The Laughing Corpse

“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.”

Chapter 2

The 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 old days.

There was a blond ma

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 Ma

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 ski

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.