Jeff was a good dad, and even though he cleaned up nicely and had an impressive set of biceps, his repeated comments about wanting to share a kitchen with me and leave some little “buns” in my oven conjured crazed visions of me laughing hysterically as I slammed my stove door on his rolling pin. More than once.

  While I was still physically able to pop out a little gingerbread girl or boy, Violet’s Baby-Making Bakery had closed its doors for good ten years ago. Another pregnancy would go over like a cast-iron stork.

  With a glance at the thick clouds stacking up on the horizon, I dialed Natalie.

  “Dick’s Hotdogs,” Natalie answered on the second ring. “If you like hotdogs, you’ll like Dicks!”

  I chuckled, swinging my legs while inspecting my paint-spattered arms. “Nice. You hear that one during your last conjugal visit to the Pennington County Jail? “

  “Nah, I got it from your mom. What’s up?”

  I didn’t dally. “The Mudder brothers have a morgue in their garage.”

  “I know. They cremate bodies there, too.”

  “What?” My legs stopped swinging. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Ummm, because you used to be sane.”

  “I want to sneak inside of that morgue.”

  “Whatever happened to the good ol’ days when our sneaking involved the boys’ locker room after basketball games?”

  “Ugh. I’d forgotten about all of those jockstraps.” I hopped to the ground, pacing.

  A top-heavy cumulus cloud slipped in front of the sun, giving me a break from the heat.

  “How are we going to get into that garage?” I asked, running a few scenarios through my head involving Natalie and me in black ski-masks and cat suits.

  “We?” Natalie chuckled. “Oh, no, sister. I’m not going in there with you. That’s too damned creepy.”

  “Natalie, what could happen? They’re all dead.”

  “Dead bodies make weird sounds.”

  “So did your ex, and you slept with his sorry ass.”

  “They smell funny.”

  “Your ex ate chili con carne by the can.”

  “They’re freaky looking.”

  “One word for you—tattoos,” I said, referring to her ex’s obsession with ink on his skin. “I can do this all day, Nat. You’re going in with me.”

  Thunder boomed to the west. Wyoming was sending some loud, wet love our way.

  “No,” she said, and then growled in my ear. “Why me?”

  “Because I’m too chicken to go alone.”

  “What! You just said—”

  My phone beeped.

  I pulled it away from my ear. Natalie’s ranting sounded tiny and far off, like it was being piped in from Dr. Seuss’s Whoville. A peek at the screen made my silly heart skip a beat. Doc was calling back.

  “Nat,” I interrupted her mid-rant, “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you tonight.”

  She was still grumbling when I hung up and picked up the incoming call.

  “Hi, Doc.” I leaned against the tailgate, trying to sound all cool and sexy.

  “Hey, Trouble. You okay?” His deep voice caressed my eardrum, making me shiver a little. It was pathetic how warm I was for the guy’s form.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “You sounded a little upset in your messages. Especially those first two.”

  A little upset? He was being kind. I was pretty sure I’d hit a Level 5 on the Nuclear Event Scale.

  I’d made those first two calls to him on my way home from the police station, the acrid taste of my own lunch remains still burning the back of my throat. My heart hadn’t stopped jackhammering yet from what Cooper had shown me. “That’s because I was still freaking out.”

  His chair creaked through the line. I envisioned him leaning back at his desk. “Why? What happened?”

  “I threw up on Cooper’s skull tie.”

  His pause lasted for a rumble of thunder. “You what?”

  “Threw up on—”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I think it was partly because that chicken and green peppers burrito I had for lunch had been well past its expiration date—it tasted funny from the start and didn’t get any better by the last bite. But mostly it was because of what Cooper showed me.”

  He cursed under his breath. “Did he make you look at the dead guy again?”

  “No. He showed me a text message.”

  “And you accuse me of being cryptic.”

  “Sorry.” I took a calming breath and started in again. “The cops found a cell phone on the headless dead guy and it had a text message in it with my name.”

