Better Off Dead in Deadwood (43 page)

“You don’t talk to me.”

“I call you every damned night.”

“For phone sex.” As soon as I said it, the rational side of my brain winced.

What was I doing? I sounded like some needy female begging for scraps of affection. God, I should leave before this ended with me clinging to his calf, begging for him to tell me that he loved me.

“Stop right there, Violet.” He pushed away from the door, taking a step toward me. “You’re the one keeping me at arm’s length, determining when it’s useful for me to be part of your life and for how long.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have Harvey stay at your house every night, but all I get is a damned phone call.”

“You think that’s my idea?” Maybe Doc hadn’t put Harvey up to it after all.

My phone rang in my pocket. Speaking of phones. Thinking of my kids, I checked it and could make out Cornelius’s name through the black lines. Really? Now? Great timing, Abe Jr., I thought, and sent him to voicemail, stuffing the phone back in my pocket.

“What about Jeff Wymonds?” Doc asked.

“What about him?”

“You let him play ‘daddy’ with your children.”

“That’s different,” I said. Our kids were friends, and I was just trying to sell his house.

“Why? Because he has experience with fatherhood and I don’t?”

I blinked, unsure exactly what Doc seemed to be hinting at here and not wanting to misread him on this front. “You don’t want to be a father.”

“Says who?”

Says the way he acted skittish whenever my kids were around. “You’re a thirty-seven-year-old bachelor.”

“Thirty-nine.”

No way. I had more gray hair than he did. “Okay, thirty-nine. If you’d really wanted children, I’d think there’d be a little Doc Jr. or two running around by now.”

“Maybe I haven’t found the right woman.”

Was he even looking for the right woman? Because Tiffany’s skinny ass sure didn’t scream “mother” material, and I was doing an excellent job of messing up my own kids’ lives. Maybe his right-woman radar needed a new battery.

My phone started ringing again. “Damn it.” I pulled it out of my pocket and glared at the screen—Cornelius again.
Now
he finally wanted to talk to me enough to keep calling?

Doc grabbed my hand and looked at the phone. “Take his call.”

“I’ll get back with him when we’re finished here.”

“As far as I’m concerned, we’re done.”

I stared up into his hard squint. Did he mean “done” done? Or just done for now? Because as much as I hated him going to Cooper, I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel on whatever was going on between Doc and me.

“Let yourself out,” he said and stormed past me heading for the kitchen.

My knees wobbled. Shit, that sounded more like done-done.

“Hello?” I answered the phone.

“Violet,” Cornelius said around static. “I need you …” He cut out.

I pressed the phone harder to my ear. “Cornelius, are you there?”

“… help me. I’m stuck under …”

Damned this crappy-ass phone! I smacked it on my leg twice. “Cornelius, I couldn’t hear all of that. Where are you stuck?”

“I said I’m … pool in the …”

“You’re stuck in a pool?” If he was drunk-dialing me from Vegas while whooping it up in celebration from some huge inheritance, I was going to drive down there and kick his ass all of the way back up here.

“No, under the pool … house.”

Under the pool … “Did you say the opera house? Are you here in town?” How in the hell did he get back here so fast? And what was he doing up at the opera house?

“Yes!” he answered loud and clear, making me jerk the phone away. When I put it back to my ear, I heard, “… need you to come down and …” he went quiet again.

That was it. Tomorrow, I’d be driving down to Rapid and buying a new freaking phone. “Cornelius? I think I lost you.”

“… got stuck down here. Need your help getting …”

“I don’t understand. You need me to come pick you up there?” Where was his rental car?

“… just hurry. Oh, and I have your money in my …”

The line went quiet.

I waited several seconds. “Cornelius?”

Still nothing.

I gave up and hung up, stuffing the worthless piece of shit in my pocket. Now I had to go up to Lead and get Abe Jr. out of a pickle. Guess that sounded like a job for the Picklemobile. He’d better have been talking about that damned earnest money he’d stiffed me on earlier.

“Cooper is trying to protect you, Violet,” Doc said from behind me.

I turned and found him leaning against the archway between the dining room and kitchen, an open bottle of beer in his hand.

“Protect me from what? He doesn’t believe in albinos or ghosts or anything other than bad guys he can actually see and handcuff. He’s useless on the ethereal front and you know it.”

