Optical Delusions in Deadwood (38 page)

      Maybe if I kept Ray’s focus centered on Doc and his lease, his interest in Doc and my relationship would fade. “Of course. I’m the one who gave Doc permission to stay there until his house closed.”

      “You gave him permission?” He said this as if I’d just told him I had a third nipple. “Jane is going to love this. You blatantly disregarded her rules, making her look the fool.” He rubbed his hands together. “She’ll can your sorry ass for sure this time.”

      “Jane isn’t going to fire me.” I sounded calm, my voice smooth, my tone strong. Inside, my gut was full of daredevil motorcyclists circling around and around. Damn Ray for digging in my sandbox, unearthing my secrets. “And she isn’t going to kick Doc out, either.”

      “Yes, she will. I know Jane. She doesn’t suffer liars, especially as employees.”

      “You’re confused about your facts. I haven’t lied to her about any of this.” I hadn’t even talked to her for days, what with her being out of town dealing with her divorce mess.

      “You overstepped the boundary, Blondie. Jane’s a stickler about this rule.”

      “And you follow every single one of her rules to the letter?” I slammed the file drawer closed. “I don’t think so.”

      “I sell houses and make her money. I’m allowed to break a few rules. You haven’t even sold one house yet. That means you don’t get to break any rules. On top of it, you stupidly agreed to sell that Carhart mess.”

      “That house will sell.”

      “At what cost to Jane’s reputation?” He lowered his feet to the floor, his gaze narrowing, his upper lip curling. “You were on thin ice before you climbed into bed with our neighbor. When Jane gets back on Monday, that ice is going to break. She’ll fire you on the spot, and Doc will have his lease torn up. Unless ...”

      “Unless what?” I crossed my arms over my chest, preparing mentally for whatever ultimatum he hurled at me.

      “You turn in your resignation. Then I’ll keep my mouth shut about your boyfriend.”

      “So I give up my job in order for Doc to get to stay put. Is this still about you being pissy because I took your nephew’s place here? Or is it because I’m a threat to your job?”

      He guffawed. “You, a threat? You must live on the moon, Blondie. With the sales commissions I bring in, I’m the king of the mountain around here.”

      “Maybe so—at the moment,” I skirted around the over-tanned baboon back to my desk, avoiding him. “But you’re living in a glass castle, throwing stones.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “What are you and the Mudder brothers smuggling in those crates?”

      There was a long pause from Ray, so long that I looked over and found his whole face scrunched in a snarl. “I told you before, you should mind your own business.”

      Apparently, I’d found a weak spot in his massive ego. “Guns? Drugs? Counterfeit money? Am I getting warm yet?” When he just glared at me, I added, “I wonder if Detective Cooper would be interested in checking out those crates. I’m pretty sure he’d be curious about why the crates keep leaving the funeral home loaded.”

      Ray shot out of his chair so fast it almost tipped over. His cheeks turned from orange to red to purple as he curled and uncurled his fists. “Keep your meddling nose out of my shit.”

      “Or what? You’ll tattle on me to Jane for that, too?”

      “You’ll wish Jane was the only devil raining down on you.”

      “Is that a threat?”

      “Consider it a friendly warning.”

      “We aren’t friends.”

      He snorted. “Yeah, and it’s a real shame after the way you spread your legs for all of your other ‘friends.’ I’m feeling a little left out.”

      It was times like this when I wish I carried a cast-iron skillet in my purse. “You’re not going to sidetrack me with your petty insults, Ray. I’m on to something with these crates, and you’re running scared.”

      Ray rushed me, looming over me. A vein throbbed in the middle of his forehead. “I’m telling you one last time, you prying cunt, mind your own goddamned business.”

      I grabbed my purse, needing to put some space between us—the state of Montana would do—or I might smash his dick in my desk drawer. But first, I wanted to make one thing crystal clear. I stood toe to toe with him, aiming my finger up at his face. “If you try to get me fired on Monday by telling Jane about Doc’s living arrangements, I’m going to consider that a threat to my family.”

      “Ohhhh, the tough little pussycat is mad. What are you going to do? Claw me? I like to be scratched, you know.”

      “I’m going to knock you off your fucking mountain.”

      I slammed the back door on his snide laughter.

