Dead Case in Deadwood (37 page)

The brush of his lips tickled me clear down to my hips. The
woodsy smell of his cologne made my bells and whistles clang and peal. My
libido stood, stretched, and roared to life. I beat it back with a circus chair
and a whip.

"Doc, uh …" my voice had already downshifted into
Lusty Lil mode. I cleared my throat and tried again. "You’d better stop."

He did. When he looked up at me, his grin faded. "I’m
going to have trouble keeping my hands off of you tonight," he said,
eyeing my mouth.

Success! My evil plan had worked. I raised one eyebrow. "You
like your women to dress in Goth, huh?"

"No. Just you, Vixen." He brushed his lips over
mine, his tongue skimming my lower lip in passing. "You taste like cherries."

"It’s flavored lip gloss." I pulled away from him,
glancing around, looking for Natalie’s pickup.

He sat back, his arm draped over the seat. "We could
skip the séance. Go back to my place." He trailed his finger down my neck
and kept heading south, following the horizon over hill and dale. "Let me
see where else you taste like cherries."

Oh, wow!
My heart bounced and shuddered like a
runaway stagecoach. "I can’t. I need this sale."

"Okay." He shifted so he faced forward, but his
palm remained on my thigh. I’d have to check for scorch marks in the cotton
later. "Let’s go introduce your Abe Lincoln wanna-be to the stairwell’s
soiled dove and see if he really can talk to ghosts."

I shifted into drive and rumbled out onto Sherman Street. "Did
you go to the library this afternoon?"

"Yes."

"So, what’s the prostitute’s name?"

"I don’t know. There wasn’t any record of her death in
the usual books."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but that’s somewhat normal for a prostitute back
then, especially in a town like Deadwood, full of outlaws, miners, and
gunslingers. Most of the records from that era focus on mining news. Precious
metals ruled."

I thought of the death record books I’d seen in Mudder
Brother’s closet-like room weeks ago. "Do you think the funeral parlor
might have some mention of her? They keep track of deaths, too, don’t they?"

"Maybe, if their books go back that far."

As the only funeral parlor in town, they might, especially
if the Mudder boys had taken it over from a previous owner. Some of the book
spines I’d glanced at had looked plenty old enough. I’d have to see if I could
sneak a look the next time I was at a viewing.

"Don’t even think about sneaking into Mudder Brothers,
Violet." He squeezed my leg to emphasize his point. "There are
legitimate ways of finding out what’s in their records that don’t end with you behind
bars."

"Fine." I parked behind the hotel, climbing out
before the Picklemobile stopped sputtering. "Stop reading my mind," I
said and slammed the door shut.

His chuckles were drowned out by the Picklemobile’s echoing
boom!

He caught up with me, matching my stride.

"I need a name, Doc. I have to have something to call
out during this channeling gig besides ‘Hey, you, ghost prostitute chick.’"

Doc beat me to the door, holding it open. "Pick a name.
Any will work. If we find out her real name eventually, you can just claim to
have been using her alias."

Any name? That seemed so detached, so cold. She’d been a
living, breathing girl with hopes and dreams, somebody’s child.

I stalled mid-casino. The rings and dings from the slot
machines faded into the background. Wait. That was assuming I believed she’d
really existed. That
ghosts
really existed. Did I believe that? Doc
hadn’t found any proof of her to back up his claim. True, but he had with
Prudence—a picture even. Right, but … .

"What’s wrong?" Doc said in my ear, his voice pulling
me out of my spiral of doubts. The casino sounds flooded back in a rush of
noise. "Did you forget something in the truck?"

Shaking my head, I made a beeline for the stairs, trying not
to think too hard the whole way there. I beat Doc to the stairwell door and
waited for him to close the door behind us.

Inside the stairwell, he sniffed, frowning up at the three levels
of stairs.

I knew better than to sniff. It would smell only like a
musty old stairwell.

"You sure you’re ready for this?" I whispered.

"As ready as I can be. Why are you whispering?"

"I don’t know," I still whispered.

"You whisper in my stairwell, too." His smile took
a smoldering turn.  "You also moan and cry out my name." He grabbed
my arm, tugging me toward him. His eyes held devilish promises.

