"The fifth book in the Pepper Martin Mystery Series"
Reviewed by Rachael Dimond
Posted November 21, 2009
Paranormal | Mystery
Pepper Martin works as a tour guide at Garden View Cemetery
but that's not all she does there. She has a secret and no
matter how bad the situations get, she doesn't want anyone
to know about it. Pepper can communicate with ghosts. The
ghosts usually come to her while working at the grave yard
and she can see and talk to them. Sometimes they've been
murdered and want her to solve the case but other times
it's to have their name cleared, like her latest case.
Jefferson Lamar has been dead since 1985 but when he hears
about Pepper Martin's gift, he comes to her, in the form of
a ghost, for her help. Jefferson was a Warden at a jail
until he was accused of killing a young woman in a hotel
room. However, he denies committing the crime and wants
his name cleared for the sake of his widow.
Normally Pepper can talk to ghosts and hide this secret
pretty well, but this time she's not working at her regular
cemetery when the ghost comes to her. She is working at
Monroe Street Cemetery helping out with a restoration
project and it's going to be a hard one.
The restoration project involves two teams and Pepper's
team is a bunch of criminals on probation. When the
project becomes a reality TV show, Pepper realizes she's
way over her head. How will she solve Jefferson Lamar's
case when she is being filmed all the time at the cemetery?
Will someone find out Pepper's secret? Will Pepper find the
real killer or will she get too close to danger in this
investigation and pay the ultimate price?
DEAD MAN TALKING is the fifth book in the Pepper Martin
Mystery Series following paranormal investigator Pepper
Martin. The first book that I read in this series was
Tombs of Endearment and while it was a fun fast read, it
left me with a bad taste. I had a lot of complaints and
wasn't interested in reading another book in this series
again. However, upon receiving this book I figured I would
give this series another try and I am so glad I did!
In DEAD MAN TALKING I found Pepper to be stronger and more
independent then she was in Tombs of Endearment. She
didn't depend on anyone but herself in this book and I
loved that her character has grown so much. The writing is
easy to read and makes the book move along rather quickly.
The story was a lot of fun and I enjoyed the mystery and
all of the characters. I would recommend reading this
series in order to fully understand events that happen in
later books and for better reading enjoyment. Overall, DEAD
MAN TALKING is a great story full of ghosts, mystery and
laughs and I can't wait for the next book in the series to
see what kind of case Pepper investigates next!
Heiress-turned-cemetery-tour-guide Pepper Martin is not
happy to discover that a local reality TV show, Cemetery
Survivor, will be filmed at Cleveland's Monroe Street
Cemetery-and she has to be a part of it. To make matters
worse, the ghost of a wrongly convicted killer needs
Pepper's help to clear his name. But digging for the truth
could put her in grave danger.
ExcerptThe ghosts were waiting for me when I arrived at Monroe
Street Cemetery that morning.
I figured they would be. They'd been hanging around my
office at Garden View Cemetery ever since the day a couple
weeks earlier when my boss, Ella Silverman, informed me
that instead of leading tours through Garden View that
summer, I would be spending my time working on a
restoration project at Monroe Street.
Back at Garden View, I'd pretty much been able to ignore
this pack of annoying spooks, and I knew why. They were
buried here at Monroe Street, and far from where they were
resting (but not at peace), they didn't have nearly as much
ghostly oomph. Here they were as lively as the dead are
likely to get and way pushier than ghosts have any right to
Then again, I guess I couldn't blame them. Thanks to
their daily visits to my office, they'd had a chance to
look around Garden View, and they were bound to be pissed.
After all, Monroe Street and Garden View are as different
from each other as cemeteries can be.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a cemetery geek. Not like
Ella. But I do know that in the hierarchy of burying
grounds, Garden View is at the tippy-top. Its three hundred
acres are as swanky and pristine as Monroe Street is . . .
well, far be it from me to judge, but it's hard to escape
the facts. This one-hundred-and-seventyfive-year-old,
thirteen-acre patch just to the west of downtown Cleveland
was nowhere near as elegant--or as well maintained--as
Garden View. The city-owned Monroe Street had been
neglected for years, and it showed. From where I stood, I
could see the overgrown paths and shaggy lawn. Oh yeah, and
the few hundred vandalized and toppled headstones thrown in
just for good measure.
