“Ah, is little Blondie upset because I took away her lollipop?”

  “You might want to hold off on the celebration fireworks, Ray.” I mirrored his sneer and carried my coffee cup to my desk. “It’s only fifteen thousand. I can top that.”

  “You sound pretty confident for a girl whose client spent the better part of last night in a jail cell.”

  What!? I spilled hot coffee on my fingers. My eyes watered from the sting.

  Why was Cornelius in jail last night? What in the hell had happened in that hotel room? Was that why Cooper wanted to talk to me?

  I grabbed some tissues from my drawer, buying time to school my expression. I couldn’t let him see how much his announcement had knocked me on my ass. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Oh, really? So, it’s not that your client is wanted for a murder that occurred near New Orleans?”

  There was no shielding the shock that left me slack-jawed. “What?”

  Ray grinned like he’d eaten the Cheshire cat, tail and all. “You really should take some time to do a little research on your clients before signing a contract.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Am I?”

  I honestly didn’t know. “You’re just trying to rattle me.”

  “Where do you think Mona has run off to?”

  I shrugged, dabbing at the drops of coffee that had landed on my desk. “To the post office.”

  “More like to make bail.”

  Fuckity fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  “It doesn’t matter.” I glared at him, done with trying to hide behind a pleasant veneer. “You’re not going to get the hotel sale commission.”

  “Who’s going to stop me? You and what client? Jeff Wymonds?” His laughter grated on my calm.

  “Jeff could wipe the floor with you.”

  “Wiping floors is about the only thing he’s capable of after drinking away any hopes of making something of his pathetic life. The idiot’s wife left him for another woman. I repeat, a woman. The man is a disgrace to his sex—pun intended.”

  I set down my coffee cup before I dumped it over Ray’s bloated head. Jeff might be a big dope at times, but he didn’t deserve this battering. He was a hard worker and a good father. It wasn’t his fault his wife traded teams.

  “I’m going to stop you on my own, Ray. Just me.”

  “Right. What do you have in the bank now? A hundred dollars?” He laughed again.

  I fantasized about tearing off his boots and cramming them down his throat.

  “Oh, wait, I forgot, Blondie. You screwed Doc Nyce in exchange for him buying Mona’s listing. Make that a thousand bucks in the bank and an old piece-of-shit pickup.”

  God, he was such a ginormous turd.

  “What happened, Ray? Did your mommy ignore you when you wanted to be picked up? Who made you hate women so much?”

  “I like women just fine, Blondie, especially those who know their place in life.”

  Where would that place be in Ray’s world? On their knees?

  “So, it’s just me that turns you into a foul-mouthed cretin?” I asked.

  “Yep. You’re special, Blondie.” He winked at me.

  Lucky me.

  I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. “I know what’s in the crates, Ray,” I said, bluffing.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I followed you the other night,” I added for good measure.

  “You lie.”

  Yes, I did. More often than I probably should, too. But the way his eyes searched mine, he wasn’t so sure of it.

  “I know all about the tools,” I continued, reaching, using his reactions to guide me.

  Ray’s cheeks darkened.

  “And the money.” This was pure guesswork, but George had to be getting funding from somewhere if he could top Cornelius’s offer. Death couldn’t be paying that well, could it? “I know what you did and how you’re using Mudder Brothers to cover it all up.”

  Ray’s nostrils flared. “You lie,” he said again, but he lacked his earlier conviction.

  “You shouldn’t have come after my job, Ray. Big mistake. When I’m done with you, Mona will be over at the police station bailing your ass out of jail.”

  He shoved to his feet, the force of his abrupt rise slamming his chair backward into the wall. “You’ll end up dead, you stupid cunt.”

  Ohhh, he’d thrown out the C-word. I’d nailed a nerve, which meant I was on course with my suspicions.

  I rocked in my chair, feigning nonchalance. Inside, adrenaline spread, making my legs and arms tingle, preparing me for fight or flight.

