by Ann Charles
There was another zombie roaming the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. Actually, he might have been the same one as before. He beat me inside the grocery store. I found him in Aisle Six reading the back of a box of bandages.
“Hi,” I said, grabbing a bottle of peroxide and tossing it into my basket. We always needed more of it thanks to Layne’s experiments. “You’re in the play, right?”
If he wasn’t, I reserved the right to scream my head off and run the other way.
“What play?” He raised one half-bloodied eyebrow. It fell off and splatted on the floor, revealing his regular dark brown eyebrow underneath.
I bent down and picked his eyebrow up, handing it to him with a smile. “My name is Violet, by the way. You seemed to have lost this.”
“Thanks, Violet-by-the-way. That one keeps falling off today.” He took the rubbery piece of fake flesh from me and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “My name’s Zeb.”
No shit. Zeb the Zombie. Doc was going to love this detail later when I filled him in on my day.
“Nice to meet you, Zeb. I think I saw you here last week. Do you always grocery shop in costume during a play?”
“I’m in between cars at the moment, so I walk up here after rehearsal and buy what I need and then call my neighbor, who comes to pick me up.”
“It sounds like you have a nice neighbor.”
He shrugged, turning back to the first aid sundries. “She’s lonely and I’m single.”
Harvey and Zeb should form a club. Then Harvey could crash at Zeb’s house every night and I could get me some sex.
I needed to ask Zeb about Peter Tarragon, but I couldn’t figure out how to swing the conversation toward Petey boy, so I plowed in head first. “Isn’t Peter Tarragon directing that play?”
“Yeah,” Zeb looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You a friend of Tarragon’s?”
“No, I just know of him.” I purposely left that vague. “I’ve heard he can be a real hard-ass with his cast.”
“Most directors like to be hard-asses, in my experience. I think they believe it makes them appear more in control than they are.”
I hoisted my basket higher up my arm, getting the feeling that I wasn’t going to get any further with picking this zombie’s brains. “I should probably get going.” I had a cemetery to rush to. “It was great to meet you.”
“Tarragon would get a lot further with his cast if he’d stop trying so hard to impress certain folks and focus on directing the play.”
Maybe ol’ Zeb wasn’t quite done. “By ‘certain folks,’ are you talking about that theatre company supposedly interested in hiring him?”
“No. That theatre company is most likely a rumor that Tarragon started to impress the locals into coming to the play. I’m talking about the way he kisses the executive producer’s ass … pardon my French.”
Zeb’s ear fell off and landed at our feet. I grabbed it and handed it back to Zeb. “Who’s the executive producer?”
“Dominick Masterson,” he said. “You know, the guy who’s running for mayor?”
“Yeah, I know Dominick.” Sort of. “He seems like a nice guy.” That would explain why Dominick seemed to be at the opera house more often than not.
“Oh, he is.” Zeb tossed three boxes of bandages in his basket and then looked up at me, his black rimmed eyes serious, making a few creepy-crawlies inch up my arms. “As long as you stay on his good side.”
“And if you don’t?”
“You could end up like me.”
What? Dead? Zombified? A secondary actor in a local play? Carless? “Like you how?”
Zeb looked over my shoulder, his face splitting in a grin. “Hey, boys, what are you two doing up here in Lead?”
I looked over my shoulder and did a double-take at the two Deadwood cops sauntering toward Zeb and me. Both men in blue were tall, one bone thin and the other a bit pudgy.
Crap, now what? It couldn’t be a crime to talk to a zombie in Lead. I highly doubt the town’s forefathers had that much foresight, so there was no way Cooper could arrest me for it.
“We’re keeping an eye out for troublemakers,” the tall, thin one said, his eyes twinkling as he nodded at me. “Always good to see you, Ms. Parker.”
Had Cooper told them to follow me around? I wouldn’t put it past him. Then again, maybe these two were the ones responsible for putting that note in my purse, in which case I wanted to put several miles between us.
I patted Zeb on his fake blood speckled shirt sleeve. “Nice to meet you, Zeb. Maybe I’ll run into you again here.”
“You should come down to the opera house. I could introduce you to Peter, if you’d like to try to land a role in a future play.”
Hell, no. After what I’d seen and heard about him, Peter Tarragon had mental issues. The official report hadn’t been filed yet, but he was just one breakdown and bottle of whiskey away, I was certain. Besides, if Cooper caught wind of my stopping at the opera house and talking to Tarragon, he’d lock me up in his basement until he’d solved Jane’s murder. With the detective’s current track record, I could waste away to nothing before that happened.
Since the two cops were standing there witnessing our little exchange, I had to play it safe. “Thank you, Zeb, but I’ll have to pass. I can’t act my way out of a paper bag.”
Zeb leaned in close. “Neither can a certain director’s wife,” he said under his breath, “but that didn’t stop her from getting a lead role in spite of the whole cast’s objections.”
Chapter Seventeen
After a sluggish start, the Picklemobile chugged up the steep hill to Mount Moriah Cemetery, sputtering a little at the top right before I turned into the parking lot. I pulled into a spot a little way down from an idling tour bus.