“He doesn’t want what happened to Jane to happen to you.” Doc took a swig of beer. “Neither do I.”

Why? Cooper was protecting another citizen, but why did Doc care? Couldn’t he say one little line that showed this was about more than being some kind of protector? That he was falling in love with me just a tiny bit? That I wasn’t out here walking on this tight rope with no net below all alone?

“I appreciate your concern, Doc. But I’m not some little woman who needs a man to stand guard over her.”

I hadn’t back in the first grade when I punched Georgie Hopper in the nose for pinching my butt, and I didn’t now, even with an albino on the loose.

“I never thought you were.”

“Then why did you go to Cooper?”

“Because I don’t think you know what’s out there, what you’ll be up against before this is all over. You may need all of the help you can get, including Cooper.”

I hoped he was wrong, but the cold certainty in his voice gave me the chills.

Doc bounced the bottle of beer against his thigh. “And because Cooper told me something about Jane that made me want to join Harvey on your couch every night.”

I’d rather Doc joined me in my bed. “What?”

“When they found her, she was in pieces.”

I grimaced, holding the back of my hand up to my lips. “From the impact?”

“No. According to the coroner in Rapid City where the remains were sent, Jane was torn to pieces before they stuffed her in a bag and tossed her into the pit.”

Oh, my God!
The bloody hook. Nausea boiled up my throat.

My phone started ringing again, giving me a distraction that I clung to right then.

“I have to go help Cornelius,” I whispered.

“Of course you do. You always jump for your clients. Maybe I should buy another house so I can have you at my beck and call, too.”

“That’s not fair.”

He pointed his beer bottle at me. “Neither is you coming here to chew me out for wanting to keep you safe. Goodnight, Violet.” He turned his back on me and walked back into the kitchen.

My phone stopped ringing.

I hesitated on the threshold. While I still wanted to thump Doc for going to Cooper, I could see his point. Maybe I should follow him back to his kitchen and explain to him how shitty my day had been. I could apologize for taking it out on him, say and do whatever I needed to in order to make his eyes go all liquid chocolate for me again. Harvey would watch my kids for the night if I asked.

I took a step toward the kitchen.

My phone rang again, reminding me of my other obligation.

Damn it!

Fine. First, rescue Cornelius, get that earnest money, and return him to his suite in The Old Prospector Hotel. Then come back here and try to work through Doc’s and my differences of opinion, preferably while naked.

If Doc would let me in the front door again.

* * *

I raced home, shucked my pink monstrosity of a dress for a pair of jeans and T-shirt, and lied to Harvey. I told him that Doc and I were “fine and dandy.” I couldn’t face his all-seeing blue eyes right then.

Then I grabbed the keys and said I needed to go for a ride to get my day’s frustrations out, asking if he’d keep an eye on my kids for a couple more hours. He told me he’d already ordered pizza and suggested I use old Bessie and a fence lined with soup cans to take the edge off. Feeling borderline manic, I didn’t think holding a loaded firearm in my hands would lead to any happy endings but thanked him for his offer.

I grabbed a travel mug full of cold coffee to keep me going until I could score some dinner and headed out the door. The Picklemobile and I both chugged all of the way up the hill to Lead. For a few seconds, I thought about driving right on through Lead and heading west, toward Wyoming and all of its wide openness. As cowardly as running away from my troubles was, the appeal of punching the gas and not looking back beckoned.

I tried to peel off one of my fake eyelashes as I drove, but it was really stuck. Come on! Had the photographer’s makeup girl used superglue?

Cornelius’s black rental car was parked behind the opera house in the little lot where I’d been manhandled and handcuffed by Cooper a few days ago. I pulled in next to it and cut the engine.

When I touched the hood of Cornelius’s car, it was lukewarm. What the hell? If he had his car here, why did he need me? I tried to recall what he’d said on the phone, but I’d been a little too busy doing a bang-up job annihilating my relationship with Doc right then to focus. Then I remembered something Cornelius had said about “under the pool.”

Looking over at the glass doors I’d used when trying to escape from Cooper, I chewed on my lower lip. The lights were on inside the opera house. Was Peter Tarragon there?

