Better Off Dead in Deadwood

by Ann Charles

  Cooper’s smirk had me itching to kick his shin under the table. He was toying with me and enjoying it. I wondered how much he’d enjoy my oatmeal poured over his head.

  I glanced over at Harvey, who was still fidgeting with his spoon. I reached over and took it away, shooting him a what-the-hell look.

  He frowned and shrugged. So much for any plans to tag-team against his nephew.

  The waitress brought Harvey’s food, flirting again, bumping him with her hip. She’d have had better luck rousing road kill.

  When she left, the old bugger frowned at the pancakes stacked on his plate as if they were made of styrofoam. Instead of digging in, he scooted out of the seat. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  I watched him cross the dining room and push into the men’s room; a flicker of concern lit in my chest. Something was wrong with Harvey. I’d have to corner him after I’d finished trying to draw blood from the piece of granite that was his nephew.

  Scooping up the last of my eggs, I played dumb with Cooper. “Do you think this director had anything to do with Jane’s death?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about the rest of the crew? Any suspects there?”

  “Parker,” Cooper dropped his fork to his plate. “Do you really think you’re going to get anything out of me? I interrogate criminals and suspects in my sleep. This is a waste of time for both of us.”

  I stared at him, fantasizing about plugging his mouth with my cork-heeled sandal. Then his words sank in and gave me an idea—a dicey idea, but maybe it would work. After raising two kids, I had a little interrogation experience of my own from which to draw.

  My cowardly lion side tried to rationalize with me, talk me out of it. But if I gave up now, I’d be no closer to figuring out if my albino buddy was still alive. Or if he was responsible for Jane’s death.

  “Okay, Detective,” I said, reaching across the table and stealing his last piece of bacon—part power play, part plain hunger. “If you’re such an ace at interrogation, how do you go about prying critical case information out of someone as closemouthed as me?”

  He glared at the strip of bacon in my fingers. “Are you saying that you have information about Jane’s case?”

  Did I ever! I raised my brows and shrugged.

  “Is that the real reason you used extortion to get me to meet you here this morning?”

  I chewed on his bacon in response.

  A muscle in his jaw clenched. “You know that withholding evidence or information from me is a criminal offense, right?”

  I pointed at the slice of orange on the rim of his plate. “Are you going to eat that?”

  I was playing with fire here, but with Cooper it seemed that getting through his tough exterior required a blow torch and suffering a few third degree burns in the process.

  Harvey returned, shaking his head at my look of concern. He slid in next to me, his focus zeroing in on his nephew. “Looky there, girl. You went and got Coop mad as an old wet hen.”

  Cooper’s gaze didn’t waver from me. “Parker, do I need to remind you that I am an agent of the law?”

  “What do you think?” I nudged Harvey’s shoulder. “Is this an example of the detective playing ‘bad cop’ with his interviewee?”

  “It’s definitely Coop being a sore-toothed cuss,” Harvey answered, a hint of a grin showing under his beard for the first time since he’d walked in the door.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen him in ‘good cop’ mode,” I said.

  “You do seem to be a burr under his saddle most days.”

  “Every day,” Cooper corrected. “What aren’t you telling me about my case, Parker?”

  “I’m sure there is something in this head of mine that I’ve been meaning to say, but I just can’t remember. Let’s try a little more interrogating, shall we?”

  Harvey sat back in the seat watching me with his bushy brows raised. “I do believe she’s bent on making you out to be a chucklehead, Coop. You’d better git busy workin’ your badge magic on ‘er.”

  Cooper pushed his empty plate aside and shoved his chin out. I copycatted him, jut for jut.

  “Where were you the night of Jane’s murder?” he asked.

  “Cold,” I said without missing a beat.

  “What do you mean, ‘cold’?”

  “I mean you’re freezing. Not even close to the right question. Besides, you already know I have a solid alibi.”

  Harvey snickered.

  The detective lowered his head, lining up his horns. “This is not a game, Parker. A life was taken.”

