by Ann Charles
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Of course, Cornelius would be the one to interrupt my bath. The eccentric, deep-pocketed, pied piper of ghosts must have sensed that my aura was taking a smoke-break. Or that my third eye was snoozing. I sank lower into the bubbles. Or better yet, that I’d taken my chakras to the cleaners. If I had known the first time he’d walked into Calamity Jane Realty that he would become my partner in tiptoeing through spooky haunts and dark realms, I would have insisted on a higher commission rate.
“Why is your voice coming out of my phone’s speaker, Cornelius?”
“Would you prefer a verbal explanation of how soundwaves travel? Or should I come over and draw you a diagram?”
“If you come here, I’m going to poke you in the eye.”
“Which one?”
“For the love of Elvis!” I growled.
Aunt Zoe made a calm-down gesture with her hands.
“You sound tense, Violet,” he said. Something crashed in the background, followed by the sound of sporadic hammering. “Have you considered trying some breathing meditations to relax? Sudarshan Kriya is very powerful, but it can be quite difficult for amateurs.”
“That name sounds like a Bollywood movie,” I told him, sticking one of my bubble-covered feet out of the water and envisioning kicking him in the butt with it. “For your information, I’m taking a soothing, lavender-infused bath right now.” Hint, hint.
At least it was soothing until he’d called.
“Oh, then don’t even try either of the two forms of Tummo. They should never be practiced near water.”
Why not? What was Tummo?
No, I wasn’t going down that rabbit hole.
“A better choice would be Buteyko,” he continued. “It’s said to be great for anxiety attacks.” The hammering in the background of the call stopped, only to be replaced by the sound of a high-pitched drill that made my shoulders tighten. “I myself prefer the art of nose singing to release nitric oxide for widening the capillaries in my nasal passages and increasing oxygenation.”
What in the heck was nose singing? The puzzled expression on Aunt Zoe’s face confirmed I wasn’t alone in my bewilderment.
“Listen, Corn—” I tried to get a word in edgewise.
“Speaking of coitus,” he said in a loud voice, nearly yelling.
I grimaced at the phone. “I don’t believe we were, and I’m one hundred percent certain we shouldn’t go near that topic moving forward.”
The only person I ever talked sex with while bathing had texted me on my way home from the school in Lead to say that he’d be working through lunch today because one of his newer clients needed some tax-related paperwork help ASAP. Since Doc was already buried in work, I’d skipped filling him in on Dominick’s biology lesson. All that could wait until we were face-to-face, partly so I could see if Doc’s ear itched like mine had when hearing how Nachzehrer came to be, but mostly because bad news was best delivered when he could hug away my frets afterward.
The commotion on Cornelius’s end of the line quieted, but his voice didn’t. “Did you know that the tissue inside your nose is an erogenous zone and thought by some to be the most easily aroused part of your body? In fact, it’s quite similar to erectile tissue and can become engorged with blood the same as a sexually aroused pen—”
“Nin-gah!” I shouted at the phone, unable to form a solid English word in my rush to stop him. Talking to a ridiculous Abe Lincoln lookalike about the male anatomy while sitting in a warm bubble bath with my aunt only a few feet away was not helping me relax on my day off, damn it!
Silence came through the line for a moment, then, “Are you speaking in tongues again, Violet?” he asked in a much quieter voice. “Are you channeling another parasitic ghoul?”
Frickety-frack in a pink Cadillac. I kicked my foot, splashing water over the side of the tub. I’d had enough talk about parasites to last me a lifetime.
A cacophony of hammering and drilling and some other repetitive pounding came through the line, louder this time.
I shot my aunt a scowl and hit the mute button, speaking in a steely undertone. “I swear I told you and Harvey both that I didn’t want to talk to anyone for an hour unless it was an emergency having to do with the kids or Doc.”
She pointed at my phone. “Cornelius claimed this was a Doc-related emergency.”
Screeeeeech! My heart did a double take. I scooted up the edge of the tub, leaning closer to the phone, and unmuted the call. “What’s wrong with Doc, Cornelius?” I tried to talk above the commotion coming from his end of the line.
