by Ann Charles
“Yes. But, knowing Detective Cooper’s tenacity, I’m betting there’s an unspoken ‘for now’ hiding between the lines.” Doc shot a frown toward the back door, sniffing and then stiffening.
I peeked down the back hall and sniffed, too, seeing nothing and nobody, smelling old varnish and a hint of Ray’s cologne. Same old story, so I returned to the here and now. “What do you mean an unspoken ‘for now’?”
“You know what double jeopardy is, right?”
“Sure. You can’t be tried for the same crime twice.”
“Exactly,” Doc said. “So if the cops didn’t have enough evidence to nail Wanda, they might not have wanted to risk a trial yet.”
I focused back on Harvey. “So even though Cooper told us the case is closed, it might not be. He could’ve been leading me astray on purpose.”
“Yep. Coop may be lousy at holdin’ his liquor, but the boy can hogtie his tongue tighter than a road-foundered calf-roper.”
I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment, not sure what the hell Harvey meant. “So, what do we do now?”
Doc sniffed, his skin pale, his grimace now aimed in the general direction of the coffee pot. “We could walk away and let the police handle this.”
“Yeah, we could,” I agreed. “But that probably isn’t going to happen.”
“I don’t like it when you nose into trouble, Violet.” Doc rubbed his thighs, squeezing, his knuckles white, his gaze still locked on the back of the room.
At the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing, I reached for his shoulder. “You okay?” Twice now, he’d keeled over on me just after he’d gone all pale and sweaty like this. I didn’t relish cushioning his fall again.
“I’m fine.” His dark eyes shifted back to me, but his forehead stayed creased. “Why can’t you just walk away from this Carhart mess? And don’t tell me it’s about the sale. ”
“Something weird is going on over there, but I can’t put my finger on it—yet. I’m worried about Wanda.”
“She could be the killer,” Doc said.
My gut still disagreed with that. “Or she could be the next victim.”
“So could you, and that’s a problem for me.”
The intensity in Doc’s stare made my determination to find the truth waver. Maybe I should just focus on selling the damned house, leave well enough alone, and let the police do their job—if they were still planning to.
I looked at Harvey, who was leaning way back in my chair, watching the two of us with raised brows. Digging into the Carhart mystery was not only dangerous for me, but for Harvey, too. The snooping around I’d asked him to do could piss off the wrong person—someone with their own version of Bessie the shotgun, for example.
But there was that kiss.
“When I was at the Carhart house at lunch today,” I told them both, “I saw Lila and Millie kissing.”
“What!” Harvey almost tipped over backward, catching himself before he tumbled out of the chair ass over belly. Righting himself, he leaned forward, bug-eyed. “Tell me more.”
“There was tongue.” I glanced at Doc, who seemed to have a little more color in his cheeks now. “And groping.”
“Well, we’re sure shittin’ in high cotton now. I ain’t seen girl-on-girl action since last year’s biker rally.”
“Oh, please,” I said. “What do you call the bikini mud wrestling bouts you frequent over at the Prairie Dog Palace?”
“A beautiful work of fiction. This is the real deal.” Harvey stroked his beard. “You know, Doc is right. You might land in some hot water over at the Carharts’. You shouldn’t be going over there alone, anymore.”
“Let me guess, you’re going to volunteer to be my bodyguard again.”
“It’s my civic duty.”
Where had I heard that before—oh, yeah, from my own lips. I was about to pooh-pooh his offer when an idea hit me. “Maybe you should pay Wanda a visit on your own. Work your charm on her.”
Harvey recoiled back into my chair. “No way, darlin’. I draw the line after Claudette. Wanda’s a sweetheart, but I like my women curvy, not doughy.”
“I’m not asking you to have sex with her, just talk to her. She’s scared to death of me, but you two go way back. She may open up to you.”
“And what? Confess?”
“No. Tell you about her home’s previous owners. I have a list of their names, but I need more details.”
“What’s that have to do with her killin’ her husband?”
