Nearly Departed in Deadwood (26 page)

      My desk phone rang. “Calamity Jane Realty, Violet speaking.”

      “Hello, Violet Parker.” Jeff Wymonds hadn’t forgotten about our lunch date. Damn.

      “Good morning, Mr. Wymonds.”

      “Are you still available for lunch?”

      “Sure. Where and when?”

      “The Purple Door Saloon at eleven-thirty.”

      It figured that Jeff would pick the one place in town famed for being the best whorehouse east of the Rockies for the first half of the twentieth century.

      “Sounds good. I’ll see you there.” That gave me almost two hours to work on keeping my bladder leak-free and knees steady when I sat down across from him.

      “Goodbye, Violet Parker.” The phone went dead.

      I was beginning to hate the sound of my name.

      “Violet?” Jane clomped out from her office, her gold heels matching her shiny gold blazer. “Thanks for that information on the Sugarloaf building. That was exactly what I needed.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “Will you do me another favor?”

      My stomach tightened. I didn’t want to be Jane’s gopher girl, but I couldn’t see that I had much choice. “Sure.”

      “Here are the names and addresses of two more buildings I’m considering purchasing. One is in Hill City, the other is in Sturgis. Will you run over to the library and see what you can find on each of them?”

      I took the two Post-Its that she held out. “I’m having lunch with a client today.” No harm in lying this late in the game. “Can I bring you the information this afternoon?”

      “Of course.” Her smile reached her blue eyes. “Good luck at lunch.”

      Ray snorted as soon as she was out of earshot. “Looks like Jane is making you into her little errand bitch, Blondie. How about picking up my dry-cleaning while you’re out. Oh, and if you bring me back some lunch, I’ll throw in a nice tip.”

      Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I paused by his desk long enough to whisper, “Asshole says
what
.”

      His eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

      “Exactly.” Whistling, I strolled out the back door.

      Head down as I crossed the parking lot, I fished my keys from the bottom of my purse. I’d reached the back bumper of my Bronco by the time I’d finally freed them. I looked up and stopped short. “Goddamn it!”

      Ray had parked practically on top of me.

      I side-stepped between the two vehicles and unlocked my door, but his SUV was so close there was no way I could squeeze inside. Tempted to key his sparkling SUV, I glared in through his passenger window. His beige leather seats shined in the sunlight filtering through his moon-roof. A nest of papers covered the passenger side floor—probably his For Sale flyers.

      A peek into the back seat area found more papers, some with torn edges. Several pieces were flipped right-side up, looking like he’d driven with his windows down. I shielded my eyes and squinted through the back window. As I looked from one paper to the next, I frowned.
What the hell?

      Why was Ray’s SUV filled with “Missing Girl” posters?

     
Chapter Seventeen

      The Purple Door Saloon had a red front door. Either, Sherwin-Williams had been out of purple paint or the exterior decorator had smoked a joint before slipping into his coveralls. Whatever the reason, I had to quit procrastinating and go see what Jeff Wymonds wanted to talk to me about—alone. My palms clammy, my heart pitter-pattering, I pulled open the door.

      Across a shadowy, tin-ceilinged room filled with clusters of square tables, I saw Jeff’s furry head bent over a mug of beer. The Cowboy Junkies’ haunting version of “Sweet Jane” echoed from the jukebox in the back of the bar, next to the two empty pool tables. Wisps of cigarette smoke eddied around me as my boots clomped across the well-worn, plank floor. A bald bartender watched me with narrowed eyes, his tight-lipped stare reminding me that I was not yet a tried and true
local
.

      “Hello, Jeff.” I hesitated next to the table, wondering how offended he’d be if I sat on the other side of the room.

      He raised his head out of his beer, his eyes red-rimmed and glossy. “Violet Parker, you came.”

      Marvelous. I was lunching with a drunken Mr. Hyde. “How long have you been here?”

      “Since I called you.” He kicked out the chair opposite him. His version of chivalry, I guessed. “Let me buy you a drink.”

      I eased onto the edge of the seat, ready to sprint back outside if necessary. “You don’t need to do that.”