But of course, if Monroe Street were perfect, it wouldn't
need to be restored, I wouldn't have been there in the
first place, and the gang of irritating ghosts wouldn't
have been all over me like--
Well, like ghosts on the world's one and only private
investigator for the dead.
â€śMy hat is missing.â€ť A tall, thin guy, who probably
hadn't looked any better alive than he did dead, rubbed the
top of his bald head. â€śThey say you solve mysteries. They
told me you could fi nd it.â€ť
â€śAs if she'd waste her time on you!â€ť A woman in a canary
yellow gown and one of those big honkin' picture hats
elbowed him out of the way and stepped into my path. â€śI
haven't heard from my beau. Something terrible must have
happened to him. Else he never would have abandoned me. You
must find him. They say you have the Gift, and--â€ť
â€śNews flash!â€ť I said this nice and loud so Mr. Hatless
and Ms. I-Should-Have-Looked-in-a-Mirror-Before-IWore-
Yellow-with-My-Waxy-Complexion and all the rest of the
ghosts crowding in on me were sure to hear. There were a
couple dozen of them, and I glanced all around, meeting
their eyes one after the other. â€śMissing hats and missing
lovers . . . Come on, people, you know that's not my thing.
If you've got something important for me to investigate--â€ť
â€śAunt Lulu's ruby necklace was nowhere to be found after
she passed,â€ť a woman wailed.
â€śMy brother told Ma I was the one who ate the last of the
cherry pie,â€ť a man moaned.
â€śThere's money missing from the collection plate.â€ť This
from an elderly man in a clerical collar.
â€śWhich ain't nearly as important as my problem.â€ť A
flapper pushed to the front of the crowd. â€śThere's liquor
missing from the speakeasy, and if the boss fi nds out,
there will be hell to pay.â€ť
At the sound of such language, Ms. Yellow swooned.
The preacher tsk-tsked.
I knew if I didn't take control, these annoying ghosts
would spend the summer bugging the crap out of me. With the
restoration project already on my plate, that was more than
I could handle.
â€śYou're not listening. None of you are listening!â€ť I
stomped one Juicy Couture ballet-fl at clad foot against
the ground to emphasize my point. â€śI don't waste my Gift on
dumb stuff,â€ť I told them, even though I shouldn't have had
to. â€śSo let's make two lines. Those of you who are looking
for lost necklaces and missing boyfriends and money and
such . . .â€ť I waved to my right. â€śYou get over here. If any
of you were murdered and need me to actually use my Gift to
find your killer so you can fi nally go into the
light . . .â€ť I gestured to my left.
They shuffled and shambled. They stalled and hemmed and
hawed. But in the end, they formed the lines. I should say
line. One. On my right.
â€śAll rightee, then,â€ť I said, with a ta-da gesture to my
left. â€śNone of you have anything important for me to
investigate. Nothing that involves you crossing to the
Other Side, anyway. So how about you just get a move on.â€ť I
shooed them. â€śI've got enough problems without a bunch of
annoying spooks spooking me.â€ť
Big surprise, they actually listened. One by one, they
drifted off among the tumbled headstones and overgrown
paths of Monroe Street and disappeared.
Except for one guy who'd been lurking at the back of the
crowd. I'd noticed him not because he was as pushy as the
other ghosts, but because he wasn't. While they competed
for my attention, he kept his distance. While they
chattered, he kept his mouth shut. And while the rest of
them scattered off into the nowhere where ghosts go when
they aren't hanging around to bug me, he stayed. But he
never looked at me.
Chin up, shoulders back, chest out like a soldier on
parade, he paced back and forth on the small, clear path
between the cemetery driveway and the overgrown tangle of
weeds that was all that was left of the once- pristine
grounds of Monroe Street.
Interested in spite of the good sense that told me not to
be, I looked him over.
This ghost was a middle-aged man in a charcoal pinstripe
suit. Narrow stripes, narrow lapels, narrow tie. The only
thing big about the guy was the black plastic frames of his
glasses. That, and his shoulders. He wasn't tall, but he
was stocky and broad, and not as handsome as he was rugged
looking. Maybe it was my imagination, but I also thought he
looked a little lost.
Did Pepper Martin know to keep her mouth shut? You bet
she did. Which doesn't explain why I stepped toward
him. â€śIs there some part of if you weren't murdered, I'm
not interested you don't understand?â€ť I asked. â€śBecause if
He stepped behind a tall-standing headstone and vanished
into thin air. Just like that.
