Dead Case in Deadwood (11 page)

"What’s the bet?"

I leaned into the plant more, a leaf tickling my earlobe.

"Come on, my feet are achin’ standing here," Norma
Jean said. "I’ll tell you after we sit down."

The walker squeaked away with Norma Jean at the helm.

I almost followed them in to find out what exactly was being
said about Harvey, Cooper, and me. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to
make me feel like sunshine and lollipops, so I returned to the task at
hand—finding body parts, or the lack of them. Or something like that.

I glanced around again—not a soul in sight. Giddy up.

Dropping the brochure, I darted over to two nondescript doors
on the far side of the room. I grabbed the door knob on the left door and
turned it. It was unlocked.

Glancing at the door to my right, I hesitated. I knew from
some past nosing around that behind door number two was a storage closet lined
with shelves full of oversized leather-bound death records. Would George keep
notes if he was shipping body parts around? If so, slipping them in amongst a
century or more of death records would be a great hiding place.

The sound of a toilet flushing nearby spurred me to action.
I slipped inside the storage-viewing room, inching the door closed behind me,
and locked it.

It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the semi-gloom. The
room smelled unused, musty, tinged with a hint of cardboard. The one-way glass allowed
a dull glow into the room, giving me just enough light to get into trouble.

The room held several rows of empty chairs facing the parlor
in a silent, private vigil. The chairs had been there last time I was in here,
too. Either Elsa’s family wanted to sit in here away from community eyes during
tomorrow’s funeral, or George preferred to leave the chairs set up indefinitely.

I turned to the other side of the room—the storage half. Lining
the wall were shelves, laden with Kleenex boxes, vases of all shapes, stacks of
folded linens, wreath-supporting tripods, and anything else beloved family
members might need in their hours of grief.

I found myself humming
On the Road Again
by Willie
Nelson under my breath and realized Eddie’s damned kooky organ music was the
source of my inspiration. The chords were partially muted on this side of the
glass.

The last time I was in here, two big wooden crates had been
stacked end-to-end against the far wall, next to a fancy-looking rack of stereo
equipment. I’d lifted the lids off with little force. Today, the stereo
equipment was still there, the equalizer lights going up and down, but one of
the crates was missing.

I walked over to the remaining crate, which sat in the spot
of the one I’d hidden in last time when Eddie had come into the room to adjust
the sound system. Today, the lid wasn’t loose, though. It was padlocked shut. To
add to my curiosity, it was nailed closed.

What was in that crate?

I tried to lift one end of the crate, grunting in effort. It
barely budged. I leaned into it and shoved, but it only gave a centimeter or
two.

What was in the crate?

I squatted next to it and sniffed the wood. No rank of
rotting flesh or formaldehyde, just the scent of sawdust.

I pressed my ear against the scratchy boards, my hair
snagging on some of the splinters and listened. I wasn’t sure what I expected
to hear—breathing, sniffing, huffing and puffing? There was only silence.

Raising my fist, I used the old ripe-melon test to try to
determine how full it was. I knocked three times, listening to the depth of the
thuds.

Something knocked back.

I yelped and fell back on my butt, scrambling away from the
crate. My heart pinged in my chest like a pinball caught between bunkers.

Clunk clunk.
The knocking came again … from the door
to the room, the one through which I’d entered.

Not from the crate.

I smacked my forehead, feeling like the biggest numskull
this side of the Mississippi. Pushing to my feet, I tiptoed toward the door
with my heart now thundering for a whole different reason.

Who was on the other side of the door?

Through the one-way glass, I could see George and Harvey
still standing near the casket. Harvey talked with his hands in a chopping
motion; George with calming, open palms spread wide.

There was no sign of Eddie, who was probably down in the
basement wearing his rubber apron. Just the thought of the black-warted dead
guy I’d seen this morning tickled my gag reflex.

Three knocks sounded, faster, more intense.

Easing up to the door, I listened, hearing nothing but my
own quick, shallow breaths.

A shift in the thin slice of light coming from underneath
the door caught my eye.

I dropped to my hands and knees and peeked underneath the
door.

An eyeball stared back at me.

For the second time within minutes, I almost swallowed my
tongue. I scurried backwards, gurgling in fear as a scream bubbled up.