“Probably nothing.”
“Then why waste time on it?”
“Because I need the information to sell Wanda’s house.”
“What’s in it for me?” Harvey asked.
“My loyal friendship.”
He grunted at my sarcasm.
“An extra free lunch,” I added.
“Okay, I’ll give her a whirl. But I’m keeping my pants on this time.”
“Thank God for that.”
The front door opened and Layne hesitated just inside the threshold, a rock hammer in his hand, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Doc and me. “What’s going on?”
I waved him over and he handed the hammer to me. “We’re just wondering what might be in this box. Now that you’re here, we’ll find out.”
“What’s the big deal with this box, anyway?” Harvey lifted it, turning it over, shaking it.
I grabbed it from him and set it back down on my desk, keyhole up. “It was in the Carharts’ attic.”
“But how did you wind up with it?” Doc asked, his skin normal and olive-tinted again.
I skirted the attic-tromping details. “I told Millie I have some interested clients who want more information on the previous owners before they’ll officially place an offer on the house.” At Doc’s cocked head, I added, “It’s the truth. I have the messages from Zelda on my cell if you want to listen to them.”
Raising the hammer, I said, “Here goes nothing,” but Harvey stopped me mid-swing.
“Girl, you either need a bigger hammer or a smarter locksmith. Now give me that box.” He pulled a screwdriver from his back pocket.
I frowned at it. “Were you sitting on that this whole time?”
“Naw, it was off to the side.”
“So, you just carry a screwdriver around with you at all times?”
“Sure. A man never knows when he’ll need to do some screwin’. Ain’t that right, Doc?”
I pointed the rock hammer at Doc, who grinned from ear to ear. “Don’t answer that.”
Layne dropped into my chair, taking Harvey’s place. “You mean like screwing around, Harvey?”
“I mean like—”
“Keep it PG, old man,” I warned.
“Uh, sure, kid. That’s one way of putting it.” Still snickering, Harvey jammed the flat end of the screwdriver into the crack where the lid connected with the bottom, grabbed the hammer from me, and with one hit broke the box open. The lid fell open and two cufflinks spilled out onto my desk. The rest of the treasure trove stayed put in the storage box.
He handed the hammer back to me. “It’s a good thing you have me around.”
“The jury is still out on that,” I said with a smirk.
“Look, Mom! One of those Chinese puzzle boxes.” Layne plucked out a funky wooden box with loose-looking blocks on two of the ends. There was nothing written on it, nothing painted, no design work. “This is like what Uncle Quint used to bring me.”
“Who’s Uncle Quint?” Harvey asked.
“My older brother.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother. Is he down in Rapid?”
“No. He’s gone on location. He’s a photojournalist.” I glanced at Layne. “Careful, kiddo, that’s old.”
Flipping the storage box upright, I picked up a yellowed, lace-edged handkerchief from the top of my desk. Who had left such finery behind? This kind of handiwork was usually passed down through generations.
Harvey reached in the box and withdrew a palm-sized wo
oden horse. He turned it, rubbing his thumb over it. “This is hand-carved. Someone knew their way around a knife.”
Something touched my hair. I looked over my shoulder. Doc held up a piece of cobweb. “You need to stop playing around in attics, Nancy Drew.”
He let the web fall in my trash, then slid his palm down my back as he lifted an oval locket out of the box with his other hand. Again, a master at multi-tasking. He needed to give me lessons—private, of course. Clothing optional.
His fingers drifted even lower, brushing over the curve of my hip before he stepped back and broke contact. Such teasing was going to be the undressing of me.
Blowing out a breath of pent-up frustration, I collected the pair of cuff links that had scattered on my desktop when the lid came loose. They were pearl with a gold inlaid B.
“What do you guys think?” I asked my fellow treasure hunters. “Millie told me this box was there when they moved in.”
Doc handed me the opened locket. “I think the horse and cuff links might have belonged to these two.”
