by Ann Charles
Harvey sighed. “Okay. But I think this is a bad idea. You don’t want to let Coop know you’re sniffin’ around one of his cases.”
“His case?” I’d figured Cooper would know about the murder details due to police chatter. “I thought he was a detective for Deadwood, not Lead.”
“Lead contracts with Deadwood for Coop’s services to save money."
Swell. There was no escaping Cooper’s all-seeing eye.
Harvey was still grumbling about helping me when we climbed out of the Bronco. Cooper came from behind the garage, wiping his hands on a blotchy white cloth. His black T-shirt sported several little round holes on the right side, leaking glimpses of bare flesh.
“Looks like a moth got in your closet,” I said.
Cooper frowned, then glanced down when I pointed. “Oh. Bullet holes.”
I winced. “You must leak when you drink now.”
That earned me a hint of a smile. “I no longer trust old women toting shotguns.”
Harvey snickered. “I still say you should have let me have a try at her. She just needed a little sweet talkin’.”
“I took your advice once.” He pointed at a small scar line on his left cheekbone. “Remember?”
“How was I to know she was hiding a frying pan in her skirt?”
I could sense another Harvey anecdote brewing, so I pointed at Cooper’s house and asked, “You ready to take a walk through?”
Harvey followed us from room to room, rambling about this, that, and the latest tail he was chasing. I kept giving him head nudges, trying to remind him of the whole purpose for me dragging his ornery ass along. He kept not asking the right questions. Any questions at all, for that matter.
The house looked clean enough, smelled like it’d been rinsed with bleach water, and contained sparse furnishings, mostly made of black leather and oak. The only picture hung in the house was in the living room: an oil painting of several dogs sitting around a poker table, cleaning their guns.
“Coop ain’t much for decorations.”
Cooper shrugged. “It’s been a while since my last dinner party.”
“This is good. It means less cleanup work for me.” Compared to Jeff Wymonds’ place, which still required a few trips to the landfill, this puppy was just a few flower vases away from showing.
“Let me just grab the listing agreement from my Bronco,” I said to Cooper—and whispered “Ask him!” to Harvey on my way out the door. I took an extra minute or two getting the agreement. When I stepped back inside, Harvey was talking to Cooper about a new type of barrel cleaner for Bessie, his shotgun.
Cooper went to find a pen, which I’d purposely forgotten.
“Well?” I asked.
“What? I didn’t get around to it yet.”
“Harvey!”
“What? I need to work up to something like this.”
Cooper walked back into the room, pen in hand. “Where do I sign?”
“Hey, Coop,” Harvey said as I showed his nephew the pages, “Violet wants to know if Junior Carhart was really drunk the night he murdered his old man.”
My mouth opened in a silent yell. I glared at Harvey. That was how he worked up to something?
Meanwhile, Cooper watched me, all spaghetti-western squinty-eyed. “Why does Violet care about that?”
“Well, that’s what I asked, too, but we got sidetracked before she answered me.”
Wow, so much for my sidekick having my back. I cleared my throat. “I’m curious because of something a friend told me recently.”
“Which was?” Cooper pressed.
I swallowed some nervous ramblings that threatened to flee from my throat. “That Junior was an amiable drunk.”
“And?” More pressing.
“He would never hurt a fly while he was wasted, let alone do something as brutal as beat his father to death with a rolling pin.”
We shared a silent stare-down, his eyes warning me to back off. I looked away first, relenting, but not giving up.
“Well?” Harvey prompted. “Was Junior really drunk, or was that just speculation?”
After another squint-filled pause, Cooper answered, “According to the lab, he had a blood alcohol level of point two one.”
I had to wonder why Cooper remembered the exact number.
“Woo-wee!” Harvey broke the tension. “That’s drunk all right.”
Cooper took the listing agreement from me and laid it out on a waist-height speaker, next to where Harvey stood. “You two need to let this go.” He signed the pages under Harvey’s watchful eye and handed the agreement back to me. “It’s a closed case.” He scratched behind his left ear, then stopped when he noticed his uncle studying him. “A done deal. Understand?”