â€śSo much for ghosts.â€ť I brushed my hands together,
ridding myself of the thought as well as the responsibility
of taking care of so many ectoplasmic pests, and it was a
good thing I did. Just as that last ghost vanished, my boss
Ella pulled up in her minivan and parked behind my Mustang.
â€śYoo hoo!â€ť She rolled down the window and waved. Like I'd
miss the only other living person anywhere around?
I waved back. â€śWhat are you doing here?â€ť I asked. When
she stepped out of the van and struggled to lift not one,
but two overloaded tote bags, I headed that way. I grabbed
one tote from her and went toward the canopy tent that had
been set up as a workspace, since there was no office or
administration building at Monroe Street. â€śI thought you
had a staff meeting this morning.â€ť
â€śIsn't it just like you to be thinking about Garden View,
even when you have so much else to do!â€ť Finally at the
tent, Ella hoisted her bag onto the lopsided card table
under it and deposited it with a thunk. â€śCareful with
that,â€ť she said, moving forward to help when I lifted the
twin tote. â€śWe don't want to aggravate that wound of
I stretched my left shoulder and felt a little pang in my
side. â€śIt's fine,â€ť I told her because she was already
worried and there was no use making things any worse. Ella
is the single mother of three teenaged girls. Worry is her
Not that I could blame her for her concern. She wasn't
used to sending an employee--me--off to a cemetery
conference and having that employee--me--end up in the
hospital with a gunshot wound. If only she knew all the
things that happened in between!
Even after a couple months, the thought of nearly losing
my body to the ghost who wanted to keep it for herself
still sent heebie-jeebies up and down my spine. My solution
was simple: I'd think about something else.
What's that old saying about being careful what you wish
for? No sooner had I decided to put everything that had
happened to me in Chicago the winter before on the back
burner than Ella reached into the closest tote bag and
pulled out one of those little pink message slips.
â€śDon't want to forget to give that to you.â€ť She said it
like it was the most natural thing in the world, and let's
face it, it should have been. It was. Until I glanced down
at the message.
The words were carefully written by Jenine, the woman who
worked the front desk back at Garden View and answered our
phones when we weren't around to do it ourselves. Give him
a call sometime, it said. He'd like you to come out and
visit. Jenine's loose, fl owing script was a sharp contrast
to the icy claw that gripped my insides when I saw that on
the line marked â€śFrom,â€ť she'd carefully added, Your dad.
Ella tried to look casual when she leaned over my
shoulder, but since she was a full head shorter than me and
had to stand on tip-toe to read the message, her strategy
didn't exactly work. â€śImportant?â€ť she asked, as nonchalant
as can be.
I stuffed the pink slip in the pocket of my black cotton
sateen cargo pants. â€śNot really. I'll take care of it
later,â€ť I said. I wondered if Ella knew I was lying to her
and to myself.
â€śSo . . .â€ť I glanced at the overstuffed bags. A better
strategy than thinking about my dad or about how last time
we talked, I promised I wouldn't let so much time pass
again before I gave him a call. Except I did. I had. And
really, there was no wondering why. If I talked to him,
he'd ask me--again--to get on a plane and fl y out to
Colorado, and I'd have to come up with some excuse--again--
to explain why I couldn't.
Me? In a prison?
I'd rather shop for a new wardrobe at Kmart.
Seeing my dad, Gil Martin, the once-prominent plastic
surgeon, in his khaki federal prison uniform . . . Well, if
I did, it would make the whole thing all too real, wouldn't
it? Facing Dad would also make me face the facts: no matter
how many times I told myself it couldn't be true, it was.
He really had done all those things the US attorneys
accused him of. He really was guilty of Medicare fraud. And
in the process of committing it, he'd betrayed his
profession and his family. He'd hurt Mom so much she was
hiding out in Florida. He'd broken my heart.
I cleared a sudden knot from my throat and concentrated
on the totes. â€śYou planning on camping out here or
I could just about see the advice dripping from Ella's
lips. Instead, she grimaced to keep her opinions to herself
and looked where I was looking--at those overstuffed tote
bags. She was wearing a fl owing orange skirt and an orange
top with three-quarter sleeves. A trio of sparkling orange
bracelets graced one arm. They were just summery enough and
matched the beads around her neck in shades of melon,
peach, and lemon that sparkled in the early morning
â€śI needed to get these supplies over to you,â€ť she
said. â€śLog books, digital cameras, journals, T squares, and
triangles. You know, for plotting out the new landscaping.