“You made it, baby,” I said, patting her dashboard, making the dust fly. The old girl was starting to act up on me. I seemed to remember something Harvey had said about her not liking the cold weather much.
I checked my voicemail—Cornelius had called three more times since I’d left Zeb the Zombie at the store.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, you need your supplies.” I slammed the door, leaving the electrical cord and jumper cables in the pickup. I could only imagine what the caretakers might think if they saw me carrying means of transmitting electricity and shock therapy into a cemetery. Those two cops from the grocery store would be showing up here in short order, dragging me to the station again.
As I hiked up the paved road to the graves, catching whiffs of diesel from the tour bus along the way, I thought about Zeb’s comments back in the store. Yet again, I wondered why Helen had been crying in the bathroom at the opera house that first time I saw her.
Zeb had made it sound like the whole cast wasn’t thrilled with her being made the lead in the play. Had she been in tears because of something a cast member had said to her? Maybe several people in the play had been treating her badly because of the preferential treatment she’d received. Hadn’t Peter chewed her out about taking too long with her makeup and making the cast wait for her to be ready again?
Now that I knew Peter was Dominick Masterson’s puppet, I was even more curious why Dominick had been waiting outside the Ladies room that day. Did it have something to do with Peter? Or was Helen given the lead role because something was going on between her and Dominick? Something under the covers maybe? Granted she was a few years older than him, but some guys were into older women.
Or did Helen’s connection with Dominick have something shady to do with Jane’s death?
For two whole seconds I thought about telling Cooper what Zeb had told me, and then I scoffed. Avoiding jail was key to keeping my job, and that meant staying clear of Cooper—and the opera house.
I found Cornelius’s long, skinny frame parked in a canvas-style director’s chair next to Wild Bill’s fenced-in grave. His Abe Lincoln top hat sat askew as he scribbled furiously in the margins of some book. A herd of name-tagged tourists from the parking l
ot bus wandered by, several craning their necks to see what Cornelius was scribbling. I did, too, but his chicken scratches were worse than Elvis’s.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
He looked at me from behind his round sunglasses and then closed the book. “What’s this I hear about you going to jail?”
Several of the passersby screeched to a halt, not even trying to hide their eavesdropping. I waved at several of them. Nothing to see here, skedaddle on back to the bus.
I leaned closer to Cornelius and lowered my voice, “Where did you hear that?”
“Your coworker with the smelly feet told me.”
My vision hazed with red. “Ray stopped by to see you?”
He nodded.
“When?”
“Last night. He came by to see if I was settling into the hotel okay and offered to take me out for a drink.”
What?!
Ray must have gone to see Cornelius after I’d left yesterday. I should ask Jerry how many fouls he’d hit the dickhead with for trying to steal my client.
What was Ray up to now, besides trying to get me fired? The rat bastard had to have known Cornelius would tell me about his visit. I’d have to sniff around this one a little before I went all monkey-nuts on Ray, jumping on his back and pummeling the crap out of him.
“Did you go out for a drink with him?” I asked.
Cornelius didn’t even hesitate. “Of course not.”
Good! He must have seen through Ray’s false charm. Cornelius might be a bit odd, but he wasn’t daft.
“I didn’t like the color of his aura.” He tapped my arm with his pencil. “I would try to avoid spending too much time with him if I were you.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“You should have called me when you were in jail,” he scolded. “I’d have come there.”
“Thanks but my boyfriend bailed me out.” Jeez, I sounded like a crack addict.
“Oh, I wouldn’t have bailed you out.”
“You w— Why not?”
“I’d have joined you with my EMF meter, along with the new EVP recorder that arrived a few days ago. I’ve been wanting to test it against my old recorder. Channeling that ghost living in the back corner cell would have provided the perfect opportunity.”
I sighed. I needed to find less opportunistic friends. Or find Cornelius a hobby to distract him from all things ghosts: maybe even a girlfriend—but not Caly. Her “everything-is-beautiful” bubble would tempt me to grab a sharp pin each time she got within popping reach.
“Why don’t you go to the station and test the meters on your own?” I was tired of being his test dummy.
“I tried, but they wouldn’t let me in unless I was there to report a crime or visit a prisoner. After I explained I was there to visit a prisoner, one who might be trapped for eternity if not freed, I was escorted from the building.”
That reminded me of why I’d ended up in jail in the first place. “I saw you outside of the opera house yesterday when I was on my way to the store.”
That was sort of a lie. I’d also seen him ignore my phone call, but I decided not to mention that tidbit, or that I had just come from having the crap scared out of me by Prudence the ghost.
“I don’t recall that moment,” he said.
“You were standing there with Caly and Dominick Masterson.”
“Dominick who?”
The guy you shook hands with and followed inside, I wanted to say, but that would give away how closely I’d been watching him. “Masterson. He’s running for mayor in Lead.”
“Oh, you mean Caly’s partner,” he said.
Dominick was Caly’s partner? What kind of partner? Or was Cornelius just applying that term loosely? I waited, hoping he would clarify, along with why he’d been at the opera house and what had transpired there; instead he pointed at the grocery bag in my hand. “Did you bring my double-Ds?”
