Better Off Dead in Deadwood

by Ann Charles

  I doubted that my “Prudence” situation would help him out. In fact, I could see it as yet another reason for him to want to throw me in jail, so I kept my mouth shut about her and said, “My reason for being in the library has nothing to do with any of your cases. I didn’t intend to make either of the librarians there uncomfortable, I was just …” I stumbled, searching for something other than the truth about trying to see any occult-like tattoos or symbolism on their bodies, “… distracted after a bad night.”

  I could tell by Cooper’s pinched mouth that he wasn’t buying what I was selling. “If you have any more information on Jane’s murder, Violet, I really need you to share it with me.”

  He’d used my first name. Was he trying to soften me up before he reverted to his sledgehammer approach? “A please would be nice,” I said.

  “Please.” His lips barely moved to let the word through.

  “Did it hurt to say that?” I couldn’t resist.

  “Don’t push your luck, Parker.”

  “If I come across anything, Detective, you’ll be the first one I’ll call.” At his suspicion-filled squint, I added, “I’m serious, Cooper. I’d like Jane’s killers to be caught.”

  He rubbed his jaw, the beard stubble making a rasping sound. A whiff of his cologne or deodorant hovered until a cool breeze replaced it with the usual Black Hills pine scent.

  “Good,” he said. “Try to stay out of trouble tonight. I need some sleep before I have to rescue you again.”

  He stepped down off the porch, striding away, leaving me sputtering.

  “Again?” I said to his back. “Was I drugged the first time? Because for the life of me, I can’t remember you ever rescuing me.”

  At the end of the sidewalk, he looked back. “Keep your nose out of Ray Underhill’s business when it comes to the Mudder Brothers case,” he ordered, pointing in emphasis.

  Ray! That big, orange-faced tattletale!

  “You keep your nose out of my life, Cooper!”

  I swore to God, if I had to put up with one more over-the-top, domineering, testosterone-filled alpha male, I was going to start conversations with my freaking foot.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Monday, September 10th

  Here it was only two o’clock in the afternoon and I’d already been to hell and back again.

  It had all started this morning when Addy had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. By that, I meant she had somehow managed to sink down into the space between her bed and the wall, trapped in a cocoon of blankets. Her screams for help had me doing the broad jump from my pillow, pulling my groin muscle in the process. With all of my worries and nightmares about someone coming to hurt my family, I didn’t need much help in fearing the worst upon a shriek-filled wakeup.

  Tripping over Elvis in the hall and banging my knee on the floor hard enough to leave a big, shiny bruise hadn’t helped smooth my ruffled feathers. I’d pulled Addy out of her tomb just in time to hear Layne hollering downstairs, “Fire! Fire!”

  Addy and Harvey followed me to the scene, all of us arriving in time to see Layne douse the flames coming out of the microwave with Aunt Zoe’s full, gallon-sized tub of flour. In the aftermath, the kitchen looked like a fresh coat of snow had fallen. It was going to take hours of scouring to return everything to its normal finger-smudged sparkle.

  I’d managed to refrain from biting Layne’s head off by stuffing four chocolate chip cookies in my mouth at once. Only a male would choose to have bacon and cheese flavored popcorn for breakfast. For a smart kid, Layne needed to pay more attention to the damned suggested cooking time.

  All of the good times at home had made me five minutes late getting to work and left me smelling like burned bacon popcorn, which oddly enough soothed my boss and had Benjamin licking his lips. There just might be a marketing angle there—rubbing cheddar and bacon on my wrists and neck before taking a male client to see a house.

  My good times were short lived, though. The photo shoot had been right up there with being put to the rack. Bright lights, multiple coats of makeup and hairspray, lots of loud coaching from the sidelines by Jerry: “Make your lips more pouty,” and “Fluff your hair more,” and “Pull your shoulders back further; you need more lift.”

  Jerry just didn’t get that my lift had left town after nursing two babies at the same time. It would take helium-filled implants to make them as perky as Tiffany’s.

  The final straw from my boneheaded boss was, “Think like Marilyn Monroe. Act like Monroe. BE Monroe.” At which point I was so frustrated with the man that I lay down and played dead until I noticed the photographer was taking pictures of me even then. Where had Jerry found the camera-happy monkey? The necrophilia wing of Satan’s lair?

