Young secretary Tori Van Camp wakes one morning on a luxurious ocean linerrecreation, and the companionship of congenial people. But Tori has no
memory of booking a cruise. What she does have is a vivid recollection of
being shot point blank in the chest.
With the help of the stunningly handsome Mike and the unnervingly serene
Nancy, Tori soon learns the purpose of her voyage. Still, she is haunted
by the image of the gun, the crack of the shot, and the malevolent face of
the shooter. Who wanted her dead, and why?
Determined to find out, Tori enlists the help of Seamus, an eccentric but
shrewd detective. Together they embark on an investigation unlike anything
Tori ever thought possible. Death is all around, the future is uncertain, and if Tori does not act quickly, two people she cares about are prime candidates for murder.
The Dead Detective Agency marks the start of the new Dead Detective Mystery Series.
According to Leslie Brown, senior editor at LL-Publications, "Peg Herring navigates the twin worlds of life and death with all the skill of a master sailor, or in this case, a really awesome cruise ship director. The Dead Detective Agency is a light-hearted book about the journey of dying, the regrets of a half-lived life, and the guides who help us make sense of it all."
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Chapter One
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot
Does dreaming you are dead mean that you really die? The question came to Tori slowly as she stirred from oblivious sleep, first stretching her feet downward between the smooth sheets, then twisting her hips to a more comfortable position, and finally opening her eyes enough to see that it was day. “Wake up, Van Camp,” she mumbled, but her dread did not dissipate as nightmares do when faced with sunlight.
As full memory returned, Tori’s eyes opened fully. She clutched her chest, dreading the warm, sticky blood certain to be there. A man had aimed a pistol directly at her. The gun had, a soda bottle duct-taped to the muzzle to make a homemade silencer... A twitch of the man’s hand was followed by an odd thumping noise, and she flew backward, disbelieving. After that was nothing.
The hand at her chest found nothing unusual. There was no blood, and she was perfectly whole. Still, the image of death did not recede. The memory became more vivid, not less, the feeling that it had really happened more intense. Tori could almost hear the doorbell, her footsteps as she went to answer it, the few words spoken, and the muted shot that followed.
It was not that she felt dead, and a glance at a mirror to her right revealed that she did not look dead, either. Was her impression of death a dream? It had to be, and yet, it was so clear. It was a Sunday, and she had been in her apartment. A man in some sort of delivery service jacket had rung the doorbell and asked in a sniffling, agitated manner if she was Tori Van Camp. Receiving a “yes,” he had pulled the gun with its makeshift silencer from a canvas bag he carried and, with a nervous twitch in his cheek that corresponded to the twitch of his index finger, shot her.
She remembered nothing else, no walking toward a light, no welcome from Grandma Mueller. Grandma was undoubtedly too busy toting an oversized cup of nickels around some afterlife casino to take time to greet new arrivals. But why the memory of dying? What sort of dream was that for someone who had just reached twenty-five?
Three crisp knocks on the door startled her out of her strange reverie, and Tori took note of her surroundings for the first time. That was unnerving, for the room was totally unfamiliar. Slightly institutional, the place was on the upscale side of hotel chic: a large room with attractive drapes that matched the coverlet as well as a border that circled the walls at ceiling height, a Monet-like iris pattern in blues and greens. A small walk-in closet stood open and empty except for wooden hangers of the type that disconnect from their handles. Beyond that, a good-sized bathroom showed through an open door, bright-white tiled walls with designs in Mediterranean blue scattered throughout.
On the dresser at bedside sat a telephone and a small tray with a coffee maker, Columbian coffee, both decaf and regular, and Earl Grey tea in two varieties. A large credenza opposite held a television, its remote resting on top. The whole added up to something like Holiday Inn. The problem was that Tori did not recall going on a vacation or even planning one. How had she gotten time off work? Who was watching the cats?
The distinctive three-knock pattern came again, and Tori tossed aside the thick, soft comforter and set her feet onto a carpet almost equally soft. A downward glance revealed familiar clothes: sweat pants and a T-shirt that read “Books, Cats: Life Is Good.”
On the other side of the door was a petite blond woman with darkly tanned skin and more makeup than a CNN anchor. Attractive in that expensively cared-for way that women on television have, she wore a blazer that was bluer than blue, a pleated white skirt that reached precisely to her knees, and natural leather pumps with three-inch heels. It was a uniform of sorts, the kind that is not supposed to look like one but invariably does. Expensive perfume radiated from her in a way that indicated, at least to Tori’s mind, overcompensation.
The woman’s champagne-colored hair had suffered a few too many dye-jobs, but it was attractively styled, pulled back into a curly little bun with a scrunchie that matched the blazer to perfection. She obviously had a thing for gold. There were three gold rings on each hand, gold hoops in each earlobe, a few bands that ran up the ear edges, and a gold chain with a heart-shaped pendant.
The woman must have been smiling even before the door opened, but the smile got bigger as she spoke. “Ms. Van Camp? I’m Cinda, your hostess, okay? How was your rest?” The words came in the professionally caring tone that people such as nurses and waitresses seem required under oath to adopt.
“Um, fine,” Tori replied uncertainly.
“Super!” Cinda exclaimed, more excited by the reply than was necessary. “Rest is the best thing, I say.”
Confused by the banal opening remarks, Tori tried to ignore the perfume’s heady effect and the woman’s over-the-top cheeriness. “I have some questions.” “Of course you do.” Cinda tilted her head coquettishly. She was definitely of the perky persuasion, and while the ability to be upbeat at all times might be admirable, Tori suspected it often came from a superficial understanding of circumstances. Still, Cinda was here, apparently charged with being helpful.
“Okay, let’s see. Your questions will be answered at...” she held a clipboard and, pulling a pencil with an abrupt rip from a little Velcro pad that secured it, used its point to make her way down a sheet of names. “...ten this morning, Office 112 D, if that’s convenient for you.” The reference to Tori’s convenience must have been pure diplomacy, since she did not wait for a reply. “Until then you’re free to explore, okay? Breakfast is here on Deck E, and the fitness center on D is open all the time. You might get a massage, take a sauna, or visit the gym.”
“But, I don’t understand what’s happened.”
“Of course you don’t.” Cinda put a hand on Tori&rsq uo;s arm in a gesture that could only be called rehearsed. “That’s why you’re meeting Nancy at ten. Until then, enjoy the facilities, okay?”
Tori thought of the least important thing at that moment. “I have no other clothes.” This was something Cinda was equipped to handle, and genuine enthusiasm shone through. “Okay. Down this corridor, third door on the right. They’ll fix you up.” With a business-like flourish, she replaced the pencil on the sticky pad. “Have a pleasant trip.”
“Trip?” Tori repeated.
Cinda’s smile got even wider, although Tori noticed that it did not warm her rather flat eyes. “Nancy will explain.” She shook a finger in mock sternness, tilted her perfectly coiffed head to one side, and cranked the wattage on her smile up to full. “You relax until then, okay?”
That last “okay” did it. A confused sort of anger overcame Tori’s usual politeness, and she felt her face heat up. Where in the world was she, who was this Cinda, who was the yet unseen Nancy, and how could anyone tell her to relax when she had no idea where she was or what was going on?
“But--” She glanced back at the room, empty of anything personal, any clue to why she was there. Turning again to the doorway, she raised her finger to wave it under Cinda’s pert little (probably bobbed) nose, but Cinda was no longer there. It seemed her smile hung behind her for a few seconds, like the Cheshire Cat, but otherwise Tori stood looking at an empty corridor.
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