A Wild Fright in Deadwood (Deadwood Humorous Mystery Book 7)

by Ann Charles

  I pointed down at the phone. “None of you can hear this thing ringing?”

  “No, Parker. Just like none of us can hear the clocks. But I’ll humor you.” Cooper nudged me back a step. He took a handkerchief from his jacket and grasped the receiver, lifting it to his ear.

  The ringing stopped.

  “Hello?”

  I held my breath, holding Cooper’s steely gaze.

  “Is someone there?” he asked, his focus shifting behind me to Doc. “This is Detective Cooper from the Deadwood Police Department. If someone is there, you’d better start talking.”

  After a few more seconds, he placed the receiver back on the base. “Nobody,” he told Doc. “Not even the sound of breathing.” He looked down at me. “Are you sure you heard this phone ringing?”

  “Positive,” I told him.

  “How can you be so sure it’s not just in your head?”

  “Because it stopped when you picked it up, and now it’s ringing again.” It had started seconds after he’d hung up.

  I held out my hand. “Give me your handkerchief.” I took it by the corner. “It’s not used, is it?”

  “Don’t confuse me for Detective Hawke.”

  I wrapped it around the receiver and slowly picked it up, holding it to my ear. My hand trembled visibly.

  It was only a phone, I reminded myself. It wasn’t going to reach out and bite my head off, unlike the rigid-faced detective watching me with squinty eyes.

  “Say ‘hello,’ Parker,” he ordered.

  I held my hand out to shut him up. I was building up to it, damn it.

  “Hello?” I asked, my voice husky with uncertainty. “Is anybody there?”

  “OPEN THE DOOR!” someone yelled in my ear.

  I screeched and dropped the receiver back onto the cradle, hanging it up in the process.

  “What did you hear?” Cooper asked.

  “Someone yelling at me to open the door.”

  He tugged the handkerchief from my clenched fist. He wrapped it around the receiver and held it up to his ear again, listening with wrinkled brow. Then he shook his head and handed the receiver to Doc. “I don’t hear anything, not even a dial tone. You try.”

  Doc took the receiver and listened. “Hello?” he waited, watching me without expression. “If someone is there who would like me to relay a message, I can open the channel for you.”

  He reminded me of the paranormal investigators I’d seen on television shows, only less bossy than some who demanded the ghosts talk back.

  After several seconds of silence from the rest of us, he shook his head at Cooper and hung up the receiver. “Nothing.”

  The phone rang again almost immediately. I gasped, staring at it like it was a snake that had arched up and started hissing.

  “Is it ringing again?” Doc asked.

  I nodded, reaching for the receiver.

  Cooper shoved the handkerchief in my hand before I made contact. “No prints, damn it. I don’t need Detective Hawke knowing we were here.”

  Sheesh. He was going a little over the top if you asked me. Like Hawke stopped by every other day and dusted for new prints.

  I wrapped the soft cotton around the phone and lifted it slowly to my ear, my eyes locked onto Doc.

  “Hello?” I whispered into the mouthpiece.

  “OPEN THE DOOR!”

  A boom reverberated out from the bedroom.

  I started in surprise but held onto the phone this time.

  Doc looked over my shoulder toward the entrance to the bedroom, his brows wrinkling.

  I covered the mouthpiece. “Did you hear it, too?”

  “Hear what?” Cooper glanced toward the bedroom.

  “I think I felt it more than heard it,” Doc answered. At Cooper’s glare, he explained, “Something hit the dresser mirror.”

  I swallowed my heart back down into my chest, making room for my tongue to come back to the forefront. “Who is this?”

  Something growled on the other end of the line, sending a rash of goosebumps down my spine.

  The boom echoed out from the bedroom again. I pinched my lips together, holding in a cry of alarm. Covering the mouthpiece again, I lowered the phone and told them, “I think someone or something is trying to come through the mirror.”

  Freesia let out a squawk and raced over next to me, staring with wide eyes at the doorway where she’d been a second ago. “Who is it?”

