An Ex to Grind in Deadwood (Deadwood Humorous Mystery Book 5) Paperback – September 4, 2014

by Ann Charles

  Or not so obviously.

  “So are we going to form a circle inside of this square you’ve made?” Freesia asked.

  “No.” Cornelius opened the last of his equipment cases and pulled out several odd-looking meters—some I recognized from before—and a video camera. “We’ll each sit at a corner, within the square but facing outward.”

  Freesia watched him with her dark eyes glittering in the glow of the battery powered camping lanterns Cornelius had brought along. “Does facing outward have some meaning rather than facing inward?”

  “Not especially,” he answered. “I’ve found that people focus better when sitting in a square formation if they have their backs to each other.”

  I pointed at the video camera he was checking. “We’re not recording tonight, remember?”

  “That is incorrect.” He unfolded a tripod. “I agreed not to film the four of us. I’ll set this up in the bedroom.”

  “Filming what?”

  “The mirror.”

  The one with Layne’s picture. “Why that mirror?”

  “Mirrors are sometimes windows to other worlds or dimensions.”

  I followed him through the doorway, watching as he set up the tripod. “I always thought that was something Hollywood had made up to add suspense.”

  “Mirrors capture souls, Violet.” He said it as if I were an idiot to think they were used only to look at oneself. “Since this was the victim’s bedroom, there is a good chance that if she’s still with us in spirit, she will show herself in here where she was probably most comfortable.”

  Cornelius left me alone with the recorder and mirror.

  I stared at the blinking red light on the camera. Had Ms. Wolff been standing next to me while I looked into her bedroom mirror days ago? The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I shuddered and tried to shake off the heebie jeebies that were crawling up my spine.

  Doc’s warm hand on my back had a calming effect. When my gaze darted up to his, he smiled and tweaked my chin. “She’s not here,” he whispered in my ear.

  My pulse slowed back to its regular rhythm. I followed him out to Cornelius’s square, which now had a candle placed on a plate in the center of it.

  Cornelius checked his watch, and then peered out the window. “It’s almost time. Each of you take a corner.

  Doc took the one facing the hallway. I didn’t want to face the bedroom or the wall of gruesome clocks, so I sat on Doc’s left, looking at the spot where Harvey and I’d found Ms. Wolff’s gnarled up body. Freesia sat kitty corner, the clocks in her sight.

  “Should I be holding something?” Freesia asked.

  “No.” Cornelius took his place diagonal from Doc, facing the bedroom. “I recommend the yoga Namaste position with crossed legs. You’ll need to focus on opening your thoughts, stepping outside of your conscious mind.”

  Yada, yada, yada, I thought, yawning. I sat on the carpet cross-legged, wondering if anyone would notice if I grabbed a couch cushion so my butt wouldn’t go numb. I began some deep breathing techniques, playing along.

  “It’s time,” Cornelius turned off the lanterns, leaving us lit by only the flickering candlelight. It smelled like vanilla, or maybe sweeter, like cookie dough. Was there a scent that worked better than others for luring the dead? I preferred fresh baked apple pie.

  I checked on Doc. He had one arm resting on his raised knee, his other leg stretched out in front of him. He gave me a thumbs-up. I blew him a kiss back.

  “Violet,” Cornelius’s voice seemed extra loud in the ticking apartment. “Open the channel.”

  Right. This was the part where I pulled paranormal shit out of my ass.

  I cleared my throat. Here went nothing. “If there is someone here, please tell me your name.” After pausing for a few breaths, I spoke again. “If someone is in this apartment with us, please step forward and tell me why you are here.”

  Cornelius began to hum, as he had in our past séances. The clocks ticked rhythmically along with him, lulling me into calmer waters.

  Closing my eyes, I tried another avenue. “My name is Violet Parker. I’ve come here to talk to you. Please tell me your name.” I knew as sure as Tom the cat would never catch Jerry the mouse that nobody was going to answer me, but if it distracted Cornelius long enough for Doc to touch base with the ghost in the hallway, then my work here tonight was done.

  I let Cornelius hum for a bit longer, patting down another yawn, and then spoke. “Are you a woman or man?”

