If I only had a baseball bat. “I’m not going to strike out. He’s paying with cash.”

  Jane’s eyes flashed open. “He told you that?”

  Ray’s Tony Lamas hit the floor. “You’re full of shit.”

  “I’m not.” I sent a silent prayer to the realty gods that Cornelius had more bundles of cash in a bank somewhere. I’d happily sacrifice a chicken named Elvis as a bribe.

  “This sounds promising, Violet.” Jane’s little smile was back. Whew. “Does he know that the Old Prospector Hotel is rumored to be haunted?”

  I opted for another truth. “Yes.”

  Ray stood all of a sudden. “Jane, Mona or I should represent this client. If he’s really paying cash, we need a homerun here, and Violet doesn’t have the experience or the best batting record.”

  “What!” I leapt out of my seat, my mouth gaping. The lousy rat-faced fink! Where was that bat? I’d show him how well I could hit.

  “Landing this deal might help us expand further south, gain more ground down in Rapid, bring us more customers,” he continued as if I weren’t standing next to him huffing like the little engine that could.

  Jane sipped on her coffee, nodding her head, apparently considering Ray’s line of bull crap.

  “I can do this, Jane,” I said, imploring her with my eyes to agree with me. “Cornelius came in looking for me. Not Ray. Not Mona. You can ask Natalie; he wants me.”

  Ray shot me a snide look, his gaze creeping down to my chest. “I’m sure he does, Violet. That’s a real purty dress.”

  His ogling made me want to take a shower with a wire brush and lye soap.

  Asshole! “Shut up, Ray.”

  He shrugged and turned back to Jane. “Like I said, you need someone with a lot more experience than—”

  “Jane—” I started, but stopped when she held up her hand.

  “Enough! Violet gets to keep the client. Mona will mentor her through it, which will take care of the lack of experience issue you brought up, Ray.”

  Ray swore under his breath and shot me a look of love, as in he’d love to bury his fist in my kisser.

  I smiled back with tons of warmth, looking forward to finding out what he and George Mudder were up to so I could roast Ray’s balls over the fire until they crackled.

  “However, Violet,” Jane said, breaking up our eye-dagger duel, “You’d better not lose this deal for us.”

  “Or what?” Ray prodded.

  “Well,” Jane took a sip of her latte, and then focused on me, a frown pinching her brow. “As much as I like you, my soon-to-be ex-husband is draining me dry. If you lose this sale, I won’t be able to afford to keep you on.”

  When she put it that way—oh, shit!

  I nodded once, as if it were already a done deal. “I won’t let you down, Jane.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes before Cornelius’ appointment time, I stood in the parking lot behind Calamity Jane’s, frowning at the Picklemobile as the afternoon sunshine cooked my roots.

  The old truck wasn’t going to cut the mustard today, not for a cash-paying customer, not when my job was on the line … again.

  I fished my cell phone from my purse, coughing on the oil-rich exhaust fumes spewing from a nearby flame-covered 1950s Ford Thunderbird. It sputtered and struggled to idle, just like the Picklemobile did until it was good and warmed up—yet another reason I needed a different set of wheels to impress Cornelius.

  Doc answered his phone after the third ring. “Hello, Trouble.”

  “I need a favor,” I said, walking along behind several parked cars and trucks.

  “Hmmm. What can I expect in return?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you should hear the request first.”

  “A savvy poker player would win the hand before showing her cards.”

  “I never claimed to be savvy.”

  “Fine. You can show me your legs, then, instead of your cards.”

  I chuckled. “Deal. You grant me this favor, I’ll flash you some skin.”

  “I require more than a flash. What’s the favor?”

  “I need to borrow something.” I stopped behind a familiar black Camaro with white racing stripes.

  “What?”

  “Your car.” A pause on his end pushed me to explain, “I have a cash-paying client I need to show a property to shortly, and I need to impress him.”

  “Is that why you wore that dress today?”

  I hesitated, and then admitted, “The dress is for you.”

  “Good. Where’s the property?”

  “Main Street in Deadwood.”

  “A house?”

  “No, a hotel.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Old Prospector Hotel.”

