Wild Wild Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

vibrations around the team, but if the cemetery where Goodshot is buried would just al ow me to perform a corn ceremony at his grave, I know I could lift the curse. The city of Cleveland needs my help. The Cleveland Indians need my help. I’m pleading to the people in charge of the cemetery. If you’d just let me in to do the ceremony, I can turn this city around!”
    “Let’s see what this disappointed Indians fan thinks.” The reporter was in front of me and his microphone was in my face so fast, I never had a chance to duck out of the way. Too bad. At least then I could have shrugged out of Quinn’s jacket so I didn’t look like a complete fashion moron on the eleven-o’clock news.
    As if things could get any worse, the reporter’s eyes lit the moment he looked me over, and I knew what it meant. He recognized me from that wacky PBS cemetery renovation show I’d been involved in the year before. Sure, it was nice to know I was stil something of a cult celebrity. Not so nice when I realized I was about to be put on the spot.
    Wearing a man’s blue windbreaker.
    “Talk about luck! This is Pepper Martin.” The reporter’s smile was as bright as the lights of the TV
    camera. “She works at Garden View Cemetery, where Goodshot is buried. Tel us, Pepper, what’s the cemetery going to do? Do you think Morning Dove here…” He glanced toward the Native American who I’d bet any money wasn’t a real Native American at al . “Do you think she can lift the curse?
    Can you help us out, convince the people at the cemetery that we need her? You could be a hometown hero, Pepper.”
    Did that pause mean I was supposed to say something?
    I scrambled, thinking about how I could get out of this tight spot by tel ing the world how I was low man on the totem pole (no Indian puns intended) and how I’d been unceremoniously tossed out of my cemetery job on my blue windbreaker–covered butt in the name of profits. I would have done it, too, except that I knew the reporter was from the station El a watched every night. And I wouldn’t embarrass her for al the world.
    “I can’t speak for the cemetery administrator,” I said, pul ing out that tour-guide voice again and giving the reporter a wide smile. Maybe if people concentrated on the seven thousand dol ars of teeth straightening in my mouth, they wouldn’t notice the fashion faux pas that was my attire. “And I certainly can’t speak for El a Silverman, the cemetery’s community relations manager, either. But I would like to remind your viewers that there’s no way to prove that there real y is a curse.”
    “A curse? Sure there’s a curse. And somebody needs to do something about it.”
    Saved by the guy behind me who piped right up, his voice so passionate, the reporter had no choice but to swing his way. Glad to be off the hook, I stepped back to Quinn’s side to watch.
    The guy was in his twenties, short, round, and wearing an Indians T-shirt and flannel pants with Chief Wahoo, the team’s mascot, al over them.
    “That curse is what’s keeping us from winning,” he said, his face as red as his shirt.
    “No way we should have lost tonight,” the tal , thin kid next to him said. “We had our best pitcher on the mound. Winning should have been a sure bet.”
    “There’s no such thing as a sure bet,” another guy with them grumbled. “Not when it comes to this team.”
    The reporter signaled to his cameraman to stop filming. “That’s great,” he said to everyone, and no one in particular. “Thank you al . And Morning one in particular. “Thank you al . And Morning Dove”—he turned to her—“when Garden View lets you in, you’l let us know, won’t you? Hey, talk to Pepper here. I bet she can arrange…” By the time he got that far, I was already marching down the street for al I was worth.
    It wasn’t until Quinn and I stopped at the next corner to wait for the light that I realized the guys who’d been on camera with us were right in