by Ann Charles
“That’s it, Violet! I’m calling your boss,” Tiffany threatened. “And then the cops.”
I held up my index finger in her direction. “Just give me a damned minute, Tiffany! You owe me that for stealing Jeff Wymonds away from me.”
“What does Masterson have to do with this?” Reid asked.
“I’ll explain it to you later. Right now I need to do my job, and you need to charm Jessica Rabbit up there with those big fireman muscles and the red-hot charm you hose-jockeys are famous for.” I tried to pull free, but he held on.
“Sparky, you cannot go hunt that thing alone. Zo will kill me if anything happens to you on my watch.”
“Aunt Zoe will kill me if I let anything happen to you on my Executioner watch.” I pointed the ax toward the porch where Tiffany still hovered, a worried frown on her forehead as she glanced back and forth between the front door and us. “Please, Reid, you have to run interference for me. Take Tiffany back in the house and don’t let anyone follow me into the trees.”
Table of Contents
Start Reading
Dear Reader
Cast
About the Author
Contact Information
More Books by Ann
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Chapters
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 |21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26
Dear Reader,
Every now and then life kicks you in the ass. Sometimes, it kicks more than once. Sometimes, life keeps kicking even after you’re face down in the dirt you’ve cried “Uncle!” repeatedly, and it won’t stop until you stand up, brush yourself off, and tell it to go blow a goat.
Such was the reality behind the scenes during the writing of this story when Covid-19 came swooping in not once, not twice, but three damned times for our family. One would think we were out licking light switches in public bathrooms, sheesh! Turns out, even if you think you’re being mindful, you still get that boot to the butt!
To make matters worse, during my last bout with Covid-19 while writing the end of this book, our 18-year-old cat died, breaking our hearts. Bamboo had been with us since she was six weeks old. We were fortunate to have so many wonderful years to create fun-filled memories with her. On a high note, tears work wonders to clear sinuses when you’re sick. They should add that “tip” to those books about home remedies for everything under the sun.
Now, like Violet, I am back on my feet and ready to share another wild ride through the pages with you. As Violet’s new career as a Scharfrichter continues, she is constantly learning and being tested (and getting kicked in the butt by life). This is how we grow to become wise, compassionate human beings, and this is how Executioners grow into smarter, better killers. Part of the fun of telling these stories is seeing how not only Violet’s character develops, but how those around her change and grow, too. The rest of the fun is just hanging out with Violet on the page. She has a way of looking at the world that makes me chuckle.
As you travel along with Violet throughout this story, I hope you are able to escape from your daily troubles and share some laughs with me as we watch Violet and her team of misfits learn about the supernatural forces they face. Lift your glass and toast with me to another rough and rowdy tale. And while you’re at it, never say “never” in Deadwood.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
~Henry Charles Bukowski, American novelist and poet
Ann Charles
www.anncharles.com
Also by Ann Charles
Deadwood Mystery Series (Book #)
Nearly Departed in Deadwood (Book 1)
Optical Delusions in Deadwood (Book 2)
Dead Case in Deadwood (Book 3)
Better Off Dead in Deadwood (Book 4)
An Ex to Grind in Deadwood (Book 5)
Meanwhile, Back in Deadwood (Book 6)
A Wild Fright in Deadwood (Book 7)
Rattling the Heat in Deadwood (Book 8)
Gone Haunting in Deadwood (Book 9)
Don’t Let It Snow in Deadwood (Book 10)
Devil Days in Deadwood (Book 11)
Never Say Never in Deadwood (Book 12)
Short Stories from the Deadwood Mystery Series
Deadwood Shorts: Seeing Trouble (Book 1.5)
Deadwood Shorts: Boot Points (Book 4.5)
Deadwood Shorts: Cold Flame (Book 6.5)
Deadwood Shorts: Tequila & Time (Book 8.5)
Deadwood Shorts: Fatal Traditions (Book 10.5)
Deadwood Undertaker Series
(written with Sam Lucky)
Life at the Coffin Joint (Book 1)
A Long Way from Ordinary (Book 2)
Can’t Ride Around It (Book 3)
Catawampus Christmas Carol (Book 3.5)
Backside of Hades (Book 4) (Fall 2021)
Jackrabbit Junction Mystery Series
Dance of the Winnebagos (Book 1)
Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (Book 2)
The Great Jackalope Stampede (Book 3)
The Rowdy Coyote Rumble (Book 4)
In Cahoots with the Prickly Pear Posse (Book 5)
Jackrabbit Junction Short: The Wild Turkey Tango (Book 4.5)
Dig Site Mystery Series
Look What the Wind Blew In (Book 1)
Make No Bones About It (Book 2)
AC Silly Circus Mystery Series
Feral-LY Funny Freakshow (Novella 1)
A Bunch of Monkey Malarkey (Novella 2)
Goldwash Mystery Series (a future series)
The Old Man’s Back in Town (Short Story)
For Sue Stone
What will I do without you?
