Dead Case in Deadwood (38 page)

"Make her tell us her name." Skipper pushed.

"Will you please tell us your name?" I figured it
was nicer to ask than demand.

Skipper gave the ghost all of two heartbeats to answer. "What
did she say?"

"Hold on," I told her. Sheesh, give the prostitute
time to get back with me. Then I remembered I was making all of this crap up.
Oh, right. I got back into character and picked up the marker. "She’s going
to speak through my hand," I decided.

Doc raised his brow, which I noticed was glistening, so was
his upper lip. The heat coming from the vanilla-scented candle didn’t warrant
perspiration. Why was he sweating? Was his ghost-girl messing with him?

The rest of the group kept omming and chanting.

I scribbled gibberish on the papers, flipping through them
like I’d seen mediums do in many movies. Then I lowered my head and pretended
to be taken over by the presence in the room in case anyone was peeking.

I needed a name, damn it.

Think, think, think.

My brain flipped through the names of soiled doves I’d heard
over the years in rolodex fashion. They were all so cliché. Finally, a name
popped into my head. I wrote it down in a cursive scribble.

"What does it say?" Butch the biker dude
whispered.

Skipper leaned over the table and read my writing
upside-down. "It looks like
Big Lisp Sally
."

"Big Lips Lolly," I corrected, watching for
Cornelius’s reaction. He paused for a couple of my racing heartbeats, then
nodded as if agreeing with my name choice and returned to his chanting.

Doc, on the other hand, suffered from a tickled funny bone.
He masked the laughter lining his face behind both of his hands, but his wheezes
shook his whole body.

I kicked his foot with the side of my boot. He was going to
blow this for me, and I didn’t need any more help—I was doing a fine job of
screwing it up on my own.

"How did she die?" Skipper asked as she sat back
in her seat.

Who was running this show, anyway? I hit her with a flat stare
since I didn’t have a cast-iron skillet handy. "Your questions are causing
a disturbance in the Force. I need your oms."

Doc coughed, apparently choking on his laughter.

"Oh, yeah, sorry." She returned to her closed-eye
meditation routine.

When Doc sobered enough to stop hiding behind his hands, his
hot palm returned to my thigh.

I glanced at him, and then did a double take, frowning as I watched
a drip of sweat roll down from his temple. Oh, crap. His breaths were deep and
rhythmic, as if he was busy with a little meditation of his own.

Leaning toward him, I murmured, "Doc?" in his ear.
I remembered his earlier don’t-ask instructions, but I couldn’t help myself. I
didn’t like to see him suffering for my sake.

A gentle squeeze and brief nod from him encouraged me to
continue.

With the marker back in my fingers, I asked the ceiling, "Will
you tell us how you died?"

I scribbled for a moment, then wrote:
murdered
, and
shoved the paper into the center of the table for others to read.

Skipper gasped. She was eating out of my hands now.

Hiding my small smile of triumph, I asked, "Do you know
who your killer was?"

Scribble, scribble, then:
Two men.

"Oh, how horrible," she whispered, gaping across
the table at her boyfriend. Butch mirrored her expression.

Cornelius didn’t even seem to know we were there, anymore.
He appeared totally lost in his chant-a-thon.

I checked on Doc and my chest tightened. His face looked
gaunt, his skin now coated with sweat, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he was
gulping down air as fast as he could.

Oh, hell. I knew those signs too well. He was one big
sinking ship, hull-ripping explosions and all. I needed to keep going, keep
distracting, keep the band playing as he went under. I licked my lips. "Do
you know why they killed you?" I asked the ghost.

Scribble.

Teeth.

God, that looked totally stupid on paper, even if it had an
element of truth to it.

"She must have had gold teeth," Skipper surmised.

I stole a glance at Doc out of the corner of my eyes. The
tendons in his neck were visible, his jaw clenched.

My jaw tightened, too, my angst mushrooming. What if he … ?
Keep
on track!
"Where did they bury you?" I asked.

Good question. One I wanted to ask George Mudder to see if
he had an answer for me.

