Dead Case in Deadwood (43 page)

Natalie peeked out through the crack. "I think we’re
the only ones left. Let’s go see if they have a crate next door."

"No," I said, giving her a warning squint. "I
told you I didn’t want to do that tonight. Besides, it’s too dangerous. Did you
see the way George kept looking at the glass? Someone must have been in that
room."

"Fine, you big baby." She turned another page, her
fingers trailing down the page. She appeared to be about a third of the way
through the book. "We’re looking for something about murder, right?"

"Yes."

Several minutes later, Natalie closed the book she had been checking
out with a dust-inducing snap.

"I have to pee," she declared, stretching.

"Thanks for the news flash, Ace Reporter Natalie Beals."

She poked me in the ribs. "Try not to freak out while
I’m gone, Chicken Little." Grinning at my one-fingered bird gesture, she
hobbled out of the room, taking her crutch with her, and shut the door on me.

I picked up the volume she’d been reading through and opened
to somewhere close to where she’d left off, a third of the way into it. I read
through the list full of causes of death, finding things like: Murdered—Shot in
the back, Natural Causes—TB, Natural Causes—Smallpox, Murdered—Mining dispute, Murdered—Scalped,
and Murdered—Gun shot wound. The violence on the pages told stories of Deadwood
and Lead’s rough past, sucking me in with teasers, filling my imagination.

I found two possible candidates, both listing women with odd
names that sounded like they could be prostitute pseudonyms, showing no next of
kin, and the Cause of Death was Murdered—Knife wound. The first was Ruby
Redbone, the second was named Iris DeFleur.

I pulled up the notepad feature on my phone and typed in the
information on both women. When I’d finished, I took a picture of the pages on
which the names were located and one picture of the book itself. I bent the
tiniest bit of the corner on each page to mark it, in case I had the chance to
come back and show Doc in person.

When I reached the last third of the volume, I looked up,
blinking, and realized that Natalie hadn’t come back. I pulled out my phone and
frowned down at the time. I should have paid attention to when she left. She
must have been gone for over twenty-five minutes already.

I sent her a text asking where in the hell she was. While I
waited for her reply, I flipped through a few more pages, my gaze landing on an
entry under Cause of Death that had: Murder—Multiple knife wounds (and dental
surgery).

"Dental surgery?" I whispered. Her date of death
was close to the time Doc had mentioned. I looked at the name: Annabelle Devine.
Kate Rogers was listed as her next of kin.

Devine? Wasn’t that the last name of the prostitute who was
murdered in that god-awful house with the striped wallpaper bedroom and the
freaky basement that had set off Doc’s radar?

I repeated my note and picture-taking routine with
Annabelle’s record.

There. Done. I had a few names and dates. Maybe these would
give Doc what he needed to find out even more.

Now where in the hell was Natalie? She still hadn’t replied
to my text.

I opened the records room door and stepped out into the
empty foyer, pausing to listen for sounds. The place was silent.

There was no sign of Natalie. Maybe she was still in the
bathroom. Maybe she’d slipped and hurt her leg again, or worse yet, bunged up her
other leg.

A quick check of the facilities resulted in washing the
musty book smell from my hands, but no Natalie.

The French doors to the main viewing parlor were shut, the
curtains closed. I eased one door open enough to check inside. The room was
empty except for Mr. Haskell’s casket up front. I could see his hands above the
edge of the coffin, which made me shiver. Too creepy.

I closed the door and stepped back over to the records room
to see if Natalie had returned while I was in the bathroom.

No such luck. The room was still empty. A hint of her sultry
perfume lingering among the musty smells of the books, the only sign that she’d
even been there.

Where in the hell had she gone?

I looked at the doorway leading into the hidden viewing
room, the one with the crates. It was open a tiny bit, shadows leaking out
through the crack. Hadn’t that been closed when we went into the records room?

Natalie wouldn’t have … I growled in my throat.

