Nearly Departed in Deadwood (13 page)

      Across the room, Aunt Zoe sat on a barstool, pencil in hand as she leaned over her table. “Hey, darlin’.” Her smile reminded me of days-gone-by, when I used to help her blow and shape new glass pieces during my long summer visits. “How was work?”

      “Promising,” I lied. I came around behind her and peeked over her shoulder at the design she was sketching on her notepad. “Another new design?”

      “Yep. I dreamed it up last night.”

      “They don’t look like glass pieces.”

      “They’re not. I’ve been wanting to try my hand at some kinetic art. These are wind activated.”

      “They’d be perfect for prairie dwellers.”

      “Bingo.”

      I moved over to the stockpile of
Black Hills Trailblazer
newspapers Aunt Zoe kept in an old cask barrel and started digging through them, the dry paper flimsy to the touch. “We have a problem.”

      The sound of Zoe’s pencil scratching across the paper stopped. “I take it Addy told you about the twenty-two messages I cleared from the answering machine at noon.”

      I rolled my eyes. Sheesh! I’d have thought that after four days the replies to that damned singles’ ad would slow. Turns out being single in Deadwood made me as popular as free pancakes at IHOP.

      “Actually, no. I was talking about a new problem.”

      “Uh, oh.”

      “Layne says a strange man has been frequenting Addy’s For-Sale table.” Okay, so maybe “frequenting” was stretching the truth, but I didn’t want Aunt Zoe to wave me off and tell me I was jumping at shadows—even if I was. “Yesterday, he gave Addy a bag of taffy.”

      “Please tell me she didn’t eat it.”

      “I found the wrappers in her pocket.” I skipped past the May, April, and March issues of the paper, hauled them from the pile, and dropped them on the floor. The February, January, and previous December ones followed.

      “What was she thinking?”

      When it came to Addy’s sweet tooth, there was never much thought involved. November and October of last year joined the others on the cement. “I’ve banned her from selling any more stuff to your neighbors and ordered her to stay in the backyard or inside the house.”

      “Good. I’ll try harder to keep an eye on her.”

      I shot Aunt Zoe a frown. “I hate to bother you more than we already have.”

      “Addy shares my blood, Violet. I don’t want anything to happen to her. Besides, I’m happy to have the company around here.”

      “Thanks.” I flipped through September and slowed as I reached August’s issues, my fingers now smudged with black ink. “Aunt Zoe, do you remember the little girl who disappeared last summer?”

      “Vaguely. Why?”

      “Did she look like Addy?”

      Six folded layers down, a headline read, ‘Another Girl Missing!’ in big, black letters on the front page.

      “Let’s see, Emma had blonde ...”

      A rush of blood in my ears blocked out the rest of Aunt Zoe’s answer as I stared down at a black-and-white picture of Emma, Kelly’s friend. I gripped the lip of the oak barrel, fighting a wave of nausea.

      Smiling up at me was a spitting image of Addy. While Emma’s eyes were a little more almond-shaped and her lips not as full as Addy’s, they could have been sisters with their similar hairstyles and oval faces. No wonder Addy reminded Doc of Emma.

      Then I read the blurb under Emma’s photo.

     
Emma Cranson. Last seen in front of the Piggly Wiggly on Saturday morning.

      Emma Cranson. E.C. The jacket! Those were the same initials that were written on the tag. My knees trembled.

     
Oh, my God!
What did that mean? Was Jeff Wymonds the kidnapper? Why else would he be throwing clothes away in a Dumpster? I needed to call the police and give them that jacket.

      However, what if I was wrong? Kelly and Emma had been best friends. Maybe Emma had forgotten her jacket at Kelly’s at some point, and Jeff was just getting rid of it. Surely the police had already looked into Jeff, since Emma had probably spent lots of time at the Wymonds’ house. Plus, the jacket had been clean—no blood, no rips, no stains whatsoever.

      Not to mention that if I did go to the cops, and they pulled Jeff in for questioning, he would know I was the tattletale. Then what? Was a jacket enough evidence to put the guy away? Probably not. I didn’t need an angry, drunk, big-bear of a man as my number-one enemy, and I certainly didn’t need him focusing any extra attention on Addy.

      “Violet,” Aunt Zoe’s hand on my shoulder jerked me out of my frozen-lung trance.

