Better Off Dead in Deadwood

by Ann Charles

  “What’s the story on this Carhart house?” Jerry asked.

  “It’s the scene of multiple cold-blooded murders,” Ray said. “Including one involving our very own Violet ‘Spooky’ Parker.”

  I kicked his shin again. The faceful of animosity he returned reminded me of the Bluetick hound from the parking lot.

  “Is this true?” Jerry asked Mona.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Mona said. “Except the part about Violet being involved. She was more of an observer. Lila Beaumont died by tripping and falling on her own knife according to the police report. She just happened to be chasing after Violet at the time of her demise.”

  Jerry’s eyebrows slammed into his hairline. “You’re gonna sell a house you were almost killed in?”

  “It’s a beautiful house,” I said, still standing firmly by my opinion of the place even after all that had happened within its walls.

  The waitress brought our food, silencing any response the other three had, giving me a moment to corral my rattled thoughts. I hadn’t expected Ray to attack on that front. I’d planned to tell Mona on the side, and then Jerry, and let Ray pounce on it after it was old news.

  After we were alone again, Jerry leaned his elbows on the table. “Based on what these two are telling me, Violet, that sounds like a pretty ballsy move.”

  “Ballsy?” Ray snickered. “I’d say it’s more stu—”

  “That’s enough, Ray,” Mona said in a tight tone, casting an imploring glare at Jerry.

  “She’s right, Ray,” Jerry said. “Why don’t you drop back and play defense for a bit.” He took a bite of his toast, eating half of it in one chomp. “Violet, what’s your plan for unloading this place as soon as possible?”

  I had a chicken I wouldn’t mind sacrificing to the realty gods, a gerbil, too. I nibbled on the dry toast I ended up ordering while considering my answer. “Make a few phone calls to previously interested parties,” like the Brittons, who’d loved the old place, ghosts and all. “I thought I’d also put some ads out in a few markets where the murders weren’t front page news.”

  “What about an open house?” Jerry asked.

  “No way,” Mona beat me to the punch. “The whole town of Lead would show up just to tour the scene of the crime. It would be like opening a freak show attraction at a carnival.”

  “Freak show, hmmm.” Jerry eyed me while chewing. “That gives me an idea.”

  An idea involving me that was inspired by the words freak show? I cringed, pretty damned sure his idea wasn’t going to include me baking homemade cookies for potential buyers. “What?”

  “Just hear me out on this.”

  He said that as if I had a choice, apparently forgetting who signed my paychecks.

  “We could have two versions of our ads—one with you in the pink suit with pink lipstick and soft hair, looking all sweet and angelic; and then the other ad with you wearing a black dress and dark kohl around your eyes, looking sexy and dangerous.”

  “I’m not sure that will sell houses,” I said, still cringing, choosing my words with care. It might sell shotgun shells and deer piss to hunters over at the hardware store, maybe even a box of condoms or two at Piggly Wiggly for any nearsighted, lonely fellas, but not real estate.

  “We’re not trying to sell houses with these ads, Violet,” Jerry explained. “We’re trying to sell you, which in turn sells houses and makes Calamity Jane Realty more money.”

  “I don’t like it,” Mona said. “It seems desperate and borderline tacky, not to mention you’d be toying with Violet’s professional reputation.”

  Amen, sister! I squeezed Mona’s leg in thanks.

  “I disagree, Mona.” Ray took Jerry’s side, of course, because his head was so far up the boss man’s ass. “We could even use Violet’s nickname on the ads.”

  “Pipe down, rub-a-dub,” I said to the rat bastard. “You’re trying way too hard now.”

  “The idea is worth considering,” Jerry said, seeming to forget that I had to go along with the whole wacky concept for it to leave the drawing board. “If anything, it’s a good way to experiment with our target audience and see if the folks around here prefer the bad girl or good girl look. From the results, we can build our next marketing campaign.”

  Mona dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter, her eyes spitting sparks across the table. “Really, Jerry? When will it be Ray’s turn then to wear the black eyeliner, tight clothes, and padded jock?”

