Dating Dead Men by Harley Jane Kozak Read Free Book Online Page B

fall off his stool.
    â€œHe's working on the movie,” Douglas said. “The Civil War thing.”
    â€œNo! Really? A Civil War movie?”
    â€œYou didn't hear about it? It's got Whatsername in it. Elizabeth Montgomery.”
    â€œElizabeth McGovern, maybe?” I was pretty sure Elizabeth Montgomery was dead.
    â€œLast night,” Douglas added, “he did two hundred uniforms with caked-on blood.”
    â€œCaked-on blood,” I said. “What a challenge, Raymond.”
    â€œAnd he can't even get himself an autograph.” Douglas's voice leaked contempt.
    Raymond stood and reached into the pocket of his chinos. Was he leaving?
    I spoke fast. “Raymond's an awfully nice name. What is it, Spanish?”
    â€œNorwegian.” He plunked down some change and turned to leave.
    I looked out the window. The green scrub suit was nowhere in sight.
“Wait!”
    Raymond stopped.
    â€œLet me buy you a doughnut,” I said. Maybe they took credit cards.
    Raymond shook his head. “Sugar, white flour, it's all poison.”
    â€œOkay, but let me just ask you something. In your dry cleaning, do you use . . . poly . . . Poly-something. That stuff that eats up the ozone?”
    Raymond frowned, and reached for the door handle.
    I slid off my stool. “Poly . . . urethane. No. Some chemical. Poly—”
    â€œI don't know what you're talking about.”
    â€œNo, listen, this is important.” I was losing him. My assignment was out the door. “Perchloroethylene! That's it. Raymond! Do you guys use perchloroethylene?” I followed him outside. “Because it's dangerous, Raymond, dangerous for
you
.”
    He headed to the left, not trying to ditch me, but not slowing down.
    â€œNot just for the consumer,” I said, “or the planet, but you, you're the one who works with it, day in and day out. If you don't care about the ozone, care about your lungs. Cancer.” I was alongside him. “Sterility. Chernobyl. Doughnuts? Doughnuts are
vitamins
in comparison.”
    He moved faster. I didn't know what to do so I leapt in front of him and grabbed at his shoulders. We lost our balance and thudded against the glass window of A-1 Travel Agency, Raymond's startled face framed by a poster of Cabo San Lucas.
    I let go of him. “Sorry. I'm really sorry, Raymond, but it's my life's work.”
    He straightened himself. “Weirdo,” he muttered. Eyes fixed on me, he moved backward toward Lotus Blossom 24-Hour Martinizing. I figured that Doc was in there and I wanted to alert him so I yelled, “Agent Orange.”
    It worked. As Raymond reached the dry cleaner's, Doc emerged. He looked so different, though, I had to look twice. Gone were the green scrubs; the erstwhile doctor now wore a tuxedo.
    â€œAre you open for business?” he said, as Raymond literally backed into him. “Because the door was open—”
    â€œNo. Eight A . M .” Raymond righted himself and went inside.
    Doc came my way but didn't look at me. The suit was small for him, tight in the shoulders and short in the sleeves. As he moved past me he touched my elbow in a “follow me” gesture. Pant cuffs dangled a full four inches above his paper slippers.
    I turned and followed, pulling at a piece of plastic that emerged from the suit jacket. A receipt clung to it.
    â€œGood work,” he said in a low voice, taking the plastic. “Let's go.”
    â€œCar keys,” I said, and ran into the doughnut shop. I grabbed the keys and then, for good measure, the half page of the
Times
Doc had been reading, the one he'd torn apart.
    When I reached the car, he was in the driver's seat.
    I got in and handed him the keys.

chapter six
    W e hurtled out of the parking lot so fast that the ferret was thrown against Doc. He tossed her gently into the back, which didn't seem to bother her.
    â€œYou stole that suit,” I said.
    â€œI did. It was this or a