Dead Case in Deadwood (31 page)

Lucky me.

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. "I
know what’s in the crates, Ray," I said, bluffing.

His eyes narrowed.

"I followed you the other night," I added for good
measure.

"You lie."

Yes, I did. More often than I probably should, too. But the
way his eyes searched mine, he wasn’t so sure of it.

"I know all about the tools," I continued,
reaching, using his reactions to guide me.

Ray’s cheeks darkened.

"And the money." This was pure guesswork, but
George had to be getting funding from somewhere if he could top Cornelius’s
offer. Death couldn’t be paying that well, could it? "I know what you did
and how you’re using Mudder Brothers to cover it all up."

Ray’s nostrils flared. "You lie," he said again,
but he lacked his earlier conviction.

"You shouldn’t have come after my job, Ray. Big
mistake. When I’m done with you, Mona will be over at the police station
bailing your ass out of jail."

He shoved to his feet, the force of his abrupt rise slamming
his chair backward into the wall. "You’ll end up dead, you stupid cunt."

Ohhh, he’d thrown out the C-word. I’d nailed a nerve, which
meant I was on course with my suspicions.

I rocked in my chair, feigning nonchalance. Inside,
adrenaline spread, making my legs and arms tingle, preparing me for fight or
flight.

"Is that a threat, Ray?"

He rushed me, his eyes rimmed with rage. "Consider it a
warning, Blondie."

Months of built-up anger exploded. I shot to my feet, ready
to clash horns with him head on.

"Remember this, dickhead—Detective Cooper is one of my
so-called
clients
. Sweet nothings aren’t the only things I whisper in
his ear."

Ray stepped closer, bending so we were almost nose-to-nose.
His cologne clawed at the back of my throat, but I held my ground, standing
tall.

"Trust me, Blondie," he whispered, his breath reeking
of stale coffee and onions. "If you don’t back the fuck off, Cooper won’t
be able to save you."

The bells over the front door jingled.

"What’s going on here?" Mona asked, striding over,
her cheeks matching her pink silk blouse. She pushed us apart. "Ray,
Detective Cooper wants to talk to you over at the police station."

Cooper was being awfully chatty these days. A regular talk
show host.

When Ray didn’t budge, Mona grabbed him by the ear and
yanked. "Damn it, Ray, knock it off."

"Owch! Jesus, Red, that hurts."

"Good." Her green eyes flashed. "Now, get out
of here before I rip it off your head!"

Ray paused long enough to grab his phone and shoot me one
last wrinkled-lip sneer.

I saluted him with my middle finger.

Mona waited for the door to close behind him before asking, "What
was that about?"

I clasped my trembling hands behind my back. "He was
just being his usual loving self."

Worry lined her cheeks. "You okay?"

Not really. Confrontation usually left me wanting to lock
myself in the bathroom and pay tribute to the porcelain goddess. "I’m
fine."

"Good, because you need to call Cornelius."

"Is he out of jail?"

Mona rolled her eyes. "He was never in jail."

"What? Ray was lying?"

"Yes and no. Yesterday, the police got a tip about
Cornelius being involved with a murder down in New Orleans earlier this year,
so they brought him in last night."

"They put him in a jail cell based on a tip?"

"No, he asked to be put in the cell."

I blinked. "I’m confused."

Her forehead wrinkled. "Why didn’t you tell me
Cornelius claims to be able to talk to ghosts?"

Because that made him sound a teensy bit insane. "I
hadn’t gotten around to it yet."

"It turns out that while the police were questioning
Cornelius, he claimed to hear some whispers coming from the cell area. When he
mentioned his ghostly occupation, one of the rookies told him about a prisoner
who’d hung himself in one of the cells a couple of decades ago."

"Is that a true story?" Could Cornelius really
hear ghosts?

She nodded. "Cornelius convinced the police to lock him
up in the same cell as the dead prisoner for the night so he could try to make
contact with the ghost."

"Oh, jeez." I sat down on the edge of my desk. "So,
did Cornelius make ‘contact’ during the night?"

"No, but he asked to come back another time with his
equipment." Mona hesitated, then added, "And he mentioned you."