  I did a double take at her. She must have seen Ray’s penis, too.

  Mona continued, “Or is this going to be a way to exploit only the females under your employ?” Mona asked.

  Instead of taking offense at her stab, Jerry’s grin took a flirting bend as his gaze traveled over her pinched features. “I haven’t seen you this ticked off in a long time, Mona. Not since …”

  Mona scooped up her fork and pointed it at Jerry’s face. “Don’t even go there.”

  Go where? I wondered. What the hell had gone on between these two in the past?

  “I’m serious, Jerry,” Mona continued. “You need to step back for a moment and take off your marketing hat, because it seems to be blocking your view of what’s right and wrong.”

  “Actually,” Jerry said, “I was also thinking of putting some ads out showing the newest member of our little family.”

  My lower gut cramped in a pseudo labor pain. “We have a new family member?”

  Jerry’s smile was supposed to be reassuring, I assumed. Instead, it filled me with dread. “Yes. Benjamin Underhill has accepted my offer to join us as another associate broker.”

  Great, Ben would have the same title as me. That would make it easier for him to step into my shoes when I got fired.

  “He’ll start next week,” Jerry continued. “So, if any of you would like to air any grievances about my hiring another employee, say your piece now, because after breakfast I don’t want to hear any whining.”

  Across the table, Ray was one big gloating head. “I think you’ve made a smart choice. Ben’s a good kid. I’m sure he’ll succeed where others fail.” Ray looked at me.

  Really? Was that the best he could throw at me?

  “I’m looking forward to teaching him everything I know,” he added.

  “Well, that should cover his first hour of training,” I said with a smile of my own.

  Mona laughed and then covered it with her napkin.

  I joked, but there was a challenge in that statement that made me scrape off some tooth enamel. Mona had been my mentor from the start. She’d guided me and protected me along the way. Now Ray had his own puppy to train, and I had no doubt he was going to do his best to have Ben jumping through rings and spinning this way and that for treats every chance he got.

  I glanced at Mona. She fiddled with her spoon, two rivulets between her perfectly arched eyebrows. “Benjamin seems like a nice guy,” she said. “But do you think it’s wise to hire someone related to Ray?”

  Ray growled but kept his big mouth shut.

  “You have an issue with nepotism?” Jerry asked.

  “I have an issue with encouraging competition between coworkers. We are supposed to be one team all working together for the good of Calamity Jane Realty.”

  Jerry rubbed his jaw, watching her fingers on the spoon. “What makes you think we won’t be on the same team anymore?”

  She looked at Ray. “A gut feeling.”

  She’d caught on to Ray’s challenge, too. No surprise there. Mona had become one of the all-time top sellers in the Black Hills by watching over her shoulder as she climbed.

  Jerry reached across the table and touched her arm, patting it a few times. “Your gut’s wrong. We’ll now have a five-man … er, five-person team that will be invincible, you’ll see. Trust me on this.”

  Mona pulled her arm away. “I trusted you once before.”

  Jerry’s cheeks reddened. He picked up his coffee cup, hiding behind it. “That was different. This time, it will work. E
specially after we get some fresh ads out there with Violet and Benjamin on them, appealing to a new customer base.”

  His words didn’t ease my own dueling badgers. Besides, I hadn’t agreed to anything yet.

  The rest of the brunch passed by with slurps of coffee and some talk about what Jerry had learned last night at his appointment with one of the higher-ups in the South Dakota Real Estate Commission.

  When we all stood to leave, Jerry touched my shoulder. “Hold up a second, Violet.” He turned to Ray and Mona. “We’ll see you two back at the office.”

  As soon as they were out of earshot, he pointed at the bench seat where Mona had sat. I dropped into it obediently. He kneeled on the other bench, looking down at me.

  “You were in jail yesterday,” he said.

  No mincing words for Jerry, so I followed suit. “Yes, I was.”

  “Why?”

