She pulled a bottle of perfume from her glove box and spritzed her wrists. A sultry fruity scent filled the cab, making me hungry for mango.

  “Why are you so worried about Cooper all of a sudden?” she asked.

  “Because I don’t want to end up spending the night in the Deadwood cop shop.” Plus Doc was coming over for the first time, and I didn’t want to screw up our little date night by not showing up because I was too busy sitting in a jail cell.

  She snorted. “You’re obsessed with Coop.”

  Clinically, she was probably close to the mark. He was like my own personal Eye of Mordor these days, seemingly always watching, rarely blinking. I envisioned poking that big eye with a pencil eraser.

  “He’s only human, you know,” she added, pulling her keys from the ignition and reaching for the door handle.

  I thought of his gunshot riddled T-shirt. “I’m not so positive about that.”

  I stepped to the ground and brushed some tiny chicken feathers off of my black velvet slacks.

  The sun had dropped below the hills to the west, but the air was still filled with warm thermals rising from the asphalt. I watched for cop cars as we snuck across the Mudder Brothers lot.

  “Who are we paying our respects to tonight?” I asked Natalie as we neared the front porch.

  “Victor Haskell.”

  “Haskell? Didn’t we just go to a Haskell viewing last week?”

  “Yeah, Victor’s second cousin.”

  “How many Haskells are there around here?”

  “Lots. They’re old-school Catholics.”

  Mudder Brother’s front porch area smelled like cigarette smoke, but there was no smoker to be found.

  I held the door for Natalie, and then followed her into the foyer, passing several folks on their way out.

  We found George in the main room. Only a handful of mourners filled the seats. George stood by the casket, consoling an older woman dressed in black from the tip of her veiled hat to her black patent leather spiked heels. Good thing I hadn’t brought Harvey along. Saucy-looking widows were his kryptonite.

  We sat in our usual seats at the back of the room and waited for George to greet us with his row of little corn-on-the-cob teeth.

  “So,” Natalie whispered, “am I going to ask him about Ray or are you?”

  “I will.” I whispered back.

  “Remind me why I’m here again instead of down at the Blue Outlaw kicking it up in your purple boots?”

  “Make that purple boot,” I said, nodding at her injured leg. “You’re here to help me grease the wheels on getting into the records room.”

  “Right, the dead prostitute.” She grabbed a toothbrush from her pants pocket and shoved it down into her cast boot, grunting in satisfaction as she scratched. “Remind me again how you learned about this dead girl’s ghost and why we care.”

  So many reminders—she could use some of that Ginkgo Biloba. “Cornelius claims she exists,” I lied. “And I care because I’m curious if Cornelius is legit.”

  “Curious enough to bug George to see his records?” She watched me with a narrowed gaze. “Are you sure that’s the only reason?”

  She knew me too well. “The poor girl was supposedly murdered in the hotel my client is buying.” I poured on some compassion. Not to mention that the murderers had taken her teeth, just as they had Prudence’s, which had me curious. How many more people were murdered back then by these brutes and why? It had to do with something more than just a fetish for canine teeth.

  “It sounds like you are actually beginning to believe in ghosts. What’s up with that?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not saying I do or don’t at this point, but if there really is a ghost, she deserves a name.” And I wanted an answer about that little box of teeth Cooper was sitting on. I wondered if Doc had had a chance to dig deeper into his vision of the murder scene.

  “Fair enough. What about the headless guy? The other funeral home owner. Are we going to ask about him, too?”

  I wanted to, but decided to focus on Ray for now. Too many questions might make George run away. “Let’s hold off on that until another viewing. Unless the subject comes up.”

  She snickered. “Comes up? You mean like, ‘Hi, George, nice weather we’re having, huh? Have any more headless corpses come in? If so, were they more of your cohorts? Oh, and by the way, did you happen to kill the last headless corpse-dude and destroy the evidence during the autopsy?’”

  I wrinkled my nose at her. “You’re lucky I’m not wearing socks or you’d be chewing on them.”