  A look in Doc’s direction showed him with his head resting on his raised knee now, his back curved into a C shape. I stretched mine, resisting the urge to curl up and take a nap for a few minutes. My lack of sleep was catching up again now that I was sitting still.

  “How did you die?” I played the Changeling movie over in my head, remembering that medium’s questions and the spine-chilling effect when the child’s voice responded. It was probably best not to go any further there.

  “Were you young when you were killed?”

  My thoughts shifted, beginning to swim, one floating past another as I drifted in the current, waves lapping, lapping, lapping …

  I sank deep down into dreamland, then thrashed my way back to the surface.

  I jerked awake, finding myself standing in front of the bedroom mirror in Ms. Wolff’s bedroom. What was I doing in here? I must have sleepwalked. I hadn’t done that in years. I looked for the picture of my son. Only it wasn’t there.

  Crap, had I taken the picture in my sleep, my subconscious wanting to protect him? I checked my pockets. Nope. I wasn’t supposed to move it for some reason. Why was that? My brain felt foggy, my thoughts fuzzy notions.

  I scrubbed my hands down my face and then looked at my reflection in the mirror. Something wasn’t quite right. I could see Cornelius’s camera, the red light blinking. The door was closed, the bed was made, the dresser was in the same place as usual.

  I turned around to look at the scene and see if I could figure out why something felt off. The scene before me made me scratch my head. There was a completely different bed in front of me. Not just a different bed spread, but the whole thing was bigger with a headboard. I looked over at the camera to make sure it was recording so we could get this odd bed thing on film, but there was no camera there. No tripod. Nothing.

  I looked back in the mirror. There the camera sat on its tripod, the red light blinking. When I turned away from the mirror, it was gone again, and the bed changed. The wall was different, too. The paint seemed darker. The dresser was gone as well.

  What in the hell was going on?

  I walked around the bed and stood where the tripod should be. I checked the mirror; it was right next to me in the reflection. Had Cornelius changed the mirror as a practical joke? No, Cornelius wouldn’t know a practical joke if it squirted him in the face. Something was off kilter. Was it me? My pulse picked up speed; I could feel it fluttering in my neck.

  I started toward the closet. This wasn’t making any sense. The sound of a loud thump on the other side of the bedroom door made me stop. Had Cooper found us?

  I slowly turned the bedroom doorknob, making only the slightest squeak. I peeked out through the gap and pulled back out of sight, my heart sprinting as fast as it could go.

  The albino’s twin! Shit! Shit! Shit!

  I stared across the bed at my wide-eyed reflection in the mirror. The video camera reflected there blinked its red eye.

  Ohhhhh. I slapped myself across the forehead. Duh. Now I got it. This was a dream. That explained the mirror trick. Cornelius’s earlier explanation about mirrors had left an impression on my dream architect.

  Okay. Only a dream. Been there, done that. Might as well see it through until I woke up.

  I looked out through the crack again, bolder this time now that I knew it wasn’t real.

  The albino’s twin hadn’t come for me after all. I was looking at my brain’s recreation of my Mudder Brothers’ nemesis. Out in the living room, the Donald-Duck
looking fiend stood tall and frightening as ever, his face clenched in a manic smile, his eyes bulging more than usual as he raised a medieval looking ax over his head.

  I looked down and grimaced. Great, another decapitation replay. One could never get enough of those.

  Before I could turn away, the ugly duck swung the ax, severing the white-haired head from the body. The head bounced onto the floor, rolled a foot or two, and then stilled. I gagged. Sometimes my brain was such an asshole.

  A bright light flashed, temporarily blinded me, heat making me step back. When my eyes readjusted and I looked back at the macabre scene before me, the head was gone … sort of. In its place was a shrunken, smoking raisin version of it lying there on the scarred plank floor. Another white flash made me shield my eyes and wince. This time a gnarled, shriveled body was all that remained. I covered my nose as a familiar odor wafted through the crack in the door. It was the same smell Harvey and I had noticed in Ms. Wolff’s apartment the day we’d found her.