Scribble.
Under the
—

I gasped as Doc’s hand squeezed my thigh hard, bruising. I
tore at his hand, which seemed to have a mind of its own. Prying one finger
from my muscle at a time, I freed my leg. My thigh throbbed in complaint.

A glance at Doc turned into a gaping double-take. His eyes
were squeezed tight, his body quaking and shuddering, locked in the midst of
convulsion. The intensity of his reaction was unprecedented. My adrenaline
cranked up in response, my breaths coming faster, matching his.

Fuck!
What could I do? How could I help him? If I didn’t
do something, his struggle to maintain control would tear him apart.

My gaze darted around the table. Nobody had noticed him yet,
but they would as soon as they opened their eyes. I had to cover for him and
quick. Talking to the ghost wasn’t going to cut it. Smoke and mirrors would
have been handy. So would a big tarp to hide him under.

"Keep oming," I ordered to buy me some time.

I needed to pull Doc out of this, like I had earlier this
afternoon in the stairwell. Wincing for his sake, I reached over and pinched
him hard on the back of his arm.

His jerking grew more visible, more violent.

Yikes!
I pinched his thigh, twisting a little to add
more oomph.

He listed away from me.

No, no, no. I caught him before he slumped off his chair and
tugged him back upright.

He groaned loudly.

Ack!!

I mimicked his groan to fool the others and poked him hard
in the ribs.

Nothing, not a single reaction to me.

ARGHHH!
It was a matter of seconds before Skipper
opened her big blue eyes again; I just knew it.

He jerked hard, his knee slamming into the table leg, moving
the whole table to the right.

"Was that the gh—" Skipper started.

Before she could finish, I did the only thing I could think
to do. In one combined move, I clocked Doc with my elbow, nailing him in the
cheek with enough force that his chair toppled backwards. Then I screamed and threw
myself face-down across him.

He grunted as my knee jabbed into his thigh. My hip landed
on his gut, pushing an "Oof" from his lips.

As falls go, it wouldn’t go down as one of my most graceful
cinematic moments. It could have been choreographed a little better with some
rehearsal and a bit of participation from Doc, who lay there, crushed under my
weight on the floor until Butch lifted me off of him.

"Are you okay?" Skipper asked, steadying me when I
faked wooziness.

"Yeah, what happened?" I asked.

"You screamed and fell again," Butch said and
leaned over Doc. "I think you knocked your friend out cold, babe."

Skipper giggled. "The next séance we do with you, I’m
bringing a spare pair of underwear."

The next séance? Oh, hell no. I was cashing in my séance
playing chips after tonight.

Cornelius stared at me, his expression a mixture of concern
and astonishment. His gaze lowered to his laptop and his jaw fell open. "Sweet
Mary Jane," he said, bending over his keyboard. A huge grin spread his
mouth wide. It was the first time I’d seen him smile on both sides of his
cheeks. "Would you look at this?" His finger raced over the keys.

What?

A groan from the floor interrupted my curiosity.

I squatted next to Doc, noticing the red welt right below
his right eye where my elbow had connected. I grimaced. That was going to leave
a mark. I grabbed his hand, squeezing.

His eyelids flickered open, his dark gaze bouncing around
until it landed on me. "What happened?"

"I had another episode," I told him, squeezing his
fingers again, imploring him to go along with me until I could get him out of
there. "I accidently knocked you down when it hit me."

"It?" he asked, his eyes searching mine.

"The ghost girl," I said.

"Big Lips Lolly," Skipper clarified.

"It hit
you
?" Doc asked.

"Uh … yeah." Crap, had he forgotten that the whole
reason we were here was for me to fake contact with a ghost in exchange for a
sale? Come on, I hadn’t elbowed him
that
hard.

He touched the mark on his cheek bone, wincing. "Then
what hit me?"

"She did," Butch tattled, pointing at me.

I reached up and smacked his finger away. "It was an
accident."

Doc’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. "An
accident. Right."

Butch helped Doc into a chair.

Skipper turned on the lamp next to the couch. "That was
so cool, Ms. Parker. You really can talk to ghosts, huh?"