There's tracing paper and sketch books, too. Two sets of
I remembered my instructions to the ghosts--one line on
the right and one on the left. â€śOne set for each hand?â€ť I
She laughed in the way Ella does when she's nervous or a
little unsure, and honestly, I wouldn't have thought a
thing of it if it also wasn't the way she laughed when she
was feeling guilty.
Nervous and unsure I could deal with. Heck, I'd never
done a cemetery restoration. If I cared enough, I'd be
nervous and unsure, too.
But guilty was another thing.
And wondering what Ella was feeling guilty about, I was
suddenly a little nervous myself.
â€śThere's something you're not telling me.â€ť I looked at
her hard as I said this, and I knew for sure something was
wrong when she wouldn't meet my eyes.
â€śIt was Jim's idea,â€ť she said.
Jim is the administrator over at Garden View, and he's
Ella's boss. Which means he's my big boss.
This did not bode well. Neither did the fi dgety little
dance Ella did from Earth Shoe to Earth Shoe. â€śJim said
you'd be fine with the idea once you understood that it's
great publicity for Garden View.â€ť
I folded my arms over my chest and waited for more.
It came in a rush, the way Ella usually imparts
information when she knows there's a chance it's going to
piss me off.
â€śYou see, all the pieces just fell into place late Friday
afternoon, and that's why I didn't have a chance to tell
you about it because Jim was handling all the details, of
course, but nobody was sure about anything until this
morning, and I didn't want to tell you before now because I
didn't want you to spend your weekend worrying when you
should have been resting. And I hope you did get some rest,
I mean, with that gunshot wound of yours, and you know, I
don't ever want anything to happen to you again, and so I
thought it was just best if we left it all for today.â€ť
She sucked in a breath and I took the opportunity to move
a step closer. â€śAnd?â€ť I asked.
â€śAnd . . .â€ť She swallowed hard. â€śIt really is brilliant.
I mean, it's brilliant publicity, and Lord knows, we need
all the good publicity we can get. And by we, I mean both
Garden View and Monroe Street. People hear about cemeteries
and so many of them are creeped out. They don't understand
that cemeteries are actually museums without walls. There's
so much history in a cemetery. And so much interesting art
and architecture and--â€ť
â€śAnd so you and Jim decided . . . ?â€ť
â€śWell, I didn't. Decide, I mean. Though if it had been up
to me, I would have made the same decision Jim did. That's
how good of an idea it is. And I know you'll agree once you
hear the details. It was Jim and the board who decided, and
the people over at the Historical Society. Since they're
going to be such a critical piece of the puzzle, they had
to be in on it, too. And that's why it took all weekend to
come to a decision, because they had a lot of work to do on
their end, and--â€ť
A big black limo pulled up the drive into the cemetery,
and we both turned to watch. Since there hadn't been any
active burials in Monroe Street for who-knewhow-long, I was
Ella, I noticed, wasn't. But then, she could afford to be
blasĂ©; she knew what was going on. I still didn't, but I
had a feeling I was about to fi nd out.
â€śThey're here.â€ť She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward
where the limo stopped. â€śYou're going to love this,â€ť she
said in a stage whisper just as the limo door opened.
Jim, our boss, got out. â€śGood morning!â€ť Jim is a pleasant
guy who I'm convinced wouldn't know me if he tripped over
me in the hallway outside my offi ce. It's just as well
since these days I spend more time investigating for my
dead clients than I do working on cemetery business. â€śElla
told you what's going on?â€ť
Before I had a chance to either lie or hang Ella out to
dry, the door on the far side of the limo opened and a
woman in pink popped out. She was old and thin, one of
those fluffy types who hang around at the country club my
family used to hang around--before Dad did what Dad did and
we lost our country-club membership along with our home,
our friends, and what there was of a Martin fortune.