  The ugly duckling kicked the shriveled head, knocking it into two others just like it. All three rocked and rolled a little, then came to a stop.

  Three shriveled heads? Oh, now I got it. This dream was about that old article Harvey had showed me. The mysterious shriveled heads piece. My brain had come up with an answer to the mystery. I wondered how Cooper would feel if I said to him, “Listen, I had this dream about those heads. I think I know who the killer is and how he did it.”

  The detective would probably laugh his own head off.

  Movement in the hallway across the way caught my eye. A skinny man with hair greased back and a black leather jacket peeked around the corner. His gaze landed on the shriveled remains of the three victims, his eyes widening to the size of silver dollars. His gasp of surprise resounded across the room, catching the ax-happy-albino’s attention.

  I shook my head at the greaser’s mistake. What a newbie. He might look like James Dean with his cuff-rolled jeans and black boots, but he wasn’t nearly as cool as the iconic rebel.

  Before the newbie could turn to run, the albino grabbed him inhumanly fast, lifting him by the neck. The greaser flailed, kicking in the air, trying to scream, but the albino’s chokehold left no chance. He stilled, his face turning blue-ish purple.

  “What have we here? A nosey field mouse?” The albino spoke in that Slavic accent he’d had in the Mudder Brothers’ basement. My memory seemed to be flawless when I was sleeping.

  “Put him down!” I demanded, halfway across the living room before I realized my feet had taken action. The stench of the gnarled bodies still hovered, making me gag a little.

  The albino turned his head in my direction. His eyes were reptilian, his nose and mouth pushed out into what looked like a short snout. For a moment, he looked more like a white fanged beast than an ugly duckling, then he blinked back to normal dark pupils.

  James Dean’s wide eyes met mine. He made a gurgling sound in his throat, his tongue lolling partway out.

  “By whose order?”

  What did he mean by whose order? Me and my can of whoop ass, that was who. “Put him down!” I said again, louder, treating him as I would a disobedient child.

  “As you wish.” He threw James Dean across the room with jaw-dropping force. The greaser slammed into the wall headfirst with a loud, sickening thud, leaving a trail of blood down the wall as he slid to the floor, landing in a tangled heap.

  I rushed over to the greaser, squatting next to him.

  He was still alive, but his neck was twisted around at a horrible angle. His eyelashes fluttered. He coughed, blood splattering. His mouth moved like he was trying to speak. His breath sounded gurgled, labored. Under the scent of blood, I could smell the pomade he’d used to slick back his hair.

  Damn it. How many people had to die in my nightmares? How many times was I going to have to face off with monsters before I could return to happy dreams full of rainbows, chocolate, and poppy fields?

  Sighing, I stood, facing my nemesis. “All right, you ugly son of a bitch, let’s do this.”

  The albino hefted his medieval ax. “Do what, human?”

  “Do I really have to spell it out for you?” I’d replayed this scene in different variations more times than I could count over the last few months. Usually the nasty bastard came at me with his barbed, shiny hook. The ax was a new touch, along with the shrunken heads, but the scene was the same otherwise. “Let’s get on with the usual fight-for-my-life crap. Lose the ax, though. Try leveling the playing field for once.”

  “The ax?” The albino looked down at the blade in his hands and then back at me. “You speak of this?”

  “Yes, that weird battle ax thing you’re holding.” I must have conjured that up thanks to the old Conan the Barbarian movie I’d watched the other night with Natalie.

  “It is a scythe,” he clarified.

  I rolled my eyes. “Are you seriously going to stand here and argue with me about the name of that stupid thing?”

  He swung it back and forth between us, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “You have made a grave mistake, wench.”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo, dickhead. Put the ax down and fight like a man.”

  “But I am not a man.” The albino hefted the ax back and forth between his hands.

  “Do you always pick on things smaller than you?” I asked, moving sideways, keeping space between us. Was I going to live through this nightmare, or die from his blade and wake up sweating and clutching my throat like so many other times?

  “It is in my nature to hunt smaller prey.”

  “Fine, you big bully. Take a swing and let’s get this dance started.”

