Dating Dead Men by Harley Jane Kozak Page B

what she called lying I like to think of as improvisation; Joey had worked a lot as an actress before she'd acquired the scar on her face.
    I went to greet new customers, members of the oldest profession, judging from their dress—micro-miniskirts, one paired with torn black stockings, one with thigh-high boots, both with bustiers. Not an easy look to pull off, but you have to give people credit for trying. One of them asked me to change a hundred-dollar bill.
    When we got to the register, Joey was already on the phone, apparently to the morgue. “I'm on hold,” she said, and covered the mouthpiece. “Wollie, what city's
ER
set in?”
    â€œChicago,” the streetwalkers said, in unison.
    â€œThanks.” Joey moved down the counter and talked into the phone. “No problem. And what's your name?” Her voice really carried. I should have asked her to make the call from the back room, but too late now. “I'm a former staff writer for
ER,
” she told the morgue. “Ever watch it?”
    The streetwalkers were riveted to Joey's conversation. I counted out twenties, tens, and ones for them and rang up two packs of gum, trying in vain to regain their attention.
    â€œSid, I couldn't agree more,” Joey said, her voice exuding an unusual degree of charm. She explained that she was surveying small to midsize morgues all over the country in the interest of getting an insider's view for an upcoming series called
Morgue
. “It's gotta be frustrating when you see your profession on TV and we get it all wrong—right?”
    I turned up the easy listening music and the ladies of the evening left, with reluctance. I turned down the music and heard Joey ask how many bodies had been brought in lately and if this number was normal for a non-holiday weekend. She asked questions related to traffic accidents and heart attacks and talked so long about AIDS that I got interested myself and forgot what she was really calling about.
    The shop's bell announced a woman of Wagnerian proportions, in heavy tweed. I turned up the music again and hurried over to ask if she needed help. She headed to the back wall with the air of someone who's done her reconnaissance work.
    â€œThese,” she said, holding up a set of wooden Winnie-the-Pooh bookends. “Too masculine for a newborn girl?”
    â€œOh, no,” I said. “Winnie transcends gender. Even the name is ambiguous.”
    She sniffed, leading me back to the register. “I don't care for ambiguous names. This gift is for an unfortunate child named Brie, like the cheese. Plus Ann. Brie Ann.”
    Something about her disapproval brought to mind Mr. Bundt. She could have been his elder sister. Or, more alarmingly, his undercover agent. I moved around the counter, glancing at Joey, whose back was to us. Joey's outfit was innocuous enough, but her hair had matted itself into something approaching dreadlocks, giving her the appearance of an Irish Rastafarian.
    â€œThere's no accounting for taste, is there?” I said, turning back to my customer.
    â€œNo, there is not,” she agreed. “Gift wrap those, please. I was hoping to find some Engelbreit, but you don't seem to carry her.”
    Joey was six feet away, the phone cord stretched its full length, but she was on a roll and her voice carried, winning out over easy listening. “If you're a fan, you know the kind of thing we love: choking on chicken bones, suicides, homicides, sudden infant death syndrome.”
    My customer swiveled her head sharply to the left.
    â€œWe do carry Mary Engelbreit,” I said, willing her gray helmet of a hairdo to swivel back. “But T-shirts and mugs, primarily. Nothing appropriate for a baby.”
    â€œMary Engelbreit is a marvelous talent,” she said, returning her attention to me.
    â€œWith an unambiguous name,” I added.
    Joey's voice came through again. “Let's move on to blood. Anyone dismembered or