Dead Case in Deadwood (7 page)

According to Doc, Tiffany had moved on to new prey. I hoped
he was right, because ten bucks said going head-to-head with this she-wolf
would leave me scratched, bitten, and crazy from a nasty case of rabies.

I didn’t doubt for a moment that Tiffany fought for keeps.
Hell, I’d witnessed her outright hostility when she’d attacked Doc in front of
clients. Her head had almost spun clear around. If Tiffany was going to be the
seller’s Realtor, I didn’t need her to find out about me and Doc until
Cornelius had this hotel in his back pocket.

"Sorry about that," Cornelius returned to my side,
his gaze on Tiffany.

"No problem." Tiffany pointed at my chest. "Violet
lost her necklace. You haven’t seen it, have you?"

Cornelius’ gaze followed her finger, his eyes widening
slightly. The big lug-head grinned at me as if he just now realized I came with
breasts attached. "No, but I’ll keep looking." His focus dipped back
down to my chest before returning to Tiffany.

Yeah, I bet he would.

Tiffany winked at me. "Like I said, half the secret."
She nudged her head toward the casino. "You two ready to take a look at
the place?"

"Lead the way," Cornelius answered, making no
attempt to hide his admiration of her butt as she walked in front of him.

I shook my head and followed. It’s no wonder Doc had slept
with her. He was a mere mortal male, after all.

Her tour started with the main floor. Casino space took up
two-thirds of the square footage. The remaining space held a dining room and a few
windowed offices for the management, custodial, and maid services.

I was standing in the laundry room next to Cornelius, the
smell of bleach heavy in the humid air, when he started making a low burbling
noise in his throat. It took me a moment to realize the noise wasn’t coming
from the sloshing washers on my right.

Tiffany must not have heard him, because she continued
reading staffing figures from the financial report.

The burbling morphed into a high-pitched whine, like a fan
belt getting ready to snap.

Tiffany flipped the page and listed off several more
percentages.

I nudged him.

The whine stopped. He opened his eyes.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

His eyes scanned my face. "The whispers."

Crap. He was talking about ghosts again.

I glanced at Tiffany, who had stopped reading.

Her gaze rested squarely on me. "Do you need a moment
alone with your client?"

I looked up at Cornelius. "Do I?"

He cocked his head to the side, listening for the count of
three. "No, they’re gone."

"Maybe we should check out the second floor now,"
I suggested, wanting to escape from the laundry room before Cornelius got
squeaky again.

Besides a set of handicap-equipped guest rooms on the first
floor, the other fifty-two rooms were located on the second and third floors,
including the two grand suites.

Unfortunately, the Midas touch didn’t extend beyond the
first floor. Dingy stained maroon carpet lined the long narrow hallways on both
levels; a deer trail was worn along the center. Scuffed and patched yellow
walls bracketed the way. Even the light coming from the ceiling fixtures seemed
aged, fading.

A bulb flickered overhead as we walked down the hall.

Cornelius tapped my shoulder, and then pointed at the
problematic fixture. "Someone is trying to get our attention."

It’s called loose wires, you buffoon.
I smiled,
keeping my skepticism firmly locked behind my closed lips.

A hint of stale cigarette smoke lingered inside the two grand
suites on the third floor, the flowery-scented air fresheners not cutting it.
The bathroom fixtures needed an upgrade, as did the faded bed covers, dinged-up
furniture, and out-dated curtains. The carpet looked tired, worn out—that made
two of us.

Catching the guest rooms up to the present day would take a
chunk of capital. The reduced price on the place now made sense, as did the sad
state of the financials.

We were standing next to the window in one of the suites
when Cornelius asked, "Do you guys hear that?"

Don’t ask what.

"Hear what?" Tiffany asked.

Crap.

"That whispering," he said, moving over to the
wall near the laminated headboard.

"What whispering?" Tiffany cocked her head to the
side.

Cornelius pressed his ear to the wall and closed his eyes. "They’re
in here."

"According to the paperwork," Tiffany said,
flipping through the papers in her hands, "an exterminator recently visited
the premises. If you’re hearing movement, I can arrange for a second
exterminator to inspect the building."

He held up two fingers. "I hear two of them."

