Nearly Departed in Deadwood (36 page)

      “I’ll be back with some wine and appetizers,” he whispered in my ear and then dashed out of the room.

      I’d barely had time to admire the pattern on the china place settings and scan the room for any clown paraphernalia before he returned with a narrow tray of toasted baguette slices topped with bruschetta. The tiny tomato and mozzarella chunks made my mouth water.

      “Did you make these?” I asked as I scooped up one and shoved it in my mouth. I’d expected a heavy garlic hit. Instead, the fresh tomato and basil cleansed my palette and made my tongue waggle for more.

      “Yes.” Wolfgang placed a glass of white wine in front of me and then eased into the opposite seat. “I took a cooking class last summer.”

      A classy dresser
and
handy in the kitchen. I chomped down another slice. Why couldn’t his kisses leave me pining as much as his cooking?

      He sipped his wine. “The candlelight makes your hair look like golden threads.”

      I swallowed a mouthful of tomatoes, wishing we were in a loud, public restaurant so I could find something to distract me from the lack of magic in this moment. “Umm, thanks.”

      He just stared into my eyes.

      I fidgeted with my silver spoon, searching for a diversion. “We need to talk about your house.”

      “Tonight? Can’t it wait?”

      “Not really. It’s important.”

      Wolfgang leaned back, his brows arched. “What is it?”

     
Your mother doesn’t like me
. I kicked Doc and his ghost nonsense out of my head. “I don’t think I can sell this place.”

      He didn’t even blink. “Why not?”

      “Well, for one thing, it’s going to take months to get all of the reconstruction plans approved by the historical committee.”

      “So it takes longer than we originally planned. That’s no reason to concede defeat.”

      I couldn’t think of another convincing excuse, so I tried my hand at a bit of honesty. “I don’t know that I’ll still have a job by then.”

      His eyes narrowed. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

      “If I don’t sell a house in the next week, I’m fired.” There. Whew! It felt so good to have that out on the table. I grabbed another baguette slice. Now if only I could be so open about my lack of hankering tonight for any flesh other than roasted poultry.

      “You’re joking.”

      “No. Girl Scout’s honor.” I chewed on the crusty bread for a moment. “If I don’t hand my boss an accepted offer on a house in the next week, she’s going to give my job to another Realtor.” Who also happens to be my poem-writing secret admirer. Such is the circle of my life.

      “So you see ...” I pointed at the last slice of baguette on the tray. “Are you going to eat that?”

      Wolfgang shook his head.

      I grabbed the toast and continued. “The chances of me still being a real estate agent by this winter are pretty slim.”

      “Am I your only client?”

      “You’re one of four.” I shoved the last bruschetta in my mouth. God, it felt great to be so honest.

      “You don’t have to work for Calamity Jane Realty to sell my house, do you?”

      “No, but I’ll be out of money long before that, so I’ll have to move back into my parent’s basement and mooch off them for another six months to a year until I can get back on my feet.” I frowned at the empty tray, wondering if he had more bruschetta in the kitchen. “It’s very likely I won’t even be in the area to make the sale.”

      If I had to return to Mom and Dad’s, at least Addy would be out of reach of the kidnapper’s net.

      Wolfgang said nothing, just sipped on his wine.

      “I can recommend another agent for you.” Mona would polish this lump of coal into a regular Hope diamond.

      “What if I don’t want another agent?”

      “You don’t really have a choice.”

      Setting his glass down, he said, “Hold that thought. I’ll be back in a second.” He grabbed the tray and pushed to his feet. “Drink your wine.”

      He left me there, staring at the wine flute in front of me. I scratched my head and blew out a breath of relief. I’d done it. I’d spilled my guts. No more popping Tums because of this house and its creepy clowns. I felt like kicking off my heels and doing the Charleston. Would the table hold me?

      I picked up my glass and swallowed a light, fruity sip.

      By the time Wolfgang returned a couple of songs later, I’d drained every drop from my glass as well as his and needed a refill. However, my shoes were still on.

      He frowned at the sight of my empty glass and lowered a tray of roasted chicken surrounded by potatoes and sprigs of rosemary to the table. “You’re supposed to sip wine, dear.”

      I giggled, my head partying solo. “I chugged.”

      “Would you like me to dish up your plate?”

      As I looked up at him, he split into two Wolfgangs. I blinked him back into one. “Whoa. That was weird.”

      “What?” Two Wolfgangs asked in unison.

      I blinked again and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them, the twins were still there. “Something is wrong with my eyes.”

      “What is it?”

      The world turned on an axis and began to whirl. I reached for the table and missed, listing away from both Wolfgangs. “I’m a little dizzy.”

      “Violet.”

      I shook my head, trying to clear it, and made myself tilt further. “I think I need to sit down.”

      “You are sitting.” The Wolfgangs squatted next to me.

      “Oh. Then I’m in ...” my eyelashes felt like tiny anchors. So heavy. My lids plunged. “Trouble.”

      The chair bucked me off. My head thumped on the floor.

      There was pain, dim in the shadows. Then darkness.

      * * *

      Something was stabbing me in the neck.

      I moaned. Everything was muddled, echoing, dark.

      I leaned my head to the side, stretching. Pain! Shooting into my brain.
Jesus!
Inhaling sharply, I gagged.
What was that rancid smell?

      I opened my eyes, blinking as my pupils adjusted in the flickers of dim light, and stared across a table ... at the stitched-shut eyelids of a corpse.

      Sucking in a gasp, I choked on the underlying stench of what must have been decaying flesh.

      I tried to look away, but my watery eyes devoured the dried face—skin stretched tight across cheekbones, two holes that used to be the nose, lips sewn closed. Tangled blonde hair was matted against the small skull.