  Ben had acted suave and cool through it all, charming the photographer, all the while playing 007 to my Mary Goodnight. Even now, here at Calamity Jane’s, he and Ray leaned back in their chairs, smirking it up as Jerry showed me how to sway my hips while I walked. He was prepping me for the “Runway for Run-aways” charity event he’d signed me up for as the representative for the office.

  Jerry’s marketing schemes seemed to have no boundaries. Just my luck, he’d picked me to be his Girl Friday, like one of my favorite films from the 1940s. Only Jerry was no Cary Grant and I didn’t have the “lift” or the hips to pull off Rosalind Russell.

  “Lead with your right foot, Violet,” Jerry said. “Like this.”

  I tried not to scowl at him. I’d lead with a foot, damn it, right up his yin-yang.

  “You see how I shift my hips with each step?” Jerry asked.

  “Yeah,” I said dryly. “You’re really good at this. Maybe you should wear the little red dress and three-inch heels and make your lips pouty.”

  Ray sucked air between his teeth.

  Ben chuckled.

  “Now, Violet,” Jerry said, walking over to pat me on the shoulder. “I told you on the way back up to Deadwood that I was sorry for stepping out of bounds during the photo shoot.”

  I fought the urge to smack his hand away. “Yes, you did.” I shot a sideways glance at Ben, who winked at me.

  007 had come to my rescue on the way back up the mountain by pointing out to Jerry that I needed to be treated like a star player on the team, not a cheerleader put out there to make high kicks in a short skirt.

  Ben spoke Jerry-speak fluently. I needed to take a few lessons from him because my cursing and growling and rude gestures prior to Ben stepping in and calling a timeout had earned me only frowns in the rearview mirror from my boss.

  My cell phone buzzed on my desk. I looked down and saw Cornelius’s name. “Jerry, I need to take this.” I grabbed my phone and raced out the front door so I could yell at Cornelius in private.

  “Where have you been?” I asked in lieu of a greeting.

  “Las Vegas,” Cornelius answered.

  “What? You’re in Vegas?”

  “My great grandfather passed away.”

  Immediately I felt like a big, fat, wart-covered toad. “I’m so sorry, Cornelius.”

  “Don’t be. He was too old. We’ve been waiting for him to cross over for years. I look forward to contacting him on the other side.”

  “Oh. Okay, uh … when are you coming back to town?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m about to go in for the reading of his will. I’ll know more later. I wanted to let you know that the manager of my hotel is holding an envelope for you.”

  “Is it the extra earnest money?”

  “No. It’s my grocery list for next week.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Otherwise, I might need a restraining order put on me to protect his bony ass.

  “Yes. But it’s not a check. It’s a series of clues that will tell you where to find the check.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding again.”

  “Of course not. I couldn’t leave that much money lying around.”

  It was a check, not a pile of cash. “You could have called me to come
and get it before you left.”

  “There wasn’t much time.”

  Yet he had time to devise a treasure hunt. I was going to throttle him when I saw him next and jump up and down on his stupid hat.

  “I have to go, Violet. They are calling us into the attorney’s office now. Good luck with your hunt.”

  “Wait!” I said, but it was too late. He was gone.

  “Shit,” I muttered and returned to Jerry’s fashion show. Only he was gone and so was Ben, leaving me alone with Shithead since Mona was out showing homes to new clients who’d come by while I was off playing Marilyn Monroe.

  “Trouble in paradise, Blondie?” Ray said, picking his teeth with his pinkie nail.

  “Nope. Everything is perfect.”

  “Really? Then why isn’t that hotel deal done yet?”

  “Go blow a donkey, Ray.” I was in no mood to spar with the jerkoff after the morning I’d had. I grabbed my purse and keys. Besides, I had a treasure hunt to begin. Ahoy, mateys!

  “You know that Ben will outshine you here in every way.” Ray apparently wasn’t finished with his attempt to sink my ship o’ dreams. “He already has Jerry wrapped around his little finger. It’s just a matter of time before the boss man sees what a waste of resources you are to this company and fires your pretty blonde head.”