“ARE YOU REFERRING TO AN ISSUE WITH THE TALL MEDIUM’S ERECTILE TISSUE?” he yelled back.
A steamy scene popped into my head of Doc and me and our recent use of his particularly pleasing erectile tissue.
“No! Doc doesn’t have any …” I pinched my lips together to keep from finishing that sentence.
A snort of laughter came from over by the sink.
My face began to roast. “I’m referring to the reason you called me today,” I explained into the phone. “You mentioned some emergency having to do with Doc.”
“OH, YOU MEAN THAT,” he yelled louder.
I winced and turned down the volume. “Yes, that.”
Whatever that was.
The commotion on his end of the call quieted again, but that didn’t stop him from yelling into the phone, “YOU NEED TO COME TO MY HOTEL IMMEDIATELY!”
“Why?”
“THERE IS A BLOCKAGE I NEED YOU TO—”
The phone cut out.
“Cornelius?” I moved closer to the microphone. So did Aunt Zoe. “Cornelius, can you hear me? What do you mean a blockage?” And what did that have to do with Doc?
Silence continued from his end of the line.
“Cornelius?”
Static for a moment, then silence again.
“CORNELIUS!” I yelled, making Aunt Zoe jerk in surprise. Sorry, I mouthed to her.
More static. I was about to end the call when …
“Violet.” His whisper sounded like he was talking into a plastic cup. “You need to come to the hotel immediately, before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?” Aunt Zoe and I asked in unison.
But we were too late. The big bunghole had hung up.
* * *
I was still damp from my bath and the sweat I’d built up rushing to dress, tame my hair, and zigzag through the streets of Deadwood, when I pulled into the parking lot behind The Old Prospector Hotel. Teeth-chattering gusts tore at my coat as I dashed along the sidewalk lined with dirty snow and big salt crystals to meet with Cornelius.
If he’d used Doc’s name merely to lure me to this so-called emergency of his, I was going to …
I turned the corner and ran into a solid body. “Oof!”
A hand reached out to catch me as I stumbled backward, slipping and sliding on snow.
“Careful, lady,” a gruff voice said as I righted myself. A familiar voice, at that.
“Jeff?”
“Hey, Violet Parker.” Jeff Wymonds, my former client and the father of my daughter’s best friend, was still holding onto my arm. With his wind-tousled blond hair and wide toothy smile, he looked younger than his almost forty years. His shoulders seemed broader, too, in his brown canvas work coat. “Where are you heading in such a rush?”
“Ahhh …” I searched for an answer other than the truth, which would sound bizarre to a beer-and-potato-chips kind of guy like Jeff. I needed a response that had nothing to do with ghosts or other-worldly parasites or breathing relaxation methods or Doc. Especially not Doc, as last I’d heard Jeff was having some kind of torrid fling with Tiffany, Doc’s ex.
Actually, the word “fling” might be too long-term in their particular case, since my understanding was that Tiffany had offered sexual favors in exchange for Jeff ripping up the listing agreement that he’d signed with me and taking her on as his agent instead. Who knew the real estate world
could be such a reality shitshow?
I licked my lips. “I need to see a guy about …” a mule—no, about a hinny. Shush! “Umm … something.”
Okay, so coming up with lies on the fly was not in my wheelhouse today. It appeared that my brain was taking this day-off deal seriously, even if nobody else was.
“Hmmm, that sounds mysterious.” Jeff was still hanging on to my arm, which he now used to pull me closer while sniffing in the general area of my head. “You smell good. Who’s this ‘guy’ you’re meeting? Are you back on the market?” He wiggled both blond eyebrows at me. “Does that mean Doc Nyce is no longer petting your cat?”
I frowned. “Petting my cat?” What did Bogart, our vegetarian cat, have to do with Doc?
Jeff leaned in for another sniff. “I’m really good at petting cats, too.”