  “Violet!” the guttural sound of my name coming from the dying man was new, a different dreamland special effect. One that gave me pause.

  “What?” I called out, keeping my focus on the ax.

  The greaser coughed again; it sounded thick with blood.

  The albino lifted the ax. “As you command, wench.”

  He swung, I dodged, darting around the side of him, faster in my dreams than I ever had been in real life. I ended up closer to the greaser, who was battling a rally of coughs.

  “Let go of the ghost, buddy,” I told him. “This might get ugly here soon. Trust me, I’ve had these nightmares before.”

  “Boots,” the greaser gasped. “Run, damn it! Run!”

  I heard his death rattle, and then silence. I glanced down into the wide, glassy eyes of the greaser. Blood dripped down his chin. His chest no longer hitched.

  Did he call me Boots?

  The albino closed the distance between us. A mark on his left cheek caught my attention. Was that a birthmark shaped like a horseshoe or a dirt smudge? Something tried to surface from my memories. Something about Cooper. I struggled to dredge up why that mark even mattered.

  He raised the ax again

  “Wait!” I held up my hand.

  He didn’t, swinging a slicing blow at my neck.

  I slammed back against the wall the greaser had dented, the blade slicing through my hoody right above my left breast.

  I felt a burning sting. Pulling my hoody and T-shirt aside, I touched where the blade had cut me. It was shallow, but deep enough for blood to well and trickle down, tickling as it went.

  Uh oh.

  Boots? Only Doc ever called me Boots. That had never happened before in any of my nightmares.

  “What will it be, wench?” the albino hefted the ax, his eyes morphed into snake-slits again.

  A flash of the last time I’d fallen asleep around Cornelius whizzed through my thoughts. We had been up at Mount Moriah that time. There’d been spittle in my hand when I’d woken up. Did that mean this was somehow …

  “Shall I remove your head or heart?” the ugly beast asked.

  … the real deal?

  The cut on my chest throbbed. That was different, too.

  My breath caught. I might really be fucked this time.

  “Wait!” I held up m
y hands between us, forming them into a T. “I’d like to take a ten-minute timeout, please.”

  He laughed, all heart-stopping and evil sounding. Vincent Price must have taken lessons from him. He raised the ax, his face contorting into a maniacal clown grin, his body bowing with strength and force. “Your time is no more, wench.”

  The blade sliced through the air.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  And missed … barely, burrowing into the wall next to me.

  I’d dodged his blade at the last second somehow. I didn’t waste time figuring it out. There was no way I was going to give him another chance to cleave me in two.

  While the creep struggled to tug his blade free of the wall, I scrambled around him. But I wasn’t fast enough. He caught me by the hood and yanked me backward off my feet.

  I landed flat on my butt with an “oof!”

  He let go of me to double fist the ax handle and swing, giving me the split second I needed to roll out of the arc of his blade. The floor boards vibrated from the force of his blow. Jesus! The ugly bastard was a damned juggernaut.

  I shoved to my feet and ran for the dining room, putting the table between us. Food sat on three plates, half-eaten, with forks and spoons at the ready, reminding me of the unsettling ghost story about Roanoke, Virginia. Serving dishes filled with mashed potatoes, meatballs, and green beans were centered on the table. I hurdled a tipped over chair.

  The ax-happy-asshole stretched his neck and stalked after me, dragging his blade along the floor. Behind him on the wall above the splayed greaser’s body, I saw three letters drawn with red paint: M I R.

  Where had those come from? I didn’t have much time to ponder the letters’ origin before the albino came up with a quick way to get around the table—chop it in half.

  His ax fell, sending wood splintering every which way.

  Before he lifted his weapon again, I grabbed a chair and slammed it down onto his back.

  He stumbled forward into the wall, giving me the time I needed to race around the table mess.

  His arm was too long, though. He snagged me again, catching me by the hair this time, and yanked me onto the broken table. I rolled down one of the broken halves onto the floor, landing facedown amidst green beans and potatoes. I pushed up onto my palms, my fingers squishing meatballs under my palms, the scent of tomato sauce thick around me. I’d missed landing on a serving fork by inches.