Harvey nodded. “That’s why my pa called them Whangdoodles. One step short of plum-shit crazy.”

  I tried to rub away my goose bumps. After the last story I heard about Slagton, which involved a milky-eyed demon who supposedly dug up the graves in a local cemetery and chewed on the bones, there was no way I’d go to Slagton. Not even with a six-pack of fully-armed Navy Seals leading the way.

  “Anyway,” Harvey said, “if I can find that cash my pa swore my grandpappy buried, I wouldn’t have to wait for my ranch to sell to buy a house in town.”

  I sat up straight, my chain yanked. Did someone say buy a house?

  Harvey grinned. “I’d be your second cash-paying customer this month.”

  Okay, so I wasn’t sold yet on the whole concept of ghosts existing, and maybe the idea of Cornelius talking to them was a tad bit loony, but what if—just what if—there really were jars of money hidden on Harvey’s ranch and Cornelius had some way of figuring out the general vicinity where Harvey should dig? Wasn’t that worth baiting Cornelius a little with the promise of another ghost and taking him on a mini-road trip out to Harvey’s ranch?

  No, that was just too desperate.

  True, but could it really hurt to give it a try?

  I chewed on my lower lip, torn between my sensibilities and my need for food and shelter for me and mine.

  My cell phone rang. Doc? I wondered what he’d think about Harvey’s request.

  I grabbed my cell phone. Nope. The screen displayed Natalie’s name. “Hello?”

  “Hey, girlfriend, I’m tied up down here in Rapid.”

  “Were you abducted this time or is it voluntary again?”

  Natalie chuckled. “It’s voluntary, but not as fun as last time. I’m still dressed.”

  “Oh, well, maybe next time. Do you need my help?” It would be a good excuse to swing in down at my parents and grab my kids without being obvious about getting them away from my sister.

  “No, I’m good. I didn’t want you guys to wait for me for supper tonight. I probably won’t be home until after eight.”

  Two things bugged me about that.

  First, I didn’t like how she was beginning to think of Aunt Zoe’s place as home. While I loved Nat, I loved her better when she didn’t share my bedroom.

  Second, I needed her tonight. There was a viewing at the Mudder Brothers, and she was my ticket in.

  I’d just have to figure out some other way to sneak into Mudder Brothers without George thinking I was some kind of nutty funeral-home junkie. “Leftovers will be in the fridge.”

  “Save me a beer. I’m gonna need it after this shitty day.”

  She and I both.

  I hung up and smiled wide at Aunt Zoe. “You feel like paying your respects to a recently deceased member of the community tonight?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I can’t. I have to finish that order for the Denver gallery tonight.”

  Well, crap.

  “Whose funeral?” Aunt Zoe asked, still eagle-eyeing me.

  Squirming a little, I tried to remember the name of the guest of honor.

  “Are you talking about Elsa Haskell’s viewing?” Harvey asked.

  That was it. “Yes!” I said with too much excitement. I tried to frown a little and do my best sad-faced impression, but going by the pinch of Aunt Zoe’s lips, she wasn’t buying my act.

  “How did you know Elsa Haskell?” Aunt Zoe was digging her claws in; I could feel them. Shit.

  Aunt Zoe didn’t know anything about my obsession with George Mudder and Ray. If she did, she would chew my ass up one cheek and down the other like it was an ear of corn.

  I pushed away from the table and carried my empty lemonade glass to the sink so I could hide my tell-tale, twitchy nose. “Elsa was a friend of Jane’s. I’m going out of support for my boss.”

  “You’re attending a viewing in order to further your career?” she asked.

  If my catching Ray in the act of a crime could get his chauvinistic ass fired, then yes, I was. “Maybe.”

  Harvey snorted. “Elsa would have liked your spunk. She was into burning her bras and wearing short skirts long before it was the hip thing to do.”

  “You knew her?” I asked.

  “Sure. She was a ways ahead of me in school, but I used to try to peek up her skirt when she was shaking her pom-pons at the high school football games. Her sweaters were like a second layer of skin.”