  “I’m more afraid of what it is than who it is.”

  “What are you talking about, Parker?” Cooper walked over and stood with his shoulders framed in the doorway.

  Doc turned me toward him, his gaze drilling into mine. “You’re a medium. Focus on what you want to achieve.”

  What did I want to happen here besides the spooky craziness in this damned apartment to stop?

  “There’s nothing in the mirror,” Cooper said from the doorway. I could hear the skepticism in his tone.

  I sighed. “I want Cooper to hear what I do—the cuckooing, the mirror booms, the voice on the line.”

  “Okay,” Doc said. “Now make it happen, medium.”

  Make it happen. I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured a candle flame flickering in a dark room. As the flame danced in my mind’s eye, a calm settled over me. My trembling stopped. My fear receded into the darkness, away from the light, replaced by an ironclad resolve.

  I raised the receiver back to my ear. “You want me to open the door?”

  “Yes!” It sounded more like a snarl than an actual word.

  “Not until you tell me why you want through.”

  “I can smell you, Scharfrichter.”

  Great. Whatever it was knew my job description. Now we could focus on the why part of this call instead of who. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Booming again.

  I opened my eyes, focusing on the wall in front of me. The dancing flame still flickered in my thoughts.

  “There it is again,” Doc told Cooper, who’d returned to our huddle around the phone.

  “What happens if I let you through?” I asked the caller.

  The laughter that came through the line had a sharp, menacing edge to it. “All the better to eat you with.”

  I recognized the line from the Brothers Grimm. Was it role playing? “Who are you supposed to be? The big bad wolf?”

  “My teeth are sharper.”

  Was this the other bone cruncher? The one I’d been warned about after executing its hunting partner? That sucker’s teeth had been long, sharp, and wicked as hell. But I’d killed it just the same.

  “Shall we see how your teeth stand up when I swing my war hammer at them?” Was whatever waited on the other side of the mirror the reason I would need that weapon soon?

  “She has a war hammer?” Cooper asked Doc, sounding surprised.

  “Open the door now!” The caller snarled again. The mirror rattled from the boom but held.

  I looked at Cooper, but he didn’t react. Damn it, how could I make him hear what I was hearing?

  “Not until you tell me who executed the timekeeper.”

  Silence came through the line. In that moment of nothingness, I thought of Prudence and an idea hit me.

  After a few more seconds, the caller spoke, “The Scharfrichter.”

  I reached out and grabbed onto Cooper’s forearm, holding tight when he tried to pull away. “What about me?” I asked into the mouthpiece.

  “You slew the timekeeper.”

  “You’re mistaken. The door stays shut.” I hung up the phone.

  An ear-clanging crash came from the bedroom.

  Freesia screamed.

  Cooper yanked free, pulling out his gun with lightning speed.

  Doc tucked me behind him, blocking me from anything that might step out through the bedroom doorway. I peeked around his shoulder in time to see Cooper disappear into the room, his handgun pointed up but at the ready.

  “Holy fuck!” I heard Cooper say.

  “W
hat is it?” Freesia called out.

  He rejoined us, holstering his gun. “The mirror shattered. There’s glass everywhere in there.” His gray eyes narrowed on mine. “I mean everywhere. What in the hell did you do?”

  “Me?”

  Cooper frowned toward the bedroom. “Jesus H. Christ, Parker! How am I going to hide this mess from the surveillance crew Hawke sends through here each week?”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  “Are you sure?” Doc asked under his breath.

  No, not entirely. But there was no way I was going to take a single ounce of ownership for it while Cooper was on the warpath. He might put a bullet in me so I could share his pain.

  “If it wasn’t you,” Cooper snapped, “who was it? And don’t you dare tell me it was the big bad wolf.”

  I reached down and hoisted the receiver again. “Way to go, shithead,” I yelled into the mouthpiece for a more dramatic effect. “You broke the damned door!”

  * * *

  Several hours later I was holding down the fort at Calamity Jane Realty alone, apart from any ghosts who might be keeping me company. My cup of coffee had grown cold for the second time since Doc had dropped me off at work after leaving the Galena House.

