by Ann Charles
“Don’t worry about Mona,” I told him, although I’d have preferred she’d heard none of this because as my friend and mentor, she now had a whole new reason to chew me out for not sharing this bee’s nest of a secret. “You’ve already let the cat out of the bag. Besides, I have nothing to hide from her.” Which was a big fat lie, but I didn’t want to show Detective Hawke any weakness.
He shrugged and settled into the chair, making himself comfortable. “I think you have a hand in all of this, Ms. Parker.”
“By ‘all of this’ you’re referring to Wanda Carhart’s death?”
A small gasp from Mona told me that she hadn’t heard the news yet.
“Yes and more.”
“More what? Deaths?”
He leaned forward. “Don’t you think it’s odd that you’ve been involved one way or another with so many of the case files sitting on Detective Cooper’s desk?”
“I thought the files were on your desk now.”
His beady eyes hardened, his glare accusing. “You may have Cooper fooled,” his voice sank into a menacing growl, “but I see you clearly for what you are.”
I raised one eyebrow. “A real estate agent and mother of two?”
“That’s your disguise.” He knocked twice on my desk and stood. “I’ll be in touch again, Ms. Parker.”
“I’m sure you will. They say herpes never fully goes away.”
Mona made a small, high-pitched sound in her throat, and then her nails clacked louder on the keys.
It took a couple of seconds for my insult to sink into Hawke’s thick skull. Then his lip curled and he planted his hands on my desk. “Watch your back, Ms. Parker, because I certainly will be.”
I hooked my boot around the leg of my desk and pulled. The desk slid toward me and Detective Hawke stumbled forward, his knee slamming hard into the metal side.
“Oops. This desk bucks like that all of the time.” I shot Mona a fake frown. “We really need to talk to Jerry about getting some of those sticky pads so it’ll hold still.”
I stood and walked over to the door, holding it open. “Take care of that injury, Detective. A knee will go out on you when you least expect it.” I spoke from experience after too many knee-buckling scares.
He limped across the wooden floor, bumping me with his broad shoulder as he passed over the threshold. Detective Hawke had a history of colliding into me whenever he was near. That wasn’t part of his intimidation act usually; it was merely an uncoordinated trait of a buffoon who didn’t understand the rules of personal space.
“You need to start answering my calls, Ms. Parker,” was his parting shot.
“I’d hate to fall into a bad habit, Detective.” I shut the door behind him and locked it, leaning back against it. Whew!
“What’s going on, Vi?” Mona nailed me with a piercing stare, her reading glasses dangling from her neck.
I could tell by her expression that there would be no dodging her question. “Wanda Carhart was found dead last weekend. I somehow managed to,” thanks to Prudence the ghost, “get all tangled up in her murder investigation.”
“Somehow, huh?”
I shrugged, returning to my desk. “It didn’t help that Wanda was receiving creepy notes, and I happened to have received one myself.”
“What!?” Mona clutched her chair arms. “When? Since Wanda’s death?”
“No, mine came a couple of months ago.”
Her gaze narrowed. “What did the cops say when you received it?”
“Nothing because I didn’t tell them.”
“Why would you …” she paused and then shook her head at me. “Vi, you need to get over your dislike for the Deadwood Police.”
“It’s nothing personal. I just avoid the cops whenever possible.” Especially Cooper and now Hawke.
“What happened in your past to give you such a strong aversion to the law?”
I waved her off. “Let’s not go there today.”
She harrumphed but nodded. “So why is Detective Hawke nipping at your tail?”
“We started off bad.”
“Like how bad?”
My lips twisted in scorn. “I took his pen and stomped on it with my boot during our first meeting.”
“That’s it?”
“And then I threatened do the same to his testicles if he didn’t give me some space.”
A short snort of laughter slipped out, which she quickly covered with her hand. “Oh, dear.”