  Aunt Zoe chuckled. “That never changed. I ran into her last month in the Piggly Wiggly. She’d left the price tag on her bra, and I could see the shape of it through her way-too-tight shirt.”

  I crossed my arms over my own too-snug dress and stared at the president of the peanut gallery. Harvey by my side at a viewing? That just might work. He was well-known around town, so there’d be no question as to why I was there. And if I needed a distraction, a dirty old man with a trick hip who still liked to look up women’s skirts would fit the bill.

  “Harvey, how do you feel about going to Elsa’s viewing with me tonight?”

  He hesitated, then slapped the table. “What the hell? Elsa’s daughter owns that little bakery in Central City. Maybe she’ll bring some of her mama’s favorite doughnuts to share.”

  I pointed at his faded jeans. “You don’t happen to have a nice shirt and pair of pants stashed somewhere around town, do you? Like at Cooper’s?”

  “Or next door at Miss Geary’s,” Aunt Zoe said.

  Her neighbor was one of Harvey’s on- and off-again girlfriends. At least once a week, his Ford pickup sat in her drive overnight.

  “It’s your lucky day, girly-girl. One of my old flames keeps her dead husband’s suits hanging in her spare closet, and wouldn’t you know, I’m his exact size.”

  No shit. “What are the chances?”

  That his old flame still mourned her husband so much made my throat burn a little in sympathy.

  Harvey’s eyes twinkled. “Pretty damned good. She’s a picky woman.”

  “You mean she likes her boyfriends to be built the same as her husband?”

  “Yep. Saves her from adjusting the inseam.”

  My heart twanged. Blue stories like this made me determined not to fall in love. There was too much to lose. I already had my hands and heart full with my two kids. “That’s so sad.”

  “Sad? What are you talking about?” His eyebrows were all scrunched up again.

  “Your old flame’s undying love for her dead husband.”

  He snorted. “You have the story all wrong. He was a cheatin’ asshole. She likes me to dress up like him so she can spank me for being a bad boy.”

  “Blahhh!” I plugged my ears too late.

  Aunt Zoe covered her eyes and shook her head.

  Maybe going to the viewing with Harvey tonight wasn’t such a great idea after all.

  Chapter Six

  My day had begun with a visit to Mudder Brothers Funeral Parlor to view a dead body, so ending it with a return to the century-old, two-story renovated house and its massive front gable seemed fitting.

  Same place, different dead body.

  I really needed to get a life.

  It was Friday night, for crap-sake. I should be spending my time staring into Doc’s eyes, a bottle of Merlot and a thick T-bone steak separating us, clothing optional.

  Instead, here I was leaning against one of Mudder Brothers huge neoclassical front-porch columns, watching the sun set behind the hills while I waited for Old Man Harvey to show up in his Sunday best … or rather some fancy duds belonging to an S&M-loving widow’s dead hubby.

  Jeesh. With friends like Harvey, who needed television?

  I’d insisted Harvey take the Picklemobile without me to go get his suit. Knowing what I did about the widow’s extra-curricular activities, there was no way I’d be able to look her in the eye without my cheeks flaming.

  After Aunt Zoe had dropped me off at Mudder Brothers, I’d tried to scope out the parking lot behind Doc’s office from my porch viewpoint, searching for a certain red-headed Realtor’s black Jeep parked in the vicinity of Doc’s Camaro. But there were too many pickups and RVs in the lot to see much in the twilight. I squelched the temptation to race over there and search the lot one vehicle at a time. My jealousy hadn’t reached the temporarily insane level … yet.

  Once again, I reminded the silly, needy teenage girl in my head that there was more to life than Doc Nyce. Things such as dead bodies and their missing parts.

  I picked at some loose paint on the column. Dang it, where was Harvey? The clock was ticking and I wanted to get in and out of Mudder Brothers while the place was filled with other people who’d distract George from my presence.

  I pulled out my cell phone and checked the time again. Frowning at the screen, I debated about calling Doc, going so far as to pull up his number. Was he with Tiffany? Were they out to dinner as she’d mentioned in their earlier call?

