Rattling the Heat in Deadwood

by Ann Charles

  “Just open it,” Harvey said.

  Cooper pulled out the picture of that horned thing back in Slagton and the piece of paper that had been included with it. As he stared down at the picture, surprise flitted over his expression, followed by a tightening of his jaw. He cursed under his breath. Stuffing the picture and paper back in the envelope, he asked in a low voice, “Where did you get this?”

  “It sort of showed up.” Harvey’s blue eyes met mine briefly.

  Cooper caught our shared look. His lips thinned. “Bullshit.”

  “No tall tales this mornin’, Coop. Someone called and left a message where to find it. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Who called?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Slagton.” Harvey laid strips of bacon in the pan, his feathers seemingly unruffled by his nephew’s snapping teeth. “Past the ol’ company store.”

  “You didn’t go back there alone, did you?”

  “I’m a grown man.”

  “I went with him,” I said. I couldn’t let Harvey take the brunt of the heat, even though he’d technically dragged me along.

  Cooper’s gaze swung my way. “When?”

  “Recently,” I said, realizing that if I wasn’t careful he’d realize somebody had messed with the tracking device on my phone—a certain somebody who had just kicked me under the table and was warning me to zip it under her breath.

  “How recently?” he asked.

  “What is it?” Natalie tried to run interference. She joined him at the counter, trying to grab the envelope from his hand. “A picture?”

  “Nothing.” Cooper tucked the envelope behind his back. “And if Uncle Willis and Parker know what’s good for them, they’ll forget they ever saw it.”

  “Forget what?” Harvey joked.

  “I’m going to get the kids up,” I said, escaping the room before Cooper changed his mind and decided to interrogate me further about the Slagton field trip.

  “You can run for now, Parker,” he followed me into the dining room. “But I know where to find you.”

  “Of course you do, Cooper.” I climbed the stairs, looking down over the railing at him. “My phone is handcuffed to yours, remember?”

  Or not.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My cell phone rang as I pulled into my parking spot behind Calamity Jane’s. I cringed, afraid Cooper wasn’t done bugging me about that damned picture from Slagton. There was no way he was going to let that whole fiasco go for long without some rubber-glove treatment.

  I dug my phone out of my purse, letting the engine idle with the heater vent blowing on me. The drive to work was so short the warm air was just getting going.

  It wasn’t Cooper.

  My heart pitter-pattered.

  “Bonjour, mon cheri,” I said in my best attempt at a sex-kitten voice at this ungodly hour of the day.

  “No fair, Tish.” Doc’s voice was velvety in my ear. “I’m too far away to kiss your arm.”

  “My arm? I’d rather you start with my mouth. Where are you?” The Picklemobile wasn’t in the lot. Neither were Mona’s or Ray’s SUVs, Ben’s Subaru, or Jerry’s Hummer, for that matter. I’d escaped from the house and Cooper early, but not that early.

  “Down in Keystone at a client’s place.”

  “Already?” I leaned back in my seat, frowning out the windshield at the pine trees blanketing the hillside in front of me. Doc must be as tired as Cooper after his late night at the Golden Sluice.

  “I wanted to take care of things here so I could be back in Deadwood after lunch. They’re calling for snow later.”

  Weren’t they always this time of year and getting it right only half of the time? The Black Hills were notorious for giving the weather predictors the runaround. “Are you playing poker tonight with the boys?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn.”

  “You don’t want me to play poker with them?”

  I fiddled with my coat button—one that Elvis hadn’t pecked off yet. “I’d rather you play with me.”

  I’d missed him next to me in bed more than I’d like to admit, even to myself. Having slept alone most of my life, it was surprising how quickly I’d grown accustomed to hearing his steady breath in the darkness, feeling his warmth next to me under the covers, knowing he was only an arm’s length away.

  “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “Coop just called and told me he cleared it with your aunt Zoe for us to have the game in her kitchen tonight so he can keep an eye on you.”