  She grinned wider, stifling a giggle.

  Ten minutes later, George had just four of us left in the room. He made a point of coming over to hug Natalie and shake my hand, bestowing me with a closed-lip smile that barely tipped the corners of his lips. I wondered what bullshit Ray had been spreading about me to his client.

  “Hello, ladies. Good to see you again. How is your Aunt Beatrice doing?” he asked Natalie.

  “She’s looking for love in all of the wrong places again. You know how she gets.”

  George nodded, his eyes darting to the one-way glass on our right. “That’s good to hear.”

  Huh? I shared a narrow-eyed glance with Natalie and forced myself not to look at the one-way glass. I didn’t want to let on to George that I knew about that viewing room. I had plans to come back another day and sneak in there to open one of his damned crates.

  “George,” I said, touching his arm to bring his attention back to us. “Have you seen Ray? I need to …” rub it in, “to talk to him about some real estate business, but he hasn’t shown up at work in a couple of days.”

  His barely-there smile grew twitchy on the left side. “No, I haven’t.”

  “You mean he didn’t contact you in the last twenty-four hours to discuss increasing your offer for the Old Prospector Hotel?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from him at all. Maybe he’s visiting his mother over in Brookings.”

  “Maybe,” I said, but I wasn’t buying the mom in Brookings theory. Ray was hatched from a reptile nest. Snakes didn’t make loving sons.

  Something was wrong with this picture. Ray sleeps with a very drunk Jane, and then he disappears without keeping tabs on the bidding war that could result in my dismissal from his precious real estate world?

  George frowned at his reflection in the one-way glass, shaking his head so slightly that I wasn’t sure if he was doing it on purpose or if it was just a tick. Then he made a cutting gesture across his throat, as if to silence someone who was watching.

  “What are you doing?” Natalie asked him.

  “The sound system has been giving us grief all evening. There is something wrong with the mics up front.” He made the motion again to the one-way glass. “I’m sorry, girls, but I need to take care of this.” He turned toward the front of the room, but Natalie’s hand on his arm stalled him.

  “George,” she said, “we are looking for the name of a prostitute who was murdered in the late 1800s for one of Violet’s curious clients. Can we take a quick look at your books?”

  “My books?”

  “Yes, it seems like Aunt Beatrice told me that you keep records on the deceased and that you have some historic volumes that came with the funeral parlor when you purchased it from the previous owner.”

  Relief etched lines on his face. “Oh, you mean my registers of the deceased. Yes, of course. You’re welcome to them. Let me show you where they are, and then you can just let yourself out the front when you’re finished.”

  “We’ll be out of your hair before you know it,” Natalie assured him with a shoulder squeeze.

  I knew there was a reason I’d brought her along. I smiled at her with pride. Maybe if I got her really drunk, and then told her about Doc and me, she wouldn’t want to kill me straight out. She was a happy drunk, which was when and why her men problems usually started.

  She stuck her tongue out at me and followed behind George.

  He led us to the little room off the foyer. Both Natalie and I faked surprise that it was more than just a coat closet.

  With a quick smile, he left us outside the door to go say goodbye to the last of the deceased’s family as they left the viewing parlor.

  Natalie opened the door to the records room and ushered me in, “After you, Sherlock.”

  “Thank you, Watson.”

  We left the door open a crack so George wouldn’t get suspicious about our true motives … which really were just to find out the prostitute’s name. I wasn’t used to being within legal limits when it came to Mudder Brothers.

  The foyer grew quiet as Natalie and I began digging through the thick books of deaths gone by that were divided by decade. She took the 1880s and I took the 1890s. As we perused the tattered, ancient-looking volumes, the sounds of the funeral parlor quieted to dead silence.

  I flipped another page, scanning down the Cause of Death column. Because Doc didn’t know the exact year of the girl’s death, I had to focus more on the how of it all, not the when. “George could use some classes on filing. I get the feeling these books were just thrown in here on the shelves and left to rot.”

