Meanwhile, Back in Deadwood (Deadwood Humorous Mystery Book 6) (42 page)

On the way to Cornelius’s hotel, I battled the fear tightening my guts about the ghosts I’d heard on Cornelius’s recording last week. I was a dud. Those ghosts couldn’t hurt me. At least I didn’t think so.

Cornelius opened the door for Rosy and me on the second knock. His thigh-length, Hugh Hefner inspired scarlet silk robe, lack of pants, and crooked stovepipe hat knocked the words right out of my mouth and left my tongue jumbled on the floor next to them.

As he ushered us inside his domain, Rosy and I exchanged raised brows but kept our comments to ourselves. I in particular would like to have scrubbed my brain on one of those old fashioned washboards to remove the image of Abe Jr.’s black furry pencil legs from my memory. Seriously, the guy looked like he was wearing the bottom half of a gorilla suit.

My fear of what unseen guests were waiting in his suite seemed silly in the sun-brightened rooms. Didn’t he usually keep his blinds closed? I wondered what was with the change in procedure this morning.

With my past experience with the eccentric ghost whisperer, I’d warned Rosy on the elevator ride up to his suite that Cornelius was a bit odd. Rosy took one look around his suite, pausing on the numerous monitors, expensive meters, fancy stereo equipment, and empty bottles of protein drinks and crossed her arms over her chest. “You have a K-II Meter, huh? You know they offer a lot of potential for false positives, right?”

And they were off.

For the next forty-five minutes, Cornelius led Rosy around his suite, showing off his expensive gadgets and ghost toys, including his EMF, EVP, and other acronym based doodads. I followed behind them trying to pay attention, only to get mired repeatedly in remembering the words behind each of the letters. When they moved onto paranormal terms, such as “intelligent” versus “residual” hauntings, I got sidetracked by trying to apply it to Prudence’s presence in the Carhart house. Then Cornelius mentioned “matrixing,” and I tumbled down a rabbit hole that started with Keanu Reeves trying to bend spoons with his mind and ended with his trapping demons in mirrors. Apparently I suffered from ADD this early in the morning.

When Rosy excused herself to use the restroom thanks to the extra-large coffee I’d purposely brought her this morning, I cornered the furry legged, paranormal groupie.

“Cornelius, I need your help tomorrow night with a séance.”

“Tomorrow?” He looked at his wrist, which held no watch. “That’s the Day of the Dead.”

“I know. A bad night to have a séance, right?” Nothing like a leading question, but time was short. That coffee would only buy me so much time.

“A very bad night.”

“That’s what I thought. We should probably reschedule it, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely not.”

Skirrrch.
“I don’t understand.”

He sat down on one of his bar stools. “Of course you don’t, Violet. That’s why you need me.”

Most days, I needed him like I needed a hot poker jammed in my eye. I glossed over his reply and continued on course. “I really don’t think we should do it tomorrow.”

“It’s in your nature to say that.”

“Because I’m not a paranormal investigator?”

“Because you channel.”

I scratched my head, wishing I’d grabbed an extra large coffee for myself. “Shouldn’t a channeler be more willing to open up the airwaves on a day when the dead are restless?”

“No. You’ll be flooded.”

“Remind me why that’s a problem.”

“Flooding can stop your heart … or worse.”

“What’s worse than stopping my heart?”

“Getting trapped inside another realm.”

He had a point there. If I had to choose between being trapped in Ms. Wolff’s apartment back in time with that juggernaut and his creepy ax or being plain old dead, I’d take the dirt nap option any day.

“Let me get this straight,” I took the bar stool next to him. “Even though this is going to be dangerous for me, you still think we should do the séance?”

“Definitely.”

“In spite of my reservations?”

“Because of them.”

This conversation was beginning to actually hurt. My brain needed some reinforcements. I stole his protein drink from him and gulped down several swallows, licking the crappy vanilla-flavored liquid substitute for steak off my lips. “Explain that, Professor Enigmatic.”

“Your reservations will help you maintain a safe channeling width. If you were excited to go into this, then I wouldn’t want to do it, because you would undoubtedly open too wide.”

Yeah, I had that problem when it came to sex with Doc.

“Yet again,” Cornelius continued, “in your channeling wisdom, you recognize the potential dangers and are already preparing mentally to keep the channel narrow.”