  I paused by his desk, imagining jamming that pinkie of his right in his eye. “Ah, Ray, that’s so sweet of you to call me pretty. Next thing I know, you’ll be sending me flowers and wanting to meet my parents.”

  “You think you’re really something, don’t you? But I have bad news for you—you’re nothing more than a washed up piece of fool’s gold, whereas Ben is the real nugget.”

  This pissing contest regarding Benjamin the Great was going to get old fast. “What’s that make you?” I asked him. “Just a flash in the pan?”

  “Oh, no, baby. I’m twenty-four karats of pure sales gold.”

  Twenty-four karats of pure bullshit was what he was. “No, I’d say you’re nothing more than gold-plated lead. You look all shiny from the outside, but being around you too much causes irritability, cramps, and behavioral disorders, which might just lead to death—yours, if you’re not careful.”

  “Is that a threat, Blondie?”

  I shrugged. “Are you scared, you poor little baby? Are you going to go running to Detective Cooper again?”

  He scowled. “What are you talking about? What’s Cooper got to do with this?”

  “I’m talking about you ratting to Cooper that I was picking on you about the Mudder Brothers mess.”

  “I didn’t say a damned word to Detective Cooper.”

  “Right.”

  “You can believe whatever you want in that marshmallow brain of yours, Blondie, but I didn’t invite the law to the table. This is private—just between you and me.”

  I stared at the weasel’s face, looking for a cheek twitch or shifty gaze, something showing he was lying. He glared back, all beady-eyed. Unfortunately, I loathed him too much to stomach staring at him for long.

  If he hadn’t told Cooper about yesterday’s bout with Ray, who had? I’d texted Natalie about it and mentioned it to Doc, but neither of them would have gone to Cooper. Or did Cooper have some kind of sixth sense when it came to my topics of conversation? Maybe he’d planted a recording device somewhere on me—or in my purse while I was at the jail. Hell, if someone could slip an anonymous note in it, Cooper could easily bug it.

  “Fine. Just be sure to keep your mouth shut in the future.” I hitched my purse further up my shoulder and headed for the back door.

  “Or what?” he called after me.

  “Or I’ll tell Jerry that you are hiding a criminal record with the help of Detective Cooper.”

  “Those records are sealed.”

  I turned around and pushed open the back door with my butt. “Are they? Are you sure about that, Ray?”

  Without giving him a chance to reply, I walked out the door and pulled it shut behind me. I slid behind the wheel of the Picklemobile and sat there for a second, decompressing.

  Ray had to be lying. The weenie undoubtedly contacted Cooper, probably worried about my finding out what was in those sealed records of his. Damn, I’d love to find out what he did that made him agree to be Cooper’s bitch in such a risky operation.

  I keyed the old pickup to life.

  But I’d have to solve that mystery another day. Right now, it was time to go find a treasure. Maybe I should see if Addy would be willing to trade Elvis for a talking parrot.

  * * *

  “Treasure hunt, my ass,” I grumbled aloud as I drove up the street toward Aunt Zoe’s.

  I’d just wasted my whole afternoon following breadcrumbs, searching up and down through the laundry room, the basement storage room, the haunted stairwell (which gave me goosebumps even without having a sixth sense), and an amazing number of hidden closets and storage areas in The Old Prospector Hotel. When I’d finally found the stupid envelope Cornelius had left, it’d been empty. EMPTY!!

  To fuel my internal inferno, Abe Jr. wasn’t answering or returning my calls. I wasn’t just a little irritated now, I was ready to coat Cornelius in honey and chain him to a fence in that bear park south of Rapid.

  I’d stopped back at the office to grab some information Mona was supposed to leave me and ran into Jerry and Ben back from playing basketball at the Rec Center, smelling like a mix of sweat and cologne. While I pretended to research listings on my computer, I eavesdropped on their back and forth about different college basketball teams stats and who they predicted would make it to the finals this year. It wasn’t fair. Ben and Jerry were formed from the same mold. How could I possibly hold my own against Ben? Short of keeping Jerry happy with all of his lame-brained, crappy marketing ideas, I had nothing to offer.