      The air conditioner in Aunt Zoe’s truck did little to cool me down. I drove up the hill toward Lead, steering toward one of my favorite java joints. I still needed caffeine, even more so after my showdown with that loincloth-wearing buffoon.

      I zig-zagged through the back streets of Lead, avoiding some of the heavy late-morning motorcycle traffic that buzzed around Lead’s Open Cut. As I cruised by the dirt parking lot next to the YMCA, I did a double-take at the sight of a familiar long-legged, raven-haired she-wolf in red short-shorts.
Lila.

      Spying by using my rearview mirror, I saw her bend down and reach into the driver’s-side window of a blue car. The whole scene reminded me of a rerun of
Cops
I’d watched with Harvey. It involved a prostitute, some methamphetamines, and a nasty bit of tooth rot; afterward, Harvey enlightened me on the benefits of a toothless whore, in gagging detail—literally.

      I circled the block and parked next to a ramshackle four-car garage within viewing distance of Lila. Twisting, I peeked through the pickup’s back window at Lila’s backside. From where I sat, I couldn’t see any dimples of fat on the backs of her thighs. My hatred for her tripled.

      Lila rested her arms on the top of the car, her face and chest filling the window. The rumble of motorcycles a block away on Main Street drowned out all sound, but actions spoke loudly—like the hand that snaked out from the car window and rubbed up and down her thigh, then cupped her ass. She playfully brushed the hand away, stepping back and partway out of one of her high-heeled sandals. She bent to straighten her shoe and I caught a full view of the driver—Douglas Mann.

      “Holy shit!”

      So that little scene at the funeral home wasn’t just a fly-by-night groping. I stayed frozen for another few minutes, my brain reeling as I watched the two of them tease and squeeze and kiss and fondle. When Douglas leaned out and licked her bared stomach, I couldn’t stand any more and got the hell out of there.

      By the time I’d made it halfway back to Deadwood, I knew with certainty who’d taken her jealous wrath out on my Bronco and why. If only the deranged bitch had paid attention, she’d have seen that Douglas had absolutely no interest in me beyond wanting to buy a house. Wait a second ... I pulled over into the parking lot of a small park sprinkled with a few mining machine castoffs from Homestake Mine’s golden days.

      My head spun from a barrage of “what ifs” and “buts” until I hit the brakes and took a deep, head-clearing breath. Why did Douglas want the Carhart house? Did it have something to do with Lila? Maybe there was a love triangle going on between him, Lila, and Millie. But that still didn’t explain why he would want to buy the house. Nor why they would need or even want a Realtor. And where did Wanda fit into all this?

      First and foremost, I needed proof that Lila burned my Bronco. Something more tangible than my Magic 8 Ball so that Cooper wouldn’t kick me out of his office when I asked him to drag Lila’s tight ass to jail. I turned the pickup around and rolled back up Main Street into Lead. I thought I knew where to find what I needed.

      As soon as I kicked Lila out of the picture, I could focus on why Douglas Mann had such a hankering for the Carhart house.

      * * *

      Millie opened the door on my third rat-a-tat-tat. She didn’t smile, just stared at me through those big, round glasses that magnified her pupils. A dusting of flour marked her cheek and her black apron. The smell of fried chicken made my mouth twang with anticipation, almost melting my resolve until I thought of Elvis the chicken, which led to Addy. The twang moved to my heart. I wanted my kids home and safe with me, sharing their day’s events over supper, and for that I needed proof.

      “Hi, Millie.” I pushed by her into the foyer, not wanting to give her a chance to shut the door in my face. “I was wondering if Wanda has had a chance to look at that other offer letter yet. The one I brought by yesterday.”

      Millie’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times as she glanced from me to the porch and back. “Uhhh, Mother isn’t here right now.” Her voice shuddered a little, making her sound nervous.

      “That’s okay. I’ll call her later.” I’d surprised Millie with my somewhat forced entry and needed to keep her one step behind me. “Listen, I’m really thirsty. Would you please get me a glass of water?”

      “Well, I was kind of busy.”

      I slapped my palm to my forehead, closing my eyes, pretending dizziness, and stumbled against the wall. “Oh, my. I don’t feel well. Please, Millie, some ice water.”

      “But we don’t have any ice.”

      “That’s right. I forgot,” I lied. “Just run the faucet for a bit then.”

      “Umm, okay.” Millie disappeared into the kitchen.