  “Oh, I know. But if it were a game, you’d probably lose.”

  “That’s a stinger,” Harvey said, rubbing it in. He picked up his fork and dug into his stack of pancakes.

  “Tell you what, Detective, why don’t you just present the facts to me, explaining the physical and circumstantial evidence you’ve collected, and I’ll fill in where I think you’re wrong.”

  Cooper’s head tilted a little. “Or you could just recount your side of the story and I can verify it against what you’ve told me before.”

  “Nope, I’m tired of telling my side.” I switched gears. “Hypothetically speaking, if I were a fellow detective on this case—your partner even—where would you have me start investigating? Interviewing your suspects again to catch inconsistencies or studying the evidence collected at the crime scene?”

  “I’d have you look into your own background because I suspect that your history of time behind bars has tainted your ability to remain an honest officer of the law.”

  He had a point there. I just smiled.

  He studied my smile like someone had tattooed hieroglyphics on my lips. “According to your friend, Natalie Beals, you witnessed an interaction between Jane and a coworker that may have played a part in the lead-up to her death.”

  He was right about an interaction, but I hadn’t told anyone about Jane having sex with Ray a couple of days before her death. Not even Natalie.

  “Nice bluff, Detective. After your little poker game last night, Doc filled me in on your tell.”

  “Now who’s bluffing, Parker?”

  “What was Natalie wearing the last time you saw her?” I asked, partly to knock him off course, but mostly because I was curious if Nat had had her cast removed yet.

  Cooper’s nostrils flared. If I hadn’t been in a face-to-face standoff with him, I’d have missed it.

  “What does that have to do with Jane?” he asked, his tone brusquer than usual.

  “Just curious,” I said. “Was Jane wearing her watch when you found her?”

  I knew the answer was “No” because I’d found Jane’s favorite pearl watch and a matching necklace in her office the day after Ray had identified her body. They had been sitting on her filing cabinet next to an empty bottle of whiskey.

  Cooper hesitated. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” I answered again, and then it hit me—Jane hadn’t been wearing that watch when she was killed.

  Why not? With her constant to-do lists, she was often checking to see how much time she had left to tackle another task. Where had she been going that she would have taken off her watch and left it? Was that even an important clue? Or was I making something out of nothing?

  Cooper’s gaze sharpened. “If you know something that will help solve your boss’s murder, Parker, you should tell your friendly policeman.”

  “Nice try, Mr. Good Cop,” I said, chuckling. “But I can still see your saber teeth. You need to pull those puppies in when you role-play.”

  The waitress brought the bill. Harvey dropped his fork on his empty plate and pointedly looked from the bill to me. I wrinkled my nose at him and grabbed it. Cooper pulled out his wallet and threw a few greenbacks my way.

  “As much as I enjoy your chafing company, Parker, I have an appointment I can’t miss.” He rose from the bench. “Can I have my curtains back now?”

  “They’re out in the Picklemobile.”

&nbs
p; I added some cash to the bill, left it on the table, and the three of us trailed out single file. Cooper jangled his keys while I fished his curtains from the cab of the pickup.

  When I handed them to him, he said, “If you have something to tell me about Jane’s murder, you need to cough it up and soon.”

  I looked up at him all wide-eyed and touched my chest. “Why whatever are you talking about, Detective Cooper?” I said in a fake southern accent.

  “It’s all fun and games, Parker, until somebody gets arrested.” With a nod to his uncle, Cooper stalked off, climbed into his sedan, and peeled out of the parking lot.

  I turned to Harvey. “What the hell was wrong with you in there? The deal was you help me pick Cooper’s brain in exchange for food.”

  “You did a fine job on your own.”

  “Not really.” In the process of interrogating Cooper, I managed to drag a clue out of my own head. The Marx Brothers couldn’t have done it better. “So what’s going on with you? Did somebody shoot your favorite cow?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact.”

  “What?” I gaped at him. Harvey had had some weird shit going down at his ranch lately. Creepy, horror-movie weird. “Was it one of the whangdoodles?” I asked, using Harvey’s nickname for the crazy hill-people who lived in Slagton, a mining ghost town located several miles back on the dirt road that wound past his ranch.

