Better Off Dead in Deadwood (31 page)

Jerry reached across the table and touched her arm, patting it a few times. “Your gut’s wrong. We’ll now have a five-man … er, five-person team that will be invincible, you’ll see. Trust me on this.”

Mona pulled her arm away. “I trusted you once before.”

Jerry’s cheeks reddened. He picked up his coffee cup, hiding behind it. “That was different. This time, it will work. Especially after we get some fresh ads out there with Violet and Benjamin on them, appealing to a new customer base.”

His words didn’t ease my own dueling badgers. Besides, I hadn’t agreed to anything yet.

The rest of the brunch passed by with slurps of coffee and some talk about what Jerry had learned last night at his appointment with one of the higher-ups in the South Dakota Real Estate Commission.

When we all stood to leave, Jerry touched my shoulder. “Hold up a second, Violet.” He turned to Ray and Mona. “We’ll see you two back at the office.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, he pointed at the bench seat where Mona had sat. I dropped into it obediently. He kneeled on the other bench, looking down at me.

“You were in jail yesterday,” he said.

No mincing words for Jerry, so I followed suit. “Yes, I was.”

“Why?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Detective Cooper from the Deadwood Police Department locked me up as a way of teaching me a lesson.”

He raised one eyebrow. “I have a feeling you’re not telling me a big part of the story, but I won’t prod this time. However, I strongly suggest you avoid that ‘wrong place’ in the future. I can spin the jail thing this time, but if it happens again, I don’t think I can save your professional reputation.”

I squeezed the bridge of my nose, hating that I was having this conversation with my boss of all people.

“Is Detective Cooper still wanting you to sell his house?”

“Yes.” Unbelievably.

Jerry crossed his arms, his big forearms bulging like Popeye’s. “Interesting.”

Not really. Cooper was just good at compartmentalizing me into two roles: real estate agent on one hand; nemesis on the other. In my world, Cooper was someone to hide from, period.

“I have a rule, Violet. It’s pretty simple—five fouls and you’re out. That means you get four chances to screw up. On the fifth, I fire you. Consider yesterday’s trip to jail on working time your first foul.”

Fair enough, I guessed. Although I’d consider a trip to jail more like two fouls, or a technical foul, but who was I to argue?

“Any questions?” he asked.

“Yeah, how do I get this foul removed from my record?”

His lips flat-lined. “Sell that hotel.”

* * *

I missed Natalie.

I missed her smiling eyes, her easy laughs, and her sharp wit.

I missed drinking beer with her in the dark, ogling our favorite silver-screen actors on TV, trying to out-swear each other when nobody else was around, and sharing conspiracy theories over the phone late at night.

But most of all, I missed her being by my side no matter what, come hell or high water, zombies or albinos, vindictive sisters or pissed off cops—like Cooper and whichever chicken shit had left me that anonymous note yesterday with words that still shadowed my thoughts.

From my current viewpoint in Gordon Park, which neighbored the Rec Center, I could watch the Deadwood Police Station while I twisted slowly in one of the swings. I just wished Natalie was twirling in the swing next to me, like she had so many times before. She would know the names of all of the cops, where they lived, who suffered from what addiction, who was screwing around on their spouse, and which ones I should add to my suspect list.

She would also know exactly what to say that would make me laugh about Ray and his annoying congratulatory phone call to Ben that had driven me out of the office this afternoon.

I’d grumbled and growled all through the parking lot behind Calamity Jane’s, my frustration bubbling over in spite of Deadwood’s warm sunshine and fresh pine tree
eau de parfum
. The squeals of children’s laughter had lured me to the playground, where a mother had been pushing two little girls on the swing set. After the trio had left, I’d snagged a swing, spying on Cooper and his buddies while revisiting old playground memories with Natalie and more.

Since we were kids, Nat had always been next to me, holding my hand during the hard times, like when I’d found out I was going to be an unwed mother of twin babies whose piece-of-shit father wanted no part in their world. Nat had been there to lift me out of my funk and convince me that things would be all right. She’d breathed with me through the kids’ delivery and celebrated their growth and achievements every moment since. She was the sister I’d always wanted instead of Susan—the sister I loathed.