      I waited until I heard the faucet running and said, “I think I lost one of my earrings upstairs when I was here last time. I’ll just go check while you’re getting that.”

      “No,” her tone rang with alarm. “You shouldn’t go—”

      From halfway up the stairs, I called, “I’ll be down in a flash.”

      I took the remaining stairs two at a time, racing as if Lila was chomping at my tail. The sound of the faucet still gushing downstairs encouraged me across the landing into Junior’s bedroom, the one Lila seemed to be calling home.

      With only minutes to find some incriminating evidence that would nail Lila for torching my Bronco, I tore into the room. There had to be something here, like gas-splashed clothes wadded up in the corner of the closet, or the tool she’d used to carve
SLUT
into my paint stashed in a drawer or behind a book. Hell, I’d settle for a voodoo doll with curly blonde hair and needles poking its eyes.

      The closet held a mix of Junior’s faded shirts and scuffed-up boots and Lila’s skimpy
pleather
outfits. I kicked his boots aside, peering into the corners, but came up empty except for some mid-sized boxes that were taped closed. Under the bed, I discovered a few stray dust bunny tumbleweeds on a dust-covered floor. The dresser’s underskirt hid one marble and a sticky penny.

      Wiping my now-tacky fingers on my gauzy skirt, I frowned around the room. There had to be something damning here. Something that, when I handed it over to Cooper, would keep him from looking at me as if I were wearing a chicken suit complete with a snap-on beak.

      Attacking the dresser drawers next, I tugged several open at once, sifting through what must have been Junior Carhart’s old jeans, T-shirts, and tighty-whities. No frilly Lila garments in here. Where was she keeping her delicates? Now that I thought about her tight, scanty outfits, I realized she probably didn’t own any underwear.

      I yanked open a drawer stuffed with men’s tube socks and jammed my hands into the mix. In the back, at the bottom, my fingers brushed against paper.

      I pulled out an unlabeled, unsealed envelope. Inside it, I found a tri-folded airline itinerary from a Rapid City travel agency. Three pictures had been stuffed inside the itinerary’s folds.

      The photos caught my eye first, because I recognized Mr. Carhart, the steely-haired man from the formal wall photo of him and Wanda down in the sitting room. However, the woman with him in the pictures wasn’t Wanda; nor did she look very formal in two of the pictures. Instead, she was down on her hands and knees in a pair of black chaps and a studded leather bra. Was that a horse bit in her mouth? Ick. Was this Mr. Carhart’s lover, Claudette? She really should have closed the curtains when she played her barnyard games.

      I focused on the third picture, a close-up. Turning it sideways, I winced when I figured out what she was doing to Wanda’s husband. If this was Claudette, then Harvey was right—planting tulips seemed to be her specialty. Apparently, she enjoyed midnight gardening with any old Tom, Dick, or Harvey.

      I flipped the pictures over and found no writing on the back. Not that I’d expected my mother’s typical scrapbooking details—names, dates, descriptions—but it would have been a considerate thing to do for those of us snooping around for answers.

      I dropped the photos on the dresser and scanned the itinerary. Ah-ha! It
was
Claudette, I thought as I read the two names above the one-way ticket confirmation numbers for a flight from Rapid City to Miami via Denver. I double-checked the date: a week after the old man had been beaten to death.

      That meant Claudette hadn’t been telling tall tales about eloping to Florida. I lowered the piece of paper, and the pictures on the dresser popped back to the forefront of my thoughts. Something smelled a lot like blackmail here, and it wasn’t the sweet and spicy odor of Lila’s perfume lingering in the air.

      I looked down at the sock drawer—Junior’s socks, no sign of Lila here. Had Junior paid somebody to watch Mr. Carhart and take pictures of his infidelities? Why? No, it made more sense if it had been Wanda, the jilted wife. Had she been one step ahead of the old bastard all along, planning to make sure he didn’t get any of her inheritance from her rich aunt? If so, Harvey and Claudette could be right. Wanda may have killed her husband and hidden the evidence in Junior’s sock drawer. But why did Junior kill himself, then?

      The floorboards creaked behind me.

      I turned and saw Millie standing inside the doorway, her lips anchored down on the corners, her hands stuffed in the front pockets of her flour-coated apron. “You shouldn’t be doing that,” she said, nodding at the paper in my hand.