  He put his hands on his hips and scowled out at the highway. “Beatrice dumped me.”

  Who? Oh, Miss Geary, Aunt Zoe’s short-shorts-wearing neighbor and Harvey’s girlfriend. “Well, you haven’t exactly been faithful to her.”

  He scoffed. “It’s not like we ever exchanged promise rings.”

  “Then why did she break if off?”

  “She found herself a new stallion.”

  A stallion? “Is he younger than you?”

  “Yeah, and her, too.”

  Way to go Miss Geary. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to find me another woman to take her place.”

  “What are you talking about? You have several women already.”

  “Yeah, but none like her. She sparkled.” He grunted. “I’m gonna go home and clean my gun.”

  “You’re not going to shoot the guy, are you?”

  “What? Hell, no. I just need some alone time with Bessie to make me feel better.”

  I wasn’t touching that one with a ten-foot pole.

  With a nod, Harvey left me alone with the Picklemobile. I started her up, thinking about Harvey and his shotgun. That’s what I needed, some alone time with my favorite toy. Not that toy. I meant Doc—my boy toy.

  I rolled out of the parking lot and turned toward Lead, deciding to swing into the Piggly Wiggly to grab some snacks for the kids’ lunches for the rest of the week. Up in Lead, I noticed a small crowd of folks standing in front of the Historic Homestake Opera House. The sight of a black, Lincoln-like top hat rising above the group made me hit the brakes.

  Cornelius!

  A horn blasted behind me.

  Oops! I hit the gas.

  What was Cornelius doing at the … of course, the “haunted” opera house.

  I made a quick left down a side street and cruised back around, parking near the big brick building.

  Rushing along the sidewalk, I zeroed in on that black top hat and weaved my way through the small crowd of tourists to Abe Jr.’s side.

  “Cornelius,” I said, grabbing him by the wool coat sleeve. Wool? Today? Really? It wasn’t that cold. What planet was he from? Never mind that. “Why aren’t you returning my calls?”

  He looked down at me through his little round sunglasses. “Violet, you’re just who I wanted to see.”

  “Why? Did you find out about the money?”

  “Not at all.” He locked onto my arm and tugged me toward the open lobby doors of the opera house, the crowd funneling around us.

  Someone in the pack had showered in a gardenia-scented perfume this morning, making my eyes water. A short guy jostled into me, stepping on my toes and then not offering an apology. The urge to bite him came and went. Maybe I was turning into a zombie. Why had I left the safety of the Picklemobile?

  I tried to pull free of Cornelius, but his grip wouldn’t loosen. “Why did you want to see me?” I asked him again.

  He dragged me into the lobby, his gaze traveling from the tile-covered floor up the gold-painted walls to the ornately trimmed ceiling. A carved, wooden rail flanked a wide staircase to the right. On our left, several sets of doors opened into a semi-dark theatre.

  “Welcome to the Historic Homestake Opera House,” a petite white-blonde said from the fourth step up, her smile twice as big as she was. Her voice matched her small stature. I tried to figure out the color of her eyes, but they were too light to tell whether they were blue or gray from this distance, although they looked a little red-rimmed like she’d recently been crying or had allergies. “My name is Calypso, but you all can call me Caly.”

  Someone’s parents must have been into Greek mythology or just big fans of Jacques Cousteau’s ship.

  “This morning, I’ll be taking you back in time to the golden glory days of Lead.”

  The crowd tightened around us in front of the stairwell, shoulder-to-shoulder. Murmurs of appreciation sounded as they took in the finer details of the lobby.

  Cornelius leaned down. “This place is said to be haunted by several ghosts,” he whispered in my ear.

  “I know,” I whispered back, tugging to free my arm.

  “Excellent. Then you’re ready to channel them for me.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Historic Homestake Opera House had aged over the last century like fine whiskey—its architectural refinements diminishing while its historical flavors grew more rich and robust.