  This time, he hesitated. “You realize that place is supposedly haunted.”

  “So I’ve been told. Have you been in it?”

  “Just once.”

  “Is it really haunted?”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts.”

  I sighed. “Are we going to do this dance again?”

  “I’d rather just watch you dance.”

  “I’ve always wanted to learn how to belly dance,” I said. “So, is it haunted?”

  “Maybe. When you say belly dancing, are you talking finger cymbals and one of those coin-covered bras?”

  “I’m more partial to velvet covered with sequins and a tambourine—something I can hit. What happened when you went inside the Old Prospector Hotel?”

  “Nothing. I wasn’t in there long enough to get a feel for the place. What is it with you and haunted sites?” he asked.

  “It’s my new marketing angle.”

  “Ghost busting?”

  More like trying to save my job. But Doc didn’t need to know that. “Who you gonna call?”

  “You’ll need new business cards. Does your client know about its haunted reputation?”

  “He’s the one who told me.”

  He let out a single sarcastic laugh. “Right. I should have guessed that.”

  “So, can I use your car?”

  “Of course. What’s this new client of yours look like?”

  “Why?” Was he jealous? Doc usually didn’t suffer from the green-eyed monster’s wrath. It must be the dress.

  “Because I just saw Abe Lincoln’s twin pass in front of my windows and head for your front door. I’m guessing he belongs to you.”

  “Ack! That’s Cornelius.” I rushed toward Calamity Jane’s back entrance.

  “Cornelius?” Doc chuckled. “Did he escape from the set of Planet of the Apes?”

  “Cute,” I said hauling open the door. “I gotta go.”

  “I’ll bring my keys over in a minute.”

  “No,” I whispered, not wanting anyone to see Doc hand me his car keys. “I’ll grab them on my way out.”

  “As you wish, Trouble.”

  I hung up, stuffing my phone in my purse.

  Cornelius stood next to my desk, waiting alone, his half-smile in place.

  Ray must have been using the bathroom.

  “Hello, Cornelius,” I greeted him with a full show of teeth.

  “You remind me of someone in those glasses.”

  “Marilyn Monroe?” I threw out Doc’s usual reference.

  “No, it was this poster I saw last year on the side of a bus in San Jose while on my way to the Winchester Mansion. It had a blonde poodle wearing sunglasses and a bikini top.

  Nice. I fought off the urge to give Cornelius a Three Stooges two-finger poke in the eyes and grabbed a hair clip from my desk drawer. With a quick twist, I secured my poodle-like hair in a French knot.

  The sound of the toilet flushing down the hall spurred me to usher Honest Abe’s twin toward the front door. I didn’t want Ray to see him if I could help it for reasons I’d analyze later. “If you’re ready, let’s go.”

  “Sure.” He stepped through the door I held open for him, his cane clicking on the sidewalk as I led him about twenty feet beyond Calamity Jane’s and Doc’s windows.

  “If you’ll wait here for just a second,” I said at the corner of the building. “I need to run back and grab something.”

  Doc’s front room was empty when I crossed the threshold. “Doc?”

  He stepped out from the back room, a folder in his hand. “The keys are on my desk.”

  “Thank you.” I scooped them up.

  “Violet.”

  I paused at the door and glanced back at him.

  “Be careful.”

  “I won’t leave a single scratch.” I hoped not to, anyway. How hard was it to buff out scuff marks?

  “I’m not talking about the car.”

  Oh, that. “What could possibly go wrong?” I was going to be at a busy hotel in the middle of the day.

  “Something that I haven’t thought of yet.”

  “The story of my life.” I gave him a two-fingered peace sign and stepped back into the harsh sunshine.

  Cornelius waited for me with a dew of sweat coating his upper lip. His little round sunglasses covered his bright blue eyes. His long-sleeve black suit jacket must have been hot as hell. With a nudge of my head, I led him to the back parking lot.

  He whistled as we approached Doc’s Camaro. “Sweet ride.”

  Yes, it was. So was its owner, but those kinds of thoughts needed to be tucked away in my lingerie drawer for later when Doc was in attendance.