But what if I weren’t even really a channeler, but rather an executioner, and doing this séance on the Day of the Dead was going to round up something much scarier than an ornery old ghost with nobody there who knew how to close the gate?

I sighed. I was sticking with my original opinion—this was a big mistake. What I couldn’t figure out was why Doc wasn’t more worried about it. He seemed at ease not only with taking this risk but also having a skeptic with a badge in the audience. I was beginning to suspect he’d done this before with cops somewhere along the line. He was certainly at ease with Cooper’s presence.

“We’ll have the séance an hour and eleven minutes after the sun sets,” Cornelius decreed.

“Fine, whatever.” But if things went south tomorrow night, I was going to blame Abe Jr. just because he frustrated the hell out of me most days. “Do you want me to pick you up, or would you like directions to the ranch?”

“Neither.”

“Right. You want to use the transporter beam then?”

“You’re spunky this morning, Violet. It must be that dress.”

I suspected it had more to do with my goal to keep breathing for a little bit longer, something I feared this séance would hinder.

“The thing is,” he stroked his goatee, measuring me with those cornflower blue eyes, “you may not be fit to drive afterward.”

He had a good point. “I’ll line up a ride for both of us then. Do I need to get any supplies?”

“Nope, I am already stocked up. Although they sent me a voodoo love doll instead of the Wanga bag I wanted, so I’ll have to improvise.”

The toilet flushed.

“Don’t mention any of this in front of Rosy,” I told him. “Or anyone else. This séance is private.”

“I understand. But there is one more thing, Violet.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t think you should reach into the darkness tomorrow night with your mind.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because of that little girl ghost of yours that keeps talking to me,” he started.

“She’s not mine.” I wanted no association with Wilda Hessler if I could help it.

The sound of running water stopped.

“Maybe not, but she keeps mentioning your name.”

“What’s she saying?”

Cornelius leaned closer to me. “Roses are red, Violet is blue. Wolfgang is dead, Violet is, too.”

Goosebumps covered me from toes to scalp.

Before I could croak out any kind of response, Rosy joined us again. I covered my shock with a wide smile.

Cornelius left to get some pants on so he could take us around from room to room and give Rosy a good feel of the place.

I rubbed my arms, looking around the suite, wondering if Wilda Hessler was standing next to me, her blonde ringlets trembling with rage, her dead eyes overflowing with hate. Was her brother still here? His face melting off again?

By the time Cornelius was dressed and ready to go, I was waiting out in the hall trying to figure out what Wilda meant with that stupid poem. Was it just a pissed off little girl out to scare me, or did she know something about the others that I should be more afraid of than I was?

Something to do with that clock in Ms. Wolff’s apartment and its cuckooing death toll?

Something that would end my game as an executioner before I’d had a chance to get rolling?

* * *

When I pulled into Aunt Zoe’s driveway I was surprised to see Jeff Wymonds’ truck sitting there … and not in a happy-to-see-him way.

After a day of touring with Rosy around Cornelius’s hotel, as well as several other reportedly haunted locales in Deadwood to film extra background footage, I wasn’t really in the mood for company. Especially if this particular company required my shoulder to cry on because his ex-wife was taking him back to court for full custody of his other testicle.

As I climbed out of the Picklemobile, I glanced down the street, wishing I would see Doc’s Camaro or even Harvey’s Ford pickup coming my way. Both should be here for supper any minute now. Unfortunately, I was on my own.

In the early evening air, I could hear the kids laughing and yelling in the back yard. Instead of facing Jeff, I detoured through the back gate, dropped my purse on the grass next to their slide, and squeezed my butt into one of the swings on their old swing set. The comforting scent of autumn with its crisp version of pine trees and dried leaves grounded me.

“Hi, Addy’s mom,” Kelly Wymonds said from across the yard.

I waved, the swing creaking as I rocked back and forth, watching the two girls do cartwheels across the yard. Oh, to be so carefree. I remembered those days way back when with Natalie—no bills to pay, no mouths to fill, no creepy-weird beings to kill.

The back door opened and out walked Jeff.

“Hey, Violet Parker.” Dressed in a button up shirt and new-looking jeans, he headed my way. His blond hair looked freshly cut, his jaw stubble-free. He sat down on the swing next to mine, his musky cologne fresh on his skin and now fresh in my sinuses.