  According to Caly, our super-duper-chipper tour guide, a huge fire in the early 1980s had destroyed the opera house’s roof and world-class pipe organ, along with most of the stained-glass chandeliers, gilded cherubs, and velvet seats. Charred plaster that still covered parts of the brick walls offered proof of the fiery tragedy that had played out in the theatre, but from where I currently stood, seeing the evidence of the work that had gone into rebuilding the stately playhouse, the fat lady hadn’t sung yet.

  “The flames may have tried to raze this heart of the community,” Caly told us as she stood tall on the stage—well, tall for her tiny frame. “But its spirit prevailed, and from the ashes, a phoenix arose.”

  I moved closer to Cornelius, catching a whiff of pipe smoke from his wool coat. “I’ll bet you a ten-spot that Caly writes poetry on the side,” I said for his ears only.

  “She’s a Venus,” he replied, all breathy-like. His cornflower blue eyes worshipped her from afar over the rims of his round, wire sunglasses.

  I’d always pictured Venuses having long hair and lush curves, not short gelled spikes and A-cups. “More like a pixie.”

  “You think she’d marry me?”

  “Why mess with a ceremony? Just stuff her in your coat pocket and run away to Neverland.”

  “I’m going to get her phone number.”

  I did a double-take, watching him comb his bony fingers through his black wavy locks. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He looked down at me. “Not at all. We’re a perfect match.”

  Cornelius must have been sniffing pixie dust before the tour started. “You really think so?”

  “She hears ghosts.”

  “How do you know that?” Was there a secret hand signal I’d missed?

  “She said it when she led us in here.”

  “I don’t remember her saying that.”

  “Well, she didn’t exactly say, ‘I hear ghosts,’ but she gave away her secret when she mentioned that the theatre is haunted.”

  Boy, oh, boy, he was really reaching. I hated to burst his love bubble, but I hadn’t noticed a single sign of attraction—more the reverse in her avoidance of ey
e contact with Abe Jr.

  “Plus, it was in her gaze when she talked to me.”

  “You mean when she asked you to remove your hat?”

  “Exactly. Then she winked at me a few times.”

  I didn’t think those were winks. Caly seemed to be having trouble with her contacts, which explained her red eyes. But I didn’t have the heart to squash his hopes.

  Turning back to Caly, I listened as she pointed out decorative molding that had been recast using molds made from the few pieces of the original architecture that had survived the flames.

  Through Caly’s tales of the post-fire events, I came to have a whole new respect for those hell bent on returning the place to its former glory. Those who fought tooth and nail for funds to rebuild it, who volunteered their time to polish it back to its previous majesty, who helped fill seats by participating in community plays.

  People like Jane.

  It would be a cruel injustice if it turned out that her murder was somehow connected to this stately place where she’d spent so much time. Neither she nor the opera house deserved such an indignity.

  “With time and donations from generous patrons, our theatre will return to its previous grandeur,” Caly said, her light-colored eyes rounding, imploring, like a cute little kitty cat. I found myself liking her in spite of her perky boobs, butt, and everything else. She probably even had perky pinkie toes.

  Dang, she was good at campaigning for a cause. I needed to hire her to help me convince buyers to pull out their wallets.

  Cornelius reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet.

  Hold on a second, Mr. Moneybags!

  I took the wallet from him and stuffed it back inside his coat. We had bigger financial commitments to focus on first—like my career and his ability to kill it if he couldn’t come up with the funds for that hotel.

  As the tour continued, I tried to stick close to Cornelius, who was trying to stick even closer to Caly.

  The bouncy nymph led us upstairs and then back down, sprinkling happiness along the way. By the time we’d covered the unrestricted areas of the building, including what used to be a library, a gentlemen’s lounge, a sitting room for women, a bowling alley turned shooting range, and the bottom floor where concrete now filled the old swimming pool, I was trying to decide how much time and energy I could donate to help restore the brick structure since cash wasn’t exactly overflowing my coffers.