The little pink woman was followed by another, taller
woman with a broad chest and a scowl on her face. That
woman was followed by another, and--
â€śMrs. Lamb!â€ť I knew the fourth woman who emerged from the
limo. She lived just a couple doors down from where we used
to live before--
Anyway, Mrs. Lamb was the mother of my best childhood
friend, Dominique. Domi and I were inseparable through our
high school years, right up until college when we went our
separate ways. We'd kept in touch, until--
There was no use going over it again. I found myself
fingering the phone message from my dad and told myself to
get a grip. It was a good thing I did. Just at that moment,
Mrs. Lamb recognized me (it's hard to forget a five-foot-
eleven redhead) and came around to the other side of the
â€śPepper!â€ť Her smile was pleasant enough, but I couldn't
help noticing the way Katherine Lamb's gaze raked over me
from head to toe, checking out my hair, my makeup, my
clothes. Her smile wilted a bit when she said, â€śSo, the
rumor I heard is actually true. You really do work in a
â€śNot this cemetery.â€ť I thought it best to set the record
straight. Garden View is way classier than Monroe
Street. â€śI'm just sort of here on loan.â€ť
â€śYes. Of course.â€ť Mrs. Lamb touched a hand to one diamond
earring. â€śAnd how is Barb?â€ť
I was tempted to tell her that she could fi nd out
herself if she would just pick up the phone and call my
mom. But it was early in the morning, and I am never at the
top of my game before noon. Besides, like it or not, my
hand strayed again to the pocket where I'd tucked my dad's
message. Of course Katherine Lamb hadn't called my mother.
Like all Mom's other friends, Mrs. Lamb was embarrassed and
appalled by my dad's lack of good sense. Not to mention his
carelessness at getting caught.
When I didn't answer right away, she apparently
considered the subject blessedly closed. â€śYou've heard
about Dominique, of course,â€ť Mrs. Lamb said.
It wasn't a question. â€śI heard she graduated from
Wellesley, but it's been a few years and--â€ť
â€śWellesley, yes. She married a doctor, you know. They're
living in Manhattan. Upper West Side near the park. And
your other friends? Tiffany and Madison and Sydney? What
are they up to these days? My goodness, you girls were
inseparable, weren't you?â€ť
We were. Until my dad was declared a felon and the
friends who were supposed to be my bridesmaids and my life-
long buddies abandoned me, just like my fi ancĂ© had. I
shrugged like it was no big deal, and I was still
scrambling to come up with something to say that would make
it sound as if none of it mattered when Jim stepped
â€śYou will all get to know each other better over the next
couple months,â€ť he said, looking back and forth between me
and the line of well-dressed ladies. â€śBut let me do a quick
introduction. Pepper, you seem to already know Katherine
Lamb, and thisâ€ť--he turned toward the fluffy little woman
in pink--â€śthis is Mae Tannager.â€ť From there he pointed down
the line, starting with the big woman. â€śAnd this is Lucinda
Wright. Gretchen Hamlin, and--â€ť
â€śBianca?â€ť I'd been so busy talking to Mrs. Lamb, I hadn't
noticed the woman who stepped out of the limo last. Now, I
stared in awe. I would recognize those perfect high
cheekbones, the pouty lips, and the incredible dark eyes
anywhere. She was taller even than me, pencil thin, and
elegantly dressed in camel-colored pants and an
unstructured jacket in shades of burnt orange, taupe, and a
startling aqua that matched the color of her silk
Bianca needed only one name because anybody who had ever
flipped through a copy of Vogue, or Elle, or Cosmo
recognized her at once. She was one of the fi rst African
American supermodels, and she'd lived the kind of life most
of us--well, I--only dream about. She had homes in Paris,
London, and Monaco. She'd married a movie star, but the
romance fizzled, and when she jetted to Tahiti to forget
her troubles (paparazzi in tow), she'd met a guy from
Cleveland who just so happened to have more money than God.
He was twenty years older. She was in love and was welcomed
with open arms into the closed community of North Coast
These days, Bianca devoted her time to various local
charities and--way more important--to La Mode, a women's
boutique over on Larchmere, in one of those neighborhoods
that's shabby, chic, trendy--and too expensive for me to
shop in. Just thinking about my last trip past La Mode made
me wonder if they ever got my nose prints or my drool off
the front window.
My hand outstretched, I closed in on Bianca even before I
realized I was moving. â€śIt's an honor to meet you,â€ť I said,
right before I felt like a complete fool, so I
added, â€śWell, you know what I mean.â€ť
She laughed. Her teeth were perfectly straight and
blindingly white. She was kind and gracious. I knew she
would be. â€śIt's nice to meet you, too. You must be Pepper.â€ť
She knew my name! I was so flabbergasted, I could only
gape. Not a good look for me, so it was just as well that
while I was doing it, Jim stepped over. His cheeks were
flushed; he was clearly smitten. â€śBianca has graciously
agreed to be part of the team,â€ť he said.