Oh, yes, she definitely would have, even though I’d asked
her not to. I was going to skin her hide if I landed in jail tonight because of
her. I had plans involving a good movie and a hot guy—a real flesh-and-blood
male for once, not just a selection from my imagination.

I grabbed the door knob and eased the door open, squinting
into the dimly lit room. "Natalie?" I whispered, inching inside.

Closing the door behind me, I glanced through the one-way
glass. The parlor was still empty except for the dead guy. I could see his
folded hands from this viewpoint, too. Eek.

There were two crates sitting end-to-end on the other side
of the room. Curiosity lured me to them. When I got close enough to see the
lids in the dim light cast through the one-way glass, I stopped short.

The lid on one of the crates was part-way open. I tiptoed
forward and peered inside.

There was something in there.

Holy freaking moly!
I had finally caught the Mudder brothers
in the act. I fumbled for my cell phone. Pushing a button to light up the
screen, I lowered it inside the crate. Pale white light reflected off black
shiny bottles packed in straw.

I pulled one out, taking a closer look. There was no label,
not even one stamped into the glass. The bottle was heavy, full of liquid, and sealed
closed with a cork covered in wax.

Holding my cell against the side of the bottle, I tried to
see the liquid through the glass, but it was too dark.

Setting my phone down, I hefted the bottle between my hands.
What was in it? Was it beer? Wine? Poison? Some kind of Voodoo potion? Blood? I
tried to wiggle the cork free with my fingers, then my teeth. The sucker
wouldn’t budge.

"What have you done?" George Mudder’s voice came
from behind me.

I gasped at the sound of George’s voice and almost dropped
the bottle.

My heart galloping headlong toward a heart attack, I swung
around. The room was empty, except for me. What the hell? Was I hearing voices
now?

My breathing was shallow, but too loud. I double-checked
each and every shadow for movement, but found nobody.

Was it a ghost?

No, you spaz.
It was George’s voice, and he was still
kicking. At least he was the last time I saw him.

"You’ve gone too far," George said again, sounding
as if he stood right next to me.

I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. On the other
side of the one-way glass, George stood next to the casket, looking down at the
corpse. He was talking to the dead guy, not me. The sound system he’d been
telling Natalie and me about earlier must still be on.

It looked like Cornelius had some competition. No wonder
George wanted the haunted hotel.

Relief flooded my limbs, but the feeling didn’t last long. I
needed to get out of here now, before George found me playing voyeur.

"Do you hear me?" George said.

His one-sided conversation with a corpse gave me goosebumps.
What else did he do with corpses?

I hurried toward the door, hoping George would keep right on
chatting while I made my escape.

Where in the heck was Natalie, dammit? Maybe she went out to
her pickup for some reason and was back in the records room, waiting for me.

"Do not speak to me with that disrespectful tone, you
insignificant little speck," another voice said, freezing me in my tracks.

The tone was deep and rich, but terse, with a hint of
something foreign discernible underneath the English. Something Slavic maybe, like
Count Dracula. It reminded me of Kyrkozz’s voice in my nightmare, and that made
my knees wobbly. In slow motion, I turned back to look through the one-way
glass.

On the other side of the coffin from George stood one of the
two tall albino smokers I’d seen weeks ago on Mudder Brothers front porch. I’d
nicknamed the two men Huey and Dewey, Donald Duck’s nephews in grizzled form. Both
men were tall and thin with thick tufts of pure white hair and bulbous eyes. Suit
them up in matching sailor outfits and the caricature was complete.

Even though they had reminded me of cartoon ducks, something
in their pale-eyed stares had made my skin crawl. Tonight, this particular albino
was dressed in a black suit and black tie. Add some black sunglasses and he
could start hunting down aliens. Who was he and where had he come from?
Slagton? No, not with that accent.

The urge to run far and fast hit so hard my toes tingled. The
French doors leading out of the parlor were still closed, so maybe I could
sneak out the front door with neither man the wiser. Please, please, please let
Natalie be sitting in her pickup waiting for me with a shit-eating grin on her
face when I got there.

As I reached for the viewing room door knob, I heard George
say, "What have you done with her?"