“There is only one D on these batteries,” I muttered and shoved the bag at him. Apparently, he was moving on to the next subject whether I liked it or not. “What am I doing here today, Cornelius, besides being your gopher girl?”
He dug through the bag. “I need you to ask Wild Bill some questions for me about the hotel.”
“I’m your real estate agent, not your personal medium.”
He looked at me over the top of his round sunglasses. “You can’t hide who you are.”
He said that as if he knew who I was. Heck, I didn’t even know who I was these days.
“Fine,” I said. “Maybe I could wake up Wild Bill and ask if this hotel sale will go through.”
“He’s not a fortune teller, Violet.”
Silly me. I’d forgotten he was just a ghost.
“Did you bring the jumper cables?” he asked.
“They’re in the pickup.” I gave him a suspicious squint. “You aren’t planning on playing Dr. Frankenstein and bringing someone back to life, are you?”
“Not in the daylight,” he said without jest.
I took a step back. “For the record, I refuse to be any part of a corpse reanimation.”
“I jest, Violet. I’m not that passionate about the dead.” His lips did that lopsided thing that I was pretty sure was supposed to be a smile. “Besides, it’s a clear day. We’d need lightning to jump start a corpse’s brain.”
“Not funny, Cornelius.” I had no doubt that Ray would love to add necrophilia rumors to my ghost-loving reputation.
“Since we’re on the subject of resurrection,” he said, “you should know that we don’t need to wake up Wild Bill. Somebody else already did that.”
I looked at Bill’s grave, remembering how months ago Doc had told me that the reason he’d stuck around town was partly because of Wild Bill, whom he’d run into down on Main Street.
Had Cornelius seen or heard something about Doc and his ghost-sensing ability?
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“There are candle wax drips on the back of Bill’s monument.”
Candle wax? Whew! I highly doubted wax could have lasted through the elements since Doc had come to Deadwood a year ago. “So you think he was woken up recently?”
“There was no wax here last week.”
“How can you be certain it wasn’t someone paying homage to Bill? I bet he has a lot of fans out there. I mean, not just any guy can pull off that long moustache and all of that wavy hair for over a century.”
“I’m not absolutely certain,” Cornelius said. “That’s why you’re here, to help me ask him about the wax and the blood.”
“What blood?”
“The drops of it mixed in with the wax.”
Eww! I circled around the back of Bill’s grave. Wax drops dotted the dark bronze surface. The blood was visible only on the gray concrete base.
“What makes you think Bill’s hanging around here?” I asked.
The old guy could be a meandering spirit. After all, Doc had run into him downtown. That made me curious if ghosts actually wandered the countryside like cows on the range, or were they corralled to a certain area based on some supernatural force?
Dang. This would all seem less wacky if I were drinking alcohol. Maybe I should start carrying a flask.
“I can feel a presence,” Cornelius answered my question about Wild Bill.
“Well, I am standing right next to you,” I joked.
“You’re right. Step back.” After I obliged, he took off his sunglasses and stuffed them into his coat pocket, then cocked his head and closed his eyes. “I can still feel it. He’s here with us.”
“How do you know it’s Bill? It could be Calamity Jane.” I pointed at the adjoining plot. “Her last wishes were to be buried next to him. Maybe she hangs out here, watching over him.”
The thought of Calamity Jane sitting here all alone over the decades made my chest twang again. Poor ghost.
“It doesn’t feel like a female,” Cornelius said.
Female ghosts feel different from males? Now tha
t I thought about it, Doc once mentioned he could sense the difference between genders, even age groups.
“You feel it right now?” I asked.
“Yes. Can’t you?”
“The only thing I feel is tired.”
He studied me for several seconds like I was the first of my kind. “Come here.”
“Why?”
“Just come over here.” When I obeyed and stood in front of him, he said, “Now close your eyes.”
I narrowed them instead. “Why? What are you going to do?”
“Just trust me, Violet.”
“I’d rather just sell you a hotel.”
“That will come in time.”
“We’re almost out of time.”
“So file for an extension. I need a little longer to round up the cash.”
He said it like I should have thought of it weeks ago. “What if the seller won’t agree?”
“Then throw in another twenty thousand in earnest money.”
My jaw dropped. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Sweet. That gave us a little breathing room. “So was that the good news you mentioned earlier on the phone?” It wasn’t the good news I was hoping for, but it was better than not getting the deal at all.
“No. The good news is that I may have an ‘in’ on sneaking us into the under-the-floor pool in the opera house so that we can make contact with the boy who didn’t like my hat.”
Cornelius and I had vastly different definitions of what “good news” was.
Recalling our earlier phone conversation, I asked, “So, how is that good news about the hotel?”
“It’s not,” he said. “You mentioning the hotel just sparked my memory that I’d made that arrangement.”
I pinched him on the shoulder.
“Ow! What did you do that for?”
“Because you frustrate me, Cornelius.”
“That explains why you can’t feel the presence I’m sensing. Your receptors are blocked by your emotions.”
I scowled at him. “Who sent you to our planet?”
He stood up and pointed at his chair. “Sit here.”
“No.”