Temptation beckoned like a house made of candy in the middle
of a dark forest. I resisted, pulling free. "Doc, not here."

"I warned you, Boots. You do things to me."

"Even now? Here?"

He nodded. "Most of the time, especially at night."

That had to be something to hope for future-wise, right? Or
was I grasping at straws? I turned and led the way up the stairs before I gave
in to Doc and agreed to spend the rest of my life peeling grapes for him and
fanning him with palm fronds.

At the top he said, "Hold up a minute."

"What’s wrong? Do you smell her again?"

"No." He caught my hand, staring down at me with a
very serious expression. "Listen, Violet, no matter what happens in there,
I need you not to worry about me out loud."

"Meaning what?"

"Don’t ask me if I smell anything, don’t check to see if
I’m feeling okay, don’t draw any attention to me no matter how pale or shaky I
get."

"What if you pass out?"

"I won’t."

"You have before."

"True, but the whole reason we came by earlier was so
that I could prepare for tonight. Now that I know what I’m dealing with, I can
keep her at bay." He squeezed my hand. "Are you ready?"

I could have used a shot of tequila first, but, "As
ready as I can get."

We made it to Cornelius’s room without a hitch—or a ghost. A
glance up at Doc as I knocked on the door gave me a breath of hope. His skin
looked tan as usual, his eyes were bright and assessing, his face relaxed and
unstrained.

Here we go.

The door opened and Safari Skipper beamed at me. She smelled
like bubblegum. How appropriate. "Hi, Ms. Parker."

Her resemblance to the plastic doll still made me stare. It
was a bit eerie, really.

She stood back to let us enter, smiling up at Doc. "Hi,
Ms. Parker’s friend."

Tonight, Skipper wore silver, from her sparkly heels to her
hair band, she looked like a Christmas tree ornament. Her biker boyfriend kept
with the leather and chains motif he’d used previously for spirit calling.

"Hey, babe," Skipper’s boyfriend called out to me
from the kitchen as she closed the door behind us.

Babe?
Apparently I’d missed the moment at the last
séance when I’d moved from being a stranger to one of his women. It must have
happened while I was sleeping.

Doc’s hand on my lower back nudged me further into the room.

Just as before, a single candle sat in the center of the
table, the electronics hummed, and the host was one horn short. Thing 1 and
Thing 2 were missing in action, though. The place was much darker, too. The
candle was the only source of light besides the glow from the electronics.

Cornelius looked up from his laptop long enough to notice I
brought company. "Violet, you brought your friend again."

"This is Doc Nyce." I made introductions this time
since Doc planned on sticking around. "Doc, meet Cornelius."

Eye contact and nods took the place of a hand shake.

"Are you a believer in ghosts?" Cornelius asked
Doc.

"I’ve had some brushes with the paranormal," Doc
answered.

Brushes?
I started to scoff and turned it into a
cough. "S’cuse me."

Doc shot me a warning frown.

"Well, tonight, you’re in for an amazing treat. Violet
is a talented conduit."

Cornelius advertised me like the sideshow freak I’d become.

"Her talents and treats often amaze me," Doc said
with a wide grin, and then grunted when I elbowed him in the ribs.

"Where do you want us?" I asked. The ottoman I’d
tripped over last time was missing. I hoped the same could be said of Wolfgang
and Kyrkozz.

Doc sniffed behind me, twice.

I almost looked back at him, but remembered his pointed
stairwell speech and kept my focus on Cornelius’s stupid horn. I couldn’t wait
for tonight to be in my rearview mirror.

"We’re all going to sit around the table," Skipper
told us, playing hostess and pulling out chairs.

"Who’s going to monitor the video equipment?" I
asked.

"Nobody. Several more pieces of my equipment came in
today. I could practically do this on my own now."

I wished he would.

Cornelius indicated for us to sit across from him.

Doc waited for me to sit, holding my chair, and then settled
himself into the seat next to mine. He squeezed my thigh under the table,
reassuring me with his touch.

Pushing a pad of drawing paper over to me and a black
marker, Cornelius pointed at the pad. "Tonight, we’re all going to watch
as you channel another ghost, Violet."