“I hear you’re going to be a TV superstar soon.” His grin was easy, his eyes teasing.

“Watch out world,” I answered without enthusiasm. “Here I come.”

We swung in silence, watching our girls try to do back bends and fall over giggling.

“I had a visitor stop by today,” he told me, his eyes still on Kelly.

“Someone to check out the house?” The market was slow with winter coming on, but Jeff’s house was set in a good location and had cleaned up well, including a brand-spanking new roof on his detached garage.

“Not the house. He was checking on you.”

That grabbed my attention. “Me?”

“He said his name was Detective Hawke, but he looked more like a sloppy version of that private dick James Garner played on that old show.”

“The Rockford Files.” Hawke, damn it! That son of a bitch was still hounding me.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“What did Detective Hawke want?” Besides my ass on a hot griddle?

“At first he was asking about my garage explosion. I figured he was sent by the insurance company, so I took him out to the garage and showed him the good job the roofers did. But then he mentioned you being my Realtor and wanted to know how I felt you were doing. I talked you up, of course, especially how good of a kisser you are.”

“Oh, jeez.” We’d had one lousy kiss, and I meant lousy. Jeff had treated my tonsils like they were clay pigeons.

“What?” He knocked my knee with his. “You are.”

I grunted. It wasn’t my actual kiss that had hoisted Jeff’s flag. It was the beef-jerky I’d eaten before letting his tongue scrub the back of my teeth. Smoked beef was an aphrodisiac for the oversexed buffoon.

“Was there anything else he asked about me?”

“Yeah, it was sort of odd, too. He wanted to know if I’d ever heard you talk to ghosts.” Jeff chuckled, not noticing that I was white-knuckling the swing chains. “I told him that whoever was spreading the Spooky Parker rumors and saying you chatted with ghosts was full of shit.”

Splendid. So much for the work I’d done to convince Detective Hawke that I was a medium and not a witch. But I couldn’t be mad at Jeff. He had no idea how much the tide had turned for me since our do-you-believe-in-ghosts conversation months ago.

“I like that dress.” Jeff reached out and rubbed the skirt fabric between his fingers. “Sort of reminds me of something Beaver Cleaver’s mom would wear, minus the pointy boobs.”

I was too tired from being hounded by the cops to let my insecurities about my non-pointy, post-baby boobs flare up. “You look nice tonight,” I told him, redirecting attention onto him. “You got a hot date?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Your aunt said I could bring Kelly by for the night. But if that doesn’t work for you, I can cancel the slumber party.”

“It’s fine.” I spun a little in my swing. “A slumber party? This must be some date.”

“Oh, we’ve had sex lots of times already, so it’s not like a cherry popping night or anything.”

Good old Jeff. He had such a way with romantic phrases. I could only imagine his whispered, heart-stopping vernacular while “popping cherries” between the sheets.

I heard an engine rumble to a stop up front and prayed Doc would come to my rescue soon.

Aunt Zoe yelled out the back door for the girls to go inside and wash up for supper. She looked over at me on the swing.

I tried to smile, but my mouth really wasn’t up to it.

Her face wrinkled with concern, but she left us alone anyway.

As soon as the back door closed, Jeff dug in his pocket and pulled out a little jewelry box. “I have something to show you,” he said in a low voice, “but keep it to yourself.” He lifted the lid. Two matching gold rings were jammed into the blue velvet base.

I stopped spinning. His divorce wasn’t final yet. As messy as the whole break up had been with his soon-to-be ex, I’d have thought he’d want a breather before cinching another tourniquet around his nut sack.

“Are those what I think they are?” Although, I wasn’t accustomed to seeing two of them in a jewelry box and usually there was a diamond involved, but maybe Jeff’s new woman wasn’t into sparkly rocks.

“Yep,” he closed the box with a snap. “Nipple rings.”

“Eww. I mean, ouch.” I winced at both the thought of having a needle jammed through my nipples and at Jeff’s choice for show and tell this evening. Hell, now I was probably going to check out his girlfriend’s chest when I met her, looking for those rings, and undoubtedly get caught staring. That was an embarrassing moment just waiting to smack me upside the head.