An Ex to Grind in Deadwood (Deadwood Humorous Mystery Book 5) Paperback – September 4, 2014 (35 page)

Since I was picking up Dickie and Honey and taking them out to Harvey’s ranch, Jerry had insisted I use his fancy rig. He’d also sent me home to change after seeing my sensible brown boots and capri corduroy pants. I thought I looked nice but practical, since we might be traipsing around in the mud at Harvey’s ranch after last night’s storm. Jerry thought I needed more pink and white and a lot less brown, as in none. He also suggested a silky neck scarf to add a Grace Kelly flare to my ensemble. I was surprised he even knew who Grace was since she hadn’t played any professional sports.

“You catch any shuteye last night?” Harvey said, leaning close to look me over. His hair was damp and wavy. I could smell Doc’s sandalwood-scented soap on him.

“Not really.”

I’d tossed and turned about the message on the back of Ms. Wolff’s dresser drawer. Until Doc could decipher it and we figured out if the message was for me or for someone else, I doubted I’d be slumbering peacefully anytime soon. The shy ghost hiding in her apartment hadn’t helped with my sheep-counting woes either. The topper of my middle-of-the-night anxieties, of course, was the séance Doc swore he was dead serious about having in her apartment. My problems with Rex didn’t stand a chance of elbowing to the front of my worry line-up against last night’s excitement.

“Your peepers look like they’re covered with red spider webs. And look at those dark bags underneath.” He pinched my cheek.

I batted his hand away. “What’d you do that for?”

“Your cheeks are pale.”

“I’m a natural blonde. Pale skin comes as part of the package deal.”

“You look like one of those zombies hanging out at the Opera House last month before you went and screwed up their play.”

I hadn’t screwed up anything. It wasn’t my fault that a bitchy white-haired sprite with a fetish for spikey stuff had gone on a killing spree and taken out part of the cast.

“You are doing wonders for my ego, old man.”

“Well, the scarf sure looks purty. Is that warm and fuzzy enough for ya, or do you need me to write ya a love poem?”

“I’m allergic to poetry.” After my coworker, Ben, had played Shakespeare this past summer and had tried to woo me with a slew of Roses are Red sonnets and flower bouquets, I’d changed my standards when it came to romance. These days, a thick steak and a cold bottle of beer were good enough.

Rolling to a stop in front of the hotel where Dickie and Honey were staying, I snapped one of Harvey’s suspenders. “Promise you’ll be polite in front of my guests.”

“Of course I’ll be polite. My mamma didn’t raise me to be an addle-headed coot.”

“And that you won’t talk about sex, guns, and prostitutes or your history with loose women and kissing cousins.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Shucks, girl. All that leaves us to chew on all day is a bunch of fiddle faddle.”

“
And
that you’ll keep quiet about all of the body parts and weird discoveries going on at your place.”

His chin jutted. “I thought these folks wanted to hear the juicy stuff. That’s what makes good TV.”

“When it comes to your ranch, I want to be in control of what juicy stuff they hear.”

“You can never tell which way a pickle’s gonna squirt.” He waggled his fingers at Honey as she approached with her cell phone in one hand and her camera bag over her shoulder

“Just try to be good,” I whispered through a big smile and rolled down my window. “Hi, Honey.”

“Morning.” She glanced back at the hotel. “Dickie will be here shortly.”

“This is Willis Harvey.”

Harvey leaned forward. “You can call me Bill.”

I did a doubletake.
Bill?
I mouthed.

Harvey winked at me.

“Nice to meet you, Bill. Thank you for letting us take a look around your ranch today. I hear you might have a ghost for us to see.”

“Maybe more than one. I’ll introduce you to Bessie, too.”

I smacked Harvey’s leg.

“Who’s Bessie?” Honey asked.

“My guardian angel.”

Here we go again.
I was thankful that Dickie was walking out the hotel lobby doors so that we could get one step closer to the end of today.