  Thunder rumbled again, louder, closer. Good timing, I thought and wrinkled my nose at the gang of dark clouds looming. I could smell the coming rain.

  “The dead guy sent you a text message?”

  “No, someone else sent him a text message about me.”

  “Who?”

  “They don’t know. It was listed only as a number, no name. And the number no longer works.”

  “How old was the text?”

  “Over a month.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It read like a singles ad. Listed my name, my hair color, and that I’m from Rapid.”

  Doc’s chair creaked again. “Shit.”

  I nodded into the now-cool breeze leading the storm. “There’s more.”

  “Of course there is. What else did Cooper find?”

  “I meant there was more in the message. It mentioned Aunt Zoe.”

  “What about her?”

  “The text described her, too, including where she lives.”

  As in where I now lived—with my kids.

  A flash of lightning split the sky to the south, a curtain of rain falling below the looming tower of dark clouds. I frowned at the storm, wishing Jeff had been mowing the lawn earlier this afternoon instead of helping me paint two layers of white over the pea-soup green his soon-to-be-ex had chosen for their master bathroom walls.

  “What did Cooper have to say about this text message?” Doc asked.

  “That I should mind my own business, focus on selling his house, and let him figure out who’s behind it all.”

  “Are you going to listen to him?”

  “I will do my damnedest to sell his house.”

  “Violet,” he warned.

  “Doc, this isn’t just about me. Aunt Zoe could be in danger. So could my kids.”

  “Christ, woman. You’re too much some days.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Too much for him to handle? Or too much of a pain to keep around?

  “It means that I’m going to lose more sleep.”

  Oh, that’s all he meant? Sleep was for babies and old men. “Welcome to the Insomnia Club. We have matching pillow cases.”

  He chuckled. “I have a fix for your nightmares.”

  “What? Pills? Hypnotism? Ben Stein reading poetry?”

  “A new bed.”

  “I doubt my mattress is part of the problem.”

  “Probably not, but my new mattress is definitely part of the solution.”

  Sex with Doc on a flat surface? Hmmm, definitely worth a shot—if I could shake Natalie.

  “You have a new bed?” I hopped up onto the tailgate, kicking my legs again.

  “The delivery guys were at my place when you called—the first time, anyway.”

  “I like the bean bag,” I said, smiling at the memory of him working his magic on me in that bag of beans.

  “It’s still here in the back room. Come over and see for yourself.”

  “I can’t. Jeff and I have more painting to do.”

  “How’s Wymonds?”

  “Eager to sell.”

  “Keeping his hands to himself?”

  It wasn’t his hands I was worried about touching me. “Yep.”

  Harvey’s old Ford pulled into the drive next to the Picklemobile, a cloud of dust making me cough.

  “I have to go, Harvey’s here.”

  “Perfect. You need a bodyguard today.”

  “I can handle Jeff.”

  “It’s not Wymonds who has me worried. Have you talked to your newest client? Mr. Planet of the Apes?”

  “His name is Cornelius.” Although, I preferred Honest Abe. “And I have not talked to him yet today. Why?”

  I’d planned to touch base with him later this afternoon. That would give him a solid twenty-four hours in that hotel before I began pestering him to buy it.

  “I’ll let Harvey fill you in.” His tone vibrated with suppressed laughter.

  Harvey crawled out of his pickup and limped toward me, grimacing while rubbing his hip.

  “About what?”

  “Call me tonight after your kids go to bed.”

  “What is there to tell me about Cornelius?”

  “Oh, and Violet.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t drop the phone in the water this time,” he said and hung up.

  Damn him.

  “Was that Doc?” Harvey asked.

  I put the cell phone on the tailgate next to me. “You know, he’s not the only one I talk to on the phone.”

  “Right. Did he tell you about your ghost-talking friend with the corny name?”

  “His name is Cornelius.”

  “That’s right. The chimp played by Roddy McDowell.” Harvey stroked his beard. “I always thought his chimp wife, Dr. Zira, was kind of sexy. Nothin’ like Nova, though. That woman knew how to wear a pelt.”