  Aunt Zoe was okay with Reid coming over again? She must plan on hiding out in her workshop. “Cooper needs to take a chill pill,” I told Doc. “Where would I go on a snowy night?”

  “I don’t know, maybe Slagton again.”

  Oh. I grimaced. “He whined to you about that, huh?”

  “That and about being woken up extra early because my girlfriend was screaming her lungs out in the room next door. He wanted to know what I usually do when you have nightmares—pinch you hard or slap you awake?”

  “He better be careful. He tries either and I might wake up swinging.”

  His low chuckle tugged on my heart, making me miss him even more. “I reminded him of your deadly windmill move. He told me it was Lila haunting you this time in your nightmare.”

  “My brain made a mashup of Lila and her knives with Prudence’s death scene, including the menacing guys with the potato sack masks.”

  “Damn. It’s no wonder you were screaming.”

  Doc had experienced Prudence’s death multiple times while hanging out in the Carhart house using his magic mind trick—what had he called it? Retrocognition, maybe? Both times had left him pale and shaken after he’d woken up from his trip to the past.

  “Maybe you need to drink beer and play some poker with us tonight,” he said. “Take your mind off your troubles.”

  “I’d rather take my mind off this crap by playing with you alone.”

  “I see.” His tone lowered to an even deeper, sexier level. “And what would we play, Boots?”

  “I always enjoy a rousing game of Twister.”

  “Twister with you is definitely entertaining, but you cheat.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do, too.”

  “How in the world can someone cheat at Twister?” I tried to sound innocent and slightly outraged.

  “You purposely wear leggings or yoga pants when we play.”

  Shoot. He was on to me. “For comfort,” I claimed. “They stretch better.”

  “They distract the hell out of me and you know it. You also like to bend over in front of me so I can see down your shirt.”

  “I wear a bra.” Usually. “Besides, I have to put my hands on the dots. Whether or not you’re peeking down my shirt is out of my control.”

  “Last time we played, you wore a thong and no bra.”

  “I had a camisole on.”

  “And only a camisole. I almost had a stroke trying to keep from touching you in front of the kids.”

  I laughed, remembering Doc’s repeated curses under his breath that evening. My kids were used to my wearing camisoles and yoga pants around the house, especially during cleaning days, so they hadn’t noticed the sweat dotting Doc’s upper lip. But I had, which had spurred the temptress in me to tease even more.

  “Fine, you big baby,” I conceded. “What do you want to play?”

  “How about another round of Frisk-the-Hot-Blonde-Against-My-Desk?”

  A punch of lust made me blow out a breath. “Oh! That’s a good game.” I adjusted the vent, hot enough at the memory he was spurring to skip the heater.

  “A very good one. How about you stop over at lunch today and let me remind you how good?”

  “I thought you were in Keystone.”

  “I’ll hurry. Are you wearing your purple boots?”

  I looked down at my feet. “Nope, brown.”

  “I’ll swing by yo
ur place on the way back and grab the others. Are they in your closet?”

  “Yes, but they won’t match my outfit.”

  “They always look absolutely stunning with your birthday suit.”

  I giggled. “You’re hopeless when it comes to those boots.”

  “I’m a sucker for all things Violet. Harvey suggested I buy you spurs for Christmas.”

  “Oh, God, he would.” I flipped my visor down, checking my teeth for food in the lighted mirror.

  “I told him I have something else in mind.”

  That gave me pause. In the mirror, worry lines formed on my forehead. “What’s that?” I was all over the place with ideas for him, trying to find the perfect gift that said, I love you but don’t feel stuck with me and my kids.

  “It won’t be a surprise if I tell you.”

  “Don’t make me seduce it out of you, Doc.”

  “You should try.” I could hear his grin in his flirty tone. “Here’s a tip: The more naked you are, the better your chances of success.”

  The lines on my forehead smoothed. “What time do you want me to come over?”

  “Will one o’clock work?”

  “Sure. You want me to bring you something for lunch?”

  “Yeah, a paper bag surprise like last time.”