Oh, dear Lord! My brain had finally dipped low enough into the gutter to catch Jeff’s meaning. I shoved him back a step. “Doc is still petting my …” No! Just walk away, doofus.
I started to do just that, but then stopped and turned back. In case Tiffany was going to be hearing the play-by-play of my run-in with Jeff, I wanted to clarify things so the red-headed siren wouldn’t get any ideas about trying to steal Doc away from me. We’d done that song and dance before, and there would be no encores on that score.
“Doc Nyce is still my boyfriend,” I announced. Sheesh, “boyfriend” was such a silly word for a woman my age. “I mean, we’re a definite couple in all the ways.”
Jeff grinned. “Which ways are those?”
“You know, the ‘couple’ ways.” When he just stared at me with a dumb grin, I added, “Boom, boom, out goes the lights.”
His laughter rang out loud and clear, catching the attention of people on the opposite side of the street. “I’m not sure if you know this, Violet Parker, but that old song actually refers to landing a knock-out punch.”
Thinking back on all the times I’d pinched, elbowed, and tackled Doc, including the black eye I’d accidentally given him, I shrugged. “Sex with Doc is amazingly physical. He’s a real heavy hitter under the sheets, delivering a solid one-two sock-’em every time.” I wasn’t sure what I was alluding to by this point, but I kept throwing out boxing slang to fill the void. “I’d give you the real dirty blow-by-blow, but we don’t sell ringside tickets for our wild sex matches.”
His jaw gaped. “No kidding?”
Before my big mouth unleashed another round of idiotic sex-boxing ambiguities, I said, “See you around, Jeff.”
I couldn’t scuttle away from the train wreck fast enough.
Ignoring the sign taped to the glass that read “Temporarily Closed: Under Construction,” I pushed through the double front doors of Cornelius’s hotel. Inside, the casino floor was abuzz with construction workers going here and there, some with arms full, others arms empty, reminding me of drones at a busy beehive. A wave of warm air settled any last shivers I had but did nothing for my nerves. Neither did the banging and screeching and pounding.
I scanned the room. Where in the hell was Cornelius? I wanted to get in and out of here and back to reading my book as soon as possible so I could escape from my troubles until the kids came home from school.
All of the slot machines in the front room of the casino had been herded together off to the side. Where they used to sit, the gold-colored carpet had been torn up, leaving behind a concrete floor lined with glue tracks and numbers written in chalk. The matching gold wallpaper had been torn off in spots, leaving a few strips behind along with more chalk scrawls. Overhead, the glass chandeliers and gold-painted ceiling tiles were dulled with a coat of dust. I would be too if I stood around much longer.
I headed for the front desk in search of my summoner.
“Howdy doody, Socrates,” I said, pausing in front of the full-sized stuffed mule who’d stood in the lobby for decades.
A drop cloth covered all but the mule’s head, the thick fabric sliding off his hind end. I paused to pull the cloth back in place, wondering if Jones’ Taxidermy had a hand in Socrates’ stiff-legged display here in The Old Prospector. Maybe Garth’s dad or grandfather had done the work on him. The old mule looked plenty worn now, the fur rubbed clean off his nose. At least he didn’t have a bite out of him like the other poor critters at Garth’s place.
Dang Nachzehrer. I shoved aside those thoughts and returned to my search for Cornelius. Instead of running into my old séance-loving pal, Safari Skipper, in her usual place manning the front desk, I found a note with my name at the top and a single order written under it: Join me in the basement.
The basement, huh? I guess that was better than his usual suite on the third floor. I hadn’t been looking forward to taking the stairs where Doc and I had once run into the ghost of a young prostitute. Of course, taking the elevator was out of the question after my experience of riding down from the third floor in the dark with a freaky-ass clown doll possessed by a vindictive spirit.
The Old Prospector Hotel had been around for many, many trips around the sun. During oodles of those trips, prior to it sheltering tourists for the night, its rooms had housed a brothel. Unfortunately, not all liaisons that occurred here had been fun romps, which was nothing new in the business of selling sex. Several had ended in murder, many of them rather brutal.