      I gulped down a breath.

      Aunt Zoe’s dark green eyes searched mine. “Are you okay?”

      “I don’t know.” That was the honest truth.

      I focused back on the newspaper, scanning the meat of the article, snagging on the words:
blonde, brown eyes, loves animals, avid swimmer, often find her at the Candy Corral
, and
last seen riding her bike
.

      “Look at this.” I pointed at the picture. “It’s no wonder Kelly was drawn to Addy. Not only do Emma and Addy look alike, but their biographies read like they were freaking soulmates.”

      The workshop door banged open, bouncing against the wall coat rack. Aunt Zoe and I whipped around.

      A pair of crutches came through the doorway with Natalie at the helm. Her hair frazzled, her cheeks red, and her lower right leg encased in a cast, Natalie grimaced. “We have a problem.”

     
Chapter Nine

     
Friday, July 13th

      Bighorn Billy’s bustled with fanny-pack wearing tourists.

      My orange juice tasted a little bitter this morning. Either someone had slipped a few greenies into the juicer, or my shitty mood had soured my taste buds. Probably the latter.

      Willie Nelson’s “Whiskey River” poured out the overhead speakers, mixing with the clinks and clangs drifting through the kitchen’s swinging saloon doors. The aroma of fried bacon had my stomach snarling out demands.

      Mona sat across the table, looking very Grace Kelly-ish in her pink and white polka dot sweater. A matching silk scarf secured her auburn hair. Jane and Ray hadn’t shown up yet.

      “How did it go with Addy last night?” Mona asked.

      The memory of Addy’s volcanic reaction to my veto on the sleep-over idea made me sigh. “Same as usual. She hates me. I’m a mean, horrible mother. She wishes I’d never had her.”

      “Just because you banned any future sidewalk sales?”

      “Because I
never
let her do
anything
.” Lately, superlatives slipped off Addy’s tongue like it was coated with butter. “Plus, I’m making her return the chicken.”

      “What about the kittens?”

      “They have to go, too, probably.” I hadn’t had the heart to add them to the chopping block last night. Staring down Addy’s tears had been too tough.

      “Any idea who Addy’s candy man is?”

      I shook my head. “Layne’s description of him didn’t spur any recognition from Aunt Zoe.”

      “Has he asked Addy to go with him anywhere?”

      “No. The only thing she could remember—besides him talking about his niece’s cat—was asking if her father was around.”

      “Hmmm. That’s kind of suspicious—but not.”

      “Exactly.”

      I waited for the waitress to refill Mona’s coffee and leave before continuing. “Natalie thinks he’s probably just lonely, looking to make a friend.”

      However, Natalie had also been loopy from the painkillers, so what did she know—except not to walk on wet tin roofs while wearing cowboy boots anymore. Her newly fractured fibula had not only put her out of commission for a few weeks, but also sank one of my most promising battleships in the war against Ray and his nephew.

      Stirring a packet of Splenda into her coffee, Mona raised her brows. “What do you think?”

      “I think he needs to stay away from my daughter.” Along with Jeff Wymonds.

      After I’d lectured both kids last night about taking candy from strangers, I’d talked to them about the kidnappings—all of them. When I was finished, Addy had just stared at me, apparently speechless for once. Layne’s only question had been if the police had checked Emma’s bike for fingerprints—I should have named him Sherlock Jr.

      “You figure out who your secret admirer is?” Mona asked.

      “Not a clue.” I had my fingers crossed that my chicken-rescuing cupid had let my love for daisies be known to Wolfgang the other night while we were all at his place.

      “Morning, Red,” Ray said as he slid into the booth seat next to Mona. His yellow, button-up shirt emphasized his fake tan and light blue eyes. He smirked at me. “How’s the Hessler house remodel going, short-timer? Has your girlfriend broken a nail replacing the gutters or windows yet?”

      Mona leaned across the table, a frown on her glossy pink lips. “I thought you were just fixing up the inside and giving the lawn a manicure. You didn’t mention exterior work.”

      It was my turn to frown. “Of course we need to fix the exterior. The roof is missing shingles, the eaves are rotting, and the paint is just flakes barely clinging to the wood in several spots.” And that was just the easy stuff, according to Natalie.