You were there from early on in the Deadwood Mystery series, helping me get the local history right on the page.
Without you, the world has less sparkle and fewer smiles.
You will be missed more than words can say.
**KEY: Character (Book # in which they appear)—Description**
Violet Lynn Parker (1–12)—Heroine of the series, real estate agent
Willis “Old Man” Harvey (1–12)—Violet’s sidekick and bodyguard
Dane “Doc” Nyce (1–12)—Violet’s boyfriend, medium
Detective “Coop” Cooper (1–12)—Deadwood’s and Lead’s detective
Zoe Parker (1–12)—Violet’s aunt and mentor in life
Layne Parker (1–12)—Violet’s nine-year-old son
Adelynn Parker (1–12)—Violet’s nine-year-old daughter
Natalie Beals (1–12)—Violet’s best friend since childhood
Jerry Russo (4–9,11,12)—Violet’s boss, owner of Calamity Jane Realty
Mona Hollister (1–9,11,12)—Violet’s coworker and mentor in realty
Ray Underhill (1–9,12)—Violet’s ex-coworker and nemesis at work
Benjamin Underhill (1–9,11,12)—Violet’s coworker
Jane Grimes (1–9,11,12)—Violet’s previous boss
Cornelius Curion (3–12)—Violet’s client; so-called ghost whisperer
Reid Martin (2–12)—Captain of the fire dept., Aunt Zoe’s ex-lover
Oscar “Ox” Martin (12)—Reid’s son
Jeff Wymonds (1–9,12)—Violet’s ex-client; dad of Addy’s best friend
Prudence (2–9,11,12)—Ghost residing at the Carhart/Britton house
Zelda Britton (2,4–9,11,12)—Owner of the Carhart house in Lead
Tiffany Sugarbell (1–9,11,12)—Rival Realtor; Doc’s ex-girlfriend
Dominick Masterson (4,7–9,11,12)—Previous client of Violet’s old boss, Jane
, and well-known Lead businessman
Mr. Black (2–4,6,8,9,11,12)—Mysterious, pale-faced Timekeeper
Hildegard Zuckerman (12)—Friend of Mr. Black and Ms. Wolff
Ms. Wolff (5,8,9)—Previous resident of Apt. 4 in the Galena House
Rosy (6–9,12)—Camerawoman from TV series called Paranormal Realty
Hope & Blake Parker (9-10,12)—Violet’s parents
Susan Parker (1–10)—Violet’s evil sister; aka “the Bitch from Hell”
Quint Parker (1–3,7–10)—Violet’s brother; Layne’s hero
Freesia Tender (5–9)—Owner of the Galena House
Stone Hawke (5–9,11)—Coop’s ex-partner on the force; detective called in to solve cases
Rex Conner (3–9,11)—Biological father of Violet’s children
Eddie Mudder (3,6–9)—Owner of Mudder Bros Funeral Parlor
“Things are never so bad they can’t be made worse.”
~Charlie Allnut (aka Humphrey Bogart),The African Queen
Chapter One
Almost midnight
Wednesday, January 16th
Central City, South Dakota
“Somebody needs to light a fire under Cooper’s ass before I freeze mine off.” I shivered deeper into my scarf, wondering if anything was lurking in the deep gloom under the surrounding pine trees. Watching. Waiting for me to lower my guard.