“Our professional relationship has never quite been able to get past that initial,” I pinched my thumb and forefinger together so they almost touched, “little skirmish.”
“What did he mean about a threatening call yesterday?”
I told her about the phone call and how Wanda had received calls from untraceable numbers before her death.
“You think it’s the same person?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Although Detective Hawke apparently thinks I’m faking it all.”
Mona’s eyes were rimmed with concern. “What are you going to do, Vi?”
“Nothing. I promised Detective Cooper I’d keep my nose out of it and let him handle this.”
“We need to let Jerry know.”
“No!” At her surprised flinch, I scooted my chair over to her desk. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell,” I kneaded my hands together, “but I really don’t want Jerry to know about this unless we absolutely have to tell him.”
“Why not?”
“I still have one foul in his playbook from landing in jail back in September.” Although now that I thought about it, he had said that if I sold The Old Prospector Hotel, he’d remove that foul. I continued with, “I don’t need any more fouls.”
She took my hands in hers, squeezing them. “This isn’t your fault, Vi. You’re a victim here.”
“Not according to Detective Hawke, and he may be the one in charge of this case. So, let’s keep this between you and me for now, and if it blows up bigger,” or I get killed, “we’ll involve Jerry. Deal?”
She rubbed her lips together for a few seconds. “Fine, deal. But you need to keep me in the know on what’s going on with the investigation and if you receive any more calls. Deal?”
I hated to involve her in my problems, but it was a good idea to have someone in the office who could cover for me, if needed. “Yes.”
We didn’t spit and shake, but the contract was binding nonetheless.
I rolled over to my desk and blew out a breath, trying to get my head back into the world of real estate. Mona’s fingernails began to clack away on her keyboard.
“Oh, Vi.” The clacking halted. “Detective Hawke’s sudden appearance this morning made me forget to tell you that you received a phone call right before you arrived.” She carried a small note over and handed it to me.
I read the name on the note. “Who’s Katrina King-Mann?” How did I know that name? There was something familiar about it.
“She’s Douglas Mann’s wife. Actually, I think they are in the process of a divorce now, but with him in prison it’s slowing down the proceedings.”
Clink! It all fell into place in my head. Douglas Mann was the ex-lover of Lila Beaumont, aka the crazy, demon-loving bitch from my Carhart funhouse days. Like Wanda’s daughter, Millie, Douglas Mann had landed in prison after that ugly night of betrayal and bloodshed in the Carhart living room. I couldn’t remember the exact charges that had put him behind bars, but I was pretty sure it went deeper than screwing around on his muckity-muck wife with a demon junkie.
“Why would Katrina King-Mann call me?”
Mona headed back to her desk. “She mentioned something about being interested in the Sugarloaf Building up in Lead and you representing her.”
“The Sugarloaf Building,” I repeated, almost struck dumb. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Reid was over last night asking Aunt Zoe about it and saying he had to go inside of the building again, could it? And why would Katrina want me as her Realtor? Hadn’t she heard about my gho
st-loving reputation?
Or maybe she had.
Clueless that she’d knocked me completely out of the water, Mona squinted at her computer screen then slipped on her glasses. “Didn’t Jane have you look up information on that building?”
“Uh, yeah.” I picked up a pen and wrote the names Jane and Reid on the note with Katrina’s information. How were those three tied together? Was there a connection, or was this some weird happenstance? Lead was a small town, after all. “She said it was for sale.”
“That’s funny,” Mona said, looking across at me. “I don’t remember it ever showing on the commercial MLS listings. You sure she said it was actually up for sale, or was the owner just flirting with the idea?”
“I believe she said it was for sale, but I never asked for any details.”
Mona focused back on her computer.
“You wouldn’t happen to know who the current owner of the Sugarloaf Building is, would you?” I asked
“Let’s see.” Her fingernails clacked, and then she leaned forward to take a closer look. “According to the records, it’s owned by D. Masterson of Lead.”