  I smiled. My underwear had been in that bag. “Tell me, big boy.” I pulled my lip gloss out and touched up my lips in the mirror. “Did you dial my number to set up a booty call, or was there something else you needed to tell me?”

  “Damn it. You distracted me again with your body.”

  “It’s what I do best.”

  “No, that thing you do with your mouth is what you do best.”

  I closed the mirror and flipped the visor back up. “Which thing with my mouth are you talking about?” I’d done plenty with it when we were alone, and he was always very vocal with his appreciation.

  “The thing where you tell me you love me with it.”

  A rush of that very love he was talking about filled me, flooding my heart until it overfilled and made my eyes water. I quickly swiped away the tears, not that he could see me.

  “Je t’aime, baby.” I purred those three little words in the language of love … well, one of them, trying to keep things light and flirty.

  “Quit teasing me, Tish. I called to tell you about Ms. Wolff.”

  Zoiks! That certainly cooled my jets. “What about her?”

  “I found something in your family history book last night that I need to show you.”

  Last night? After he dropped off Cooper? Eek. That book was so not my idea of bedtime reading material. “And it has to do with Ms. Wolff?”

  “Sort of.” I heard the sound of someone talking in the background. “I have to go,” he said. “My client’s calling me back inside. Keep your cute nose out of trouble this morning, Killer.”

  I blew him a kiss and hung up.

  After hearing his voice, the day seemed brighter. I practically skipped across the parking lot and into the office, whistling like a Disney bluebird past Jerry’s dark office, all of the way into the front room.

  The sight of Tiffany sitting in Ben’s chair made me skid to a stop, my whistle petering out.

  I paused, looking around the room to make sure I’d entered the correct building. Had I stepped through a door to a parallel universe? One in which Tiffany and I worked together side-by-side instead of competing for men and sales?

  “Good morning, Violet,” she said, rising from the chair.

  Her long, red hair looked even softer and wavier than usual this morning, not a single wild strand to be seen, dang her. How did she get her brow, eye, and lip liner so freaking perfect at this hour? It just proved my suspicion that she wasn’t mortal. Her peach fuzzy cardigan sweater fit like a second skin, several of the buttons ready to pop loose and take out an eye. The pencil-thin skirt painted on her hips showed off the skinny bitch’s lack of a baby tummy. As ex-girlfriends went, she was a real doozy to have to face when I wasn’t packing mace, especially after sharing breakfast with a cantankerous cop. I’d sooner go nose-to-nose with a grizzly bear.

  “What are you doing here, Tiffany?” And who let the razor-clawed she-cat inside the office? Nobody else was here yet.

  “I stopped by to take our friend to breakfast.”

  “Which friend?” We didn’t share any friends. Wait, did she mean Jeff Wymonds?

  “Cornelius.”

  My lips tightened. Since when had we begun sharing custody of Cornelius? She’d tried to woo him away once or twice in the past, but his eccentricities had seemed to put her off. His quirks had put me off, too, at first, but now I think my kookiness outranked his, which is why he was my friend and not hers. Hell, I specialized in non-normal pals, some of them not even breathing anymore. I’d like to see the ultra-competitive, Jessica Rabbit wanna-be top that shit.

  “Where is he?” I asked, looking around for my favorite Abe Lincoln doppelganger. Jerry’s office had been dark, the door closed.

  “He went upstairs to get dressed.”

  “Gotcha.” Clothing was a good thing when it came to his hairy stick legs. I set my purse on my desk, trying to pretend Tiffany being in the office with me wasn’t a big, sweaty-palm deal.

  She rounded Ben’s desk, leaning back against it with her arms crossed. “I hope you don’t mind if I take him to breakfast.”

  “Cornelius is a free soul. Have at it.” I wished her luck. His eclectic preferences in food made feeding him an adventure.

  “I have a property I think he might be interested in seeing.”

  Of course! Now it made sense. I lowered into my seat, turning on my computer, straightening my pens. “Wonderful.” I pretended her trying to steal Cornelius away from me didn’t make me want to stick her head in a toilet and give her a swirlee. “Is it haunted?”