  A knot of jealousy coiled in my stomach, taking my breath away. Damn it.

  Life was so much easier without men and sex. But lonelier. Not as colorful. I thought of Doc’s mouth and a thrill raced over my skin. Or as exciting.

  I typed a text message: Hi.

  Before I could chicken out, I hit the Send button.

  Then I waited, tapping my phone against my hip. Would he reply? Could he? Or were his hands full at the moment … full of Tiffany’s perky breasts?

  “Stop it!” I chided my inner green ogre, growling under my breath in frustration.

  An ancient, ocean-liner-sized Lincoln pulled into the empty handicap spot in front of me. Two gray-haired heads bobbed just above the dash’s surface. Who was captaining the Titanic? Would they recognize me from my realty signs or business cards stapled to corkboards around town?

  I moved around to the other side of the column, hiding from view. I didn’t need any questions about how I had known Mrs. Haskell, not without Harvey at my side to back me up.

  My phone vibrated. With my heart halfway up my esophagus, I looked at the screen. Hi back.

  What’s new? I typed.

  You texting me. You usually call. What’s up?

  Nothing. Thinking about U—with Tiffany, I didn’t type.—Where R U?

  Was he alone?

  In my office. Where are you?

  I looked around, trying to come up with an answer other than the truth. While I’d promised to start telling Doc more about my comings and goings, sharing the fact that I was standing outside of Mudder Brothers about to go snooping in George’s home-away-from-home, shouldn’t be done in a text message.

  The little old ladies disembarked. Their whole knitting club would fit in the Lincoln.

  I’m w/Harvey, I texted back. That was kind of true, since I’d be with him shortly. U R working late.

  I added R U alone? on another line, and then deleted it.

  Have a lot to do. Where are you and Harvey?

  Harvey’s doing fine. I skirted his question.

  Violet, what’s going on?

  Nothing. Can’t I just say Hi?

  You never just say Hi. Where are you two?

  I blew out a breath. If I told him, he might walk over here. As much as I wanted to see him right then, I had a mission, and Doc would get in the way.

  I typed, Hanging out.

  I could hear the Picklemobile’s exhaust pipe coming closer from a couple of blocks away.

  Your nose is twitching, Doc wrote.

  U can’t see me from there.

  Come closer. Within reach. Bring your boots.

  My shiver had nothing to do with the cool evening air. He must be alone. He wouldn’t be texting this much if Tiffany was sitting there, would he? I sighed. Can’t tonight. Got company.

  Tell her.

  My gut twisted in a whole new knot just thinking about hurting Natalie with the truth about Doc and me.

  But he was right. This game had gone on long enough. I wanted to stop worrying about who was watching when I tackled Doc and slobbered all over him.

  The Picklemobile pulled into the Mudder Brothers parking lot.

  Gotta go, I texted, listening to Harvey drive around the side of the building.

  Stay out of trouble, Violet.

  Always.

  Right.

  My flares of jealousy doused, I shoved my phone back in my purse and peeked around the column at the two older ladies, who had made it to the top of the porch ramp. The backfiring boom of Harvey’s exhaust surprised a yip out of the older, more rotund of the two, her walker jerking in her hands.

  The younger one leaned over and said in a loud voice, “Did you hear that gunshot, Norma Jean?”

  Norma Jean nodded with a grunt. “I hope the sheriff got the bastard.”

  I blinked, scratching my head. Had I heard her right?

  Norma Jean’s walker creaked past me. “We’d better stop by the powder room, Lucille. That shot just about scared the piss out of me.”

  Cackles of laughter followed the two women into the funeral parlor.

  The door had no sooner shut behind them when Harvey rounded the corner of the building, a walking cane in hand.

  At the site of him, I nearly fell off the porch. “What in the hell is that?”

  “What? Is this damned thing crooked again?” Harvey straightened his black bow tie. “Or are you talkin’ about my fancy walking stick?”

  I pointed at his yellow plaid leisure suit jacket, my jaw still hanging down to my belly button. “You look like a canary wrapped in a wire fence.”

