by Ann Charles
Cooper’s eyes widened at the sight of me.
I’d surprised him. Good. Why was he coming around Doc’s back door?
In a blink, Cooper’s shields lowered and his usual hardpan expression fell into place. The fading bruises from the black eyes I’d given him at the funeral parlor along with his broken nose added an ominous feel to his glare. “I thought I smelled you.”
I hunched my shoulders, ready to crash horns right out of the gate. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your perfume. I noticed it when I walked in. Am I interrupt—” he turned back to Doc and cocked his head to the side. “So, that’s what happened to your left cheek. You didn’t run into something, you ran into her hand.”
Doc must have fibbed about the red mark on his face.
Cooper’s chin swung back in my direction, his gaze accusing. “Are you some kind of sadist, Parker?”
“What?” My cheeks reddened to match Doc’s mark.
“You tore his shirt, too,” he said, pointing at the button I’d torn loose earlier.
Damn his see-it-all detective eyeballs.
I held Cooper’s stare while my face counted down to spontaneous combustion. “It was an accident,” I explained.
“Yeah, so was Doc’s black eye and my broken nose.” Shaking his head, he chuckled. He looked at Doc and pointed his thumb in my direction. “What do you see in this bruiser?”
Doc dropped into his chair and leaned back, grinning up at me. “Well, she has these purple boots …”
Ack! No sex talk around Cooper. That was my cue to leave. I hitched my purse onto my shoulder. “I should get back to work. Call me later.”
“You’re staying put,” Cooper said.
I focused on Cooper, my glare on high-beam. “Excuse me, Detective?”
“I need you to answer a few questions.”
“Ha! If you think I’m going to spill my guts again after the way you refused to share information yesterday, then you’ve been sneaking bags of Mrs. Maryjane from the evidence room and toking behind the police station.”
“Really, Parker? Mrs. Maryjane? Did you just get back from touring with the Grateful Dead?”
I sneered back and crossed my arms. “Ask away, Detective, but I’m not feeling very chatty at the moment.”
“When was the last time you talked to Helen Tarragon?” he asked.
That seemed harmless enough. “That day in the basement of the opera house, right before you threw me—an innocent taxpaying civilian—in jail.”
“Innocent?” He snorted. “What about your friend, Cornelius Curion? When did you last see or talk to him?”
“Yesterday, before I met you in the library.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Why? What’s this about?”
“Peter Tarragon reported his wife missing this morning.”
“What?” I looked at Doc, whose frown mirrored my thoughts.
“While she hasn’t been gone for twenty-four hours yet, she’s on my suspect list now and you know how I feel about my suspects leaving town.”
Yes, we’d had that discussion a couple of times now. Interesting that Cooper had added Helen to his list. Was that because of my information on her or something else he’d learned and wasn’t sharing? “Why did you ask me about Cornelius?”
“One of the zombies from the play claims Helen got into a newer, black, four-door sedan last night after practice. The guy behind the wheel was wearing a top hat.”
Damn that hat!
“That’s the last anyone saw of her,” Cooper continued. “You don’t happen to know what kind of car your friend Cornelius is driving these days, do you?”
Considering that I’d just helped him jumpstart his newer, black, four-door rental sedan yesterday afternoon in the Mount Moriah Cemetery parking lot, I had a vague notion of it, yes.
Cooper’s jaw hardened as he watched my face.
Shit.
Chapter Twenty
Saturday, September 8th
Luckily for Cornelius, as well as my future as his real estate agent—heck, anyone’s agent—Helen Tarragon hadn’t truly gone missing.
Cooper had contacted me last evening while I was cracking the whip on Addy to write her book review for school. He gave me the news that Peter Tarragon had called. Helen had shown up. Apparently, she’d gone on a bender after Cornelius dropped her off at The Golden Sluice bar up in Lead and crashed for the night at a friend’s place without calling home.
“So you’re saying that Peter cried wolf,” I had said into the phone, chuckling at my own cleverness.
Dead silence was the detective’s response.
Either someone had filled Cooper’s funny bone full of lead at some point in his past, or that funny bone was lodged somewhere deep in his colon. My bet was on the latter.
My Saturday zoomed by, thankfully. The realty gods seemed to have taken pity on me and sent three new clients my way within one afternoon—a “hat trick” according to Jerry, who spoke English as a second language after Sports Speak.
In between talking about potential digs with the newbies, I left several messages for Cornelius, wondering why in the hell he’d been hanging out with Helen Tarragon anyway. She was old enough to be his mother. What had happened to Caly, the love of his life?
Tiffany finally got back with me about the hotel sale extension. The owner was “considering” taking the extra earnest money and extending the final date. I wondered if their “maybe” was a way to get me to push Cornelius into making the sale happen faster. They didn’t get that I was already pushing hard on Abe Jr.; much harder and I risked a hemorrhoid, for Christ’s sake.
Doc was down in Rapid all day, working with a new client, so I didn’t get a chance to slip into his office, draw the shades, and rip his clothes off. Nor could I prod him for more tell-all about his prolonged tour of Prudence’s pre-death memory.