  “Is that a threat, Ray?”

  He rushed me, his eyes rimmed with rage. “Consider it a warning, Blondie.”

  Months of built-up anger exploded. I shot to my feet, ready to clash horns with him head on.

  “Remember this, dickhead—Detective Cooper is one of my so-called clients. Sweet nothings aren’t the only things I whisper in his ear.”

  Ray stepped closer, bending so we were almost nose-to-nose. His cologne clawed at the back of my throat, but I held my ground, standing tall.

  “Trust me, Blondie,” he whispered, his breath reeking of stale coffee and onions. “If you don’t back the fuck off, Cooper won’t be able to save you.”

  The bells over the front door jingled.

  “What’s going on here?” Mona asked, striding over, her cheeks matching her pink silk blouse. She pushed us apart. “Ray, Detective Cooper wants to talk to you over at the police station.”

  Cooper was being awfully chatty these days. A regular talk show host.

  When Ray didn’t budge, Mona grabbed him by the ear and yanked. “Damn it, Ray, knock it off.”

  “Owch! Jesus, Red, that hurts.”

  “Good.” Her green eyes flashed. “Now, get out of here before I rip it off your head!”

  Ray paused long enough to grab his phone and shoot me one last wrinkled-lip sneer.

  I saluted him with my middle finger.

  Mona waited for the door to close behind him before asking, “What was that about?”

  I clasped my trembling hands behind my back. “He was just being his usual loving self.”

  Worry lined her cheeks. “You okay?”

  Not really. Confrontation usually left me wanting to lock myself in the bathroom and pay tribute to the porcelain goddess. “I’m fine.”

  “Good, because you need to call Cornelius.”

  “Is he out of jail?”

  Mona rolled her eyes. “He was never in jail.”

  “What? Ray was lying?”

  “Yes and no. Yesterday, the police got a tip about Cornelius being involved with a murder down in New Orleans earlier this year, so they brought him in last night.”

  “They put him in a jail cell based on a tip?”

  “No, he asked to be put in the cell.”

  I blinked. “I’m confused.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Why didn’t you tell me Cornelius claims to be able to talk to ghosts?”

  Because that made him sound a teensy bit insane. “I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “It turns out that while the police were questioning Cornelius, he claimed to hear some whispers coming from the cell area. When he mentioned his ghostly occupation, one of the rookies told him about a prisoner who’d hung himself in one of the cells a couple of decades ago.”

  “Is that a true story?” Could Cornelius really hear ghosts?

  She nodded. “Cornelius convinced the police to lock him up in the same cell as the dead prisoner for the night so he could try to make contact with the ghost.”

  “Oh, jeez.” I sat down on the edge of my desk. “So, did Cornelius make ‘contact’ during the night?”

  “No, but he asked to come back another time with his equipment.” Mona hesitated, then added, “And he mentioned you.”

  Of course he did. Great. Just what I needed over at the cop shop—to be linked with a person-of-interest in another murder case.

  “You mean regarding me being his Realtor?”

  “Yes,” Mona said. “He also told them you can channel ghosts.”

  I looked to the ceiling, waiting for it to crash down on my head. “Mona, please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was.” She squeezed my shoulder. “You have a new nickname: Spooky Parker.”

  That wasn’t new. Ray called me that, too. He probably planted it there. “Maybe I should add that to my business cards.” Along with the fire department’s new favorite, Four-Alarm Parker.

  “Is Cornelius still there?” I asked.

  “No, he left when I first got there, saying something about hunting down a protein shake.”

  Good luck with that. “And the murder in New Orleans?”

  “He has a solid alibi. The police will just keep an eye on him for a bit.”

  “That’s a relief.” Although, Cornelius wouldn’t be my first client who’d committed murder. It seems I’d found a new niche in the realty market.

  “I know. But you need to go see Cornelius about the hotel, pronto. We have forty-eight hours to up our offer.”