The weight of Natalie’s silence since that night in the basement of the funeral parlor hurt my heart more every day, the ache growing sharp and spiny in my chest.

I leaned my head against one of the swing’s chains. If only she hadn’t convinced herself that she’d fallen for Doc, confusing lust for love yet again. I’d never been able to understand how a girl so pretty and smart could be filled with so many insecurities. Except for Doc, she was always falling for the guys who promised her the moon and then delivered stinky cheese with a side of infidelity.

I watched two cops step out of the police station and hop into a police car, their laughter rolling across the asphalt and grass separating us. They wheeled out of the parking lot and headed toward Main Street. Maybe I should start following some of these cops, trailing them to see if they were up to anything suspicious.

That sounded like something Mr. Big-Shot Detective might do to find out some answers. Hell, the hard-ass was probably watching me right now, waiting for me to make my next move.

I checked my cell phone, hoping to see a return text from Nat.

No such luck, damn it.

Since I had time on my hands and Nat on my mind, I typed her another text:
Jerry hired Ben. If I can’t get Cornelius to buy that damned hotel, I’m really screwed. Ack!! I forgot to tell you that someone at the police station left me a threatening note yesterday, saying I had something of theirs they wanted back. WTF? Miss you!

My cell phone rang as I hit the Send button on the text. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Natalie, but rather Cornelius, who I’d been trying to reach since right after Jerry dropped his breakfast bomb on me.

“Speak of the top hat,” I said under my breath and took the call. “Hi, Cornelius.”

“I need you to come up to Mount Moriah immediately,” he said without preamble.

Mount Moriah was Deadwood’s historic cemetery, the town’s version of Boot Hill, with such famous residents as Wild Bill Hickok, Calamity Jane, Charlie Udder, Seth Bullock, and more. I would have been less surprised if Cornelius had started our conversation with:
Four score and seven years ago
…

“Did someone die?” I asked.

“Several people have died, actually, but that’s not important.”

“Since when is death not important?” I twirled back and forth.

“Violet, stay focused. I need you to bring me seven double-D batteries, a fifty-foot extension cord, a pair of jumper cables, five unscented candles, two pairs of rubber gloves, and some sea salt—the kind with the speckles in it, not that mineral-free stuff.”

I stopped twirling. “Come again?”

“You should probably be writing this down.”

With what? My invisible pen? I listened as he listed the items again and tried to plant them in my memory. I waited for him to finish saying, “Double-D is a bra size, you know, not a type of battery.”

“Have you researched that thoroughly?”

No, I had never researched batteries in my life. But I had briefly hit the double-D cup range when I turned into a milk machine right after having twins. However, I really didn’t want to explore this subject any further with Cornelius, so I changed it. “Why do you need this stuff?”

“I’ll show you when you get up here.”

“Cornelius, I have a job to do.” I spun in my swing, winding the chains overhead together. “I can’t just jump when you call.”

“You sound irritable and tense. Have you cleansed your chakras lately?”

“No.” Not since … ever.

“When did you last have them aligned and balanced?”

“Well, I had to choose between the Picklemobile’s tires or my Third Eye,” I said with a definite snippiness in my tone.

“And now I’m picking up frustration from your energy field. I tell you, the reception on these new cell phones is incredible.”

Wait until he caught my live vibe when I saw him next. Beating him with my purse seemed too docile at the moment; maybe I’d roll him down the mountainside like a wheel of cheese.

“How soon can you get here? I have a ghost I need you to channel. You’re going to really dig this one.”

“Cornelius, I’m a Realtor. Not some kind of conduit for your ghostly friends.”

“You being a medium has everything to do with your success in sales.”

Ha! Then I was one hell of a shitty medium. “I’m not coming up to that graveyard unless you promise me we’ll talk about the hotel sale. We’re running out of time.”

“In more ways than you know,” he said, and whistled a bit from the Twilight Zone soundtrack.

I sat up straight in the swing. “I’m serious.”

“Fine, okay. I have news for you anyway that will probably make you happy.”

Happy news? That would be a nice change. Usually all of the news I received made me want to soak my head in a barrel of beer.

