I Speak for the Dead

Part 14

I refused him the satisfaction of looking around. I don't do going out, going to bars, and dressing like I'm out looking for something like all the other scurrying singles out there. My idea of a good night is a long soak in my chipped tub and then whatever PBS has on the telly that night. Tonight, though, I was the Mystery! Episode, the game was afoot, and Edmund Whitechapel was the game I was playing.

Edmund was much like Terry in that they were both male. Aside from that, they appeared to be from different planets. While Terry was tall and, I'll admit, attractive in all the usual ways, Edmund was none of the above. He was short and stout and resembled a talking bowling, if a bowling pin had been cursed with greasy hair and bad teeth. But he was male, and Mrs. Banner's little girl still knew how to play that half of the species and so I turned my head around, resting my chin on my shoulder. Well, almost. That pose hurts. But it was enough to get a look at Edmund, and a look was all the encouragement his sort needs.

"Thanks for meeting me here," I said, modulating my breath to just a bit of what I hoped was alluring. "I know it was awfully short notice, and it's so awfully nice of you to come."

Edmund laughed, showing all his teeth, and blow me down, if he hadn't had work done. His bad teeth were either gone and replaced with an expensive set of dentures, or he'd had implants or something positively space-age. He slid onto the stool beside me, and it was impossible not to notice. He had lost weight. A lot of weight. There wasn't much he could do about his height, and so he hadn't, but there was at least fifty pounds less of him than the last time I'd had the misfortune to share his company. That had been in the back seat of a police car, and that's one of many memories I'll gladly give to dementia.

I must have sat there like the goof who ate the fly for a moment, because I didn't say anything. My mind was still flipping, trying to make two and two equal four, like it always had since the second grade.

Edmund smiled, showing someone's handiwork, and motioned for the waiter. The young one, again

"I know I know," Edmund said. "It's really me. I just decided that I wanted to live longer and look better while I was doing it."

I couldn't help myself. "You look...good. You really do. I'm impressed."

Edmund leaned back and took his drink from the waiter. "Too late, Rache. Your ship has sailed, and it's not headed back to port."

I shook my head to shake the last of the ping pong balls from the darker corners. "Don't flatter yourself. You'll always be Eddie Munster to me."

"We know where we stand, then. I told you three years ago that I was not going to help you anymore. I meant it then, and I still do."

"Then why are you even here?" Sometimes my charm and tact shuts off instantly, like a finger in a meat slicer. I had reached out to Edmund because, despite my best efforts, Emma Gold was getting to me. Getting to me bad. I should have never visited her grave; I usually avoid that. Even though I don't believe in ghosts, or spirits, there's something about standing there, with just a couple of feet separating me from her that pulls me in and makes me do stupid stuff I need to stop, before someday I wound up laying there beside someone like Emma. So chalk up another one for Terry.

Back on planet Earth, I found Edmund was still glaring at me. At least he hadn't motored off to chase some other skirt. So either he thought he still had a chance, what with his make-over, or something more was going on. I backed myself back from the edge and tried to pick my words with more care. Things like that don't come very easy to me. I had come for information, if he had any, and if there was anyone in Jamesfort who did, it was Edmund. I steadied my breathing, just the way I do before I clean the toilet.

"Listen, Edmund, I'm sorry, okay? Sometimes my mouth writes checks the rest of me can't cash. I know what you said three years ago, and I know why you said it, and what I did that made you say it, all the way back to Noah's ark. I just need something I can pry this case open with, that's all, and then I swear you'll never see me again."

Edmund finished his drink and banged the glass down on the hard wooden surface in front of him. "That's where you're wrong, Banner. I've always known I'd get one good last look at you, because someday I'll be standing over you, gloating, while you're laying in a box. It won't be me that put you there, but somebody will. Guaranteed." He looked around for the waiter and then turned his attention back to me. "So what is it? Who is it?"

This was moment I had dreaded, and the reason I had picked the dress I had. I crossed my legs carefully, watching Edmund's eyes dip down, then back up. Despite everything he'd just said, I knew that what lurked in his dark little mind, and even if he knew I was playing him, it didn't matter. The results would be the same.

"Emma Gold."

He blinked. "Emma who?"

"Gold."

"Emma Gold. Emma Gold. Let me think." He ran his finger around the rim of his glass.

Think was not something Edmund Whitechapel needed to indulge in, and we both knew it, but it was his game, his call, and I let him play with his little toy. Edmund's mind was not a steel trap; it was a large, filthy puddle; he knew everything about the area. It's history, it's people, it's problems, going back to the founding. You may think people don't care if great-granddad was a bootlegger who married a speak-easy barfly, put a few generations on of putting on respectability will do that to people. Edmund knew it all, and used it all. I had no idea where he made his money, or if he just played the game for fun, but there it was. Not even pond-scum, Edmund Whitechapel was puddle-scum, and his knowledge was always right at the surface. I let him play, pretending to be deep in thought. Maybe he was. Maybe he was thinking of a price. There are some things not for sale, though, and Mrs. Banner's oldest daughter is one of them.

"Emma Gold. That was in 1888. No descendants. Not much there, Rachel. No meat on the bones, figuratively or literally."

"You're sick." Sometimes I just can't help myself, and the words popped out like Oscar the Grouch leaving a garbage can. Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words never bother Edmund. He grinned.

"Says you and my psychiatrist. I think we're done her, Rachel. Business dealings require a certain level of respect, and as that is clearly lacking on one side of this arrangement, I think our discussion has reached a conclusion." He paused, looking me up and down. "Besides, I don't think you have anything I would value. Ciao." He stood up and walked away, leaving his empty glass.