  I sighed. We were regressing.

  “Harvey, what’s going on with Cornelius?”

  Please, please, please don’t say he’s skipping town.

  “Doc told me that crazy Corny riled up some ghosts at the Old Prospector Hotel last night. Some mirrors were shattered in the guest suite. And a window broken. Or was it two? I can’t remember.”

  Son of a bitch.

  “How did Doc know about this?” And why didn’t I?

  “Tiffany told him.”

  I blinked. Come again. “Tiffany?”

  “Yeah, you know, that hot little redhead number with the tight—”

  “When did she tell him this?”

  If Harvey said “last night,” I was going to sneak over to Doc’s house after Nat and the kids went to sleep tonight, strap him to that new bed of his, and pour hot wax on his tender parts.

  Harvey shrugged. “Around lunchtime, I think. She was leaving his office when I showed up for my weekly appointment with him.”

  I gritted my teeth. Which explained why my second and third calls went unanswered.

  Thunder boomed over our heads, impending doom knocking.

  I flipped it off with both hands, and then squinted at Harvey. “Do you have any tequila?”

  He scoffed. “Tequila is for pussies. If you want something to take the edge off, I’ve got just what you need.”

  I hopped to the ground. “Bring it on, old man.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I stood up from leaning over Jeff’s toilet. I wiped off my lips, flushed the toilet, and then rinsed out my mouth with sink water.

  Old man Harvey’s reflection grinned at me in the mirror from his post against the doorjamb. “And that’s why you don’t chug firewater.”

  “Firewater?” I dried my face on a hand towel and threw it on the sink vanity. “More like paint thinner.”

  I’d just stripped the lining from my guts and flushed it down the john. Criminy. I’d thrown up two times already today and the sun was still up. I was on a real bender.

  “Is she done puking?” Jeff hollered from the other room.

  Harvey’s brows raised. “You done airin’ your paunch now, girlie?”

  “Yes, she’s done,” I answered loud enough for Jeff’s ears and poked Harvey in the chest as I passed him, receiving a satisfactory grunt in return.

  Jeff waited for us in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Speckles of white paint added a sugar-like coating to his sandy blond hair, black biker rally T-shirt, and faded jeans. He held a glass of water out toward me.

  “Thanks.” The water turned out to be the sparkling kind. Even better.

  I leaned against the counter next to him and his broad shoulders, glaring at Harvey’s gold-toothed grin over the rim of my glass. The fizz tickled my nose.

  “I don’t know why you got your bloomers all cinched up over Crazy Corny,” Harvey said.

  “His name is Cornelius.” I didn’t need Harvey’s new nickname for my cash-buying client to catch fire and spread throughout town. I tried to shush Harvey with a squinty-eyed glare. “And we can discuss this more later.”

  “Cornelius who?” Jeff asked.

  “Everyone in town knows that hotel is haunted,” Harvey said, obviously ignoring me. “What’s a few pieces of broken glass?”

  “It’s not the glass that’s bothering me. It’s what happened that caused the glass to break and who else was involved.”

  Was Safari Skipper, a.k.a. front desk clerk there? Any other employees or locals or tourists? Had there been any newspaper reporters nearby? Anyone taking pictures or videos that would show up on the Internet? I had a not-so-good reputation to protect, damn it.

  “Which hotel are you talking about?” Jeff asked.

  “Never m—” I started.

  “The Old Prospector,” Harvey blared.

  Jeff nodded. “One of the painted ladies hangouts.”

  “Painted ladies?” My stomach bucked a little. Harvey’s firewater still boiling in my tank. “You mean prostitutes?”

  “Yes, indeedy.” Harvey’s grin split even wider. “One of Deadwood’s finest traditions.”

  The place had been a bit seedy looking, but, “Really? I thought the FBI cleared out the last of the brothels back in the early eighties.”