â€śTeam?â€ť I glanced from Jim to Ella. â€śWe're a team?â€ť
Ella smiled. â€śWe've worked so hard on getting all the
pieces in place, and it's going to be fabulous and such
good publicity and--â€ť
â€śTeam.â€ť I fastened my eyes on Ella as I said this, the
better to get her to stick to the matter at hand. â€śWhat
kind of team are we? What are we going to be doing?â€ť
Ella's smile was a mile wide. â€śWhy, you're going to
restore the cemetery, of course! It's brilliant PR, Pepper.
Instead of you here working with just any volunteers . . .â€ť
When she looked around at the limo ladies, Ella's eyes
sparkled. â€śAll these wonderful women are involved with the
Historical Society, and they all understand the importance
of cemeteries in preserving local history. They've agreed
to be part of the team that's going to work on restoring
one of the Monroe Street sections this summer. You know,
deciding what to do as far as landscaping, and how to fix
the damaged headstones, and how we can all work together to
get publicity for the cemetery so that people realize what
a worthwhile cause it is and donate to help with the rest
of the restoration.â€ť
One look, and I knew if anybody could help, it was these
ladies. Sure, they were all a little older than middle
aged. Absolutely, they looked as if they'd never stepped
foot in a cemetery before (except for funerals) and that
they wouldn't know what to do to restore a headstone if
they had to. Heck, I didn't, either.
But I'd known women like these all my life. They were the
movers and shakers of the city, mild-mannered housewives
(for the most part) who, thanks to the force of their
personalities, their family names, and the big, big bucks
they had, could move mountains.
And we were going to be a team!
I found myself smiling at the same time I smoothed a hand
over my white blouse. If I was working with Bianca all
summer and I could impress her enough . . .
The thoughts that sped through my head were crazy, sure,
but crazier things had happened in my life. Like my family
losing its fortune, and Joel dumping me, and me talking to
ghosts. Why was it any crazier to imagine that if I worked
hard to impress Bianca, there might be a job at La Mode in
No more cemeteries!
No more ghosts!
Days filled with fabulous fashions, elegant fabrics,
cultured and very rich clients who came to me for advice
and respected my opinions and listened when I recommended
styles and put together colors like nobody else could.
I did my best to control the bubble of excitement that
would have made me look too unprofessional, and reminded
myself that as team captain--I mean, I assumed I was team
captain since I was the one with cemetery experience--I
needed to be cool, collected, and in control.
I would have been, too, if that ghost in the pin-striped
suit didn't show up again right behind Bianca.
I rolled my eyes, and instantly regretted it. The fashion
consultants who worked at La Mode would never be so gauche.
Instead, I concentrated on what Jim was saying, on how he
was explaining that Mae and the other women would be
working over in Section 10 where a couple prominent early
settlers were buried. I was listening. Honest. It would
have been easier if that pin-striped spook didn't hover
around behind Bianca, his chin up and his shoulders steady,
even though he never once met my eyes.
He moved away, toward the overgrown walkways, marching
toward the back corner of the property where the iron fence
separated the cemetery from a neighborhood pocked with
boarded factories and tiny houses.
â€śSo what do you think?â€ť
Jim's question snapped me out of my thoughts. Since he
was looking at me, I was afraid he was talking to me, too.
â€śI think . . .â€ť I grinned in what I hoped was an
embarrassed sort of way and pointed toward the Porta potti
that was all Monroe Street had to offer in the way of
amenities. As if I wouldn't let myself burst first before I
ever set foot in it. â€śIf you'd all excuse me for just a
moment . . .â€ť I sidled toward where I'd seen the ghost
vanish into the undergrowth. â€śI'll be right back.â€ť
I knew what I was about to do was a big ol' mistake.
Believe me. At this point in my investigating-for-thedead
career, I knew I was better off leaving well enough alone.
Which means I should have simply ignored the guy.
But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't. Not when
I saw how lost and lonely he looked.
I hate it when ghosts do that to me, but facts were facts
and this was one fact I couldn't ignore. I had to find out
what was up with this guy. I did the only thing I could
think to do, the one thing I'd never done before in my
years of ghostly investigations--I went after him.
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