Better Off Dead in Deadwood

by Ann Charles

  Then I stepped outside under the gray cloudy sky and got hit with a cool breeze that smelled like rain and knocked off my rose-colored glasses. I was a single mom on the verge of losing my job with a boyfriend whom I didn’t want wandering off just because he never saw me anymore. Maybe I’d take my kids to see the zombie play next month and call it good. When I looked back to see where Cornelius was heading next, I couldn’t find him anywhere.

  Nor Caly.

  Crap. The last thing I needed was for the little blonde siren to convince Cornelius to write her a big fat check.

  I returned to the lobby and stood in one of the theatre’s open doors. Cornelius wasn’t in there, but a handful of non-tour group folks were, moving pieces of set around at the back of the stage.

  Two zombies dressed in blood-stained clothes stood in front of the stage on the temporary wooden floor that covered the musicians’ pit. I watched for a minute or two as they took turns reading aloud from the sheets of paper in their hands, their grotesque faces and blood-smeared mouths mesmerizing even from a distance. One of them picked up a fake bloody arm from the stage and pretended to eat it like corn on the cob.

  A shout from backstage made all three of us jump. I backed out of the doorway as the zombies returned to practicing their lines and taking turns hitting each other with the severed limb.

  I needed to pay a quick visit to the little girls’ room thanks to all of the coffee I’d downed at brunch while interrogating myself by accident in front of Cooper. I was tempted to ignore the Keep Out sign and hop over the velvet rope that sectioned off the refurbished women’s sitting room and its small bathroom, but a few of the tour group folks were still milling about. Maybe I’d wait until I got up to the Piggly Wiggly to take care of business.

  Now if I could just find Cornelius. I crept up the stairs, calling his name softly. The rooms up there and the upper balcony were sans Abe Jr.

  What in the hell? A six-foot-plus top-hat-wearing ghost talker didn’t just disappear into thin air.

  Back downstairs I found the lobby empty. The last of the tour group had trickled outside and were heading across the street toward a restaurant with a couple of outdoor tables.

  To the left of the theatre entrance was an unmarked wooden door that Caly hadn’t taken us through on the tour. Maybe it led to an employee lounge or her office.

  I sidled over to it, pretending to inspect the paint on the lobby wall next to it. After a quick glance around to make sure nobody was watching, I turned the handle. It was unlocked. I slipped through and closed the door quietly behind me, finding myself in a fluorescent lit hallway.

  On the right was a set of stairs and stainless steel elevator doors. Another closed wooden door stood across from the elevator. The other end of the hall emptied through the frame of a doorway into what looked like a bathroom. My bladder panged at the sight, reminding me of other non-Cornelius matters growing more pressing.

  Everything sounded muffled in the hallway, like I was a spider trapped under an upside-down glass. It was a sharp contrast from the acoustic-friendly high ceilings of the lobby and theatre.

  Ignoring the claustrophobic sensation tightening around my lungs, I stepped away from the door, peering down the hall. Maybe I could just slip quickly inside the bathroom without anyone noticing.

  In the heavy silence, I heard what sounded like several sniffs from the other end of the hall.

  Who’s there?

  A high-pitched sob answered.

  That wasn’t Cornelius. I glanced back at the door. Gray clouds and freedom beckoned. I could just call Cornelius later to see if he ended up offering to buy the opera house in order to impress Caly and then deal with that fallout on safer turf.

  The sound of a woman weeping reached me, tugging at my mothering strings. Maybe it was Caly. Maybe she wasn’t as chipper as she’d acted on the tour.

  Tiptoeing down the hall, I paused at the elevator to listen again. A loud sob tore through the thick quiet. Two more followed, wrenching my heart.

  I hesitated, stuck between the urge to comfort and the need to get out of there and go take care of business somewhere sob-free.

  Compassion won. I tiptoed further down the hall. The weeping woman must be inside the open room at the end.