After introductions were made, we cruised on up Strawberry Hill and south on State Route 385. Several twists and curves up a winding gravel road and we bumped into Harvey’s ranch.

“Home sweet nightmare,” Harvey muttered.

Shooting him with a pointed glare, I stopped in front of his porch and killed the engine. “How about we start inside and finish with your old family cemetery?”

“Is the cemetery close by?” Dickie asked as he joined Harvey and me on the front porch.

“Just two whoops and a holler past my old barn there.” Harvey pointed toward the barn, behind which we’d found part of a human scalp with the ear still attached back in July. But Dickie didn’t need to know that detail.

“Let’s say ‘Hello’ to your pappy’s ghost, shall we, Bill?” I said to Harvey, pulling open the screen door.

Harvey led the way.

An hour later, we’d traversed his house and the barn and inside his attic. Luckily the only excitement had been in the barn when a rat had raced across the top of Honey’s boots, making her scream and high-step for a few seconds. Other than critters, Harvey’s place was nice and quiet on the ectoplasmic front.

“Let’s drive back to the family cemetery now.” I stepped out onto the front porch, holding open the screen door for everyone to follow. I had a feeling that the sooner we could get back to town and away from this place, the sooner my tension headache would break.

Dickie and Honey were wrapping up, videotaping Harvey’s commentary about the history of his family’s ranch.

I heard a suckling-snorting sound behind me and looked around to find Red, Harvey’s fat yellow dog, splayed out on the porch while chewing on what looked like a dirty, old boot.

“Hey, Red,” I let go of the screen door and walked over to the old dog. “Can’t you find something better to chew on?”

Red spared me a few pants and then returned to tugging on the leather uppers. The eyelets and hooks looked like tarnished brass. They were probably pricey boots before Red got ahold of them.

The screen door creaked open. “What’re you buggin’ old Red about?” Harvey asked me.

I pointed at the boot. “He’s eating one of your boots.”

Harvey shuffled over. “That ain’t my boot.” He bent over with a grunt and tugged it free of Red’s jaws. When he held it up, a dollop of slobber dripped from it, splatting on the porch right next to my taupe-colored, open-toed suede bootie.

I grimaced at the saliva-coated leather and the dirty sock jammed partway in it. “I supposed that isn’t your sock either.”

The screen door creaked as Dickie and Honey joined us on the porch.

Red whined up at us, licking his chops.

“This here?” Harvey reached into the slobbery mess and pulled out the sock with his fingertips. “Nope. Wool makes me itch all over.”

“I know all about your issues with wool.” Too much.

“What’s in there?” Honey asked.

I frowned as she approached, wishing I’d ignored Red and his chew toy. “You mean the boot?”

“No, the sock.” She pointed at the toe. “There’s something in it.”

“Probably a dead mouse,” I said, hoping to scare her back a step. It worked.

Harvey tipped the sock upside down and shook it out on the porch. A collection of bones rattled onto the boards, along with chunks of what looked like light tan turkey jerky.

The three of us bent over to get a closer look.

“Is that …” I gasped and stood upright so fast that stars floated through my vision.

“They look like metatarsals and phalanges,” Honey whispered, a mixture of awe and disgust in her tone. She gaped up at me. “You don’t think …”

“Yep,” Harvey said. “I do think so.”

“What is it?” Dickie asked, horning in on our circle.

“The partial remains of a foot,” Honey answered. She reached for her camera. “We need to get this on film.”

“Oh, shit,” I muttered, kneading my forehead with my palms.

Dickie pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He lowered onto one knee and peered even closer. “Look at the dried pieces of skin. These must be really old.”

I frowned at Harvey. “Cooper’s head is going to explode when you call him.”

“Me?” Harvey dropped the sock and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I ain’t callin’ Coop. I did it last time. It’s your turn.”

“No, I called him last time.”

“But ya blamed me.”

“Who’s Cooper?” Dickie asked.

“Deadwood’s detective.” I pointed at Harvey. “And
Bill’s
nephew, which is why he’s calling.”

