The outside of the building was bland. It was just a one-story brick building with no embellishments. The inside was . . . well, beige. The carpet, walls, and furniture were beige. The art on the walls was different variations of beige. Even the morticians were dressed in taupe. Yeesh. I know it's a death industry, but liven things up already. Yeesh. I know it's a death industry, but liven things up already. The only person who didn't look like a zombie was a beige-suited young woman with flaming red hair. The only person who didn't look like a zombie was a beige-suited young woman with flaming red hair.

"Good evening," said the redhead from the library somberly. Then she looked at me. "Oh, it's you."

I was completely stunned (and more than a little excited that she recognized me). Now I knew why she needed that book more than I did.

Paris introduced himself with great charm, to my strange irritation.

"Leonie Doubtfire." She shook Paris's hand, then reached for mine. "And you are?"

I said nothing, just stared at her hand as if it were a cobra ready to strike. (I say cobra cobra affectionately. It was Great-great-uncle Arkansas's modus operandi-difficult to import, but very Cleopatra.) affectionately. It was Great-great-uncle Arkansas's modus operandi-difficult to import, but very Cleopatra.) Paris nudged me, and I clumsily grabbed her hand. "Bombay. Er . . . Dakota Bombay." Jesus. Jesus. That was smooth. I'd never blown an introduction before. That was smooth. I'd never blown an introduction before.

"You must be with the Skeevy party," she said, and I nodded like an idiot. "They're in the Algonquin Room." She gave us a forced smile, then moved on to another couple who had just entered the funeral home.

All I could do was stand there, staring after her. My heart was beating a violent tattoo. What was wrong with me?

Paris nudged me again, and I shook myself out of the trance. He looked concerned but said nothing about my reaction. We followed the signs to the Algonquin Room and saw Old Skeevy laid out in his coffin at the head of the room. His family had chosen to bury him in his old gym uniform. Creepy. He still looked like hell. Seeing his corpse made me shudder, and I felt a ghost pain in my right shoulder. The geezer still scared the shit out of me after all of these years, in spite of the fact that he was dead and I was now a professional killer.

I turned my thoughts to more pleasant things, like Leonie Doubtfire. What a weird name. What a weird-looking chick. Why couldn't I get her out of my head?

"Hey," Paris whispered to me, "I've got two of Skeevy's nieces willing to hit the clubs with us later." I looked in the direction he pointed and saw two petite blondes (who obviously hadn't inherited anything from the deceased) wiggling their fingers at us.

"Yeah. Sure," I responded in a fog. I watched as he went over and told them I was in. They giggled with delight. It could be fun. As long as their idea of a drinking game wasn't Russian roulette, it might even be a good time.

For some reason I took the opportunity to flee the room. I wandered the hallways of Crummy's, looking for . . . for what? Maybe I just needed a break.

"So," Leonie said from behind me. "Come here often?"

I turned to face her, somewhat pissed off. "How do you know I'm not a relative of the deceased and would find your comment inappropriate?"

She shrugged and walked away. I was just about to go after her and apologize when Paris grabbed my arm and steered me toward the door, where the two Skeevy girls waited for us. As the four of us climbed into my car, I felt like a complete idiot. Maybe a little bamboo under the fingernails was what I deserved.

Chapter Nine.

Prince Charmont: "You're the first maiden who hasn't swooned at the sight of me." "You're the first maiden who hasn't swooned at the sight of me."

Ella of Frell: "Then maybe I've done you some good." "Then maybe I've done you some good."

-Ella Enchanted

Saturday night was a total bust. It turned out the girls were Catholic (the real kind, not like the ones I knew in college who were Catholic only on Sundays) and didn't believe in fooling around. It was just as well: I wasn't interested. All I could think of was Leonie Doubtfire.

But why? She was totally against my type. The willowy redhead obviously wasn't blond, didn't fall all over me at first sight, and there was zero giggling. A little giggling always went a long way with me.

And that was why I was at the funeral home again the next morning for Skeevy's last hurrah.

"I don't get it," Paris whispered. "I thought it was nice to go to the visitation, but why are we back?"