Cornelius claimed that there were several ghosts still floating through the halls in this place, including the young prostitute. I had no qualms about hanging my hat on his claim after having multiple séances here myself with and without Doc.
I stuffed the note in my pocket and headed for the wide stairwell leading down into the hotel’s furnished basement. I’d been downstairs a couple of times already. The first visit had been during the initial tour of the hotel with Cornelius and Doc’s ex, Tiffany-the-client-stealer, back when the hotel was on the market. The second had been with Doc when he’d dragged me downstairs to look at a picture from over a century ago featuring a frighteningly familiar face.
“Violet,” Cornelius called as my foot touched down on the last step. “Over here.”
I looked to my right, seeing him sitting at the old bar that ran most of the length of one wall. He was dressed in his usual black pants and sweater ensemble, except for a cornflower blue scarf draped around his neck that matched his eyes.
Things had changed since the last time I’d been down in the basement. Before, the room had been filled with tables and a sound stage, all set up to be rented for parties and receptions. Now there was barely room to walk between the rolls of plastic-wrapped carpet and wallpaper, crates and boxes of who knew what, and stacks of slot machine stools. The place smelled the same, though—slightly musty with a hint of lemon-scented furniture polish and stale cigar smoke.
I joined Cornelius, frowning at a partially burned white candle and his Viking helmet sitting on the bar nearby. Those were séance tools. “What’s going on here?”
“My hotel is being upgraded.”
I scoffed. “I know that. I meant what’s going on with that.” I pointed at his helmet.
“My lucky helmet?”
“Yes. Why is it sitting there?”
“Would you rather it be sitting somewhere else?”
I held up my fist, threatening to bop him.
“I see your lavender-scented bath was ineffective. Did you try breathing the right way?”
“You mean in and out?”
“Oh, it’s much more complicated than that.”
I sighed, long and loud.
“You have the ‘out’ part mastered, it appears,” he said with his usual crooked grin that often left me wondering if he was smiling or still suffering from a case of Bell’s palsy. “We’ll have to settle for that baby step for now.”
“Cornelius, why am I here? And don’t give me one of your roundabout answers this time. If there’s a problem that involves Doc, I need to know now.”
He slid off the barstool, grabbing his helmet but leaving the candle. “Come with me and you’ll underst
and why I interrupted your bubbly-tub time.” His expression sobered. “Although, if my hypothesis is correct, the answer you seek may be one that you wish you had not learned.”
My heart did a little hop-skip-panic-hop jig. I tried to chuckle away my unease, but it sounded like I was choking a frog. “You remind me of one of those cryptic fortune-teller machines at the county fair that spits out oddball advice on a slip of paper.”
“I prefer cartomancy when it comes to peeking into the future. My grandmother was amazingly accurate when she read the cards.” He stopped and looked back at me, his gaze narrowing. “When we’re done down here, I could do a reading for you to see what your future holds.”
No way! Fortune telling gave me the heebie-jeebies. And after my talk with Dominick this morning, I didn’t want to know that answer. It was hair-raising enough just living with what the present had in store for me.
“Not on my day off.” I nudged him forward again, following him through the narrow passageway of remodeling riff-raff. A worrisome thought occurred as I skirted a stack of light fixtures. “Please tell me you didn’t convince Doc to cancel his afternoon appointment and join us for a séance.”
“I did not contact the Tall Medium.”
He led me into a short hallway crammed with more boxes on each side. A set of steel doors were at the other end. One of them was open, allowing a glimpse of darkness inside.
I slowed, hanging back a bit. I’d had enough fun in the shadows this morning after tarrying in what was probably a haunted school.
“I have a suspicion that the medium’s presence could be more risky than beneficial,” he added, stepping into the dark.
I didn’t follow him.
His footfalls continued, stopped, and then returned. He leaned out into the hallway. “You need to join me in here.”
“Not until you turn on the lights.”
One black eyebrow rose. “How long have you been afraid of the dark?”
“Since the first time you taught me how to reach into it and something licked me.”