“D. Masterson? As in Dominick Masterson?”
She looked over at me, a frown wrinkling her brow. “Probably. Didn’t he leave town recently and not come back? Seems like the rumor was he packed up and left in the middle of the night.”
He sure did, right after he ran straight through a wall in the Opera House. Apparently, Cooper had done a bang up job of burying Cornelius’s and my statements about Dominick’s wall-breaking exit.
“Yeah, something like that,” I told her, making a point of pretending to read my computer screen.
Mona’s phone rang, thankfully.
I pulled out my cell and texted Doc: Feel like taking a field trip to the Sugarloaf Building with me?
A few seconds later he replied: Not after the story your aunt told us last night. Why?
After a glance to make sure Mona was still preoccupied, I wrote: Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
I quoted one of the few lines I remembered from our high school’s production of Hamlet.
The pause was several seconds longer this time, then he wrote back: Did you have tequila for breakfast again?
The back door of Calamity Jane opened. I heard the sound of Jerry’s booming laugh followed by a female voice, one I hadn’t heard in almost two weeks. The Paranormal Realty crew had returned to Deadwood.
I typed: Gotta go. Coach is in the locker room.
I shoved my phone in my desk drawer and returned to the business of pretending to be a real estate agent while my brain fretted about the Sugarloaf Building and the names now connected to it.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my name was going to be added to that list soon.
Chapter Nine
Aunt Zoe’s house was oddly quiet when I arrived home from work. I shed my coat and tugged off my black boots, and then headed upstairs to change from my dress pants and satin blouse into yoga pants and a lightweight sweatshirt. The chance of my doing yoga moves tonight was pretty slim, but I could definitely see me eating ice cream and stretching out on the couch.
“Addy? Layne?” I called out as I stepped back into the hallway.
Nothing. I checked their rooms. Their backpacks were there but no kids. Hmmm. A few fingers of worry tickled down my spine, but I told myself everything was fine and headed downstairs.
Aunt Zoe was pouring herself a glass of water when I walked into the kitchen. I sized her up while her back was to me. Her braid was fraying, silver and brown strands popping out this way and that. So were the threads of her old green work shirt. Her jeans had a few burn marks along with some black smudges.
“Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” I asked.
She turned toward me, a tired smile on her mouth. “Both.”
Her eyes looked weary as well—too many late nights toiling away in her shop. She’d even closed down her store on Main Street for a week so she could focus on getting this order done in time.
“Are my kids out in your workshop bugging you?”
She shook her head. “Doc came earlier and got them.”
“He did? Why?”
“He said the three of them had a date at the Rec Center. He assured me he’d have them back in time for supper, which he planned to bring with them.”
I fell into a kitchen chair, stunned. “He didn’t mention it to me.”
One of Aunt Zoe’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that a problem?”
“Not for me, but they might be for him. Those two can be a handful.”
“They behave well for others. You get the worst of it.”
“I hope so, or he may dump them off and run far away, never to be seen again.” I was sort of joking but sort of not.
Aunt Zoe picked up on my teeter-tottering. She pulled out a chair and sat across from me. “If this thing between you two is going to develop into something long-term, you have to give him some opportunities to build relationships with Addy and Layne without you in the picture.”
“But I worry.”
“About the kids’ welfare?”
“No, I know he’ll protect them and treat them well. The thing is, if I’m not there with them, things could be said that might paint the future or past in a different color than I’d like.”
“You mean like him and the kids talking about marriage?”
“Yes, as in him not marrying me, like he told them last month.”
“Violet, you don’t know how that conversation went. You’re hearing one side of it, which was filtered through nine-year-old ears. If his telling the kids he wasn’t going to marry you still weighs on your mind, you should ask Doc what was said. You need to hear his side of the story.”
I shuddered. “No way.” Especially not after receiving Tiffany’s text about the L-word. “I’d rather keep working on pretending it didn’t happen.”