  I’d stayed later than usual, wanting to look industrious, hating that I was missing homework time with my kids without knowing if my time was well spent or just a waste and I’d be out of a job soon anyway. I pounded on the steering wheel. Damn Cornelius and Jerry and Ray and Cooper and all the other obtuse, overbearing, pushy males in my life.

  The sun was low in the sky by the time I slowed for Aunt Zoe’s drive. I frowned at my mother’s red Prius in the waning daylight. It hogged the driveway, so I was forced to park on the street behind Harvey’s Ford. I blinked at the fluorescent yellow bumper sticker on his tailgate that read, “Wanted: Bow-legged Women Who Like to Go Swimmin’.” I didn’t remember seeing that on there before.

  Trudging up the sidewalk, I hummed the tune that inspired Harvey’s bumper sticker. Great. That was just what I needed—to spend the evening singing about swimming between the knees of bow-legged women.

  I let the screen door slam behind me, the loud crack momentarily mollifying the urge to lie on the floor and thrash around while screaming my lungs out.

  The sound of Aunt Zoe’s voice coming from the kitchen reminded me that my mother was visiting. I kicked off my heels and checked my face in the hallway mirror, looking for any signs of insanity. Nope, all clear—no twitches, tics, or bloodshot eyes. Well, clear except for the multiple coatings of hairspray and makeup from today’s photo shoot that I still wore under the peppering of dust from my treasure hunting adventure at the old hotel. I swore then and there that if my mother made one comment, good or bad, about my helmet of curls or the spider-leg eyelashes, I was going up to my room and not coming out until she left the premises. Good thing I’d left that bottle of tequila on my nightstand.

  Time to put on a show. My mother did not have a clue about anything I’d been going through, and today was not the day to break down and get snot all over her shirt about it. I marched into the kitchen wearing a smile on my face that I hoped gave the message that my life was just peachy-keen. The sight of my sister sitting in my usual spot at the table with a glass of lemonade and a chocolate chip cookie in front of her while chatting with Aunt Zoe stopped me in my tracks. My smile crashed down like an anvil on th
e head of good old Wile E. Coyote.

  Beep beep!

  Susan, who I’d not-so-lovingly nicknamed “The Bride of Satan” years ago before she’d really pissed me off, stared back at me with her cold, black heart glittering in her big, doe-like eyes. Where was that mean hunter who’d shot Bambi’s mom when I needed him?

  “Hello, big sis,” Susan said, emphasizing the adjective with a smug grin. Built like a gazelle, she loved to remind me how short and stocky I was in comparison. She nibbled on one of Aunt Zoe’s chocolate chip cookies, truly in character with the rat she was.

  Get out! I wanted to bellow at her. Instead, I asked through gritted teeth, “What are you doing here?”

  She’d apparently forgotten that I’d drawn a line in the sand and she wasn’t allowed on my side of it anymore.

  Aunt Zoe frowned from me to Susan and back but said nothing. She pushed to her feet. “I need to go check on some pieces in my workshop.”

  Smart woman, escaping to take shelter before I’d hit the mushroom-cloud stage. She gave my arm a squeeze of support or warning, I wasn’t sure which, and then she smiled at the evil concubine. “It was nice to visit with you, Susan. I hope that new job works out for you.”

  New job? Yeah, right. Susan went through jobs like they were rolls of toilet paper.

  Aunt Zoe closed the back door behind her, leaving me alone with her. With no mother, father, or neighborhood police officers around to hold me back, I considered sitting on her skinny ass and squishing wads of Addy’s chewing gum in her long, straight, black hair.

  Loathing was too nice a word for how I felt about my younger sister. Since we’d been children, she’d operated with the mindset of what’s hers was hers, and what’s mine was hers to destroy. Her list of crimes against me was so long that she’d topped Santa’s naughty list every year since she was four years old. As far as I was concerned, coal was far too good for her.

  My mother, on the other hand, still held a soft spot for her baby girl. She refused to see Susan’s behavior as devious or malicious, labeling her instead as confused and prescribing “more love than normal” as a fix. I’d prefer to show Susan that love from the distance between Earth and Mars.