"Casey Daniels - Pepper Martin 01 - Don of the Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Daniels Casey)

I breathed a long sigh of relief. As hallucinations went, I was glad this one was over.

That probably explained why I was in such a good mood when I got back on the bus.

It didn't explain why when we got to the chapel, the next stop on our tour,Scarpetti was leaning against
the front door.

This time, I wasn't just upset, I was pissed. At my own brain for letting this happen. At myself for letting
it get to me. When I gathered my clipboard, my hands shook. When I climbed down off the bus, my
knees buckled like they were made out of peanut butter. But I had to give myself a lot of credit. The first
thing I did was face my own warped fantasy. I marched over to whereScarpetti waited.
 "You're not here," I told him and big points for me, I sounded like I meant it. I guess I figured if I could
convince him, I could convince myself. "That means you can go away. Right now."

"But we're not done."

I didn't realize thatChester was standing behind me.

"She wants us to go away, Mother." He handed Betty off the bus. "But we're not done yet, are we?
We're supposed to see the grave of that Supreme Court justice. And the former mayor. And that
woman. You remember. The one who wrote that cookbook."

Chesterwas right, and that meant only one thing. As the cemetery's one and only full-time tour guide, I
was trapped like the proverbial dirty rat. As the afternoon ticked by and we visited one grave after
another, GusScarpetti was always there. Lounging against the headstone of the Supreme Court justice.
Sitting next to the angel that topped a long-dead mayor's final resting place. Walking alongside the bus as
it wound its way through the two hundred and seventy-five scenic acres of Garden View.

By the time we were done, I wasn't just tired of my Gus hallucination, I was more convinced than ever
that I was teetering on the brink. My stomach was tied in knots. My breathing was shallow. I was
shaking and, let's face it, sweat is not an attractive thing.

As soon as I could, I said goodbye to my tour group and hurried into the ladies' room near the
cemetery's main office.

"Cold water," I mumbled to myself. "Lots of cold water."

I splattered it on my face. I soaked a paper towel with it and held it to the back of my neck. I tried the
face again, leaning over the sink and splashing so much of it on me that the front of my polo shirt got
damp and there were drops all over the Pepper Martin printed on my plastic name tag.

It wasn't until an icy cold drop trickled between my breasts that I realized I was finally breathing a little
easier. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror above the sink.

It wasn't a pretty picture.

My mascara was a mess. My bangs were soaked. I had long since chewed off my lipstick and without
the help of the Pretty in Pink that I made sure I put on when I so much as ducked into the hallway for my
morning newspaper, I was as pale as a coed on the first day of spring break. I had never been fond of