As I gathered my purse to head home for the evening, I paused to enjoy a moment of serenity that I hadn’t felt in what seemed like months.
Ray had been out with clients all afternoon—another blessing from the realty gods. Looking over at his desk, I wondered what it was going to be like to work under the same roof with both the horse’s ass and his nephew. Would they team up on me? Would Jerry run interference? Would Mona have to constantly play referee? Would I foul out due to cramming my tape dispenser down Ray’s throat? Would I ever stop using stupid sports references?
Jerry-speak seemed to be contagious.
I stopped by Mona’s desk on the way out to leave her a message about Tiffany and the hotel sale, since she was still acting as my mentor on the deal. Even her pens smelled like her jasmine perfume.
“Violet,” Jerry called as I tried to tiptoe past his office.
I backed up. “Yeah?”
He wore a pair of wire-rim glasses that made him look like a jock-turned-ESPN-commentator. “I booked the photographer for Monday morning. I’ll drive you and Ben down to her studio in Rapid City. We’ll need to leave the office by nine.”
God, this was really going to happen. Correction, a voice in my head said, YOU are going to let this happen.
What was I supposed to do? I argued back. The way I saw it I had two options: Do the ads and keep my job for another day—or don’t do the ads, which would probably equate to my losing my job and then having to move back in with my parents, who were currently housing my evil sister in my old room. Susan would kill me in my sleep, given a five-minute window and a butter knife, in order to take what was mine—my children. The thought alone made me shudder with a mixture of rage and horror. Charles Dickens’ street urchins had fared better than my two would under Susan’s care.
“Violet, did you hear me?”
“I should be here by nine,” I repeated.
“Well, yes, but I also reminded you not to forget the outfits we bought.”
Hiding my cringe took a conscious effort. “Right. The outfits.”
“Do you have a little bl
ack dress you could bring along, too?”
Yep. It was one of Doc’s favorites, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to sully it by association with this stupid ad. “I’ll have to look in my closet.”
“Please do. I have another idea that might offset that jail incident.”
In addition to his “bad girl/good girl” idea? Splendid.
“How about I dress in black and white stripes and wiggle my hips while I sing Jail House Rock?” I joked. “We could plaster the Internet with it.”
Jerry tipped his head to the side. “Maybe, but we’ll try my idea first.”
Crap. That smartass comment had backfired. I’d better make my escape before he started hooking up my chain gang.
“Well, unless you have anything else, I’m heading home.”
He shook his head. “I’ll be out of town tomorrow. If you need anything, Mona is playing point guard.”
And we were back to sport-speak. I managed to make it out the back door without having to high-five him goodbye. I checked my phone as I crossed the parking lot. It only took one smack of it against my leg for the screen to appear.
Still nothing from Natalie—no voicemail, no missed call, no text message. Damn. I’d hoped my last text about Cooper possibly lusting after Tiffany followed by another message suggesting we spy on his house would have gotten a response.
Pocketing my phone, I climbed into the Picklemobile and cranked her up. The old girl seemed to hesitate a little until I gave her some gas to clear her throat.
If Cooper and Tiffany were really an item and Natalie wasn’t willing to take one for the team by seducing Cooper away from that red-headed siren, I’d have to resort to Plan B. Was it illegal to bug a cop’s house if I had no intention of using the recording for anything other than to plan my revenge on my competitor?
Shifting into reverse, I sulked all of the way home about Natalie. Since childhood, her specialty had been making me laugh. Life without my favorite clown sucked some of the color out of my world, leaving many days painted in a sad sepia tint.
I hadn’t texted anything to Natalie about what I now thought of as “The Prudence Hour”—the show where the guests were dying to get invited and the interviews were a real scream. That was just between Doc and me.
And Prudence, of course.
Harvey’s truck was parked in front of Aunt Zoe’s house again when I got off of work. I was beginning to wonder if he’d moved in without anybody telling me.
The house smelled like charbroiled meat, making me drool all over myself before I even kicked off my shoes. The old buzzard had dinner ready when I strode into the kitchen—steak, salad, and roasted potatoes with a tart lemon meringue pie for dessert. Beaver Cleaver’s dad had never had it so good. I could get used to this kind of treatment way too fast, which would mean I’d be popping buttons on my pants in no time.
After dinner, I cornered Aunt Zoe while we were alone in the kitchen sharing dish duty. “Do you think it bothers Miss Geary that Harvey is sleeping across the street from her?”
Aunt Zoe shrugged. “Judging from that sporty black Jaguar parked in her garage night after night, I think Miss Geary has her feet in the air too much to spend her time worrying about where Harvey is.”
“Aunt Zoe!” I gaped in fake outrage at her, and then ruined it by laughing.
“What? We should all be so lucky to have a black sports car parking in our drive every night.”
True. I’d take a certain black Camaro SS with white rally stripes, please.
“I could really use something young and racy these days,” she continued, holding out a dripping dish. “It’s been too long since I’ve had some fun.”
I took the wet dish from her and started towel drying it.