Or maybe I was just being extra paranoid tonight.
The frigid wind clawed at my coat, trying to tear the collar open so it could chill me clear through my bones. Another ten minutes in this sub-zero version of hell and my ears would ice over, shatter into pieces, and blow away into the inky darkness of the Black Hills forest, followed shortly by my kneecaps and nipples.
Before me, lit up by two sets of police cruiser headlights, sat a well-weathered wooden outbuilding leaning against a craggy hillside. Snow drifts crept partway up the board and batten siding. The rock-rubble foundation crumbled at the corners, and the tin roof sagged slightly in the middle. The place looked worn out from its slog through time. Downtrodden by gravity. Scarred from battles with the elements. Frightened by what might prowl out of the darkness next and reach for my … Wait, how did this become about me?
I scowled at the turn my mind had taken. Apparently, after a week of toiling with a shadowy devil and a slippery imp, my psyche wanted to have a pity party. Too bad. The roller coaster was just starting to pick up speed now. It was time to buck up. Time to charge Hell with a bucket of water and all of that battle-cry jazz. Time to …
Oh, please! Who was I kidding? I still screeched like a banshee when I walked through a cobweb.
“I knew I should’ve swung by my ranch on the way here,” Old Man Harvey grumbled. He stood at my side, his shoulders scrunched. His gray beard glittered with bits of snow—or maybe that was frost.
“Why’s that?”
“To grab a stick of dynamite. That would’ve warmed up this place in a single BOOM.”
Normally, I’d gnaw on Harvey’s hide about even going near the stash of old, unstable dynamite he kept in his barn, but tonight my teeth were chattering too hard to nibble, let alone gnaw. “It certainly would have loosened your nephew’s sphincter a notch or two.”
Cooper was Deadwood’s rawhide and bristly version of a detective. The law dog had been all teeth and horns since we’d arrived on the scene of what he was already labeling another one of my “grand fuckups”—similar to the teeny-tiny blunder I’d made last week. While I’d argued that my freeing that troublemaking imp from the Sugarloaf Building had been an honest accident, the stubborn blockhead refused to listen to reason. He’d ordered me to wait outside in the pickup while he dragged my boyfriend inside the building to catch up with the other officers already on the scene.
Thankfully, Harvey had shown up to keep me company. After waiting in the truck for what felt like forever, we’d decided to join the others inside and see what was going on, but then chickened out halfway there and returned to stand beside the pickup and wait a little longer.
“It’s not my fault the imp trashed three businesses up in Lead,” I told Harvey, frowning at the outbuilding. “Why does Cooper always use me as his punching bag?” And here I thought we were on the fast track to being bosom buddies now that he was messing around between the sheets with my best friend.
“Ignore Coop, Sparky. He’s just burnin’ some powder and you’re a fine target.”
Another cold blast rattled me from teeth to toes. Maybe it was time to climb back inside the cab and warm up.
Harvey pulled the flaps of his fur-lined bomber hat lower over his ears. “Darn wind. I could eat a sheep for its wool alone ’bout now.” He squinted in my direction long and hard.
I wrinkled my upper lip at him. “You lose something over here, dirty bird?”
“Besides my favorite hat that you took from my rig?”
I’d had no choice earlier while hunting a smoky devil up in Lead, since I’d forgotten to bring my own hat along. “I gave your hat back as soon as you got here.”
He snorted. “Sure, but you ruined it.”
“How?”
“It smells all girlie now, like peaches and cream.”
That was called shampoo. “How about I wash your stupid hat later and then rub it in snips and snails and puppy-dog tails?”
He eyed me again, his eyebrows crooked. “You’re lookin’ as tired as a boomtown whore tonight.”
I shrugged, too worn out to take offense. “I’d sleep on a barbed wire fence right about now if you’d promise to sing me a lullaby or two.”
“Would you settle for a spirited drinkin’ song about a well-endowed woman named Tatas Tig-ol-bitty?”
It took me a couple of blinks for her name to soak through the layer of permafrost surrounding my brain. I crossed my arms. “Don’t you know any drinking songs that aren’t X-rated?”