  As I got closer, I realized two things—that the sign on the open bathroom door said MEN; and there was another room at the end of the hall, the recessed entry hidden from view. Propped slightly open with a yellow Caution—Wet Floor cone, the door had a WOMEN sign on it.

  I inched up to the women’s restroom, moving just outside the threshold. From my vantage point, I could see in through the partially open door. Natural light brightened the room, beckoning. The white and green tiles on the floor ran mid-way up the walls. White paint coated the rest of the way to the ceiling. The sniffles were amplified thanks to the lack of carpet.

  I covered my mouth as I listened. I’d done my fair share of crying in public bathrooms over the years, at times wanting to be left alone, other times needing a shoulder to lean on. Maybe I could whistle a little tune out here to let her know I was coming in, then fake surprise at finding her in there.

  The honk of her blowing her nose made me grimace. From the sound of it, she’d been crying for quite a while.

  I heard a rustling sound from within, footfalls coming toward me, and chickened out. Backpedaling into the men’s bathroom, I hid out of view just inside. My bladder cramped and tickled in protest. I crossed my legs, my eyes darting to the urinals.

  What in the hell was I doing? I was supposed to be going to the Piggly Wiggly for some snacks for the kids and now here I was hiding in a men’s bathroom.

  I held my breath, straining to hear the weeper. My stomach chose that moment to gurgle so loudly that most of Lead and Deadwood had to have heard it.

  Rubbing my stomach, I tried to soothe it into silence. It was probably ticked off about the diet Cooper had put me on for breakfast. I couldn’t blame it—I was still pissed, too.

  The creak of a door hinge froze all internal rants against the detective. I did my best mannequin impression as the bathroom weeper’s footfalls headed away from me.

  Leaning my head back against the wall, I closed my eyes and waited for the sound of a door closing.

  “Where in the hell have you been?” A man asked out in the hallway, his tone gruff, all bristly with irritation.

  My eyes opened wide in surprise. Where had he come from? Had he seen me steal into the men’s room?

  “Relax, Petey,” a woman said, who I assumed was the weeper by the plugged-nose sound of her voice. “There was something in my contact.”

  No way was that bathroom episode a something-in-her-contact ordeal. She’d been sobbing.

  “Damn it, I told you to call me Peter while we’re here. I will not tolerate your disrespect, especially in front of the rest of the cast.”

  “Yet it’s okay for you to publicly reprimand me.”

  “You’re supposed to be acting up there, not creating a bloopers reel. You couldn’t even remember your lines last night, for fuck’s sake. Do you know how humiliating it is for the director’s wife to need continual cues?”

  The director? Peter Tarragon, the director? After hearing about him from Mona, I had to see the man in the flesh. I stole a glimpse around the edge of the doorframe.

  My glimpse turned into an all-out gape. At the other end of the hall, Tarragon stood toe-to-toe with a zombie bride. Or maybe I should say THE zombie bride, since she must be the star of the play. Her white wedding dress was torn, the neckline splashed with fake blood. I couldn’t get a good look at her face through her ragged veil, which made her even creepier. It was a good thing I’d chickened out on going inside the bathroom to comfort her. I probably would have peed my pants if I’d walked in and run into that mess.

  Tarragon’s profile looked the yin to the bride’s yang. He was dressed all in black, from his porkpie hat to his tight shirt and jeans to his motorcycle boots. He reminded me of Gene H
ackman in The French Connection, one of my dad’s favorite flicks when I was a kid, except Tarragon had a goatee, longer sideburns, and a Roman type nose.

  “It’s not my fault I can’t remember my lines.” The bride shoved her veil back from her face, giving me a glimpse of a blood-streaked chin, gray-colored skin, and dark-circled eyes. “If you’d quit tweaking the damned script every night, I could get my lines straight.”

  “Damn it! Look at the mess you made of your makeup.” He grabbed her jaw, turning her face to one side and then the other. “Your mouth and eyes are ruined. You’re going to have to go back downstairs to makeup and have that fixed.”

  From where I stood, she still had no problems giving goosebumps.