      Panting, my tunnel vision widened. I now saw corpses on either side of me, tied to their chairs, just like the one across the table.

      Cramps buckled my stomach.

      The small one on my left was losing its blonde, wavy tresses in clumps, its bony skull visible in several areas. The skin resembled flat, tan-colored jerky; the eyes also sewn shut with what looked like black fishing line; the nose missing; the lips sealed with black cross-stitches.

      I gulped down a wave of nausea clawing its way to the surface.

      The corpse on my right appeared to be fresher, the skin not as withered, the long, straight blonde hair pinned back with barrettes. Another young girl. Her eyelids sewn, her nose shrunken in, and lips thin in death under the sutures. Just sleeping. That’s all, just sleeping, I told myself; and this all was a very bad dream. It had to be.

      Then I recognized her. The last picture I’d seen of her had been black-and-white. The words
Missing Girl
across the top of the page.

      My heart thumped hard in my chest, hammering in my ears.

     
No!
My gaze darted to the other two mummified girls, my memory matching clothing descriptions, my brain finishing the puzzle.
No! No! No!

      Somebody was screaming.

      A hand crammed a rag in my mouth, and the screaming stopped.

      I tried to sit forward, to free my voice. A sharp pang in my shoulders stopped me. I whimpered and tugged at my hands, which were tied behind my back.

      “Now, Violet.” Wolfgang kneeled next to my chair, stroking my hair. “If you’re going to make such a commotion, I’m going to have to tape your mouth shut. Do you want me to do that?”

     
I wanted to get the fuck out of here!
What was he doing? Why wasn’t he screaming, too?

      I saw the wallpaper behind him and froze. Violets.

      My face grew cold as the blood drained from it. Holy fucking shit! He had me in the upstairs bedroom.

      Wolfgang tucked a curl behind my ear. “You promise not to make a peep if I remove the cloth?”

      I nodded, trying to focus on his blue eyes, wanting to forget the three dead girls sitting at the table with me. A table covered with pink tissue paper, a tiny teapot, and child-sized cups and saucers. A grisly tea party for four, and I was the only living guest.

      His teeth gleaming in the candlelight, Wolfgang pulled out the gag. He waited, watching my mouth, then stood. “Good girl.”

      I swallowed the taste of cotton and frowned up at him. “What am I ... why did you ...” I paused, found my left brain, and then with what little calm I could apply to my vocal chords said, “What the fuck is going on?”

      He pointed at the nearby dresser. A cake sat on the top, a pink plastic tiara next to it. “It’s a going-away party.”

      “For me?” My voice squeaked. I didn’t want to go anywhere. Just home, please. Now!

      “No, for Wilda.”

      Wilda? Wasn’t that his dead sister? “Why am I here?”

      “Wilda insisted.” He grabbed the tiara and placed it on my head. “You’re the guest of honor.”

     
Chapter Twenty-Three

     
Son of a bitch!
I wiggled my hands, testing the rope holding my wrists hostage.

      This couldn’t be the end for Violet Lynn Parker. Not so soon. Not before I got to ride roller coasters with my kids, swim naked in the Caribbean, have sex on the top of Mount Rushmore, run with scissors.

      Oh, no. There was no way in hell I was going to die in a violet wallpapered room while wearing green underwear.

      Tugging and pulling on the rope, I watched Wolfgang’s back as he hauled a Piggly Wiggly shopping bag from the closet.

      “Ah, Violet.” Wolfgang pulled a can of lighter fluid from the bag. “My beautiful Venus with tresses of gold. Your hair is so much like hers, you know.”

      Like whose? The dead girls sharing the table with me?

      “How I hate to do this to you.” He popped open the cap.

      I paused, my wrists stinging, my breathing shallow, my eyes locked on the can in his hands. “Do what?”

      He dumped lighter fluid over the dried corpse across the table from me. “Burn you.”

      The fuel’s pungent odor covered the stench of decomposing flesh and seared my nose. I cowered into my chair, trembling so hard my teeth chattered. I couldn’t become a human torch. The smell of burning hair always made me gag. “How about we skip the barbecue? Charred meat has been linked to cancer, you know.”

      Chuckling, he moved to the sleeping girl on my right. “Always the jester. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

      “You should see me juggle.” I reared back, trying to avoid being splashed as he squeezed out the last of the can’s contents. “Untie my hands and I’ll show you.”

      He set the empty container on the dresser next to the cake. “Do you believe in love at first sight, Violet?”

      No, but I’d experienced lust at first light. Did that count? My eyes began to water. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

      “Me, too.” He reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a second can of lighter fluid.

      A soprano voice in my head screeched in terror. I twisted my wrists with new purpose, ignoring the burning and tearing of my skin.

      “I knew the first moment I saw your golden curls on your postcard that you were the one.”

      Not
the one
again. I decided to play dumb, buy more time. “The one what?”

      How about
the one who got away
? I was all for that.

      “The one I will love forever.” He added a couple of more squirts to the sleeping girl.

      Finally, a man who would spend eternity pining for me and he was going to turn me into a shish kabob. I coughed on the fumes, my throat tingling, my lungs aching.

      “The one who would free me from her,” Wolfgang added, showering the third corpse with lighter fluid.

      “Her?” The rope felt slicker now, wet, sticky. I told myself it was just sweat, but the tearing pain on my wrists said otherwise. I pulled at my right wrist, my shoulder cramping. Looser. Closer. “Are you talking about your mom?”

      “Mother?” The harshness of his laugh made me flinch. “She was an angry, old bitch.”

      “Angry at you?” I should’ve taken more notes in Psych 101.

      He tipped the can of lighter fluid upright, the top still open, and set it on the dresser next to the other empty can. “Angry at death, for stealing her daughter and leaving her son.”