  Natalie peeked out through the crack. “I think we’re the only ones left. Let’s go see if they have a crate next door.”

  “No,” I said, giving her a warning squint. “I told you I didn’t want to do that tonight. Besides, it’s too dangerous. Did you see the way George kept looking at the glass? Someone must have been in that room.”

  “Fine, you big baby.” She turned another page, her fingers trailing down the page. She appeared to be about a third of the way through the book. “We’re looking for something about murder, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Several minutes later, Natalie closed the book she had been checking out with a dust-inducing snap.

  “I have to pee,” she declared, stretching.

  “Thanks for the news flash, Ace Reporter Natalie Beals.”

  She poked me in the ribs. “Try not to freak out while I’m gone, Chicken Little.” Grinning at my one-fingered bird gesture, she hobbled out of the room, taking her crutch with her, and shut the door on me.

  I picked up the volume she’d been reading through and opened to somewhere close to where she’d left off, a third of the way into it. I read through the list full of causes of death, finding things like: Murdered—Shot in the back, Natural Causes—TB, Natural Causes—Smallpox, Murdered—Mining dispute, Murdered—Scalped, and Murdered—Gun shot wound. The violence on the pages told stories of Deadwood and Lead’s rough past, sucking me in with teasers, filling my imagination.

  I found two possible candidates, both listing women with odd names that sounded like they could be prostitute pseudonyms, showing no next of kin, and the Cause of Death was Murdered—Knife wound. The first was Ruby Redbone, the second was named Iris DeFleur.

  I pulled up the notepad feature on my phone and typed in the information on both women. When I’d finished, I took a picture of the pages on which the names were located and one picture of the book itself. I bent the tiniest bit of the corner on each page to mark it, in case I had the chance to come back and show Doc in person.

  When I reached the last third of the volume, I looked up, blinking, and realized that Natalie hadn’t come back. I pulled out my phone and frowned down at the time. I should have paid attention to when she left. She must have been gone for over twenty-five minutes already.

  I sent her a text asking where in the hell she was. While I waited for her reply, I flipped through a few more pages, my gaze landing on an entry under Cause of Death that had: Murder—Multiple knife wounds (and dental surgery).

  “Dental surgery?” I whispered. Her date of death was close to the time Doc had mentioned. I looked at the name: Annabelle Devine. Kate Rogers was listed as her next of kin.

  Devine? Wasn’t that the last name of the prostitute who was murdered in that god-awful house with the striped wallpaper bedroom and the freaky basement that had set off Doc’s radar?

  I repeated my note and picture-taking routine with Annabelle’s record.

  There. Done. I had a few names and dates. Maybe these would give Doc what he needed to find out even more.

  Now where in the hell was Natalie? She still hadn’t replied to my text.

  I opened the records room door and stepped out into the empty foyer, pausing to listen for sounds. The place was silent.

  There was no sign of Natalie. Maybe she was still in the bathroom. Maybe she’d slipped and hurt her leg again, or worse yet, bunged up her other leg.

  A quick check of the facilities resulted in washing the musty book smell from my hands, but no Natalie.

  The French doors to the main viewing parlor were shut, the curtains closed. I eased one door open enough to check inside. The room was empty except for Mr. Haskell’s casket up front. I could see his hands above the edge of the coffin, which made me shiver. Too creepy.

  I closed the door and stepped back over to the records room to see if Natalie had returned while I was in the bathroom.

  No such luck. The room was still empty. A hint of her sultry perfume lingering among the musty smells of the books, the only sign that she’d even been there.

  Where in the hell had she gone?

  I looked at the doorway leading into the hidden viewing room, the one with the crates. It was open a tiny bit, shadows leaking out through the crack. Hadn’t that been closed when we went into the records room?

  Natalie wouldn’t have … I growled in my throat.

  Oh, yes, she definitely would have, even though I’d asked her not to. I was going to skin her hide if I landed in jail tonight because of her. I had plans involving a good movie and a hot guy—a real flesh-and-blood male for once, not just a selection from my imagination.