  “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Detective Cooper from the Deadwood Police Department locked me up as a way of teaching me a lesson.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “I have a feeling you’re not telling me a big part of the story, but I won’t prod this time. However, I strongly suggest you avoid that ‘wrong place’ in the future. I can spin the jail thing this time, but if it happens again, I don’t think I can save your professional reputation.”

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose, hating that I was having this conversation with my boss of all people.

  “Is Detective Cooper still wanting you to sell his house?”

  “Yes.” Unbelievably.

  Jerry crossed his arms, his big forearms bulging like Popeye’s. “Interesting.”

  Not really. Cooper was just good at compartmentalizing me into two roles: real estate agent on one hand; nemesis on the other. In my world, Cooper was someone to hide from, period.

  “I have a rule, Violet. It’s pretty simple—five fouls and you’re out. That means you get four chances to screw up. On the fifth, I fire you. Consider yesterday’s trip to jail on working time your first foul.”

  Fair enough, I guessed. Although I’d consider a trip to jail more like two fouls, or a technical foul, but who was I to argue?

  “Any questions?” he asked.

  “Yeah, how do I get this foul removed from my record?”

  His lips flat-lined. “Sell that hotel.”

  * * *

  I missed Natalie.

  I missed her smiling eyes, her easy laughs, and her sharp wit.

  I missed drinking beer with her in the dark, ogling our favorite silver-screen actors on TV, trying to out-swear each other when nobody else was around, and sharing conspiracy theories over the phone late at night.

  But most of all, I missed her being by my side no matter what, come hell or high water, zombies or albinos, vindictive sisters or pissed off cops—like Cooper and whichever chicken shit had left me that anonymous note yesterday with words that still shadowed my thoughts.

  From my current viewpoint in Gordon Park, which neighbored the Rec Center, I could watch the Deadwood Police Station while I twisted slowly in one of the swings. I just wished Natalie was twirling in the swing next to me, like she had so many times before. She would know the names of all of the cops, where they lived, who suffered from what addiction, who was screwing around on their spouse, and which ones I should add to my suspect list.

  She would also know exactly what to say that would make me laugh about Ray and his annoying congratulatory phone call to Ben that had driven me out of the office this afternoon.

  I’d grumbled and growled all through the parking lot behind Calamity Jane’s, my frustration bubbling over in spite of Deadwood’s warm sunshine and fresh pine tree eau de parfum. The squeals of children’s laughter had lured me to the playground, where a mother had been pushing two little girls on the swing set. After the trio had left, I’d snagged a swing, spying on Cooper and his buddies while revisiting old playground memories with Natalie and more.

  Since we were kids, Nat had always been next to me, holding my hand during the hard times, like when I’d found out I was going to be an unwed mother of twin babies whose piece-of-shit father wanted no part in their world. Nat had been there to lift me out of my funk and convince me that things would be all right. She’d breathed with me through the kids’ delivery and celebrated their growth and achievements every moment since. She was the sister I’d always wanted instead of Susan—the sister I loathed.

  The weight of Natalie’s silence since that night in the basement of the funeral parlor hurt my heart more every day, the ache growing sharp and spiny in my chest.

  I leaned my head against one of the swing’s chains. If only she hadn’t convinced herself that she’d fallen for Doc, confusing lust for love yet again. I’d never been able to understand how a girl so pretty and smart could be filled with so many insecurities. Except for Doc, she was always falling for the guys who promised her the moon and then delivered stinky cheese with a side of infidelity.

  I watched two cops step out of the police station and hop into a police car, their laughter rolling across the asphalt and grass separating us. They wheeled out of the parking lot and headed toward Main Street. Maybe I should start following some of these cops, trailing them to see if they were up to anything suspicious.

  That sounded like something Mr. Big-Shot Detective might do to find out some answers. Hell, the hard-ass was probably watching me right now, waiting for me to make my next move.

  I checked my cell phone, hoping to see a return text from Nat.

  No such luck, damn it.