  I had a gut feeling that Doc was right. I’d broken the mirror.

  When I’d touched Cooper’s arm, I’d tried to focus on that candle flame while willing the detective to hear the booming. Unfortunately, it appeared I’d cranked up the “volume” way too high. The pounding noise I’d been hearing had become a glass-shattering sonic boom.

  Damn.

  Such was my life. Whatever feat I attempted, I managed to overdo it and screw things up. Instead of accidentally getting pregnant with one child from Rex the rat bastard, I’d produced two. And though I loved them dearly, my accidental pregnancy had become twice the dilemma. While attempting to change careers, I’d become Spooky Parker, the ghost-loving real estate agent AND the lesser known—but more notorious across the realms—Violet Parker, Executioner Extraordinaire. I wasn’t even going to touch my multiple slip-ups that involved Cooper and all of his murder cases. And then there was Doc … actually I hadn’t screwed that up yet, but our romance was still young and in the double-the-pleasure phase. With a little more time, I’d probably find a way to double up on the heartache in that arena, too.

  The bells over the front door jingled. I blinked out of my daze as Cornelius closed the door behind him. He was looking very presidential this afternoon in his stovepipe hat, long black wool coat, and walking stick. His pointy goatee appeared freshly sharpened. His round sunglasses hid his cornflower blue eyes.

  “Thanks for coming down here,” I said. “I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Wilda today.”

  Cornelius lowered himself into the chair opposite me, his movements slow and stiff for a man I’d guess to be close to my age. “She has certainly had plenty to say about you today. Somebody needs to give that little terror a lollipop.”

  “About Wilda,” I started, taking a sip of coffee and grimacing at how bitter it was as well as cold. Had Jerry switched coffee brands? “Doc wanted me to arrange an evening this week with you for the …” what was the word Doc had used? “For the extraction.”

  “Where is the tall medium?”

  “He had an appointment down in Rapid this—”

  “Shhh.” Cornelius cocked his head to the side.

  I waited. I’d played this game with him before. If asked, he’d tell me he could hear ghosts talking in the ceiling, walls, carpet, wherever. Only these days, he might not be as full of hot air as he used to be. Maybe Wilda was instructing him where and how to plant the letter opener I’d left sitting on my desk after going through the office mail.

  “Hmmm,” he broke the silence. “That’s odd.”

  “What is Wilda telling you now?”

  “Nothing. That’s what’s odd.”

  “Do you hear someone else?” Like my ex-boss, Jane?

  “Only you. And me.” He took off his sunglasses. I tried not to wince at how red-lined and dark-ringed his eyes were. “It’s the first time in weeks that I’ve had peace and quiet.” He sighed, his shoulders sinking deeper into the chair. “Now, what preparations have you made for the séance?”

  Me? This was the Doc and Cornelius show. I was the special guest star. “None. But Doc may have stuff prepped.”

  “Who is this doctor you speak of?”

  I rolled my eyes and switched to Cornelius’s vernacular. “Doc is the tall medium.”

  “The tall medium is a doctor?”

  “No. His name is ‘Doc’ Nyce.” When Cornelius continued to stare at me with a wrinkled brow, I added, “He’s a financial planner.”

  “A gambler? Hmm.”

  I was pretty sure my mouth had not said anything about Doc being a gambler.

  Cornelius stroked his pointy goatee. “I wonder if he’s ever spun a fortune wheel on a riverboat.”

  Because that was where all gamblers started their careers?

  “You should ask him that when we get together for the séance.” I brought the conversation back around to the reason I’d asked him to come down to the office this afternoon.

  He eyeballed the mug of coffee on my desk. “What’s that?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Do you mind?” he asked, reaching for it.

  “Uhhh, no.” Nobody had ever asked to share my cold coffee before. “Go for it.”

  He picked up the coffee cup and stood, glancing around the office for Lord only knew what. Then he strode over to the front door, stepped outside, and dumped the coffee on the sidewalk.