      “I insist.” There was no slur in his voice, nor did he act tipsy or wobbly as he pushed to his feet. Either he held his liquor well, or the red eyes represented something else. What that was, I’d probably find out soon enough. “What’ll you have, Violet Parker?”

      I hesitated, craving a rum and Coke, but knowing I might need my wits about me to make it through this lunch with all four limbs still attached. “Just a Diet Coke, please.”

      As Jeff shuffled to the bar, I glanced around the room, counting seven other customers—one leaning over the jukebox, and three couples scattered throughout the tables. A brunette waitress weaved between the chairs with a tray of burgers and fries in yellow baskets.

      “Here you go, Violet Parker,” Jeff placed a glass brimming with brown foam in front of me and then sank into his chair. “If that’s your real name.”

     
Huh
? What was that supposed to mean? I decided not to bite on that hook and sipped on my fizzy drink instead, the spritz of Diet Coke tickling my nose. I searched for a neutral subject. “How’s Kelly doing?”

      Jeff shrugged with his whole upper body. “Kelly is—” He paused and nailed me with a hard stare. “Why? Did she say something last weekend?”

      His question caught me off guard. I’d thought we were just going to trade small talk while we waited for the waitress. “About what?”

      “About things going on at home? Anything odd?”

      Besides the bit about how to kill a snake, the girl hadn’t said more than a teacup full of words to me during her stay. However, Jeff didn’t need to know that.

      I swirled my drink, buying a few seconds, trying to figure out how to use this ace card to my advantage. “She did mention something about you being in Spearfish a lot lately.”

      “For a weekend job.” He sat forward, his tone defensive.

      Right, and it just so happened that Sherry Dobbler’s attempted kidnapping was also a weekend job.

      The bald bartender sidled up to our table. “What do you want to eat?”

      The frost in his steel-gray eyes almost made me shiver. I got the feeling I’d done something to piss him off and I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet. That had to be a new record for me.

      “I’ll have my usual,” Jeff said.

      His usual? My hackles raised. I’d thought I was meeting Jeff on neutral ground. Turns out this little chicken had strutted into the fox’s den.

      The bartender crossed his arms over his chest and cranked up his glare from piercing to blaring. “What about you?”

      I hadn’t even had a chance to peruse a menu. “Ummm, I’ll have some chicken strips.” I had poultry on the brain.

      He snorted and stormed off.

      “Don’t mind him,” Jeff told me, nodding at the bartender’s back. “He hates women these days—especially blondes.”

      Lucky me. I sipped my drink. Movement over Jeff’s shoulder caught my attention. Back by the pool tables, Doc stood chalking up a pool stick cue, frowning at me.

      I inhaled Diet Coke.

      “You’re supposed to drink that, not sniff it.” Jeff leaned across the table and landed a stinging whack on my hunched back as I coughed up a lung.

      “I’ll be ...” a couple of more coughs erupted from my throat, my eyes watered, “right back ...” I pointed toward the back of the room. “Bathroom.”

      “Good idea. Your nose is pretty red and shiny. It could use some powdering.”

      Nice of him to point out my resemblance to Rudolph while I was choking to death. It was no wonder his wife was leaving his sorry ass. Shouldering my purse, I stomped toward the pool tables, still coughing up Diet Coke.

      Doc cued up for a break shot as I neared. “Swallow your tongue, Boots?”

     
Boots?
I frowned down at my purple cowboy boots, then shrugged. I’d been called much worse just a short time ago. “What are you doing here?” I said for his ears only when I could breathe freely again.

      “Shooting some pool.” The pool stick slid through his fingers, the white ball slamming into the nine racked balls with a
crack
. The one- and seven-balls dropped into the opposite corner pockets. “What about you?”

      “You know damned well what I’m doing here.”

      A smile hinting at the corners of his lips, Doc bent over and lined up another shot. “Making any progress?”

      “Yes.” I lied, then regretted it. “No.” Then I remembered Jeff’s concern about what Kelly might have told me. “Maybe!”

      Another clack of pool balls followed Doc’s shot. The two-ball dropped into the side pocket. His grin lazed on his lips. “You sure about that?”

      “Oh, shut up.” These days, the only things I was sure of anymore were the sun, the moon, and Bugs Bunny. “Did you follow me here?”