  I grabbed my keys and purse. “I’m on it.”

  “Call me on my cell after you talk to him,” Mona said, dropping into her chair. “I have an appointment in Spearfish for lunch.”

  “Will do.” I paused next to Jane’s partially closed door. “Mona? Have you seen Jane today?”

  “She was leaving the parking lot when I got here this morning. Said she’d be back tonight.”

  “Good.” I closed Jane’s office door with a quiet click, hiding the mess inside. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  I looked for Doc’s Camaro on my way through the parking lot, but didn’t see it anywhere. In my haste to race home this morning, I hadn’t thought to ask him what time he’d be in the office.

  Shaking thoughts of Doc from my head, I crawled inside the Picklemobile and called Cornelius’s cell phone. He didn’t answer, so I tried to reach him in his room via the hotel switchboard.

  He answered on the first ring. “I thought I told you not to call me, anymore.”

  I held the phone away for a second and frowned at it. Why couldn’t I find normal clients?

  “Cornelius, this is Violet Parker,” I said into the mouthpiece.

  “Oh, Violet, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  Who? A ghostly jailbird, maybe?

  “We need to talk,” I told him and decided to lay it all out right then and there. “The other party interested in the hotel submitted a second, higher offer.”

  “Persistence is an admirable quality.”

  He sounded like a fortune cookie. I leaned back in the seat, tapping my thumb on the steering wheel. “Does that mean you are willing to up your offer?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “You.”

  My thumb stopped. “On me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this about me getting you another protein shake?”

  He laughed so loudly that I held the phone away from my ear until he quieted. “No. It’s about you and this hotel.”

  My shoulders tightened. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple my dear. If I can get positive proof that this hotel is haunted, I don’t care what it costs us, you will get it for me.”

  “Proof? What about that broken mirror from your first séance or the meters redlining the other night?”

  “I want something more definite.”

  More definite? We were talking about goddamned ghosts. “No problem,” I said with false bravado. I could find the book Doc spoke of that talked about the multiple suicides. Get the ladies’ names for him to call through the walls. If it came down to it, hire some actors to do something ghost-like, maybe drag chains around in the middle of the night.

  “Great. You’ll be here at dusk then, I assume?”

  “You mean to sign the revised offer papers?”

  “I mean to act as a channel for me, like you did before.”

  I glared at the phone. No. Absolutely not. No way in hell. Channeling was something I only did with a television or radio.

  “Violet?” I heard him say. “Are you still there?”

  I needed a new job.

  Holding the phone to my ear again, I jammed the key in the ignition. “What do you want me to bring?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Since Cornelius wouldn’t sign off on a second offer until I pulled a ghost out of my ass, that left me the remaining hours of daylight to come up with a game plan.

  I started the Picklemobile, holding down the gas pedal as she cleared her throat. Puffs of black smoke billowed past the rearview mirror.

  Being that Cornelius dabbled regularly in the haunted realm, I couldn’t just wing it this time, not with my job on the line. I’d have to put on the performance of a lifetime, even if it took a theatrical show big enough to bring Elvis back from the other side. David Copperfield could hide a plane, right? Surely, I could fake channeling a ghost.

  There was just one teeny weeny problem—I had no clue what I was doing. I needed help, and I knew just the person to school me in the ectoplasmic world: Doc.

  I called his cell phone and got his voicemail.

  Strike one.

  Shifting into reverse, I rumbled over to his house and repeated last night’s performance—first a knock, then the doorbell, then a look in the garage. His Camaro wasn’t there.

  Strike two.

  The library! Knowing Doc, he was probably there searching for more information on good ol’ Kyrkozz. I swallowed the anxiety that fluttered in my throat at just the thought of the demon.

  When I pulled into the parking lot, his car wasn’t there, either. I checked inside the South Dakota room just to be sure and found it empty. Damn.