“Sure.” I smiled through my lying teeth. “I was just curious. That’s all.”
“Quit browbeating her, Coop.” Harvey tugged me toward the door. “She can’t help being nosy. It comes with the job.”
Cooper followed us outside, still warning me with his eyes.
“I’ll contact you in the next day or so.” I tried to shake off Harvey’s hand, but his grip was strong as he practically dragged me toward the Bronco. “We need to make your place a little more showy, add a few female touches.”
Harvey howled. Literally. “Coop likes female touches, don’t you, boy?”
The hint of a smile returned to the detective’s lips. “That depends on the female.”
I barely had time to wave good-bye before Harvey stuffed me behind the wheel.
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered.
What in the hell bit Harvey on the ass? I did as told and waited for him to climb in before shifting the Bronco into gear. “Where’s the fire? You late for a date with another old flame?”
He didn’t answer until I’d started down the big hill back toward downtown Lead. “Coop’s lying.”
“What?”
“You’re on to something.”
“How do you know? Does he have a ‘tell’ like my nose twitch? Was it him scratching behind his ear?”
“No. Coop’s a pro. He doesn’t have any tells.”
“Then how do you know he’s lying?”
“You had him flustered.”
“Ha! Right. Did you see his face?” There hadn’t even been a single twitch or jaw tick. “The four guys up on Mount Rushmore show more emotion.”
“Coop’s a master at controlling his expression.” Harvey pointed at the listing agreement sitting on the console between us. “But he spelled his name wrong there on your paper.”
* * *
I dropped Harvey off at his Chevy pickup on the way back to the office. He planned to drive over and pay a visit to an old girlfriend—Junior’s dad’s, that was. Claudette Perkins was her name and, according to Harvey, sleeping with old married men was her game. That made a single man like him unattractive, which he worried might work against him in his attempt to seduce some answers out of her. But he’d been willing to try to take one for the team. Apparently, even at age sixty-one, Claudette was still quite the long-legged pin-up girl.
Back at the office, Jane had a bunch of girl-Friday tasks for me, including a trip to Rapid City. I didn’t roll into Aunt Zoe’s drive until dinnertime. I still hadn’t heard a peep from Doc or Natalie, which made my stomach churn a bit if I thought about it too much, so I tried not to and failed miserably—story of my life.
The heavenly scent of braised meat greeted me at the door. After sharing a pot roast with Aunt Zoe, the twins, and Kelly Wymonds, who was staying with us for the night, I bribed the kids into going to the library with me for the evening. The payoff was an ice cream cone at the Candy Corral afterward. After a day like today, I was thinking two scoops of peanut butter fudge might be required to take the edge off, with maybe a sample spoonful of mint chocolate chip.
The library parking lot was empty.
Addy and Kelly raced up the steps, leaving Layne and me trailing behind.
“This place is a g
host town,” Layne said when we reached the double doors.
I chuckled. He had no idea.
The two of us made ourselves at home in the South Dakota room, leaving the door slightly ajar for when the girls came looking for us. Layne dropped his pack on the table and tugged out a notepad and his current read, a book on the history of ghost towns here in the Hills, which explained his comment on the way up the steps. His fascination with the area’s past had cranked up ever since he started digging in Aunt Zoe’s back yard. Finding that foot hanging in the tree last month had only amplified his obsessive bender.
I scooted in front of the microfilm machine, my newfound friend in my newfound life. I hooked up a microfilm spool holding the past six months’ worth of articles from the Black Hills Trailblazer newspaper and wound my way back in time.
The first thing I found in the archives was the obituary for both Junior and his dad. The paper had grouped them together. Nothing stood out, except a noted lack of Lila’s name anywhere. Were fiancées normally mentioned in an obit?