      Doc bumped me aside and aimed at the three-ball. “It’s a small world.”

      “Not that small. Did Harvey put you up to this?”

      “No.” He knocked the three-ball into the four-ball, sinking both of them in the same corner pocket. “I thought you might need some company.”

      “I told you yesterday, I can take care of myself.”

      “I’m sure you can, but I’d rather make certain.”

      Enough to go to the trouble of stalking me today? I could be wrong, and I often was these days, but that seemed a bit over the top for a guy who insisted on keeping a working-relationship-only wedge between us. “Why is that?”

      Doc looked up from the table. His gaze traveled down the v-neck of my lavender blouse, following the buttons down to the waistband of my white pants before returning to my face. “Nice opal.”

      I fingered the single opal hanging from my necklace, but refused to be sidetracked. “Why, Doc?”

      He lined up for a shot at the five-ball. “Good Realtors are hard to come by in this town.”

      “Yeah, right.” Teeth grinding, I shoved his pool stick as I pushed past him toward the bathroom and jarred him in mid-shot.

      “Hey,” he complained to my back.

      I kept walking, growling under my breath, frustrated with wanting something he wouldn’t give. He was lucky I didn’t break that pool stick over his stubborn head.

      The bathroom hummed with florescent lights. Jeff had been right. My nose was red and shiny. Damn him. I powdered it back to a dull sheen and washed my hands, wringing my fingers in the cold water while I built up the nerve to return to the table.

      When I stepped out from the Ladies’ Room, Doc was racking up another game of Nine-ball.

      “Violet,” he said as I passed behind him.

      The edgy tone in his voice made me turn. “Yes?”

      “You need to change seats.”

      I must have heard him wrong. “Come again?”

      “When you return to the table, sit in the chair on Jeff’s right.”

      “Why?”

      He hit the cue ball, breaking up the other balls, sinking three of them. “Never sit with your back to the door in Deadwood.”

      “Are you mediating for Wild Bill’s ghost now?”

      He took aim at the four-ball. “He never played poker in here.”

      “How do you know?”

      “He told me.” He took the shot, the four-ball dropped into the pocket.

      “Oh, okay. What else did he say? No, let me guess. Something about aces and eights, right?”

      “Just trust me. Sit in the other chair.”

      “Are you serious?” When he didn’t crack a grin or look up from lining up his next shot, I weaved my way back toward Jeff replaying that conversation over in my head, making no more sense of it than I had the first time around.

      A yellow basket overflowing with fries and chicken strips awaited my return. Wow, I must have dawdled in the bathroom longer than I thought.

      Jeff frowned around his mouthful of burger as I pulled out the chair on his right and sat.

      “This one has a window view,” I explained, still wondering why Doc had insisted I switch chairs. More importantly, why had I even listened to him?

      “How do you know that guy?” He pointed in Doc’s direction.

      I glanced at Doc, catching him watching me. He nodded and then returned to his pool game. “He’s a client of mine,” and nothing more, according to him.

      “He hangs out at the Rec Center a lot.”

      I couldn’t have asked for a better segue. “How long have you been a swim coach?”

      The wrinkles spanning Jeff’s brow deepened. “A couple years, why?”

      “Just curious. What made you decide to coach?”

      He stuffed a bunch of fries in his mouth before answering. “Kelly’s
little friend
joined the team and talked Kelly into signing up, too. The coach at the time got a job in Wyoming. He knew I’d been a lifeguard back in school and asked me to take over.” He swallowed a visible lump of fries. “One season rolled into the next.”

      The little friend must have been Emma. I dipped a chicken strip in the tub of BBQ sauce nestled amongst my fries. “It must be hard for you, what with three girls from your team disappearing in the last year.”

      “Hard?” He threw back his head and laughed—not a Shirley Temple giggle, more like a Charles Manson cackle.

      I squirmed on the hard wooden chair and glanced at Doc, who stood watching us, his lips thin, his eyes narrow.

      “You’ve no idea, Violet Parker.” Jeff grabbed my chicken-free hand and squeezed too hard for comfort, his greasy fingers pressing into my skin. His blue eyes locked onto mine. “No idea.”