“I’d love to get an on-camera interview with Mr. Cooper,” Honey told Dickie. “I have release forms in my camera bag.”

Staring down at the bones, Harvey shook his head. “What we got us here is a hair in the butter.”

“More like the whole damned scalp.” I grabbed my phone.

Chapter Eighteen

“Parker,” Detective Cooper said when he joined Harvey and me in the kitchen an hour later, “would it be too much to ask for you to go one month without finding a body?”

“It’s only a foot.” I met Cooper’s glare head on. “And it’s not even fresh.”

“You’re splitting hairs.”

“Besides, I didn’t find this one, the dog did. I just called it in for him since his English isn’t so good.” I sipped on the cup of black coffee Harvey had made while we waited for Cooper and several members of the sheriff’s department to finish studying the boot and the bones. “Maybe you should make Ol’ Red your partner. He has a better track record at sniffing out clues than you. Harvey could get him one of those Sherlock Holmes hats.” I chuckled at the image of Cooper and Red in my head.

“Are you done?” Cooper asked.

“Almost.” I grinned at Harvey. “Dickie and Honey could start an all new television series about Cooper and Red’s crime-solving adventures.”

Harvey’s gold teeth glinted. “They could call it
The Canine and the Cop
.”

“I love it. Ol’ Red gets top billing.”

Cooper scrubbed his hand down his face. “I think I’ll throw you both in jail this time, and let Red eat the key.” He took the cup of water and ibuprofen his uncle was holding out for him. “Thanks.” He gulped them down and then grimaced across the room at where Dickie and Honey were talking with one of the deputies. “What’s the story with those two?”

“They’re here to film your great grandpappy’s ghost,” Harvey answered.

“My boss has me showing them around,” I added. “They have a reality TV show called
Paranormal Realty
. They’re in town to scout out filming locations and plan their show.”

Cooper squinted from me to Harvey and back. “You two are going to be on television together?”

“I hope not,” I said.

Harvey hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “Your uncle’s gonna be a big star, boy.”

“The world won’t know what hit it.” Cooper pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to me.

“What’s this?”

Harvey nudged me with his elbow. “I think you’re going steady now.”

“The key to my garage.”

“Why do I need to get into your garage?”

Harvey nudged me again. “Maybe he’s keeping his case board there and saving you the hassle of breaking and entering this time.”

“I didn’t break and enter last time.” I had a key then, too.

“No, but you did trespass,” Cooper said.

“Now you’re splitting hairs.” I held up the key and raised my eyebrows.

“I’ve cleaned up the garage so you can let buyers see it when you show the house.”

“What about your motorcycle?”

“Reid’s storing it for me for the winter.”

I closed my fist around the key. “How’s Reid doing?” I hadn’t seen the poor guy since Aunt Zoe had clocked him.

“He’s limping along.”

I worried my lower lip. When I’d mentioned Reid’s name to Aunt Zoe yesterday as a litmus test, there’d definitely still been an abundance of acid.

“Coop,” Detective Hawke said, stepping inside the front door and coming our way.

I caught the scowl that flitted over Cooper’s face before he fit his stony mask back into place.

“What?” Cooper’s back seemed to stiffen as he waited for Hawke.

“The sheriff needs you outside.”

Cooper cursed under his breath. Head down, he strode out the door.

“Parker,” Detective Hawke turned his burly brow my way. “There’s nowhere to run and hide today, Chicken Little.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, bracing for whatever Hawke had been wanting to badger me about for the last few days. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

“Relax, Parker. I’m not a proctologist.”

He’d sure been a pain in my ass since our first meeting.

The detective pulled a pen from his blazer pocket. A pad of paper came next, which he flipped open. He clicked his pen, shooting me a wincing glance. “How’s your temper today?”

I kept a poker face. “That depends on what your pen writes down on that pad of paper.”

“Don’t take your frustrations out on my pen, Parker.”

“If you’re that concerned about it, maybe you should deputize it and threaten to arrest me if I lay a hand on it.”