An old woman in a lilac polyester suit seated in the pew ahead turned around to glare at us.

"It's her, isn't it?" Paris persisted despite my attempts at ignoring him. He was pointing at Leonie.

"If you must know, yes. There's something about her I can't get out of my head."

"You came to a funeral just to pick up a mortician?" Paris asked.

Angry Lady in front turned around again. Apparently she disapproved. I ignored her.

"I just wanted to talk to her."

"Jesus, Dak," Paris replied.

Angry Lady turned around again. "Do you boys mind? This is a funeral!"

Paris apologized while I stuck my tongue out at her. Real mature, I know.

I caught up with the object of my confusion after the ceremony. Skeevy was being cremated-which seemed fitting-so there was no gravesite burial.

"Um, hey," I said gallantly. "Would you like to go out and get a cup of coffee or something?"

Leonie frowned. Why was everyone frowning at me lately? "Why?" she asked, reducing me to the size of a castrated ant.

"Why not?" was all my lame brain could come up with.

She stared at me for a moment, her light blue eyes sizing me up. I felt as if I were being inspected for maggot infestation.

"Sure," she said, and I let go of the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "I'll meet you at the cafe on the corner in an hour." Then she turned and walked away.

I pretty much dragged Paris to the car, drove him to his house at eighty miles per hour, then returned to the cafe to wait for my coffee date. That left me with thirty minutes, most of which I spent finding the right casual pose in my chair.

Of course, the moment she walked in I realized I had a bigger problem: What was I going to say to her?

"It's Dakota, right?" she asked as she sat. Her smile was fleeting, causing me some doubt. But I reminded myself that she was here, after all. And that could only be seen as a plus.

I nodded. "And you are Leonie." Ooh. Ooh. Smooth. Smooth.

"Now that we have our names down, what should we talk about? I take it you didn't want to meet me to discuss your future funeral arrangements." Was that . . . Did I see a flash of a smile?

The words came to me as if Paris were my Cyrano, feeding me lines via radio from his car in the parking lot. Then I cursed myself for not thinking of having him do just that. "I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I was rude."

She waved her hand in the air. "Oh, that. No big. I figured you were just choked up."

Oh. Right. About Skeevy. Of course she'd think that. I was torn here because I didn't want Of course she'd think that. I was torn here because I didn't want any any woman to think I was choked up over a creepy, geriatric gym teacher. woman to think I was choked up over a creepy, geriatric gym teacher.

"Well, I also shouldn't have yelled at you at the library." And then my inner Daniel Webster dried up. Cyrano failed me. Leonie had better come up with something to say or this would be a long coffee date.

"Oh, yeah." She ran long white fingers through her blazing red curls. "I need that book. When I bought the mortuary I didn't realize I had to keep the name. So I'll take any help I can get."

"You bought Crummy's?"

"Just a few months ago. Moved here from Oregon. I thought I could make it work." She sighed and shook her head. Her lips had an adorable little pout that made me want to nibble on them. I held myself back.

"So you really are a mortician, then?"

Leonie narrowed her eyes at me. "Not really. It's just my cover. I'm trying to reanimate human life using parts of several dead people."

A joke. I liked that. "I guess that was a stupid question."

She nodded in agreement, and I felt my stock go down twenty points. "It's my family's business. That and I have a morbid fascination with death."

I could relate to that-carrying on the family business, working with dead people. (Actually, they weren't dead when I started working with them, but that's just plain nitpicking.) "What brought you here?"

"I didn't want to work at the family's home. I thought I'd strike out on my own. I saw the ad for this place in our monthly industrial rag and just took a shot."

The conversation was so different from any other I'd had with a woman I was interested in. (Actually, there usually was very little conversation at all.) Leonie was serious, career-minded, and intelligent. None of these were qualities I typically looked for in a woman.

It took us two hours to get past the pleasantries. What surprised me was that I was having a good time.

Leonie looked at her watch. "Damn. I've got to run."

"So soon?" I asked, as if I didn't know we'd been there over two hours.

She nodded, and then something miraculous happened: She smiled. And I felt my insides turn into primeval ooze. Nothing any woman had ever done before made me feel so good. Weird, eh?