  The bride slapped his hand away. “It will only take a few minutes.”

  “That’s a few minutes the rest of us have to wait for you to get ready yet again.” Tarragon leaned in close, his body all threats and dominance. “One more time, baby,” I could practically hear his lip curl around that endearment, “and I swear I’ll …”

  “You’ll what? Do to me what you did to Jane?”

  Jane? My breath caught. Did she mean my Jane?

  “Maybe,” Tarragon said.

  What had he done to Jane? Did Cooper know about this?

  The zombie bride snarled. I half expected her to lurch forward and take a bite out of Tarragon. “Try it, Petey, and I’ll tear your dick off and use it as bait out at Pactola.”

  Try what?

  “That would mean you’d have to actually touch it again after all of these years.” Tarragon grabbed his bride by the arm and jerked her toward the door. “Get down to makeup before I remove you from the equation permanently.” He yanked the door open and shoved the bride through it, following behind her torn train of lace.

  I counted to five after the door shut and then skidded into the women’s bathroom. This cloak and dagger stuff required a stronger bladder. Many more of these close calls or zombie surprises and I was going to have to start wearing absorbent underwear.

  I flushed and walked over to the sink, staring absently at a crack in one of the green and white tiles below the mirror.

  What had Tarragon’s wife meant about Jane? Was Peter the murderer? Could it be that simple? And why had Mrs. Tarragon been in here bawling her eyes out?

  Wadding up the towel, I tossed it into the trash. It landed next to a crinkled and torn piece of paper, a smudge of red and black makeup streaked one corner. I did a double take. I knew that banner. It was a Calamity Jane Realty flyer.

  I flattened it out on the counter, careful to avoid any water drops.

  The sight of Jane’s picture in the bottom right corner made my eyes water. I focused on the property for sale—the Sugarloaf building, one of the historic buildings on Lead’s Main Street. It was also one of the properties Jane had asked me to research for her back in July. My eyes blurred again, dang it.

  There was a rip at the top, like it had been ripped from a tack or nail. Blinking away my tears, I wondered if the zombie bride had been the one looking at the flyer, and if so, why had she wadded it up and thrown it away?

  How well had she known Jane? Were they old friends or just cast mates?

  I dropped the paper back in the trash. Had Cooper considered Tarragon’s wife as a suspect? Could she be a missing piece that would help him solve the puzzle? I frowned at my reflection in the mirror. I had so many questions and nobody I could badger for answers.

  On the way out the door, I dodged the yellow cone. The sight of Dominick Masterson standing in the doorway of the men’s bathroom where I’d hidden only moments ago made me screech and stumble backward into the wall.

  I covered my chest with my palm. “You scared the bejeezus out of me.”

  His smile didn’t crease his eyes. “Sorry about that. I thought you were someone else.” He pointed at the other bathroom. “Were you alone in there?”

  I nodded. Was he looking for the zombie bride, too, like Tarragon? Was Dominick part of the cast? Or was something going on with him and Tarragon’s wife?

  A rolling sensation surged through my stomach. The hallway we stood in suddenly seemed too tight, the urge for fresh air and a wide open sky tugged at me. I rubbed my stomach again. Damn Cooper for not letting me eat a decent breakfast. Some of us girls aren’t meant to look like stick insects with boobs.

  Dominick’s gaze combed my face. “Do I know you?”

  “No.” But I know you. “Not officially, anyway, but you might have seen me at Jane Grimes’s funeral.”

  “That’s it. You were there with Willis Harvey. What’s your name?”

  “Violet Parker. I work with Ja…” A wave of nausea rippled through me. My saliva glands kicked into gear, making me pause to swallow. “I mean ‘worked’ with Jane.”

  I glanced down the hall at the door I’d come through what seemed like hours ago.

  He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Parker. I’m Dominick Masterson.”

  His hand felt like an unripe nectarine, a soft, smooth layer of skin covering a firm core. No calluses to be felt. I pulled back.