“Well,” he said, tugging on his beard. “There was one tune I learned years back in a swanky joint just two hops and a skip over the Nevada state line.”
My gaze narrowed. “Was it truly swanky? Or just really sweaty?”
“Actually, it was sweaty and spanky, so ‘swanky’ works on both counts.” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows at me. “Anyhoo, this particular dirty ditty was sung to me personally during a titillatin’ performance by a painted lady named Stinky Krinkle, and it starred her two favorite girls, the Jigglyhoohas.” He cupped his hands in front of his chest in case my noggin was too popsicled to catch the underlying bawdy nature of his tale. “If you get my gist.”
I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly popped free and bounced into a snow drift.
As self-appointed bodyguards went, I could have done much worse, I supposed. Most days, Willis “Ol’ Man” Harvey would give Looney Tunes’ Yosemite Sam a run for his money. Considering their mutual love of weapons and their colorful maxims, mottos, and metaphors, both rootin’-tootin’ firebrands were a trigger squeeze from blowing a hole in someone’s backside. But Harvey had bigger aims than a squirrely varmint, especially now that my Executioner dance card had filled up with all sorts of sharp-toothed menaces—some even back from the dead.
“Speakin’ of spankin’s,” Harvey said, nodding toward the door of the building. “Here comes yer stallion. From that there thunderstorm brewin’ north of his chin, I’m guessin’ Coop and his pals weren’t handin’ out candy apples inside.”
I watched Doc stride our way, searching his face above his dark, close-cropped beard for some sign that what happened here tonight was not my problem, so we could pack up and head home. Our bed had been calling me for the last ten numbing minutes like a drunken ex blowing up my phone.
But Harvey was right. Nothing about Doc’s body language gave me a “hunky-dory” impression. Not his broad shoulders hunched in his thick coat, nor his grim expression spotlighted by the headlights. And especially not the way he frowned toward the inky black hillside while he crossed to where I waited for him with quivering knees.
H
e jammed his hands in his pockets when he stopped in front of Harvey and me. His dark eyes gave nothing away as they traveled over me before turning to Harvey. “When did you get here, Willis?”
“Oh, about two snaps and a wiggle ago. I brought Sparky’s ride.”
Doc and I had borrowed Harvey’s pickup earlier for our Hungarian devil–hunting trip up to the Sugarloaf Building, leaving the old boy my SUV in exchange.
“Cooper called him on the way here about the suspected breaking and entering,” I told Doc, glancing over his shoulder at the door of the worn-out building as a pair of cops stepped outside and huddled together. They looked around at the trees just as Doc had. Puffs of steam came from their lips, but they talked too quietly for me to hear.
“I decided to join the party,” Harvey finished for me. He pointed toward the building. “What’s goin’ on inside Jonesy’s taxidermy shop?” he asked Doc. “Coop gonna arrest Dorothy for disturbin’ the peace?”
“Who’s Dorothy?” I focused on Doc. His stocking hat sat crooked, like he’d run into something disturbing inside that had knocked it askew. Judging from his rigid posture and continued glances toward the trees, I had a feeling that whatever the “something disturbing” was, it might hit me even harder, sending me reeling backward, ass-over-teakettle.
“Dorothy is the stuffed, one-humped camel that Jonesy keeps on display,” Harvey explained. “Swears his great-granddaddy brought her home from the Sahara Desert after the war. After Dorothy gave up the ghost, his great-granddaddy stuffed her so she’d keep him company while he worked. He sure did love that camel.” Harvey snickered. “Wasn’t a natural kind of love, though, if you ask me.”
A stuffed camel? What other taxidermy works of wonder awaited me inside?
“So what’s going on in there?” I asked Doc.
The lines around his eyes deepened. “You’ll have to see for yourself, but the lights are out, so you’ll need a flashlight.”
Go inside a dark taxidermy shop at night? I shook my head. “I’d rather wait out here in the cold.”
Doc sighed, reaching for my gloved hand. “It’s not an option, Killer.” His grip was firm. “Coop sent me out to get you.”