  “What the hell is he doing?” I whispered, standing to watch him through the plate glass windows as he placed the mug in the center of the spill. He stepped back, looked at the mug, bent over and turned the handle slightly, then nodded and rejoined me at my desk.

  I stared quizzically down at him as he made himself comfortable. “Was my coffee bothering you?”

  “Why would coffee bother me?’

  “You know what? Never mind.” I took my seat again. “What evening works for you to have the séance?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Besides Thursday,” I said.

  “Thursday is ideal. The moon will be new.”

  “Thursday is Thanksgiving.” I’d probably be down at my parents’ place with the kids. I hadn’t invited Doc to join us yet and wasn’t sure I wanted to with Susan in town.

  “Thanksgiving?” he said the word as if it were new to his vocabulary.

  Surely he’d celebrated Thanksgiving before. He might be eccentric from the top of his hat to the tips of his pointy shoes, but he wasn’t from Mars.

  “Yes, Thanksgiving. You know, turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie. According to my kids’ history book, your favorite president was the one who made it a national holiday.”

  “My favorite president?”

  “Abe Lincoln.”

  “What makes you think Lincoln is my favorite?”

  Really, Mr. Doppelgänger? “I don’t know, maybe your hat.”

  He took it off and frowned at it. “Kennedy is my favorite. He wore a similar hat back in 1961.”

  No shit. “My mistake.”

  “We’ll have the séance on Thursday,” he declared.

  “Cornelius, that’s Thanksgiving,” I reiterated.

  “Are you from Plymouth?”

  I assumed he meant Plymouth, Massachusetts. “No.”

  “Are you a direct descendant of the pilgrims?”

  “No.” My lineage had a much darker history than sailing to new lands to form colonies. Although the pilgrims’ history wasn’t quite as rosy as they taught in elementary school.

  “Are you a legitimate descendant of Wampanoag Indians?”

  “The what?”

  “Are you a fan of Sarah Hale?”

  “Who’s she?”

  “She wrote ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’”

  “What does she have to do with Thanksgiving?”r />
  “You don’t know, Violet? Did you attend school in this country?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you hit your head hard lately?”

  Not as hard as I’d like to hit it on the desk right now. “No.”

  “You’ll need dried sage for Thanksgiving.”

  “For the stuffing?” My mom liked to make the dressing. She’d won first place for her recipe at the county fair three years in a row.

  “Sage cleanses the air and purifies the energy. We’ll need to burn it to create the proper space for the ritual to begin.”

  “Cornelius, you’re not listening to me. Thursday is—”

  The front door opened so fast the bells’ jingle was cut short to a mere “jing.”

  “Violet!” Rex stalked inside, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the plate glass windows rattle. His caramel colored suede coat hung open over his white sweater and gray corduroy pants. His blond hair was perfectly windblown. To any passerby, he looked like he’d walked off the cover of a men’s magazine.

  I took one look at the dark red blotches painting his cheeks and the vein pulsing dead center on his brow and stood to head trouble off at the pass. “We’re closed.” I pointed at the door he’d come through. “Get out or I’ll call the cops!”

  He ignored my threat, brushing past Cornelius’s bony elbow in his rush to my desk. “I warned you about touching my car, you vindictive bitch.”

  “I didn’t touch your precious car, Rex. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with my windshield wipers disappearing?” He leaned over my desk, his eyes menacing. “You owe me a coat!”

  I looked at the water spots darkening his shoulders, struggling to keep a smile from my lips. Natalie had been right about the coat. It was ruined.

  “This sounds like a mystery,” Cornelius spoke up. “I love a good whodunit.”

  Rex turned toward Cornelius, his brow scrunching as he took in the stovepipe hat and coat. “Who are you?”

  Cornelius stood. With his hat back in place, he had a good six inches on Rex. “Cornelius Curion,” he said with a slight bow.

  The leer Rex aimed my way made me feel like I’d been slimed. “Is this kook your latest lover?”