"Vi, it’s me," a voice I now heard morning, noon,
and night whispered through the crack. "Let me in before somebody sees me."

Natalie!

Lunging upright, I unlocked the door and dragged her inside
by the arm. After a peek behind her to make sure nobody was watching, I shut
the door and locked it again. I leaned against the wood, needing a moment to convince
my tongue to stop clinging to my tonsils for dear life.

"Whoa, take 'er easy there, pilgrim," Natalie
said, impersonating John Wayne, her gray gauzy skirt swishing as she tried to
imitate his swagger.

Taking a deep breath, I said, "Your tone is all off. You
really need to stop such blasphemy of the Duke." I pushed away from the
door. "What are you doing here?"

"Me?" She laughed too loud for my comfort.

I shushed her as I passed. She smelled like the underside of
a car hood.

"Okay, I get it, the old top-secret agent game,"
she whispered, following me with a dull, rhythmic
thump
thanks to the
medical boot encasing her lower right leg. "But I should be asking you what
you’re doing in here, not the other way around."

"How did you find me? And why do you smell like you’ve
been bellying-up to a crank shaft."

I heard her sniff. "It’s carburetor cleaner. My cousin Ronnie
is in town—you remember Claire’s older sister, right?"

I remembered Veronica all too well. She always used to steal
the tin can away during our neighborhood Kick-the-Can game as a show of
older-sister dominance. "Mom mentioned she was back," I answered. "She
also told me about Veronica’s sleazy ex-husband."

"Yeah, I hope the jerk’s dick falls off while he rots
in that kid-gloves-version of a prison they put him in. Anyway, Ronnie had some
engine troubles at the mall. I tinkered around under her hood for a bit."

"When did you learn how to fix engines?"

"I didn’t. We had to call a tow truck. When I dropped
Ronnie off at my aunt’s place, I saw your sister sunbathing next to your parents’
pool."

"The bitch is back."

"Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. I took the liberty
of rescuing your kids from her wickedness and dropped them off at your aunt’s.
Hope you’re okay with that."

"Oh, hell yes. You saved me having to snarl and growl
at Susan in person." I just hoped Aunt Zoe was okay with my two kids there
while she worked in her workshop.

"Zoe told me Harvey and you were at Mrs. Haskell’s
viewing, so I changed clothes and zipped down here."

That explained her
eau de
carburetor.

"When I saw Harvey out there harassing George,"
Natalie continued, "and you weren’t hiding in the john, I figured you were
either in here or in the basement. Knowing what Eddie does in the basement, I
decided to try my luck here first."

"Did you see Eddie anywhere?" I stopped short and
peered through the wall of glass windows, my armpits sweaty at just the thought
of him coming in this room again while I was sniffing in corners and crates.

"No, but his fancy new Silverado pickup is parked out
back, so he’s around." Natalie leaned her hip against the crate. "Is
this one of the crates you told me about last time?"

"Yeah." I joined her.

She tugged on the lid. "It wasn’t locked up like this before,
right?"

"Right." I moved to one end and nodded toward the
opposite. "See if you can help me move it."

"To where? We can’t exactly sneak this out through the
foyer under our skirts."

"I just want to see how heavy it is and if anything
shifts when we lift it."

Natalie rounded the other end. "I can’t put much weight
on my bad leg, you know."

"So, lift with your good leg, silly." I wrapped my
fingers around the top edge. "Ready? One, two, lift."

Natalie grunted. I strained. We were able to get just a
fraction of ground clearance before we had to set it down again.

"Christ," Natalie wiped her hands on her skirt. "What
in the hell is in this? A buffalo?"

"That’s the million dollar question."

I tiptoed over to the door that opened into the parlor and
ran my fingers along the jam, finding several indents midway down. Upon
returning to where Natalie now sat on the crate, I told her, "They bring
them in and out through the parlor door. It’s a tight squeeze."

"Excellent deduction, Nancy Drew. Didn’t you say there
was a cooler in the crate you hid in last time?"

"Yes, it had a biohazard sticker."

She tapped on the lid. "Is this the same crate?"

"I’m not sure. It looks the same, but I was a little
distracted when I was here last time." I inspected all three sides of the
crate for any tell-tale markings. "You think there’s a body in here?"