  Strike three.

  Now what? I was out of strikes.

  I climbed back into the Picklemobile and shut the door. Maybe I’d cruise up to Lead and look for his car. Or call Natalie and see if she knew where he was since she kept tailing him. Or not.

  My cell phone rang.

  Doc!

  I pulled it out of my purse. The sight of Cooper’s name made my eye twitch.

  Crud.

  As much as I wanted to let Cooper’s call go to voicemail, I knew he’d hunt me down sooner or later. Deadwood wasn’t big enough for the two of us.

  “Hello, Detective Cooper.”

  “Ms. Parker,” his tone was brusque, all business and metal shavings. “I need you to come to the police station.”

  After Cornelius’s stunt last night and my not-so-new nickname with Deadwood’s finest, I’d sooner prance down Main Street butt-naked. “No.”

  Cricket chirps came from his end of the line. Then, “What do you mean ‘No’?”

  “I mean, I’d rather not, thank you.”

  “Violet, I’m not asking you out on a date here.”

  My cheeks warmed, Natalie’s suspicions churning in my mind. “Of course you’re not. Why would you?”

  “I’m calling you as a detective with the Deadwood Police Department.”

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, then I’m not coming in there.”

  “But I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m listening right now.”

  He sighed. “Why are you always so difficult?”

  “Is that what you need to talk with me about, Detective? My disposition?”

  “No.”

  “Is it about the corpse?”

  “Yes, and some other stuff.”

  I said nothing. I wasn’t going in there, damn it.

  “Violet, don’t make me come and find you. You won’t like me when I do.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked him right now. “Does that mean you won’t be your usual warm and fuzzy self?”

  He growled through the line. “Tell me where you are or I’ll put out an APB on you.”

  “Fine.” I started the Picklemobile. “Meet me at Bighorn Billy’s.”

  “When?”

  “In ten minutes.”

  He hung up on me, abrupt as always. I stuck my tongue out at the phone and dropped it in my purse.

  Four extra-long red stoplights later, I pulled into the parking lot at Bighorn Billy’s diner. Besides the white 1950s-era Thunderbird convertible, the rest of the cars in the lot were modern vehicles. Kool Deadwood Nites and the rumbling of classic Detroit steel that came with it had come and gone, sucked back down into the sands of time. Now the town could return to everyday life—hard work, school, and gambling.

  Cooper’s unmarked sedan glinted under the afternoon sunshine, the engine still ticking as I skirted it.

  I stepped inside Bighorn Billy’s, my stomach growling at the delectable eau de fried beef. Garth Brooks played through the speakers in the upper corners of the room, singing about blaming it on his roots and showing up in boots. As entrances go, I couldn’t ask for better theme music.

  Across the room, Cooper held down a corner booth, his barbed stare poking holes in me like I was a Voodoo doll. Nothing new there. Why couldn’t he be more like Barney Fife?

  I might as well get this over with. Straightening my shoulders, I weaved through the tables, nodding at a few familiar faces and trying to remember where I’d seen them before—probably Mudder Brothers Funeral Parlor, my new hangout.

  “Hello, Detective,” I said and slid onto the bench seat across from him.

  “You’re late,” he said as a greeting, storm clouds roiling over his brow. He’d left the top button of his dark blue shirt undone under his silver tie and had missed a narrow strip of whiskers on his jaw. Hmmm. Had it been a rough night or a rushed morning?

  “It’s a woman’s prerogative to be slightly tardy,” I told him.

  “Yeah? Well, I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

  “What? Why?” I wasn’t that late.

  He shrugged. “It’s a man’s prerogative to be slightly impatient, especially when a stack of papers is waiting for him back on his desk.”

  My neck heated, guilt at making him come to me spurring the truth from me. “Sorry, but after Cornelius’s antics last night—”

  “And this morning.”

  I sighed. “And this morning, I’m not comfortable with stepping inside the police station.”