"Two mice?" Tiffany frowned at me. "He can
count how many by sound alone?"

I need to pull on the hand brake before this train jumped
off the tracks. "Tiffany, could I have a moment alone with my client?"

She shrugged. "Sure. I’ll wait in the hall."

No, that was still within hearing distance. "We’ll
catch up with you at the elevator."

I counted to five after the door shut behind her before
whirling on Cornelius. "Okay, explain."

He pointed at the wall behind him. "There are two entities
in the wall. I can hear them whispering."

I’d heard a similar ghostly tune before from Doc, so my eyes
didn’t bug out even slightly. I decided to play along, let him get this out of
his system.

"Why are they inside of the wall?"

"Sometimes they get caught."

Really? I thought they were ghosts—all wispy and ethereal. I
let that one go. "Why are they whispering?"

"Usually, it’s because they don’t like to be heard."
He tapped his cane on the wall. "But to be positive, I’d have to ask them."

"And how do you do that? How do you speak to them?
Through a Ouija board?" My second guess involved lighting candles, holding
hands, and chanting. If he’d buy the hotel, I’d bring the matches.

"Those things don’t work. You have to have the ability
to communicate, plain and simple." He tapped his cane lower down on the
wall, near the baseboard.

"Communicate with the dead?"

"Exactly."

We needed to get out of here before he put a hole in the
drywall. I pointed at the door. "What do you say we wrap up here, get a
copy of those financials, and talk about this more over a cup of coffee?"
I certainly didn’t want to take him back to Calamity Jane’s, not with him
telling ghost stories.

He hesitated. "I don’t drink coffee. Caffeine makes me
sleepy. I stick with protein shakes."

That confirmed it. He was an alien hiding inside a clone of
Abe Lincoln. "Some ice water?"

"Okay, but absolutely no ice."

My last client had had ice tray hang-ups. Cornelius would
have gotten along well with her.

"And I want to come back again," he added.

Fine. Whatever. "I’ll arrange that with Tiffany."

"At night."

Nope. Nay. No way. "I’m sure that’ll be no problem."

He followed me out into the hall. Tiffany waited at the
other end, her toothy smile a beacon.

"All set?" Tiffany asked as we approached.

When I nodded, she pushed the down button. The doors dinged
open.

On the main level, we followed Tiffany back to the front
desk.

"Is there anything else you’d like to see today?"

Cornelius shook his head. "Not in the daylight. The ghosts
are more active in the evening."

I shot Cornelius a warning look.

"Especially at dusk and dawn," he continued,
seemingly oblivious to my telepathic shout to shut the hell up.

"Did you say ‘ghosts’ or ‘guests’?" Tiffany asked,
her eyes narrowed.

"Gho—"

"Guests," I interrupted. "He said, ‘guests.’"

Tiffany’s cell phone rang, saving my day. "I’m sorry,
but I’ve been waiting for this call. It will take just a second. Do you mind?"

"Not at all." It would give me time to duct tape
Cornelius’ mouth closed.

She walked to the other side of Socrates, the mule, and
stood with her back to us. "Hello?"

I poked Cornelius. "Ixnay ethay ostghay alktay," I
said in Pig Latin.

He cocked his head. "I don’t speak French."

"I said nix the—"

"Of course, Doc," Tiffany’s voice cut through my
thoughts. "I’ve been waiting for your call all afternoon."

"—ghost …"

Cornelius asked something again, but I didn’t hear a single
word. My ears were tuned into the sound of Tiffany’s voice. She’d been waiting
for Doc’s call this whole time?

"Yes, of course." She practically cooed.

Cornelius said something about a room. I nodded without
looking at him.

"I’ll just come by your office later," Tiffany
said. "Maybe I can entice you to go to dinner with me."

What!
I took a couple of steps closer.

She giggled, all flirty.

I wanted to strap her to the dead mule and rub her nose raw
with my elbow.

"Great. It’s a date. I’ll see you then."

I was practically standing in her shoes by the time she hung
up. She turned, her smile opening into a surprised "O." She stumbled
back a step at the sight of me.

"God, Violet. You scared me. What are you doing?"

"Cornelius has a question for you," I lied without
a hitch.