  Since I had time on my hands and Nat on my mind, I typed her another text: Jerry hired Ben. If I can’t get Cornelius to buy that damned hotel, I’m really screwed. Ack!! I forgot to tell you that someone at the police station left me a threatening note yesterday, saying I had something of theirs they wanted back. WTF? Miss you!

  My cell phone rang as I hit the Send button on the text. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Natalie, but rather Cornelius, who I’d been trying to reach since right after Jerry dropped his breakfast bomb on me.

  “Speak of the top hat,” I said under my breath and took the call. “Hi, Cornelius.”

  “I need you to come up to Mount Moriah immediately,” he said without preamble.

  Mount Moriah was Deadwood’s historic cemetery, the town’s version of Boot Hill, with such famous residents as Wild Bill Hickok, Calamity Jane, Charlie Udder, Seth Bullock, and more. I would have been less surprised if Cornelius had started our conversation with: Four score and seven years ago …

  “Did someone die?” I asked.

  “Several people have died, actually, but that’s not important.”

  “Since when is death not important?” I twirled back and forth.

  “Violet, stay focused. I need you to bring me seven double-D batteries, a fifty-foot extension cord, a pair of jumper cables, five unscented candles, two pairs of rubber gloves, and some sea salt—the kind with the speckles in it, not that mineral-free stuff.”

  I stopped twirling. “Come again?”

  “You should probably be writing this down.”

  With what? My invisible pen? I listened as he listed the items again and tried to plant them in my memory. I waited for him to finish saying, “Double-D is a bra size, you know, not a type of battery.”

  “Have you researched that thoroughly?”

  No, I had never researched batteries in my life. But I had briefly hit the double-D cup range when I turned into a milk machine right after having twins. However, I really didn’t want to explore this subject any further with Cornelius, so I changed it. “Why do you need this stuff?”

  “I’ll show you when you get up here.”

  “Cornelius, I have a job to do.” I spun in my swing, winding the chains overhead together. “I can’t just jump when you call.”

  “You sound irritable and tense. Have you cleansed your chakras lately?”

  “No.” Not since … ever.

  “When did you last have th
em aligned and balanced?”

  “Well, I had to choose between the Picklemobile’s tires or my Third Eye,” I said with a definite snippiness in my tone.

  “And now I’m picking up frustration from your energy field. I tell you, the reception on these new cell phones is incredible.”

  Wait until he caught my live vibe when I saw him next. Beating him with my purse seemed too docile at the moment; maybe I’d roll him down the mountainside like a wheel of cheese.

  “How soon can you get here? I have a ghost I need you to channel. You’re going to really dig this one.”

  “Cornelius, I’m a Realtor. Not some kind of conduit for your ghostly friends.”

  “You being a medium has everything to do with your success in sales.”

  Ha! Then I was one hell of a shitty medium. “I’m not coming up to that graveyard unless you promise me we’ll talk about the hotel sale. We’re running out of time.”

  “In more ways than you know,” he said, and whistled a bit from the Twilight Zone soundtrack.

  I sat up straight in the swing. “I’m serious.”

  “Fine, okay. I have news for you anyway that will probably make you happy.”

  Happy news? That would be a nice change. Usually all of the news I received made me want to soak my head in a barrel of beer.

  I stared across the park grounds at the police station. I could either stay here and try to figure out which of the cops coming and going was the one who’d put the note in my purse, or go back and sit through more of Ray’s snickers and snide grins and try not to slip him any of the rat poison Jane had stored under the bathroom sink, or go pay a visit to Deadwood’s famous history makers while sitting next to an Abe Lincoln doppelganger.

  “Give me an hour,” I told him.

  “That’s too long. Make it forty-seven minutes. Time is …”

  He never finished that sentence, just disconnected, leaving me twisting in the breeze.

  Since I had to hit the Piggly Wiggly to grab several of the things he’d ordered me to bring, I hopped to my feet. I returned to Calamity Jane Realty long enough to grab my purse from my desk, telling Mona I was going to see a client and returning Ray’s leer with a fly-by double-birdie on my way out the door. What I wouldn’t do to jam a whole can full of peas up his nose.