  She leaned her head back and let out a loud, fake laugh. “You’re such a riot, Violet.”

  She didn’t know the half of it. She should have seen me yesterday with Detective Hawke and Prudence.

  “It’s not haunted,” she said, her lips set in a smug smile.

  “So, you’re showing him a property that is ghost-free?” At her nod, I smiled back just as smug. She really needed to spend more time learning her prospective customers’ tastes before she tried stealing them from other agents.

  “It’s a newer structure with a lot of potential.”

  “It sounds right up his alley,” I lied. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed it works out for both of you.”

  “I’d rather you kept your legs crossed,” she said quietly.

  So quietly, in fact, that for a moment I thought I’d imagined it. “What was that?”

  “You heard me.” Her teeth seemed to have grown longer, pointier, in the last few seconds, matching her claws. “Ray Underhill filled me in on your little strategy. Don’t you think using sex is archaic?”

  “Using sex for what?” I wanted her to spell out what she was accusing me of to make sure we were on the same page.

  “Making sales.”

  Uh, hadn’t she just done that with Jeff? Rather than point out the irony in her accusing me of using sex for gain, I shrugged. “Ray was pulling your leg.” That no-good, lousy, stinking, rotten son of a bitch. “I haven’t used sex to ensure any sales.”

  “What do you call Doc?”

  Damned Ray and his stupid, fat bucket mouth. I lifted my chin. “I call Doc plenty of things, including my boyfriend.” I also called him a god of sex, but that was only in my head when he finished taking me to the moon and back.

  “I’m referring to the sordid arrangement you two had when he was shopping for a house.”

  We’d had a sordid arrangement? I must have missed out on that at the time in between worrying about Addy getting kidnapped and fighting for my life in a clown-filled haunted house.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tiffany, or what sort of tales Ray spun for you, but Doc buying his house from me had
nothing to do with sex.” At least, I didn’t think it did. Who would buy a house in exchange for sex? I mean, I was pretty good in the sack, but not thirty-year-loan worthy. “I was only his real estate agent at that time.”

  “Please, Violet. I saw the way you were looking at him the day I ran into you two at that house east of town.”

  The day she’d slapped Doc in front of me? How had I been looking at him? I remembered being shocked at the realization that Tiffany and he had shared more than a mere agent-client contract, but not much else.

  “And the way you were dressed.” From her wrinkled nose, I apparently had failed on the fashion front that day.

  “Tiffany, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That was a teeny-tiny fib. I did remember trying to look good for Doc, hoping to land a compliment. My cheeks warmed at how pathetic and desperate I must have appeared to both Doc and her, but I held her stare.

  “Two can play this game of yours,” she said.

  I was pretty sure she wasn’t talking about Twister. “I’m not playing any game with you,” I told her. “Jerry paid for that billboard ad without even telling me what he was up to. That’s all. End of story.”

  “I’m no blonde, Violet.”

  Years of being on the receiving end of blond jokes had me extra sensitive to even the slightest derogatory remark about my hair color versus intelligence. “Obviously not, Tiffany,” I said between clenched teeth.

  “You think you’re so cute with your curves and curls, but we all know the truth about you.”

  To which truth was she referring? That I used to stuff my bra with toilet paper back in junior high school? That I liked to gorge on peanut butter fudge ice cream and Humphrey Bogart movies? That I’d once had a sex dream guest-starring Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy? That I channeled mentally unstable ghosts? That I’d killed not once or twice, but three times so far? That according to the rumor mill I’d murdered Ms. Wolff, too? That Detective Hawke thought I was a true-blue witch minus the flying monkeys?

  My list of knuckle-chewing truths would soon be longer than Santa’s “Nice” list at the rate I was going.

  Rather than appear interested in her attempt to set me on edge, I gave her a bored stare. “My dad used to tell me that the truth will catch up to you every time, so there’s no use running from it.”