Of course he did. Great. Just what I needed over at the cop
shop—to be linked with a person-of-interest in another murder case.

"You mean regarding me being his Realtor?"

"Yes," Mona said. "He also told them you can
channel ghosts."

I looked to the ceiling, waiting for it to crash down on my
head. "Mona, please tell me you’re kidding."

"I wish I was." She squeezed my shoulder. "You
have a new nickname: Spooky Parker."

That wasn’t new. Ray called me that, too. He probably
planted it there. "Maybe I should add that to my business cards."
Along with the fire department’s new favorite, Four-Alarm Parker.

"Is Cornelius still there?" I asked.

"No, he left when I first got there, saying something
about hunting down a protein shake."

Good luck with that. "And the murder in New Orleans?"

"He has a solid alibi. The police will just keep an eye
on him for a bit."

"That’s a relief." Although, Cornelius wouldn’t be
my first client who’d committed murder. It seems I’d found a new niche in the
realty market.

"I know. But you need to go see Cornelius about the
hotel, pronto. We have forty-eight hours to up our offer."

I grabbed my keys and purse. "I’m on it."

"Call me on my cell after you talk to him," Mona
said, dropping into her chair. "I have an appointment in Spearfish for
lunch."

"Will do." I paused next to Jane’s partially
closed door. "Mona? Have you seen Jane today?"

"She was leaving the parking lot when I got here this
morning. Said she’d be back tonight."

"Good." I closed Jane’s office door with a quiet
click, hiding the mess inside. "I’ll talk to you later."

I looked for Doc’s Camaro on my way through the parking lot,
but didn’t see it anywhere. In my haste to race home this morning, I hadn’t
thought to ask him what time he’d be in the office.

Shaking thoughts of Doc from my head, I crawled inside the
Picklemobile and called Cornelius’s cell phone. He didn’t answer, so I tried to
reach him in his room via the hotel switchboard.

He answered on the first ring. "I thought I told you
not to call me, anymore."

I held the phone away for a second and frowned at it. Why
couldn’t I find normal clients?

"Cornelius, this is Violet Parker," I said into
the mouthpiece.

"Oh, Violet, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone
else."

Who? A ghostly jailbird, maybe?

"We need to talk," I told him and decided to lay
it all out right then and there. "The other party interested in the hotel
submitted a second, higher offer."

"Persistence is an admirable quality."

He sounded like a fortune cookie. I leaned back in the seat,
tapping my thumb on the steering wheel. "Does that mean you are willing to
up your offer?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"You."

My thumb stopped. "On me?"

"Yes."

"Is this about me getting you another protein shake?"

He laughed so loudly that I held the phone away from my ear
until he quieted. "No. It’s about you and this hotel."

My shoulders tightened. "I don’t understand."

"It’s simple my dear. If I can get positive proof that
this hotel is haunted, I don’t care what it costs us, you will get it for me."

"Proof? What about that broken mirror from your first
séance or the meters redlining the other night?"

"I want something more definite."

More definite? We were talking about goddamned ghosts. "No
problem," I said with false bravado. I could find the book Doc spoke of
that talked about the multiple suicides. Get the ladies’ names for him to call
through the walls. If it came down to it, hire some actors to do something
ghost-like, maybe drag chains around in the middle of the night.

"Great. You’ll be here at dusk then, I assume?"

"You mean to sign the revised offer papers?"

"I mean to act as a channel for me, like you did
before."

I glared at the phone. No. Absolutely not. No way in hell.
Channeling was something I only did with a television or radio.

"Violet?" I heard him say. "Are you still
there?"

I needed a new job.

Holding the phone to my ear again, I jammed the key in the
ignition. "What do you want me to bring?"

Since Cornelius wouldn’t sign off on a second offer until I
pulled a ghost out of my ass, that left me the remaining hours of daylight to
come up with a game plan.

I started the Picklemobile, holding down the gas pedal as
she cleared her throat. Puffs of black smoke billowed past the rearview mirror.

Being that Cornelius dabbled regularly in the haunted realm,
I couldn’t just wing it this time, not with my job on the line. I’d have to put
on the performance of a lifetime, even if it took a theatrical show big enough
to bring Elvis back from the other side. David Copperfield could hide a plane,
right? Surely, I could fake channeling a ghost.