"Groovy." Shit. Not only was I going to have to
perform, I would be under a microscope at the same time. I really could use a
shot of tequila to grease my channeling gears. I needed to think up a damned
name, too.

Doc sniffed again.

I frowned down at the paper, wondering if anyone would be up
for a game of hangman instead.

"Take your seats," Cornelius instructed Skipper
and her biker dude. "It’s time. I can hear the whispers in the walls
growing louder."

I trembled, every muscle in my body anxious to jump up and
race from the room.

Doc’s grip tightened on my leg. "Relax," he said
for my ears only.

Relax? Ha! I was starring in a fucking séance, for crissake.
If I couldn’t fake out Cornelius, I was going to lose my job. My breath turned
to quick pants, my cheeks warm. Shit, shit, shit.

Doc’s fingers crawled up the inside of my thigh, heading straight
for the mother lode. What was he doing? I clamped my thighs together, blocking
his spelunking attempt, and shot him an are-you-kidding-me glare.

The lack of lust in his eyes clued me. He was trying to pull
me back from the edge before my panic shoved me off the cliff.

Breathe
, he mouthed, and then lifted his chin and
breathed deeply, giving me an example.

I followed his lead, taking one breath after another until I
felt sanity grab the reins again.

Okay. I could do this. I picked up the marker and wrote a
tiny note for Doc:
One ghost coming up.

He took the marker from me, scribbled something, and then
turned the paper back to me.

I leaned over, squinting in the candlelight at his scrawls.

She’s already here.

The thing about séances was that a belief in the
supernatural sort of greased the wheels in rounding up some dead participants.

I peeked out from under my closed eyelids, checking to see
if any of my cohorts were watching me. Surprise, surprise, they all were,
including Doc. I growled in my throat. Damn it, faking this would be much
easier if nobody was watching me.

I frowned at them in turn. "Aren’t you all supposed to
close your eyes and say "Ohhmmmm"?

"Like we do in my meditation class?" Skipper asked
in her chipper voice.

My gaze narrowed on her. "Yeah, sure. That’s how I roll
when it comes to channeling. Now close your eyes." I looked around the
table. "All of you, close them, now."

They listened, including Doc. Miracles did happen.

"Now say ‘om.’" I ordered.

The room hummed with their voices.

That was more like it. I cleared my throat. Here went
nothing. "If there is a ghost in this room, speak now or forever hold your
peace."

Nice one, bonehead!
Well, it worked for weddings, so
why not séances?

Doc’s "ommm" paused, his lips twitching, his chest
shaking in silent laughter.

I reached under the table and pinched his hand, which still warmed
my thigh.

"Do you hear anything yet, Cornelius?" I asked,
willing him to say he did and put an end to my misery.

His one-horned helmet shook side-to-side. "Patience,
Violet. Just do what you did last time."

What? Fall asleep? Fat chance.

Wait! I remembered something from before. "Cornelius,
you need to chant."

Without further prodding, he obeyed, his rhythmic words barely
audible over the group’s low humming.

I let him work his magic for a handful of seconds, then
cleared my throat and said to the ceiling in what I hoped was a medium-like
voice, "If you are here, please tell me your name."

"Butch," the biker dude answered.

"I was talking to the ghost," I said dryly.

"Sorry, babe."

Doc’s laughter vibrations spread to his hand. I could see
him struggling to keep his lips straight.

The chanting continued from Cornelius. Skipper was doing a
bang-up job on the "oms," too.

After counting to ten, I tried again. "Would you like
to tell us how you died?"

I really didn’t want to hear that, not if it happened as Doc
told me, but I doubted the prostitute felt like giving me her list for Santa.

"Is it a man or woman?" Skipper broke her
meditation to ask.

If she’d been within flicking reach, I would have started
with her perky little nose. "Are you a man or woman?" I asked the
ceiling.

Cornelius’ chanting cranked up a notch. He was really
getting into it now, rocking with the beat.

"What did it say?" Skipper asked, her eyes still
closed like an obedient séance groupie.

"It’s a girl," I lied … well, kind of. Doc did
write that
she
was here.