"Tell you what." She leaned forward and looked me in the eyes. "Why don't I take you out for dinner two nights from now?"

I used every atom in my body to keep from jumping on the table and dancing lewdly. "Great! How about Taschetta's at eight o'clock?"

Leonie smiled again. "I'll meet you there." And then she left.

I was so exhausted and spent I thought I'd just come from an all-night orgy. (Man, I missed those parties.) Who knew women could be interesting? And a date. How cool was that? Maybe things were looking up!

After a few little Gene Kelly hops on the light posts outside (no rain though, which was good because it would have mussed my perfect hair), I finally made it to my car. I picked up Louis and a pizza, and the two of us watched X-Men X-Men movies until I realized it was way past his bedtime. Mom had told me to make it eight p.m., but it was well past ten already. I tucked my son into his bed, then collapsed into mine. My last thoughts before sleep claimed me were of Leonie and her pretty little pout. movies until I realized it was way past his bedtime. Mom had told me to make it eight p.m., but it was well past ten already. I tucked my son into his bed, then collapsed into mine. My last thoughts before sleep claimed me were of Leonie and her pretty little pout.

"What's this?" I asked Louis in regard to the yellow flier he handed me after school. Gin, Liv, and I sat on benches at the school's playground.

"It's a notice from the principal." Louis eyed me sternly. Romi and Alta shouted for him, and he ran off to play.

I scanned the note with a bit of awe. I was a parent now. I got important, goldenrod-colored memos from the school. How cool was that?

But something in the words made me read it again.

"What the hell?" I said aloud. Gin shushed me and I waved her off. "It says they're banning the games of tag and flag football for being too violent." I looked at my sister and cousin. "Did you see this?"

Gin and Livhad the contents of their children's backpacks sprawled on the benches beside them. I made an effort to emulate them without really knowing why-other than that must be what all the cool parents did.

"Unbelievable," Gin cried. "It says running has the potential to cause collisions. And pulling the flags off the belt can result in chafing."

Liv nodded grimly. "I've heard of this. It's already going on in other states. I'm afraid this is what we're heading toward."

I rolled my eyes. "Why? Does this make any sense?"

Gin replied, "Not to us. But the local schools have been getting more safety conscious lately."

I made a face. "In thirty years have you ever heard of anyone maimed on this playground?" Again they shook their heads. "I don't remember anyone dying from playing tag. It would be all over the news."

Gin cocked her head to the side. "It would be. Kid dies in bizarre tag collision. Children severed at the waist from tight flag-football belts."

"Pretty soon the kids won't even get to play on the playground," Liv chimed in. "All they'll be allowed to do at recess is stand up against the building."

"That's fucked up"-I ignored Gin's shushing-"'cause this stuff is safer than what we had. Now they have soft rubber mats. We had skin-shredding gravel underneath."

Gin nodded. "And all the equipment is molded plastic with no seams or edges. We had splintered wood and rusty, jagged metal."

"Don't forget the kind of equipment," Liv added. "Merry-go-rounds that spun you into another county, two-story-tall slides with rickety ladders, butt-busting teeter-totters. None of those things even exist now."

She had a point. "Hell, we didn't even have helmets to ride our bikes with, elbow and knee pads for roller skating, car seats, or use seat belts."

Gin added, "And yet I don't remember a single kid dying on any of those things when we were growing up."

I snorted. "Too bad we didn't have to take out any other kids back then. Apparently playgrounds would've made very useful death traps, and we didn't even know it."

Liv and Gin shot me looks that burned through my skull, blowing a big, figurative hole out the back of my head.

"So what do we do about this?" I asked.

Gin shook her head. "I don't know. What do you think, Liv?"

Livsqui nted up at the sky. "Well, we are card-carrying members of the PTA. I guess we could attend the next meeting and protest?"

That sounded too difficult, too boring, and too administrative. "Let's kill the PTA president . . . make an example of him and demand they rescind this." Now, that was well within my skill set.

For a moment I thought my sister and cousin were actually going to consider it.

"I'd give anything to do that, little brother." Gin sighed.