  “Reminds me of a few months ago when I was down near Baton Rouge visiting the Myrtles Plantation. One of my associates has a fetish for classic muscle cars. He has a tattoo of a red convertible ‘68 Stingray across his back.”

  The Myrtles Plantation? How did I know that place?

  I slid behind the wheel, inhaling the mixed scent of warmed leather and Doc’s woodsy cologne, shooting a quick glance at Cornelius to see if he noticed the lack of a sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice girlie scent.

  He appeared to be too busy ogling the customized dash with its dials and lights to have noticed.

  Starting the car, I rolled down the windows to replace the tell-tale scent of Doc with some of Deadwood’s own Eau-de-pine tree parfum.

  “So, Cornelius, did you recently move here from Las Vegas,” which was listed on his driver’s license as his home town, “or are you just visiting?”

  He tapped one of the fancy dials on Doc’s dash. “Just visiting. For now.”

  Slow and easy, I steered the Camaro out of the parking lot and headed for Main Street. “How did you hear about the Old Prospector Hotel?” Was the other realty office advertising nationally? Jane might be interested in hearing about it, if so.

  “On the Internet. I was reading about the Adam’s House on a site and an ad for the hotel popped up in the sidebar.”

  “The Adam’s House, huh?” Which was also rumored to be haunted. Suddenly, I remembered where I’d heard of the Myrtles Plantation—on a documentary about haunted houses in the United States. “It sounds like you’re into ghost stories.”

  “You could say that.”

  Lovely, a ghoul groupie, my specialty.

  So long as his money was green and the bank took it without alerting the Feds, I could deal with some hints of kookiness in a client. Besides, I doubted he could match straightjackets with my previous customers, Wolfgang and Millie.

  Maybe he was a famous author incognito. That might explain his eccentric outfit and gobs of money. “Are you writing a book about ghosts or something?”

  “No. But that’s an idea I’ve considered.”

  I pulled into the hotel’s packed side parking lot, taking a stall with a Reserved sign, and killed the engine. “Okay, let’s go inside and take a look at the place. The hotel manager is expecting us.”

  So was the other Realtor.

  Cornelius seemed to hesitate, tugging on his goatee as he stared at me through his little round sunglasses.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, anxiety tickling my chest.

  Please don’t tell me you lied about the cash.

  “There is something I should probably tell you before we go inside.”

  Crud!

  I hoped Jane wouldn’t hold Cornelius’ lack of funds against me. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. “What?”

  “I have a condition.”

  “I’m sure the hotel’s owner would be willing to consider whatever condition you offer.”

  If Cornelius really had the money to buy the hotel, his cash would do the talking for us. If not, maybe we could wheel and deal a little.

  “Not that kind of condition. A physical condition.”

  I cocked my head to the side, frowning. “Are you ill?”

  “Some people would say so, but I think I’m perfectly fine, just genetically advanced.”

  Genetically advanced, huh? Did he have wings under that black coat? “What are you talking about, Cornelius?”

  “I have this extra ability.”

  Great. Here we go again. It all made sense now, the references to the haunted places, his quirks.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You can see ghosts.” Him and everyone else but me in this town.

  “No, I can’t see them.”

  Oh. Okay. “So, what’s the problem then? Is it about the money? Do we need to look into financing?”

  I’d help him fill out the paperwork if I had to in order to sell him the damned place. Another vehicle to replace my dead Bronco wasn’t going to be cheap, neither were Addy’s new glasses, the two pairs of shoes I had to buy for Layne, plus school supplies—ugh! The commission I made off of Doc’s house would only stretch so far.

  “No,” he waved me off. “I have plenty of cash to pay for this place.”

  Thank God. “What then?”

  “I’m a ghost whisperer.”

  I stared at him for a couple of blinks. “Come again?”

  “I can summon and talk to ghosts.”

  Chapter Four

  Cornelius and I struck the mother lode in the Old Prospector Hotel.

  Gold-colored carpet softened our footfalls, gold faux-silk wallpaper coated the walls, gold-painted tiles shimmered on the ceiling. If Deadwood had a hidden rainbow, we’d found the leprechaun’s stash.