  “They did.” Jeff grumbled. “The damned Feds just couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

  Harvey dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. “The Old Prospector used to house a bunch of the ‘girls’ on its third floor up until the late sixties. Then there was some big fight between the hotel owner and several of the girls and they were kicked out. The owner remodeled the rooms, tore out some walls, and turned the third floor into fancy suites.”

  Maybe they used to be fancy, but they weren’t so shiny, anymore. That explained the faded look to the rooms.

  “So, let me guess,” I said, “the hotel is supposed to be haunted by some poor prostitute killed by one of her johns.”

  Jeff scooted closer to me, nudging my shoulder with his. “For a blonde, you’re a smart cookie, Violet Parker. Our kids would be cute and clever.”

  He said that like I should now sigh loudly while little hearts floated around my head.

  Harvey snickered.

  I scooted away from Jeff. “Has anyone ever actually seen this ghost?” I asked Harvey. “Or is it all glowing orbs and shadows in pictures?”

  “I told you yesterday that one of the housecleaners swore the ghost existed,” he answered. “She talked about cleanin’ the rooms on the third floor and feelin’ warm breath on the back of her neck. Of course, nobody would be there when she turned around.”

  I tried to remember if there were any vents in the ceiling in those rooms. Maybe it was just a weird air current. “Was that it? Hot breath on her neck?”

  Harvey tugged on his beard. “No, there was another story about spooky messages left on one of the mirrors in the room at the far end of the hall.”

  “You mean with lipstick?”

  “No, if you steamed it up, there were weird things written there.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t remember. Seems like the gal I heard that from said it was some kind of foreign language. The hotel owner took that particular mirror out of there and it stopped.”

  A haunted mirror? Maybe the ghost was Snow White’s evil queen.

  Jeff crossed his arms. “I remember hearing about some strange blonde woman hanging out in one of the upstairs windows. She only showed up there at sunset. Nobody knew her name or recognized her.”

  “Maybe it was just a mannequin.” Like one of the many fakes I’ve seen in upstairs windows in both Deadwood and Lead. Plastic or not, those empty looks and flaxen faces gave me the creeps.

  With a shrug, Jeff said, “Maybe. I figured the owner was just messing with people. Having fun.”

  Jeff was like me, a non-believer in the wispy population—although, I was moonlighting in the believer camp more and more these days.

  “So, hot breath and steamy mirrors then,” I said. “Anything else happ—”

  The muffled sound of my cell phone stopped me. I patted my pockets and came up empty. Where had I put it?

  “Here,” Harvey said, and pulled it out of his pants pocket and held it out to me. “You left it on the tailgate when you raced for the commode.”

  Oh, right. I grimaced at just the memory of drinking that liquid lava. It was a wonder I hadn’t singed Harvey’s beard when I’d coughed and gasped all over him.

  I grabbed the phone. It was Mona. “Hello?”

  “Violet, where are you?” Something in her voice made my heart pick up speed.

  What was wrong? Where were my kids—oh, yeah, in the backyard. Whew!

  “I’m at Jeff Wymonds prepping for the open house tomorrow. Why? What’s up?”

  “Have you talked to your newest buyer today?”

  Damn! She’d heard about Cornelius and the broken mirror. That meant Jane had, too. And Ray, who would undoubtedly be gloating the next time we faced off for a duel.

  “Not yet. I was going to call him here shortly. I was giving him 24 hours to make a decision.”

  “You’d better call him now.”

  “If this is about the broken windows and mirror—” I started.

  “It’s not,” she interrupted. “It’s about Ray.”

  “What about Ray?” I looked up to find Harvey frowning at me.

  What did Ray have to do with Cornelius? Mona was the one helping me with the paperwork and necessary steps for this commercial sale.

  “He’s lined up another buyer. He’s on the phone with Tiffany Sugarbell right now.”

  Doc’s ex? My stomach kicked again, my lower esophagus burning. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  “Ray’s trying to steal the hotel sale out from under you.”