Her eyes narrowed. "I said I’d just be a second."

"Sorry, but he’s in a hurry to leave."

She looked over my shoulder. "You sure about that?"

I turned to find Cornelius leaning on the front counter, his
wallet open, credit card in his fingers. Safari Skipper was saying something to
him while typing on the computer keyboard.

I joined him. "What are you doing?"

"Renting the haunted suite."

"Why?"

"So we can hold a séance in there. Do you know where I
can get some raven feathers?"

When life handed me lemons, I preferred to slam back Lemon Drops,
extra heavy on the vodka. However, drinking in the afternoon was not a good
habit for a mother of two young kids, so I would have to settle for the next
best thing—my Aunt Zoe’s famous homemade lemonade.

I pulled into the drive in front of Aunt Zoe’s fixed-up, but
not too fancy, century-old Victorian, which she was sharing with me and my kids
until I managed to make enough money to fly solo. Well, make that solo with two
fledglings clinging to me.

The Picklemobile shuddered, sputtered, and then backfired,
announcing my arrival to the neighborhood crime watch group. A dog barked at me
from the porch three houses down, probably pissed at me for interrupting its
afternoon nap.

I growled back, then rested my forehead on the steering
wheel.

What had I done in one of my past lives to deserve a client
like Cornelius? I must have sat accidentally on the last Dodo bird and its eggs.

Cornelius had rented one of the suites at the Old Prospector
Hotel for a whole week. He’d passed up my offer to spend some time this
afternoon talking more about the hotel property and opted to go shopping for
all of the items he’d need to perform a séance later this evening.

When invited to join in and hold hands, I’d claimed another
engagement. But Safari Skipper had been more than willing to participate, her
eyes wide after hearing he planned to chit chat with the hotel’s ghosts. I just
hoped the so-called ghosts would tell Cornelius to buy the damned hotel so I
could keep my job. Just thinking about Jane’s threat to make the sale or say
adios
to my job made my eye twitch.

It was time to drown my sorrows in sweetened lemon juice.

I grabbed my purse and slammed the pickup door behind me
extra hard. I had to, or the dang thing wouldn’t latch, which I’d learned
earlier this week when it flew open in the midst of a hard right onto Main
Street.

The yard and front porch seemed empty without my kids around
to litter both with their toys. I opened the screen door and ran smack dab into
a solid, broad chest covered in a dark green T-shirt.

"Whoa there, Sparky, where’s the fire?" a familiar
deep, gravelly voice asked.

"Reid?" I stepped back, blinking in surprise at
the salt-and-pepper-haired Sam Elliot look-alike, who also happened to be the captain
of Deadwood’s fire department. The spicy, musky scent of his cologne seemed
stronger than usual, like he’d been hanging out at the cologne counter in the
mall down in Rapid.

My surprise at seeing him was many-sided. Lately, I’d had a
bit of bad luck with fires—neither of which were my fault. I’d grown accustomed
to seeing Reid in the aftermath of flames and smoke. As far as I could see and smell,
Aunt Zoe’s house sported neither at the moment.

"What are you doing here?" I asked

"Risking my life," Reid answered, the usual sparkle
in his blue-blue eyes noticeably absent. "Your aunt is unstable."

Which hit on the other reason I was surprised to see him on Aunt
Zoe’s threshold. The last time Reid had exited Aunt Zoe’s front door, she’d
told me she didn’t want the fire captain in her house ever again. From the steel
in her tone when she’d said it, I hadn’t expected to see Reid on the inside of
her screen door anytime this century. Yet here he was just a week later.

I decided to ignore his comment about Aunt Zoe and keep to
neutral subjects. "Where’s your truck?"

He pointed across the street at Miss Geary’s house. A big
red dually pickup truck sat in her drive, the Deadwood Fire Department emblem
clearly visible on the passenger side door. I’d been too busy pouting about my
new client to notice the red beast when I’d driven up.

"I gotta get back to the station. Nice dress, Sparky.
Your hair looks flammable when it’s poofed out like that. Stay away from
matches." He left with a wink.

Patting down my curls, I watched him walk away, noticing his
tense shoulders and stiff strides. He usually sauntered through life. What had
happened?