Each side of the locket held a black and white picture—one of a dark-haired man with a long, curly-ended moustache; the other of a young blond boy, probably about Layne’s age, with a bowtie at his neck.
Did the handkerchief and locket belong to the wife and mother? I handed the locket to Harvey. “Are these two familiar to you at all?”
“Dammit, girl! I may be old, but I’m not ancient.”
“Just look and tell me if you recognize one of their descendants in their features.”
He took the locket and peered down at the pictures, closing one eye, then the other. “Nope. They look like the same people in all the other old pictures hanging on the walls of the buildings and casinos around here.”
“Got it!” Layne cried from the chair behind me. “Mom, I figured it out.”
I spun around, bending close as he opened a slat door and pulled out an open-topped drawer from within the puzzle box.
“Holy cow.” Layne whispered.
I took the drawer from him. “What in the hell—I mean ‘heck’?”
Harvey lowered the locket. “Come on. Show and tell.”
“What is it?” Doc touched my shoulder.
“Canine teeth.” Layne beat me to the punch.
Sharp ones, at that. Turning, I held out the drawer in front of me like an offering. “A box full of dog teeth?”
“No, Mom. Human canine teeth.”
* * *
Layne counted 187 sharpened canine teeth, which equaled out to one tooth shy of forty-seven mouths. Who would be storing all of those teeth in a Chinese puzzle box, and why? And how did they get them all?
None of us could come up with a logical, sensible reason for collecting that many teeth. My suggestion of an over-achieving tooth fairy won a trio of groans. So much for trying to make light of a squirmy situation.
After Layne put the puzzle box back together with the teeth trapped inside again, Doc excused himself, claiming another so-called appointment. I had a feeling his need to escape had more to do with the return of his pale skin, sweat-glistened brow, and glances toward the back door.
Before hightailing it out the front, he requested my list of the previous Carhart home owners, offering to do some research at the library to see what he could find out. I amended the list to include the Latin title of that creepy book I’d found under the bed in the Carharts’ upstairs bedroom. He raised his brows at my fib about how I stumbled across the book, but didn’t push for the truth. Promising to give me a call later, he left. I wasn’t holding my breath for delivery on said promise.
Harvey headed home to take care of some chores and check his traps—the illegal ones. Cooper had told him he could no longer use them, but Harvey intended to plead hard-of-hearing if he got caught. His parting comment about finding a pair of gutted porcupines back in his family’s old cemetery changed my squirminess to queasiness. After hearing that little tidbit, I decided that if he wanted to bend the law about those traps, I wasn’t going to give him any argument.
I sent Layne home with the rock hammer and the box from the attic with instructions not to touch anything in it until I got home. Then I settled into my chair and let out a big groan. My mind was a whirligig, spinning out of control. I needed to find solid ground and plant my feet. But where and how? And what came next?
Grabbing my cell phone, I punched in Natalie’s number and waited for her to pick up.
“Nat’s taxidermy shop. You snuff ‘em, we stuff ‘em,” Natalie answered with a typical smartass greeting.
“Hey, Nat. I need your help.”
“Does it involve a man?”
I thought of Junior Carhart, all ripe and buggy in his grave. “Sort of.”
“Then I’m in. What kind of trouble are we getting into now?”
She knew me too well. “I need you to meet me at Mudder Brothers this evening.”
“I thought you said it involves a man.”
“You didn’t clarify that he had to be breathing.”
“From here on out, it’s an implied qualification.”
I smiled. “Duly noted.”
“So whose funeral this time?”
“Junior Carhart’s.”
“You’re about six months too late. There’s no way I’m going up front with you to view the body.”
“I need you to ask George Mudder if Junior had a tattoo.”
“Why don’t you just ask Wanda or Millie Carhart?”
“Two words: Lila Beaumont.” My upper lip curled just saying her name.
“Who’s that?”
“Junior’s fiancée.”
“Ah, the infamous fiancée. You afraid of spurring more waterworks?”
Not quite. “Something like that. And while we’re there, we might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
“Are we ordering matching caskets?”