  He tugged on the too-short sleeves. “Yeah, it’s a little short in the arms and the crotch. I’m built a bit long for this suit, if you know what I mean.” He waggled his bushy eyebrows.

  I’d need a plunger to remove that visual from my brain. “Harvey, I said you needed to blend in. The only place you’d fit in wearing that suit is at a clown convention.”

  I caught a whiff of strawberries in the air. Lucille or Norma Jean must have left a trail of perfume in their wake.

  “You’re one to talk about blendin’ in with that hair of yours,” Harvey said, pointing at my head.

  I patted my coiffed and tucked-in curls. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “Besides, all of the other suits were at the cleaners,” he said, obviously ignoring my question. His gold teeth appeared behind his wide smile. “We’ve been experimenting with some homemade edible love goops lately and things got a bit messier than usual.”

  “Oh, dear God.”

  “They taste purty good, but the Lovin’ Lava jelly really burns my—”

  “Gahhh!” I shouted, holding my hand out for him to stop.

  “Burns my fingers,” Harvey finished, his grin now smug. “Coop was right, you have a gutter mind.”

  Coop? “I have the gutter mind? Why were you two talking about my mind?”

  Harvey shrugged, looking at the parking lot, avoiding my squint. “No reason. Just shootin’ the breeze.”

  “Your pants are on fire.”

  “I know. This polyester doesn’t allow my twig and berries to get much air. Now, are we going to this viewing or what, girl?” He lifted his cane and tapped me on the calf. “At this rate, I’ll be the one in the coffin.”

  “What’s with the cane?” I asked, leading the way across the porch.

  “It makes me look more debonair.”

  The big canary needed more than a cane to pull that off, I thought. But I held my tongue … and the door.

  A blast of cold air greeted us in the front foyer. One thing I’d learned after attending multiple viewings over the last few weeks was that George Mudder liked to keep his visitors chilled, whether they were alive or dead. I pulled my black shawl around my bare shoulders.

  The scent of lilies perfumed the room, thanks to two huge bouquets of the fragrant flowers standing guard in front of the open French doors leading into the parlor. I hesitated outside the parlor, listening to the organ music piping through a speaker in the ceiling.

  “Is that Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys?” I whispered to Harvey. I hadn’t heard a funeral-ized version of the song before now, only jazzed up elevator stuff. This had organ riffs in place of a saxophone. Another Eddie Mudder special.

  He nodded. “Elsa Haskell was a big Willie Nelson fan.”

  I stepped aside to allow Harvey to lead the way. He grabbed a seat at the back of the room. He’d read my mind. I dropped into a chair next to him, staring into the mirrored one-way glass lining the wall on my right, trying to see through it.

  A couple of weeks ago, I’d been in the room on the other side of that glass, sniffing around, searching for evidence of body-part trafficking, hiding from Eddie Mudder in a crate. All of the usual stuff a person would do in a funeral home.

  Tonight, I wanted to sneak back in there to make sure nothing had changed, as in no body parts were chilling on ice, awaiting transportation to some black market set up in a back alley down in Rapid.

  “I still have a bone to pick with you,” Harvey’s volume blended in with the low murmur of conversation that rippled throughout the room.

  I picked up a whiff of strawberries again and searched the room for Norma Jean and Lucille, not seeing their curl-covered gray heads.

  At the front of the parlor, a tripod holding a heart-shaped wreath of orchids, roses, and some purple flower tipped over and fell onto the end of the casket. A wave of gasps rippled through the parlor. A moment of silence held for a count of three, and then a child began to wail.

  George Mudder stepped out of the doorway from the hidden room and picked up the tripod and flowers. A young, platinum blonde mother snatched up her child, scolding the bawling boy all of the way up the aisle and out the French doors. I empathized, having dragged my kids out of many a room and restaurant while dodging stares.

  George righted everything and smiled at the handful of people sitting in the front row. I could see his tiny yellow teeth and grimaced at the memory of the close-up I’d had upon our first meeting. He walked over and closed the door to the room behind the glass, then sat down next to a petite woman, who was wrapped in black from head to toe.