  “Did you know Jane well?” I asked, wanting an explanation for his front row seat at her funeral.

  “We go way back. She represented me on several properties in the area.”

  That still didn’t justify the front row seat, but my stomach was in no mood to keep prodding. I needed to get outside or I’d be rushing back into the bathroom for a whole other reason.

  “I should be going. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Masterson.”

  I’d made it to the elevator door when he asked, “Do you still work at Calamity Jane Realty?”

  That made me stop, my Realtor radar picking up a bogey.

  “Yes.” I turned. Was it crass to hit on Jane’s clients so soon after her funeral? Jerry probably wouldn’t think so, but would Mona? I could picture Ray’s purple face when he found out I’d managed to hook one of Jane’s big fishes without even trying. “Are you interested in buying or selling some property?” I felt a little icky asking, but I had kids to feed and clothe and all that jazz.

  “Maybe. I just might come calling, Ms. Parker.”

  “In that case,” I walked back and handed him my business card, “you can call me Violet.”

  “Violet, it is.”

  I could feel Dominick Masterson watching me all the way out the door.

  Outside, rain bounced off the sidewalk. I didn’t let that slow me down. By the time I reached the Picklemobile, I was soaked, shivering from a mixture of cold water and turmoil. My stomach seemed to have slunk back under its rock for the moment.

  I locked both doors and pulled out my cell phone. A drop of water splashed on the screen as I searched for Cooper’s number. Before I could chicken out, I hit the Call button.

  Four rings later, he picked up. “I’m getting tired of talking to you today, Parker.”

  “Too bad. It’s your job.”

  “No, my job is to chase down the bad guys, not listen to a nosey blonde who has a wild hair. Make that many wild hairs.”

  “Are you making fun of my hair, Detective Cooper?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s next? Are you going to knock my school books out of my arms and snap my training bra?”

  I heard static through the line. Or maybe it was more of Cooper’s molars being ground off. “What do you want, Parker?”

  “Is Peter Tarragon’s wife one of your suspects for Jane’s murder?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I didn’t remember seeing her name on his case board. “Maybe she should be, Mr. Detective.”

  I couldn’t resist that jab. He shouldn’t have made fun of my hair.

  “Where are you, Parker?” he asked, his voice edged with a growl.

  My cell phone vibrated. Another call was coming in. I checked—Cornelius’s name showed on the screen.

  “I have another call,” I told Cooper. “Gotta go
.”

  “Damn it—”

  I cut Cooper off with the push of one little button. If only I could do that in person.

  “Hello, Cornelius. Where are you?” I wrung water from my curls onto the vinyl seat bench, swiping it onto the floor. The fragrance of my peach-scented shampoo mixed with the oily smell of aged pickup. The rain still pounded my windshield, which was fogging up.

  “In heaven.”

  “Right.” I stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The Picklemobile stuttered a little, acting like she wasn’t sure she wanted to start, then caught and cranked to life. “Is that located in Deadwood or Lead at the moment?”

  “Lead. Did you know the opera house has a basement?”

  “Yes. I was on the same tour as you, remember?” I held my shivering hand over the vent, waiting for some engine heat to kick in. “They took us down to the bottom floor by the old bowling alley that’s now a shooting range.”

  “That’s not the basement. There is a level under that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I found it while I was following Caly.”

  I rolled my eyes. The sound of that girl’s name was getting old quick. “She went down in the basement?”

  “No, but I did. Only it’s not really a basement. It’s some old locker room with showers and the bottom of the pool.”

  “I thought they filled that in.”

  Cornelius had stood on the smooth, concrete-covered pool next to me.

  “No, they just added a ceiling to the empty pool.”

  “Let me get this straight.” I checked my mascara in the rearview mirror, wincing at the black rings. “You went underneath the floor that is really only a layer of concrete the length and width of the pool?”

  “I walked around down in the deep end.”

  I tried to picture an empty pool capped with concrete. “Was there anything else in the pool with you?” Maybe they used it for storage.