There was just one teeny weeny problem—I had no clue what I
was doing. I needed help, and I knew just the person to school me in the ectoplasmic
world: Doc.

I called his cell phone and got his voicemail.

Strike one.

Shifting into reverse, I rumbled over to his house and
repeated last night’s performance—first a knock, then the doorbell, then a look
in the garage. His Camaro wasn’t there.

Strike two.

The library! Knowing Doc, he was probably there searching
for more information on good ol’ Kyrkozz. I swallowed the anxiety that
fluttered in my throat at just the thought of the demon.

When I pulled into the parking lot, his car wasn’t there,
either. I checked inside the South Dakota room just to be sure and found it
empty. Damn.

Strike three.

Now what? I was out of strikes.

I climbed back into the Picklemobile and shut the door.
Maybe I’d cruise up to Lead and look for his car. Or call Natalie and see if
she knew where he was since she kept tailing him. Or not.

My cell phone rang.

Doc!

I pulled it out of my purse. The sight of Cooper’s name made
my eye twitch.

Crud.

As much as I wanted to let Cooper’s call go to voicemail, I
knew he’d hunt me down sooner or later. Deadwood wasn’t big enough for the two
of us.

"Hello, Detective Cooper."

"Ms. Parker," his tone was brusque, all business
and metal shavings. "I need you to come to the police station."

After Cornelius’s stunt last night and my not-so-new
nickname with Deadwood’s finest, I’d sooner prance down Main Street butt-naked.
"No."

Cricket chirps came from his end of the line. Then, "What
do you mean ‘No’?"

"I mean, I’d rather not, thank you."

"Violet, I’m not asking you out on a date here."

My cheeks warmed, Natalie’s suspicions churning in my mind. "Of
course you’re not. Why would you?"

"I’m calling you as a detective with the Deadwood
Police Department."

"Am I under arrest?" I asked.

"No."

"Well, then I’m not coming in there."

"But I need to talk to you."

"I’m listening right now."

He sighed. "Why are you always so difficult?"

"Is that what you need to talk with me about, Detective?
My disposition?"

"No."

"Is it about the corpse?"

"Yes, and some other stuff."

I said nothing. I wasn’t going in there, damn it.

"Violet, don’t make me come and find you. You won’t
like me when I do."

I wasn’t sure I liked him right now. "Does that mean
you won’t be your usual warm and fuzzy self?"

He growled through the line. "Tell me where you are or
I’ll put out an APB on you."

"Fine." I started the Picklemobile. "Meet me
at Bighorn Billy’s."

"When?"

"In ten minutes."

He hung up on me, abrupt as always. I stuck my tongue out at
the phone and dropped it in my purse.

Four extra-long red stoplights later, I pulled into the
parking lot at Bighorn Billy’s diner. Besides the white 1950s-era Thunderbird
convertible, the rest of the cars in the lot were modern vehicles. Kool
Deadwood Nites and the rumbling of classic Detroit steel that came with it had come
and gone, sucked back down into the sands of time. Now the town could return to
everyday life—hard work, school, and gambling.

Cooper’s unmarked sedan glinted under the afternoon
sunshine, the engine still ticking as I skirted it.

I stepped inside Bighorn Billy’s, my stomach growling at the
delectable
eau de
fried beef. Garth Brooks played through the speakers
in the upper corners of the room, singing about blaming it on his roots and
showing up in boots. As entrances go, I couldn’t ask for better theme music.

Across the room, Cooper held down a corner booth, his barbed
stare poking holes in me like I was a Voodoo doll. Nothing new there. Why
couldn’t he be more like Barney Fife?

I might as well get this over with. Straightening my
shoulders, I weaved through the tables, nodding at a few familiar faces and
trying to remember where I’d seen them before—probably Mudder Brothers Funeral
Parlor, my new hangout.

"Hello, Detective," I said and slid onto the bench
seat across from him.

"You’re late," he said as a greeting, storm clouds
roiling over his brow. He’d left the top button of his dark blue shirt undone
under his silver tie and had missed a narrow strip of whiskers on his jaw.
Hmmm. Had it been a rough night or a rushed morning?