“Reid drives a red pickup,” I said, risking getting a cupful of sudsy water dumped over my head. “It’s not racy, but it’s big and tough.” When she didn’t reply, I put away the plate and added, “It may not be as fast out of the gate as those young sporty cars, but I’ll bet it handles well and rides smooth.”
Aunt Zoe held out the last plate for me to dry. “I don’t like red.”
Liar. “Why not?”
She pulled the drain plug harder than necessary. “Because it means danger.”
“It also symbolizes vitality,” I said.
“And anger.”
“True.” I put the plate away and closed the cupboard door. “But also passion and love. I think you could use some red in your life again.”
“No.” Her tone was crisp, final.
I tossed the towel on the counter and crossed my arms. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not going to go through that again.”
“Through what?”
She grabbed the towel and dried her hands. “Falling for that son of a bitch.”
Now we were finally getting somewhere. “He wants you back.”
“What he wants is something that used to be here. That’s gone now. He just hasn’t accepted it yet.”
I frowned at her. “We’re talking about your heart, right?”
“Yes, we’re talking about my damned heart. I’m not going to let him hurt me again, Violet, so let’s nip any starry-eyed matchmaking ideas you have in the bud right now.”
“What did he do to you?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t marry me.”
My eyes widened. “Did you ask him?”
“In so many words.”
“What was his reason for saying no?”
“His wife.”
“What!” Had they been having an extramarital affair?
“I should clarify—she was his ‘ex’ wife by that time.”
“What about his ex-wife made him say no? Were they reconciling?”
“No. That’s what really burned. He told me he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to settle down again after the hell she’d put him through.”
“How long had they been divorced when you asked him?” I asked.
“Six months, but they were still fighting over things then, including custody of his kid.”
Reid was a dad? Wow! I would have pegged him for the child-free, good-time firefighter with a string of hot women lined up on his doorstep just waiting to check out his hose.
“So, that’s why you were gun-shy with the art gallery owner who was just coming off a divorce.”
She nodded.
“Reid refused your proposal and then what? You two went your separate ways?”
“Not quite. He refused me and then I let him share my bed for three more months before I wised up and kicked him out of my life for good.”
“I always assumed you didn’t want to get married.”
“No, I was waiting for the right guy to come along. But now I’m happy with how things turned out. I just wouldn’t mind a black sports car in my drive every now and then to take the edge off.”
“Can you honestly tell me that you have no feelings left for Reid?”
“No, I can’t honestly tell you that, which is why I’m not going to give him the slightest chance of getting anywhere near my heart again. He’s addictive as all get out, and breaking that habit stung like hell last time.”
Layne ran into the kitchen, his cheeks all pink, his eyes practically glowing with excitement. “Aunt Zoe, you have to come see this show on Vikings.”
“Vikings? Oh, man, I love those big, hairy, burly guys,” she said, winking at me.
“Come on,” Layne said. “They’re showing how they’d use the skulls of their enemies to drink with.”
“Cool.” She squeezed my forearm. “Thanks for listening, kiddo.”
I covered her hand and squeezed back. “Anytime you feel like talking about cars, I’m all ears.”
Layne tugged on her other hand. “Can we watch The 13th Warrior when this is over?”
She followed after him. “Let’s see, Antonio Banderas, Vladimir Kulich, and Omar Sharif all in one film? I think that sounds absolutely wonderful for tonight.”
My cell phon
e buzzed in my sweat jacket pocket. I checked the screen, which was actually working at the moment.
Doc had sent a text: Working late. Staying in Rapid City tonight. Want to see you tomorrow. Preferably without clothing.
Speaking of black sport cars … I typed back: Clothing stays on until you answer one question. Got a minute?
Got five, he replied.
I hit the Call button and stepped outside on the back porch, closing the door behind me. The half-moon lit the back yard in pale silver tones.
“Hey, tiger,” he answered.
“Pulling an all-nighter?” My sweat jacket did little to offset the cold mountain air. I hunched my shoulders to keep warm.
“This client inherited a nightmare,” Doc said. “We’re talking boxes full of statements and receipts in the attic with no clear explanation as to what’s what. I’m going to put in another four hours or so, and then crash and finish up in the morning.”
“Hmmm. Sounds sexy. Wish I could be there.”
“If you were here, it would be sexy, but I wouldn’t get any work done. So, what’s your one question?” he asked.
“It may actually be more than one.”
“Whatever it takes to get you naked.”
Ahhh, true romance. “How well do you know the librarians at the Deadwood library?” He’d spent enough time there that I figured he should have their kids’ and grandkids’ names memorized by now.
“I know some basic information and a few financial details, why?”
I’d forgotten that one of the librarians was also one of his clients. “Are any of them into ghosts, medium-ship, or something else having to do with the occult?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“Any funky tattoos or jewelry?”
“The one lady who wears jewelry usually has on something that has pearls on it, but no pentagram, lockets, or goats-morphing-into-pigs accessories.”
“Ugh,” I said, shivering. “Don’t remind me of Lila and her freaky tattoo.”
“What’s this all about?” Doc asked.