  I grabbed the door knob and eased the door open, squinting into the dimly lit room. “Natalie?” I whispered, inching inside.

  Closing the door behind me, I glanced through the one-way glass. The parlor was still empty except for the dead guy. I could see his folded hands from this viewpoint, too. Eek.

  There were two crates sitting end-to-end on the other side of the room. Curiosity lured me to them. When I got close enough to see the lids in the dim light cast through the one-way glass, I stopped short.

  The lid on one of the crates was part-way open. I tiptoed forward and peered inside.

  There was something in there.

  Holy freaking moly! I had finally caught the Mudder brothers in the act. I fumbled for my cell phone. Pushing a button to light up the screen, I lowered it inside the crate. Pale white light reflected off black shiny bottles packed in straw.

  I pulled one out, taking a closer look. There was no label, not even one stamped into the glass. The bottle was heavy, full of liquid, and sealed closed with a cork covered in wax.

  Holding my cell against the side of the bottle, I tried to see the liquid through the glass, but it was too dark.

  Setting my phone down, I hefted the bottle between my hands. What was in it? Was it beer? Wine? Poison? Some kind of Voodoo potion? Blood? I tried to wiggle the cork free with my fingers, then my teeth. The sucker wouldn’t budge.

  “What have you done?” George Mudder’s voice came from behind me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I gasped at the sound of George’s voice and almost dropped the bottle.

  My heart galloping headlong toward a heart attack, I swung around. The room was empty, except for me. What the hell? Was I hearing voices now?

  My breathing was shallow, but too loud. I double-checked each and every shadow for movement, but found nobody.

  Was it a ghost?

  No, you spaz. It was George’s voice, and he was still kicking. At least he was the last time I saw him.

  “You’ve gone too far,” George said again, sounding as if he stood right next to me.

  I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. On the other side of the one-way glass, George stood next to the casket, looking down at the corpse. He was talking to the dead guy, not me. The sound system he’d been telling Natalie and me about earlier must still be on.

  It looked like Cornelius had some competition. No wonder George wanted the haunted hotel.

  Relief flooded my limbs, but the feeling didn’t last long. I needed to get out of here now, before George found me playing voyeur.

  “Do you hear me?” George said.

  His one-sided conversation with a corpse gave me goosebumps. What else did he do with corpses?

  I hurried toward the door, hoping George would keep right on chatting while I made my escape.

  Where in the heck was Natalie, dammit? Maybe she went out to her pickup for some reason and was back in the records room, waiting for me.

  “Do not speak to me with that disrespectful tone, you insignificant little speck,” another voice said, freezing me in my tracks.

  The tone was deep and rich, but terse, with a hint of something foreign discernible underneath the English. Something Slavic maybe, like Count Dracula. It reminded me of Kyrkozz’s voice in my nightmare, and that made my knees wobbly. In slow motion, I turned back to look through the one-way glass.

  On the other side of the coffin from George stood one of the two tall albino smokers I’d seen weeks ago on Mudder Brothers front porch. I’d nicknamed the two men Huey and Dewey, Donald Duck’s nephews in grizzled form. Both men were tall and thin with thick tufts of pure white hair and bulbous eyes. Suit them up in matching sailor outfits and the caricature was complete.

  Even though they had reminded me of cartoon ducks, something in their pale-eyed stares had made my skin crawl. Tonight, this particular albino was dressed in a black suit and black tie. Add some black sunglasses and he could start hunting down aliens. Who was he and where had he come from? Slagton? No, not with that accent.

  The urge to run far and fast hit so hard my toes tingled. The French doors leading out of the parlor were still closed, so maybe I could sneak out the front door with neither man the wiser. Please, please, please let Natalie be sitting in her pickup waiting for me with a shit-eating grin on her face when I got there.

  As I reached for the viewing room door knob, I heard George say, “What have you done with her?”