The listing was short and sweet, with Mudder Brothers Funeral Parlor getting a call-out, but no mention of Claudette Perkins, of course. I wondered if she’d shown her face at the funeral. Had Wanda known about her husband’s infidelities? Had she cared? Maybe it was a relief to have him seeking his loving, touching, and squeezing elsewhere. Had he been verbally abusive to Claudette, too? Physically? Did any of this even matter?
“Mom?” Layne’s voice broke into my inner monologue.
“Yes, Sweetheart?” I continued scrolling further into the past, scanning.
“What’s the name of that ghost town out by where Harvey lives?”
What was the exact date of the Carhart murders? Was it late January? “I’m not sure, honey.”
“Slagton.” Doc’s voice jarred me.
He stood in the doorway, filling the gap I’d left open. The sight of him in his olive green cargo shorts and faded yellow T-shirt spurred a tickly feeling in my stomach, as if I’d swallowed a handful of Pop Rocks.
He looked me up and down, his dark eyes devouring as he added, “That’s the closest ghost town to his ranch that still has buildings, anyway. The others in the vicinity are mostly littered with nothing more than foundation scars.”
It sounded like somebody had been busy scouting about. I smiled, wondering if I looked as starry-eyed as I felt, hoping I didn’t. “Hello, Doc.”
“Good evening, Violet.”
Yes, it was, even more so now that I had him to ogle.
His gaze lingered on the v-neck of my strappy sundress before meeting back up with mine. “Nice necklace. Is that amethyst?”
I fingered the smooth stone dangling at my cleavage and nodded all slow and sultry. Then a giggle slipped out, ruining my Marilyn Monroe moment. So much for playing it cool. What was it about Doc that turned me into a giddy schoolgirl with an even giddier crush?
“Who are you?” Layne asked Doc. My son’s narrowed eyes were full of distrust, his jaw rigid, lips tight.
I’d forgotten that Layne had never actually met Doc. I rose, twisting my hands together, wondering how Doc would deal with Layne’s protective man-of-the-house act. “Layne, this is Doc Nyce, a client of mine.”
At the word “client,” Doc raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged and continued, “Doc, this is Layne, my son.”
Doc held Layne’s stare for a pent-up breath or two, then moved into the room, letting the door drift closed behind him. “So, you’re Layne Parker.” He pulled out the chair opposite Layne and sat down. Leaning back, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve heard about you.”
Layne lowered his pencil. “You have?”
Doc nodded slowly. “Word on the street is that you like to dig up the past. Get real messy.”
“You mean like dirty?”
Doc nodded again.
“I guess so. Who told you that?” Layne shot a small frown in my direction. “Mom?”
“Nope. One of my sources.” Doc pointed at Layne’s book. “What do you have there?”
“A book about ghost towns.” He showed Doc the cover.
“I’ve read that one. What do you think of it?”
“The pictures are pretty good.” Flipping through a couple of pages, Layne added, “I wish it had better maps.”
Doc held up a finger. “I think I know a book you’ll like more.” He pushed out of his chair and crossed over to the bookshelf lining the wall next to me. Scanning with his fingertips, he pulled out a blue book with white lettering and handed it to Layne. “Try this one. The maps are top rate.”
“Ghostly Tailings. A Snapshot of the Past,” Layne read the title aloud, then skimmed through the pages and said, “Awesome! Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Mind if I hang out in here for a bit and talk to your mom?”
Layne’s nose was already buried in the text of his new treasure. “Nah. Go for it.”
Thunderstruck, I scratched my head, awed by Doc’s slick and quick disarming of my knight in shining armor. It was no wonder my chastity belt clattered to the floor every time Doc came near.
“What are you looking for?” Doc pointed at the microfilm reader. “More trouble?”
I returned to the screen and my scrolling. “The Carhart incident.” No need to lie; all he had to do was walk over to catch me in the act.
He did exactly that, standing over me, making me feel all prickly with awareness.