Judging from the cars filling the lot behind the building and lining the curbs, I didn’t need a Magic 8 Ball to answer that question. The more important question was what were the chances of running into the asshole?

I pulled out my phone to check the time—almost nine. How long until rehearsal wrapped up for the night? Maybe I should wait out here until everyone left and see if Cornelius came out with the cast.

Or I could just send him a text. Duh, Violet.

I’m parked next to your rental. Where are you?
I hit Send and waited.

The sound of an approaching car sent me scurrying into the shadows, hiding behind the Picklemobile as a police cruiser passed. I sneaked a peek after it, watching the cop car roll up Siever Street and take a left onto Main.

Whew! That was close. I didn’t need to end this Monday from hell with a trip to jail. Jerry would slap me with the remaining four fouls all at once, and now that we’d had a fight, Doc probably wouldn’t take my one phone call.

I checked my phone. Still no reply from Cornelius, damn it. What had happened to his incessant ringing from earlier?

My focus returned to the opera house. Did I go into the building and risk running into Tarragon, or stay outside in the cold and wait for Cornelius to come out?

The choice was a no-brainer. I climbed back into the Picklemobile and closed the door, locking it. I just wished I’d brought a warmer coat.

The waiting began. I turned the key and tuned in to an oldies AM radio station, singing along with Smokey Robinson and the Miracles about teary-eyed clowns. I sent Natalie a couple of texts, telling her about my photo shoot and visit from Susan. Then I played several games of solitaire, but the black lines on the screen kept making me lose. Then I noticed how low my battery was and pocketed it. Flopping across the bench seat, I stared up at the moon through the front windshield and tried to figure out what I should do about my job, my kids, Doc, and Natalie.

Twenty minutes later, having sung along with Neil Diamond, Linda Ronstadt, and Dolly Parton (twice), I still had no answers and was shivering.

Fall nights in the Black Hills required a bit more than a hoodie. Had I known I’d be playing “stakeout” tonight, I’d have come prepared. I also wouldn’t have chugged down all of that coffee on the way up here. The ticklish pain in my bladder had almost reached the squirming level.

I sat up just as another police car turned onto Siever Street, heading down the hill toward me. I slid down in the seat, peering out as it turned left onto Julius Street and then right onto Main, where it disappeared from view. Damn, was the Picklemobile bugged?

Checking the opera house glass doors again for any signs of life, I groaned when I found it the same—lit up and empty. My bladder wasn’t going to hold on much longer. I slid behind the wheel. “Sorry, Cornelius, but I’ll be right back.”

I turned the key.

The old girl whined and clicked, but that was it.

“Not funny,” I said, and tried again.

This time, it just clicked.

I turned on the dome light. It flickered, dim, barely lighting the cab.

Shit. I’d killed the battery.

Pulling out the keys, I pushed open the door and gingerly stepped down. Standing in the cold air made my bladder even more obnoxious about its needs. The shadows in front of the pickup beckoned. Maybe I could just … but I looked back at the glass doors. There was a nice, warm bathroom a minute away.

“Screw it,” I muttered and stiff-legged it as fast as I could without risking a dam-burst across Julius Street toward the opera house. With my luck today, the doors would be locked and I’d have to go in the alley, which was when another cop car would drive by and shine his light on me. Could they throw you in jail for peeing in public? I wondered how Jerry would spin that.

The right glass door opened with barely a tug. I’d have jumped for joy if my bladder weren’t the size of a watermelon. I rushed down the long, empty hallway, crossed over the concrete-covered pool, and climbed the six steps leading out of the old pool area. One of the double doors that bisected the long hallway stood propped open. I passed through, raced by the supply room Helen had dragged me into, and skidded to a stop in front of the set of restrooms.

Jackpot! I tried the women’s bathroom, but the door was locked. The men’s bathroom was, too. Damn. Figured. Fine, I’d use the bathroom on the next level up, the one where I’d first heard Helen Tarragon’s sobs. I continued down the hall to the stairs I’d come down last time I was here.

I could hear the sound of distant voices, both high and low, along with some pounding noises, as I climbed the stairs. But I didn’t come across a single soul—alive or undead, thank God. Either would have probably resulted in a trail of dribbles all the way back out to the Picklemobile.