I stared across the park grounds at the police station. I could either stay here and try to figure out which of the cops coming and going was the one who’d put the note in my purse, or go back and sit through more of Ray’s snickers and snide grins and try not to slip him any of the rat poison Jane had stored under the bathroom sink, or go pay a visit to Deadwood’s famous history makers while sitting next to an Abe Lincoln doppelganger.

“Give me an hour,” I told him.

“That’s too long. Make it forty-seven minutes. Time is …”

He never finished that sentence, just disconnected, leaving me twisting in the breeze.

Since I had to hit the Piggly Wiggly to grab several of the things he’d ordered me to bring, I hopped to my feet. I returned to Calamity Jane Realty long enough to grab my purse from my desk, telling Mona I was going to see a client and returning Ray’s leer with a fly-by double-birdie on my way out the door. What I wouldn’t do to jam a whole can full of peas up his nose.

There was another zombie roaming the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. Actually, he might have been the same one as before. He beat me inside the grocery store. I found him in Aisle Six reading the back of a box of bandages.

“Hi,” I said, grabbing a bottle of peroxide and tossing it into my basket. We always needed more of it thanks to Layne’s experiments. “You’re in the play, right?”

If he wasn’t, I reserved the right to scream my head off and run the other way.

“What play?” He raised one half-bloodied eyebrow. It fell off and splatted on the floor, revealing his regular dark brown eyebrow underneath.

I bent down and picked his eyebrow up, handing it to him with a smile. “My name is Violet, by the way. You seemed to have lost this.”

“Thanks, Violet-by-the-way. That one keeps falling off today.” He took the rubbery piece of fake flesh from me and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “My name’s Zeb.”

No shit. Zeb the Zombie. Doc was going to love this detail later when I filled him in on my day.

“Nice to meet you, Zeb. I think I saw you here last week. Do you always grocery shop in costume during a play?”

“I’m in between cars at the moment, so I walk up here after rehearsal and buy what I need and then call my neighbor, who comes to pick me up.”

“It sounds like you have a nice neighbor.”

He shrugged, turning back to the first aid sundries. “She’s lonely and I’m single.”

Harvey and Zeb should form a club. Then Harvey could crash at Zeb’s house every night and I could get me some sex.

I needed to ask Zeb about Peter Tarragon, but I couldn’t figure out how to swing the conversation toward Petey boy, so I plowed in head first. “Isn’t Peter Tarragon directing that play?”

“Yeah,” Zeb looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You a friend of Tarragon’s?”

“No, I just know of him.” I purposely left that vague. “I’ve heard he can be a real hard-ass with his cast.”

“Most directors like to be hard-asses, in my experience. I think they believe it makes them appear more in control than they are.”

I hoisted my basket higher up my arm, getting the feeling that I wasn’t going to get any further with picking this zombie’s brains. “I should probably get going.” I had a cemetery to rush to. “It was great to meet you.”

“Tarragon would get a lot further with his cast if he’d stop trying so hard to impress certain folks and focus on directing the play.”

Maybe ol’ Zeb wasn’t quite done. “By ‘certain folks,’ are you talking about that theatre company supposedly interested in hiring him?”

“No. That theatre company is most likely a rumor that Tarragon started to impress the locals into coming to the play. I’m talking about the way he kisses the executive producer’s ass … pardon my French.”

Zeb’s ear fell off and landed at our feet. I grabbed it and handed it back to Zeb. “Who’s the executive producer?”

“Dominick Masterson,” he said. “You know, the guy who’s running for mayor?”

“Yeah, I know Dominick.” Sort of. “He seems like a nice guy.” That would explain why Dominick seemed to be at the opera house more often than not.

“Oh, he is.” Zeb tossed three boxes of bandages in his basket and then looked up at me, his black rimmed eyes serious, making a few creepy-crawlies inch up my arms. “As long as you stay on his good side.”

“And if you don’t?”

“You could end up like me.”

What? Dead? Zombified? A secondary actor in a local play? Carless? “Like you how?”

Zeb looked over my shoulder, his face splitting in a grin. “Hey, boys, what are you two doing up here in Lead?”