t see a damned thing in these lenses. I always thought if I went blind it would be for activities not on the job, you know.”



“TMI,” Sara sang back, but grinned. “Hang on to my arm, you old geezer  you, and we’ll make it to the columbarium together and find someone worthy of these flowers.”



Cheered, Jelly Bean linked his arm in hers and they strolled companionably along the gravel path. There were a few other people about, and on the far side, a funeral was just finishing up. Sara looked towards the pavilion tent over the grave and slowly steered the two of them towards it. Jelly Bean gave a nod.



“Trying to get a sneak peek?”



“Something like that. From what the records indicate, this cemetery has been around for about three decades, so a lot of the work has to be legit. I’m wondering if this funeral is or not.”



“Well Ethel, let’s go have a look,” Jelly Bean snorted. “Nice Birkenstocks by the way—I love your pompom socks with them.”



“Oh yeah, this from a guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt so blindingly neon that I’m sure the space shuttle pilots can see it—“ Sara replied, stifling her giggle as she buried her nose in the bouquet she carried. Jelly Bean growled.



“Hey, hey, this is a CLASSIC shirt. I’ve had offers on the street for this shirt—“



“Oh I bet. Greg, you have hula girls in radiation pink all over you.”



“Like I said; a classic. Besides, it’s Vegas. You can wear anything here and people don’t care. See anything yet?”



Sara peered at the tent and the empty folding chairs. A groundskeeper was carrying off the flowers in their stands, and the coffin sat on the rails, looking ominous and sleek. “Not much. Let’s get closer and see if there’s anything about the hole that looks out of place.”



They came over slowly, and Jelly Bean pulled out a handkerchief from one pocket to honk into it juicily. Sara glared at him, feeling herself slide into character; from the look through the heavy lenses of Jelly Bean’s glasses he was doing the same.



“That was disgusting, Stanley, just disgusting. Do you HAVE to be so disgusting?”



“I’m cloggy,” Jelly Bean whined back. ‘You want I should have mucus build up in my throat? Is that what you want?”



“Don’t talk to me about mucus, we are in a SACRED place and the dead do NOT need to hear about your nasty mucus!”



“The dead don’t care, Ethel. They’re, you know . . .  dead. Anyway, where’s Ollie’s grave anyway? I thought you knew the way.”



“I do . . . I’m just taking our time getting there,” Sara soothed him as they reached the pavilion tent. She blinked at the coffin. The groundskeeper shot her a quick disinterested glance and turned back to the chairs, starting to fold them up and stack them neatly on a dolly. “Oh look Stanley, I think that’s real mahogany there.”



Jelly Bean reached out a hand; Sara noted he was wearing an ancient Timex far too large for his skinny wrist. He touched the casket gingerly. “Nah, nah, it’s not mahogany. It’s oak. Gotta nice stain though, and good varnish. Someone paid a pretty penny for this. Classy.”



Sara shook her head doubtfully under the straw hat. “I think it’s mahogany. The grain is really dark, honey.”



Jelly Bean let go of her arm and brought his face down to within an inch of the coffin; so close his reflection shone in the polished surface of the casket and Sara had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at his scrunched up expression of concentration. “Nope, s’oak, Pudding Pants. Oak with a heavy cherry stain and about three inches of varnish. Hoo boy, we’re talking Rockefeller box here, you know? I bet the lining is real silk too, none of that cheap-ass rayon stuff either. I’d give my left nut to be in a box THIS classy.”



“Your left nut wouldn’t pay for the brass handles, you old fart,” Sara hissed sweetly, tugging him by the arm. “Stop with the dirty talk; we’re in a sacred place!”



Out of the corner of her eye she caught the groundskeeper’s grin; Jelly Bean gave a put-upon sigh and rolled his magnified eyes. “Geez Ethel, don’t get your Depends in a twist. Come on, let’s go find Ollie and get this visit over with. They got golf on Channel Three this afternoon you know.”



As they wandered away, Jelly Bean snorted under his breath. “For the record, my nuts are priceless—both of them.”



Sara broke out laughing and covered it by turning it into a whooping wheeze of a cough that carried over the still air. Alarmed at the squeaky huffing sound, the groundskeeper looked over at them. Jelly Bean thumped Sara’s back and hollered. “He flew in your mouth? So swallow him, Ethel, it’s just a damned bug. Oh that’s right, you don’t swallow anymore do ya?”



Sara swatted him with the flowers, relieved to see out of the corner of her eye that the groundskeeper’s shoulders were shaking with laughter. Jelly Bean was snorting a bit himself, looking very mischievous in his little old man disguise. “I’m going . . . to KILL you—“ she wheezed.



Jelly Bean snickered. “We’re in the right place . . . so, about that grave. Did you see anything?”



Sara caught her breath and let it out slowly. “No. Just a hole in the ground. But, I did think it was interesting that down in the depths there was a slab already on the bottom.”



“A slab?” Jelly Bean inquired.



Sara nodded. “A liner, but not made of cement. This one was enamel, and pebbled.”



“Weird,” Jelly Bean agreed after a moment’s thought. He shuffled alongside Sara in silence for a moment, then added, “Do you feel some sort of vibration underfoot?”

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON



Grissom made his way in to his room at the Patriot and climbed out of the exterminator jumpsuit. It was muggy, and he took a quick shower, cleaning up and changing into a dark business suit. As he knotted his tie, he casually flicked on his laptop and checked his Email. There were the usual update alerts from ABEbooks; a letter from his mother, who was currently on a cruise to Alaska; a note from Macy MacDonald, inviting him to the premiere of Starship Intercourse—Grissom shook his head at that, wondering if the footage with Jaw Breaker and Licorice was still in the finished movie—and a note from someone called Honmei Choko.



Something about that name clicked, and Grissom opened the Email, feeling amused. The feeling changed rapidly as the picture began loading on the screen. He stared, feeling the flush of heat along his face, and another one down the muscles of his stomach.



Honmei Choko . . .



It was a photo. She was standing, looking over her shoulder at the camera, her expression saucy and inviting. Her long, shapely legs were crossed, and she had her hands behind her pert bottom, clutching a small plastic bag with the logo of the Book Hive clearly visible on it. A charming picture at anytime, but the fact that aside from the sexy leopard Astrabellas she didn’t have a stitch of clothing on any of those velvety curves . . .



Grissom whimpered, a low sound of fond frustration that echoed in the motel room. He kept staring, admiring and lusting over the photo, drinking in the image. He spoke softly to the screen, his voice low. “Want you. Forget that—NEED you.”



He picked up his cell phone and tapped out a number from memory; the receiving end rang until finally a gravelly voice answered. “Desert Blooms, Husky speaking.”



“I need to place an order for flowers, Mr. Belden,” Grissom spoke softly. “A rush job. Do you have any peppermint tulips in stock?”