“No. Your taste is too expensive for me. I want to take a peek in that storage room. The one behind those one-way glass windows.”
“I was hoping you’d forgotten about that room.”
“Nope. My body may be going to hell in a handbasket, but my mind is still holding on. According to the paper, Eloise Tarkin’s viewing is tonight. Did you know her?”
“Contrary to what you think, Vi, I don’t know everyone in town.”
“Oh, right.” Bullshit. “So, how did you know Eloise?’
Natalie chuckled. “Her husband used to deliver our mail when I was a kid.”
“Perfect.” I leaned back in my chair. “I’ll see you at Mudder Brothers at seven.”
“What if I said I have a date tonight?”
I’d have heard about it three times over by now if she did, especially if it involved another attempt to land Doc. “I’d say you should go jump in Roubaix Lake because your pants are on fire.”
“Fine, but you owe me. I hate funerals.”
“Put it on my tab.”
After I hung up, I picked up Mona’s note with the number for Douglas Mann, the Big-Shot city councilman from Lead. Ray clomped in through the back door as I punched in the number, his cologne triple-coating his skin and making my eyes water. He greeted me with his usual scorn-filled sneer. I returned with my customary middle-finger warm-and-fuzzy.
After five rings, Douglas’ voicemail picked up. At the tone, I said, “Hi, I’m calling for Douglas Mann. This is Violet Parker from Calamity Jane Realty, and I received a message that you wanted to talk to me.”
I glanced at Ray just to keep an eye on the snake and felt all sunshine-and-lollipops inside at the sight of his narrowed glare and scrunched forehead. I gave him a little wiggly-finger wave as I spoke my cell phone number into the receiver. “Feel free to call me back at your convenience.”
“What on earth would Doug want to talk to you about?” Ray asked after I disconnected the call.
“Well, being that I’m a Realtor—”
Ray scoffed. “One sale makes you a lucky amateur, not a profession
al.”
“—he probably wants to talk to me about a property to buy or sell.”
“No. It’s your tits.”
“What? No.” His comment caught me with my pants down. When had we descended to the next level of crassness? And why?
“You’re new in town, Blondie. You don’t know Doug. His wife carries his balls in her purse, but Douggie Junior roams the countryside, searching for willing girls with welcoming arms and open legs.”
“He doesn’t even know me.” At least I didn’t remember meeting him.
“He called. That means he at least knows of you. And he probably knows all about your situation.”
“My situation? You mean that I’m single?”
“I mean female, blonde, and desperate—Doug’s favorite perfume. On top of it, you have small tits. Doug likes small—”
“I’m not small.” I picked up my stapler, intending to pound that fact home.
His gaze slid down to my chest. “You’re what? Maybe a B-cup with a wad of toilet paper stuffed around the edges?”
Try C—including a smidgeon of padding, but that was my secret. “That’s something you’ll never know.”
I was done discussing breast size with this over-tanned, sexist Neanderthal. I was done sharing an office with him for the afternoon as well. “Don’t you have any appointments this afternoon you need to slither off to?”
He leaned back in his chair, resting his Tony Lamas on his desktop. “Nope. It’s just you and me, babe.”
I grabbed my purse and shoved my phone into it. “No, it’s just you.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I have an appointment,” I lied, hoisting my tote onto my shoulder. “Oh, and when Douglas calls me back, I’ll be sure to let him know how kindly you spoke of him. What was the name you called his penis? Douggie Junior, right?”
“Don’t even think about it, Blondie!” Ray bellowed at my back as I sashayed out the back door, whistling.
Layne must have shown his sister the box of teeth in spite of my instructions not to, because when I pulled into the drive, Addy greeted me at my Bronco’s door. On the trip up the front walk, she informed me of her expert status on dental matters after having brushed many animal teeth in her “long” life. I decided not to ask her how many of those times she’d used my toothbrush without telling me. Her ruling on the teeth coincided with Layne’s—they were definitely human.