“Of course you would. Didn’t you once tell me that same thing right after you found out you were pregnant with the twins?”
“Maybe.” Yes, and I’d wanted to avoid reality then, too.
“And how is that pretending business going for you a decade later with two half-grown kids?”
I wrinkled my nose at her. “Point taken.”
She finished her glass of water. “Talk to him.”
“No way. There are too many ‘what ifs’ that make my mouth dry and my palms clammy.”
“Take it from someone who has loved and lost, kiddo. Enjoy the good stuff while it lasts, because you might bottom out when you least expect it.”
“But Reid’s back.”
She traced the rim of her empty glass. “Yeah, but how do I know he’s not here again because he’s bottomed out somewhere else?” She pushed up out of her chair, walking over to the sink. “How was work?”
A complete change of subject. It appeared we were done focusing on Reid for now. “Okay, I guess. The film crew is back in town.”
“When are you on camera next?”
“Thursday. We’ll be at The Old Prospector Hotel.”
“You think Cornelius is up for that?”
I blew out a breath. “I hope so. When I called him today, he said he’d make sure the place was camera ready.” I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I had my fingers crossed it didn’t mean he’d have sheet-made ghosts hanging around like a haunted house.
“What did Doc say about the Wilda situation?”
“He wants to read up on a couple of things first, but we’re going to try to help Cornelius.”
She frowned over her shoulder at me.
I agreed with her nonverbal assessment, but I didn’t know what else to do to help Cornelius.
When I’d called him today, he’d begged again for my help, saying he hadn’t slept in almost two days. He’d even tried staying the night at a different hotel, but Wilda had followed him there.
Doc had once called Cornelius the Pied Piper of ghosts. According
to what Doc experienced while working with him on the ghost-front, Abe Jr. had a way of drawing ghosts to him. The problem was Cornelius didn’t seem to realize he was attracting them. He mistook his ability as only being able to hear ghosts. He also had no experience with making the ghosts leave his side.
This crowd of specters always following Cornelius made it tough for Doc, because as soon as the dead realized Doc could “receive” them, they would swarm him, which pretty much knocked him out with the sudden rush of energy. At least, that’s how I understood it all.
“Please be careful, Violet.”
The tension in Aunt Zoe’s voice tugged me back to the moment at hand. “I will certainly try.”
That was the best I could do since I had no idea what in the hell I was doing when dabbling with the paranormal world.
It was my turn to change the subject. “Do you know Katrina King-Mann?”
“Sure. Her family has been prominent in Lead since Phoebe Hearst’s era of influence. Why?” Her gaze narrowed. “Is this about Douglas Mann and that mess up at the Carhart house that you were dragged into?”
“I don’t think so. Katrina called and asked for me today. I made an appointment with her secretary for tomorrow morning. According to her initial message, she wants to meet with me to discuss a certain property that’s for sale in Lead.”
“Which one?”
“The Sugarloaf Building.”
Aunt Zoe’s mouth widened for a second. “What’s with so much interest in that old building all of a sudden?”
“I was hoping you might know that answer.”
I heard the front door open and close. “Vi? Zoe?” Natalie called from the dining room.
“We’re in the kitchen.”
She joined us, her face alight with a grin, her eyes sparkling. The knees of her jeans looked wet and dirty, like she’d been kneeling in the mud. Her pink T-shirt had a smiling R.V. on it with Dancing Winnebago R.V. Park written across her chest.
“Aren’t you cold?”
Her cheeks matched the color of her shirt, wind-blown from the look of them.
“No, I’ve been running hot all afternoon for some reason. I think it’s my socks. They’re those thick, extra-warm suckers Gramps gave me. They’re supposed to be good for working outside in the winter.” Her grandfather had been a contractor for decades before he retired and headed down to an R.V. park in southern Arizona and married the owner—as in the R.V. park that happened to be on her T-shirt. He must have given her the shirt, too.