  With a fake smile etched on my face, I led Cornelius through several banks of jangling slot machines. Heads turned as we walked through the casino’s cooled air, mumbles and sniggers following in our wake. All of the attention made me miss the smoke that used to fill the air before Deadwood enacted the no smoking in casinos law. We could use a cloud of exhaled nicotine to hide behind.

  A full-sized stuffed mule weighed down with prospecting gear stood next to the front desk. A plaque at its hooves claimed “Socrates” had belonged to the hotel’s original owner. Decades of petting had rubbed bare the top of poor Socrates’ nose.

  I’d have to bring Addy and Layne here someday to see the old mule. Then again, Addy might get the idea in her head of rescuing Socrates. Thank God he was too big to fit in her bicycle basket and too dead to be a pet. Although, Layne might be interested in Socrates’ skeleton.

  Cornelius pocketed his glasses and pointed at the mule. “Is that for real?”

  I could ask good old Honest Abe the same question, but since he was a client and the sale of this hotel would ensure I kept my job, I just pinched my lips together and nodded.

  We sidled up to the front desk where a young receptionist stood, her gaze glued to her computer screen. With her gold lamé shirt and sun-kissed long blonde locks, she reminded me of Addy’s Safari Skipper Barbie.

  “Welcome to the Old Prosp—” Her jaw gaped at the sight of Cornelius, who tipped his top hat at her.

  I waited a few seconds to see if she’d snap back to life on her own. When she didn’t, I waved my hand in front of her face. “Hi. I’m Violet Parker from Calamity Jane Realty. We’re here to see the manager.”

  “The manager?” she repeated and dragged her focus back to me, frowning as if I’d spoken Portuguese.

  “Yes. The manager.” I spoke with a dose of enunciation. “I’m with Calamity Jane Realty. We have an appointment.”

  “Uhhh, okay. Hold on.” She stole one last peek at Cornelius, and then scurried through a door behind her marked Office.

  “That went well,” I said under my breath.

  Cornelius stroked his goatee, a smug look on his face. “I tend to have that effect on people.”

  I wished he’d save his special effects for some other time, preferably without me in the same town. I’d been building enough of a tarnished reputation in Deadwood without his help.

  “There are definitely ghosts in this place,” Cornelius said loudly enough for any passersby to hear. “I sensed at least one over near that group of Triple-Seven slot machines. Maybe three.”

  Before I had a chance to recover from my flush of mortification and shush him, the office door opened and Tiffany walked out.

  Tiffany.

  As in Doc’s gorgeous ex-girlfriend.

  The Jessica Rabbit look-alike.

  My flame-haired rival.

  It was my turn to gape. What in the hell was she doing here?

  Tiffany’s eyes moved from me to Cornelius and back, her smile smooth and wide, as if she was selling tooth whitener on a pop-up Internet ad.

  Jeez, she was good. Not even an extra blink at the sight of Cornelius leaning on the counter beside me.

  Her white knit shirt and matching skirt hugged her in all the curvy places. I sucked in my baby-stretched stomach. With that perky figure, there was no way she’d ever pushed out a kid—let alone two within minutes of each other.

  “Hello.” She held her hand out to Cornelius, who had removed his top hat at the sight of her. “I’m Tiffany Sugarbell from Canyon Realty.”

  Sugarbell. I grinned, remembering Harvey’s crack about Tiffany being Tinker Bell’s porn-star cousin.

  “Ms. Sugarbell.” Cornelius took her hand, bowing his head a bit. “What a pleasure to meet you.”

  Her Stepford wife smile landed on me.

  I tried to mimic her expression, stretching my cheeks toward my ears, and held out my hand. “Violet Parker from Calamity Jane Realty.”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyelids narrowing a fraction as she took my hand. “We’ve met before.”

  We had. Twice. First with Harvey, then with Doc. Only the last time, her hand had been slapping Doc’s face instead of squeezing my hand in a silent challenge. Dang, the wench was strong. I pulled free, my knuckles throbbing from being crushed in her Kung-Fu grip.