“I’ve been meaning to give this to you.” He held out a folded piece of paper, his hand capturing mine as I reached for it, his fingers lingering before letting me go. If it weren’t for his wink, I’d have thought I imagined the whole touch.
Unfolding the paper, I glanced over to make sure Layne still had his nose buried in the book. He did, and the rest of his face, too. We didn’t even seem to exist in his world, anymore.
Doc’s present was a copy of the article on Karen Snarky’s murder. Her black and white picture—grainy, but clear enough—showed a pretty young girl, whose dark hair the paper described as auburn.
“Thanks,” I said, folding it up and stuffing it in my purse to study more later. Maybe I could run it by Jane, figure out a sly way to ask her if this was the same woman with the bloodstained collar she’d seen in the old photos.
“Mom.” Layne pushed back his chair. “I’ll be right back.” He held up the book Doc had found for him. “I want to make a copy of something in here.”
“Do you need some change?” I asked.
“No, I have it.” He looked at Doc, but said nothing, then left us.
Alone.
After a glance up at Doc, who was peering over my head at the view screen, I focused back on the task at hand—finding out more about the Carhart men. But I could feel Doc behind me, smell his woodsy cologne, hear his rapid heartbeat—no wait, that was mine. I felt like a masochistic lamb, anticipating the wolf’s pounce, eager for the bite. I needed to get a grip, but I couldn’t decide which part of Doc to grip first.
“How was your evening, Violet?” Doc asked, his voice low and close.
I slowly twirled the knob, scrolling inch-by-inch through the past. I decided honesty was the policy I’d start with and see where it took us. “Frustrating.”
He bent closer and covered my hand with his, making me turn faster both inside and out. “Same here.” His warm breath teased the shell of my ear, soliciting shivers. “Did you go home and go to bed?”
“Yes.” No need to mention the spoonfuls of cookie-dough ice cream I consoled myself with first. “Did you?”
“More or less.”
I looked at him, his cheek just a sway away. “Alone?”
He turned his head and held my stare, the intensity in his eyes practically crackling. “I don’t want your friend, Violet.”
He said what I needed to hear, but that didn’t solve my problem of Natalie claiming him first. “She’s a nice girl.”
“Great. She’ll make some guy happy some day. But not me.”
&nbs
p; “Are you going out for a business dinner again, soon?”
“No. I learned my lesson. You?”
I shrugged, grinning, teasing, ready to play. “I’m a slow learner.”
“Teaching you would be fun. I bet you’re a hands-on type of student.”
“What gave that away?”
“I’ve witnessed it firsthand.”
“What else have you witnessed?”
“You play well with others.”
That made me chuckle. “Anything else?”
“You don’t quit until you finish the job.”
“Well,” I deliberately and slowly licked my upper lip. “I do like to be thorough.”
He stared at my mouth and then his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Wow.” He groaned. “I need a time out.”
“Oh, come on. That was too easy.”
“What can I say?” His gaze dipped down to my amethyst again. “You do things to me.”
Not enough things lately.
“Are you going out with Ben again?” he asked, lifting his gaze north of my chin.
Not if I could help it. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“How full my dance card is.”
“It looks full from here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like being distracted.”
“I don’t, but abstaining isn’t working.”
“What are you going to do about that?”
He let go of my hand and ran his fingers all the way up my arm, chills and goosebumps trailing. “Stop abstaining,” he whispered, then bent down and nipped my bare shoulder. It was the soft kiss he gave me to make it all better that nearly fried my control panel.
It was my turn to groan. “Okay, we’re even.”
Chuckling, Doc tapped the screen. “There’s your article.”
Sure enough, the headline read, Two Dead in Lead Murder-Suicide.
And that’s why Doc was the master and I was his puppet, still all aquiver, my mind stuck on the subject of bare flesh. Doc had not only toyed with my libido, he’d multi-tasked as he pulled my strings, locating what I’d been searching for while making me sing and dance to his tune. Three slices of humble pie for me, please, and don’t forget the whipped cream dollops.