Her
?

I whipped back around.

"I’ve removed her," the albino said.

"You can’t just take her."

Her who?
My heart fluttered. Oh, Jesus. Don’t let him
be talking about Nat.

The albino shrugged, his broad straight shoulders lifting up
and down all at once like he had a yoke on under his black suit jacket. "She
saw what was in the crate." He rounded the coffin, heading toward the door
on the other side of the room. "She must be eliminated."

I glanced over at the opened crate. "Oh, no," I
whispered, taking a step toward the one-way glass.
Natalie
… What had
she done?

George blocked the doorway, keeping the albino from leaving
the parlor. "You will not lay a hand on her," he said, shoving
against the much taller man’s chest. "Do you understand me?"

The albino didn’t budge. "Or what, little mouse? What
will you do? Try to hurt me?" His laugh was low and menacing. The sound chilled
me clear through. I covered my mouth with my trembling hand.

George held his ground. "I’ll go to your boss and have
him put you back on a leash—where your kind belongs."

His kind? What kind was that?

"Squeak all you like, little mouse." The albino
leaned over, his nose almost touching George’s. "But be careful I don’t
eat you for dinner."

The big guy brushed George aside as if the funeral director
was just clothing stuffed with goose down.

"No! Stop!" George shouted, making the mics
screech.

My ear drums ringing, I watched him race out the open doorway
after the albino.

She must be eliminated
…

I had to do something to save her. I ran to the door that
led to the parlor.

Wait!
I stopped, my hand squeezing the doorknob.

I had to think this through. Before I ran headlong after
George and the albino, I needed a plan. Something other than jumping on the albino’s
back and bashing his brains in with my cell phone.

My cell phone. That was it!

I pulled up my contact list, scrolling down to Doc’s name,
and hit the Call button.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"Damn it, Doc," I whispered. "Answer the goddamned
phone for once."

After the fourth ring, his voice mail kicked in. Waiting for
the fricking beep took forever.

"Doc," I whispered, "I’m at Mudder Brothers
and the albino has Natalie. He’s going to do something to her and George can’t
stop him. I need your help."

I hit the button to end the call and stood there, my hands
really shaking now.
Come on, Doc, call me back.

Eons later, which may have been just thirty seconds in non-panic
time, my cell still hadn’t rung.

I glared down at Doc’s name on my contact list. Where was
he?

Now what? I needed a Plan B.

I looked through the one-way glass. Still no George. No
Eddie. No tall albino. Just the dead guy. My vision narrowed, tunneling on the
corpse’s hands. Shooting stars darted at the edge in my peripheral vision.

Breathe, Violet. Breathe.

I listened to the sane voice in my head, which sounded more
like Aunt Zoe than me. After taking several deep, slow breaths through my nose,
the stars faded. The tunneling widened until the shadowed edges disappeared. My
senses returned, picking up the stale dusty scent of the straw from the crate,
the hum of the mics coming from the other room through the speakers, the waft
of cool air brushing across my hot cheeks.

I checked my phone. Still no Doc. My eyes locked onto the
name above Doc’s—Detective Cooper.

Right. Plan B.

I selected Cooper’s name and hit the Call button.

He answered on the second ring. "This better be good, Parker,"
he said. "The waiter just brought my steak."

"Is that Violet?" Harvey asked in the background,
sounding like his mouth was full. "Let me talk to her."

No!
I needed the cop. "Cooper, they have Natalie,"
I whispered. "They’re gonna hurt her."

I heard a chair scrape across the floor. The background
chatter quieted. "Repeat that, Violet."

"They have Natalie. I was going to go help her, but I
don’t have any weapons."

"Who has her? Where are you?"

"Mudder Brothers."

"God damn it! I told you to stay away from there."

"Save the lecture for when I’m safely tucked behind
bars. I’ve got a big problem here and I need your help now."

"Who has Natalie? George?"

"No. A big albino. He took her somewhere downstairs, I
think. He’s going to do something to her if we don’t stop him quick."