      “Oh, Vi. That’s bad—”

      “Any buyers yet?” Ray interrupted Mona with an unreadable glint in his eyes that made me feel vulnerable, like I was wearing one of those open-backed, paper hospital gowns.

      “Maybe.” I hadn’t shown Doc the Hessler house yet, so there was still a tiny chance he wouldn’t turn his nose up at it.

      “Good morning, all.” Jane dropped onto the seat next to me. Her floral and vanilla perfume drowned out Mona’s jasmine scent. “Two coffees, please,” she told the hovering waitress.

      I sent Mona a raised-brows look, wondering why her happy vibe had faded at hearing about the work Wolfgang’s house needed. She stared back, shaking her head.

      Jane pulled out her magic task notebook and flipped to a page with today’s date written in the top margin. My shoulders now tight, I sipped my orange juice and tried not to fixate on Mona’s mood change. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glance of Jane’s “To-Do” list and noticed my name in the number-two slot. The back of my knees started to sweat.

      The waitress returned with Ray and Jane’s coffees. I waited while she took each of our orders, wondering why I made Jane’s list.

      Jane clicked her pen and checked off the first task on her notepaper. “Ray, why don’t you start with a status report.”

      While Ray, and then Mona, rattled off the potential and actual sales they had in-process, I stared at my orange juice and rubbed my finger over the cold sweat covering the glass. At least I had something to report on today.

      A house, a ranch, and a buyer were all things to tout, especially the Hessler haunt. Once I had that place spit-polished, it was sure to land on Jane’s “Big Winners” list; Harvey was all fired up to buy a bachelor pad in town after his place sold; and I’d found a new subdivision about ten miles northeast of Deadwood that I hoped was just up Doc’s alley.

      “Your turn, Violet.” Jane’s voice interrupted the locker-room pep talk I’d been giving my battered ego.

      I sat up straight and spilled my three bits of news, ending with my golden goose—the Hessler house.

      Mona patted my hand, her smile that of a proud mentor.

      “About Wolfgang Hessler’s place,” Jane said, placing a checkmark next to my name in the number-two spot on her list. “We need to talk about something.”

      I stared at the checkmark. “We do?”

      “Yes. There’s a slight problem.”

      “What’s that?” I dragged my gaze from the To-Do list and looked across the table at Ray, whose smirk now stretched ear-to-ear.

      Jane poured some cream in her coffee. “As you already know, the city of Deadwood is listed as a National Historic Landmark and a Historic Place on the South Dakota register. However, were you aware we also have a Historic Preservation Commission meant to protect the town’s historic character and integrity?”

      “No.”
What was the problem?

      “This commission,” Jane continued, “has implemented some strict rules and processes that everyone must abide by, including Realtors. Rules such as what color you can paint the house, what type of windows you can use to replace the old ones, and any other exterior changes you plan to make to the place.”

      “Crap.” I sat back, my mind scrambling for a route around this road block. “Where do I find the guidelines for this kind of stuff?”

      “They have a website with more details.”

      “Okay. I’ll go online after breakfast and print the rules.”

      Ray snickered, seeming to enjoy some private joke on my account. I resisted the urge to stab my fork through the back of his hand.

      “I like your attitude, Violet.” Jane frowned at me as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips. “But that’s not the problem.”

      My eye twitched. “What’s the problem?”

      “You don’t have a Certificate of Appropriateness from the commission, so you can’t work on the Hessler house.”

      Of course. I should have known there’d be some hoops to jump through with a historic agency at the helm. “Fine. I’ll get one of these certificates and then start.”

      Ray laughed out loud. “You do that.”

      “You don’t understand, Violet.” Jane lowered her cup. “The Commission can take weeks, even months, with several reviews and sometimes public hearings before granting a certificate. There’s no way you’ll be able to put the Hessler house on the market before the end of the month,” Jane finished just as the waitress arrived with our food.

     
Fuckity fuck!
My appetite evaporated along with my optimism.

      The rest of the Friday morning meeting was merely a drone of background noise for the tragic play,
Death of a Realty Career
, being performed in my head. As we filed out of Bighorn Billy’s, I knew I couldn’t go back to the office yet. Sitting there at my desk, listening to Ray schmooze his clients and pitch Benjamin to Jane would make me grind my molars down to little nubs, and I couldn’t afford a visit to the dentist right now.