Dead Case in Deadwood Read Free

and flap around my head,
whistling Disney style. If there was one thing I needed this morning to calm my
nerves after sniffing around that decapitated body, it was a touch of Doc. Or
ten touches. Maybe a squeeze or two, as well.
    I parked in my spot and then lifted my sunglasses to look in
the rearview mirror for a makeup check. My insomnia-induced red-rimmed eyes
stared back at me. Ugh.
    Shutting off the engine, I counted under my breath, "One,
two, three," and then winced as a loud boom reverberated from the
Picklemobile’s tail pipe.
    Lowering my sunglasses as a shield from the way-too-bright
sun, I shouldered my tote and grabbed the drink holder full of lattes from the
floor of the passenger side. With a solid butt bump, I shoved the heavy door
closed and weaved through the parking lot to Calamity Jane’s back door.
    Jane Grimes, the owner and my boss, wasn’t in yet; her
office was dark. I placed her latte on the desk, anyway.
    Our usual Friday morning staff meeting at Bighorn Billy’s diner
had been cancelled this week due to Jane’s messy divorce currently screwing up
her life and all of her left-brained, ultra-anal routines.
    I could smell the sweet jasmine perfume of my favorite
coworker and mentor, Mona Hollister, several steps before I found her sitting
at her desk, her long pink fingernails clacking away on her laptop keyboard as
she talked on the phone.
    She smiled at the latte I set in front of her and blew me a
silent kiss.
    Ray Underhill, the jackass who brayed and kicked at me
hourly from the desk next to mine, wasn’t in yet, thank God. We’d have to save
our daily glare-down for later.
    I dropped my tote on my desk after digging out my cell phone,
left my sunglasses in place, and carried the remaining two lattes out through
the front glass door.
    Doc’s office shared a wall with Calamity Jane Realty, a wall
that I had pressed my ear to more times than I’d like to admit. Jealousy wasn’t
a pretty sight, and on me it looked like Medusa with bed head.
    After a glance up and down the street, making sure my best
friend, Natalie Beals, wasn’t around to see me, I pushed through the door into
Doc’s office. The subtle scent of his woodsy cologne reached in through my
sinuses and tickled my libido.
    Doc looked up from the book he was reading, his dark
chocolate eyes unreadable as I placed a coffee on the desk in front of him.
    I pretty much fell into the seat opposite him. Spending the
morning disco-ing with Cooper’s dead guy in the Mudder boys’ basement had taken
a toll on me, making everything south of my neck a little wobbly.
    Being around Doc had a similar unsteadying effect on my
limbs. The guy had my number. Hell, he had my whole roll of numbers, including
the queue-generating machine that spat them out. It was no wonder that Natalie
had it in her head that Doc had her number, too—and that she stood at the front
of the line.
    "I have a problem," I said, jumping right into the
fire.
    Doc’s eyelids narrowed. "You hung up on me last night."
    "Sorry about that."
    "Right in the middle of detailing the slinky satin
nightgown you were barely wearing."
    Which had really been an old pair of boxer shorts and an
Elvis T-shirt, but Doc didn’t need to know the finer details of my nightly
ensembles. "Right."
    "And you never called back."
    "There’s an explanation for that."
    He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "I’m
all ears."
    "You mean about last night?"
    "To start with."
    "Natalie needed to use the bathroom."
    "You were in the bathroom?" At my nod, he asked, "In
the tub?"
    More like on the floor next to it. "Sure."
    "Why do you lie to me when I can clearly see your nose
twitching?"
    Damned tell-tale appendage. I frowned and covered it.
    "What’s with the sunglasses, Marilyn Monroe?"
    "It’s bright in here," I lied from behind my hand.
    He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk, his
gaze traveling down the v-neck of my dress and settling on the big twisted knot
at my