I just smiled at the silly life-sized Christmas tree
ornament. It was that, or kick something, knowing that my Realtor reputation had
just hit an all-new low. Homestake Mining Company hadn’t delved so deep.

"Violet," Cornelius said from behind his laptop,
his voice breathless. He tugged on his goatee. "You need to see this. It’s
incredible. I haven’t seen this many spikes in paranormal activity since we
channeled in the Amityville house."

I looked at Doc, but he had his head in his hands. I didn’t
think he was laughing this time, not with the way his shoulders drooped. I
reached out, noticing my own unsteady fingers, and touched the back of his
neck. He was burning up.

"I need to go," I announced.  I had to get Doc out
of there before he had another major quake roll through.

"Already?" Cornelius asked, his expression sad
like I was going home and taking my toy with me. "I thought maybe we could
try again."

Ha! I’d sooner jump off the edge of the Open Cut mine.

Rubbing my stomach, I moaned. "I think I’m going to be
sick. It happens every time I do one of these things."

"Talking to ghosts makes you sick?" he asked. "Interesting."

Not really.
I nodded and groaned again for good
measure. "Butch, will you help me get Doc into the elevator." No way
were we trying those stairs with him in this condition.

"I’ll call you later," I told Cornelius. When he
frowned at me like I’d suggested flying to the moon via jetpack, I added, "To
discuss the sale of the hotel."

The lights clicked on behind his eyes. "Oh, right. Yes,
call me at eleven-thirty-two."

I opened my mouth to ask him why that particular exact time,
and then thought better of it and led Butch and Doc into the hall.

Butch rode down in the elevator with us "just to make
sure." I thanked him and turned down his offer to help us out to the
Picklemobile.

By the time we left the casino, Doc’s color was coming back,
especially the red and now purplish-blue spots on his right cheek. The lines
around his eyes seemed deeper, but his focus was strong, especially when it
landed on me.

I smiled like a cheerleader at a pep-rally and bit my tongue
all of the way to the pickup, not wanting anyone to hear the barrage of
questions stacking up behind my closed lips.

When I moved to open the pickup door for Doc, he didn’t
object, just crawled inside. He settled onto the bench seat next to me with a
sigh, his head resting against the back window, his eyelids closing.

I shut his door, breathing a sigh of relief. We’d made it,
in and out, Doc’s secret still intact. I needed a drink.

Climbing behind the wheel, I shut my door and just stared at
him. The overhead parking lot light added an orange tint to his skin.

"What?" he asked, his eyes still closed.

"You okay?"

"I will be."

"What happened back there?"

"I’m not sure. I got slammed."

"I thought you said you could handle her." I
grimaced at how accusing that sounded. To make up for it, I caught his hand and
laced my fingers through his.

His lips curled. "I could, but not all of the others."

"Others? What do you mean?" Had Wolfgang been
there? Had I really been able to channel something? Someone?

"At first, I sensed her there—just her," he
explained. "The next thing I knew they were everywhere."

"They?"

"Yeah, Violet." He opened his eyes, holding me in
his sights. "They."

I had the feeling he was looking for doubts from me. I
didn’t allow any to surface and just went with what he claimed. "How many
are we talking here?"

"There were too many coming at me too fast to count. It
was like being engulfed in a wave of … of … Christ, I don’t know." He
closed his eyes again. "I have to sort it all out in my head."

"You were engulfed. Then what happened?"

He smirked. "Then I was waking up on the floor with you
on top of me, everything throbbing, especially my cheek."

My face warmed. I rolled down the window.

"And not in the good way that you usually make me
throb," Doc added.

"Yeah, that was something, huh?" I laughed. It
sounded canned.

"It’s my bad luck that you don’t hit like a girl,"
he said.

I didn’t pinch like a girl, either, but there was no need to
bring that up now.

He rubbed his forehead. "I can’t believe you hit me."

"I had to. You were convulsing right there in front of
everyone. I had to cover for you."

"By punching me?"

"Technically, I elbowed you." When he just frowned
back at me, I explained, "I needed a distraction. It was all I could think
to do."

"You could have … I don’t know, flashed them maybe."