"I doubt it or we’d smell it."

"Not if they sealed it tightly in a plastic tub."

Natalie frowned at me. "That’s twisted. You’ve seen that
movie
Phantasm
too many times."

"Maybe the Mudders have, too."

"Next, you’ll be telling me you saw the ‘tall man’
digging up graves on Mount Moriah."

I shivered just thinking about that creepy film.

"Short of coming back here with a crowbar or some x-ray
glasses," Natalie hopped down from the crate, landing on her good foot, "there’s
no way to tell what’s in this thing."

"Is your toolbox in your truck?"

She cocked her head. "Vi, we’re not—" her eyes
flicked behind me. "Cooper’s here."

I spun around and watched, my breath locked up tight in my
chest.

Detective Cooper strode toward the front of the parlor and
sidled up next to his uncle. He leaned down and said something in Harvey’s ear,
then he turned and glared at me through the one-way glass.

I gasped. Blood roared in my ears like a jet engine. I took
a step back and grabbed Nat’s arm, lugging her toward the door. "Cooper
knows we’re in here."

"How? He can’t see us," she said, thumping behind
me.

"I don’t know. Maybe he wears special police-force contacts.
Or he’s not human. We need to get out of here before he catches us spying."

At the door, I shot a glance back through the glass. Cooper
was hemmed in, Norma Jean and Lucille had him blocked as they made their way side-by-side
toward the casket. He stared into the glass again, squinting.

I opened the door a crack and peered out, almost expecting
to see Cooper looming there. The foyer stood empty. "Let’s go."

We slipped into the foyer and raced to the front door as
fast as Natalie’s boot would allow, not slowing until we’d crawled into her
pickup, slammed the doors, and locked them for good measure.

Natalie checked the rearview mirror. "Here he comes."
I yanked her down out of sight.

We ducked there in silence for a couple of seconds, then she
giggled and said, "Got ya."

I glared at her. "You big brat." I sat up, twisting
in the seat to check on the front doors. Both were closed, no Cooper in sight.

"I’m sorry, Vi. But you should have seen the freaked
out look on your face when your tractor beam locked onto Cooper back there. I
thought your eyes were going to pop right out of your skull."

I pinched her upper arm. "Shut it, be-otch."

"Hey, ouch!" she rubbed her arm. "What’s your
deal with Cooper, anyway? He’s just a cop, you know. He cleans his guns the
same as the rest of us."

I fanned my dress at chest level. "He makes me sweaty."

"Really?" Natalie’s gaze narrowed. "Do you
think he’s hot?"

I frowned. Only in a branding-my-ass sort of way. "I
meant sweaty from nervousness."

She rolled her eyes. "I know you did. Let me rephrase
my question—would you sleep with him given the right circumstances? If you were
the last two people on Earth."

"Can I dress him up like Elvis and slather him in
chocolate and caramel first?"

"Cute. Answer the question."

"No. He’s not my type." Under her steady squint, I
shrugged. "But I suppose many women would find him sexy." Mona, my
coworker sure did. The woman practically steamed up the windows whenever Cooper
walked into the office.

"You know," Natalie said, "I think he’s
exactly your type. You always go for the rugged, tough guys."

"Yeah, but when you ask Cooper if that’s a gun in his
pocket or if he’s happy to see you, it’s really a gun." Unlike Doc, who
was just happy to see me.

Natalie laughed. "Come on, Cooper’s not that bad."

"Then why haven’t you ever dated him?"

"Who says I haven’t?" She winked.

After thirty-five years of living in the same town, Natalie had
dated most of the single guys in Deadwood—twice. "You’d have told me by
now if you had. So, what’s the deal?"

She sniffed and looked away. "He’s not interested."

"Right." A guy would have to be a eunuch not to
find Natalie’s hips and lips at least a little bit sexy.

"I’m serious. About five years ago, I was playing pool
with him at the Purple Door Saloon, flirting here and there. When I asked him
if he wanted to go somewhere a little quieter for another drink, he told me he
didn’t get involved with ‘local citizens.’" She made the quote signs in
the air at those last words. "Then he hung up his pool stick and left
without a backwards glance. Ever since then, I’ve kept my distance, and he’s
been as cold as Terry Peak in January."