Nearly Departed in Deadwood Read Free

to the coffee maker. “We’re trying to convince retirees and families that Deadwood is a safe place to live. Pictures of missing girls don’t exactly encourage these suckers to cough up a down payment.”

          I dropped the receiver back in its cradle and scooped the wadded-up sign from Ray’s garbage. “When did this happen?” I asked, my chest tight; my blonde, nine-year-old daughter spurring my sudden dizzying spell of anxiety.

          “Vi, are you okay?” Mona asked through a tin can on the other end of a string—at least that’s what it sounded like as my vision tunneled. I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. “Honey, sit down.”

          I dropped into a chair that somehow ended up behind my knees. My hand trembled slightly as I held up the picture. “When?” 

          “Two days ago.”

          “What’s with her?” Ray said as he passed behind me. “It’s not her kid.”

          I took a deep breath, something I found myself doing often these days when Ray was within a five-mile radius. If there was an award for the World’s Biggest Horse’s Ass, Ray’s desk would be littered with grand-prize trophies.

          “You okay, Vi?” Mona asked, her hand squeezing.

          I nodded and flashed her a smile. It weighed heavy on my lips.

          Ray was right, it wasn’t my kid. It was, however, a second child gone missing. In a town as small as Deadwood, one girl was a worry. Two was an epidemic.

          “From here on out,” Ray’s chair griped with a squeal as he dropped into it, “only MLS listings go in our window.”

          I stuffed the Missing sign in my purse and tried to push my apprehension aside for now. I still had to sell a house.

          “The boss approved, so get over it,” Mona said.

          A blaze of curses fired from Ray’s mouth.

          Mona examined her manicured nails, her feathers apparently ruffle-free. She once informed me that after working with the blockhead for over a decade, she’d developed a callous exterior when it came to Ray’s bullshit. That didn’t stop her from dumping an extra helping of Benefiber in his daily glass of orange juice every now and then, as I’d witnessed several times.

          “I take it the Rupps weren’t interested, Sunshine.” Mona also liked to give Ray cute nicknames just to needle him.

          “You’re wrong. They’re going to sign an offer letter.”

          “What!” I was out of my seat and in his face before I realized it. “They were my clients.”

          Ray patted me on the head. The smell of his sweat under his plaster of Stetson cologne made my stomach churn. “You snooze, you lose, Blondie.”

          Ray used nicknames, too, his purpose a bit darker.

          “I wasn’t snoozing. I was facing off with a shotgun.”

          “So, Harvey was feeling feisty today? I warned you.”

          “You said to use honey instead of vinegar, not wear a Kevlar vest and carry a concealed weapon.”

          “Some customers are tougher than others. You’re going to have to buck up, little girl, if you want to make it in the realty business in this town.” His chair creaked again as he kicked back, his hand-tooled, Tony Lama boots acting as paperweights. “Leave Old Man Harvey to me.”

          “You stay away from Harvey. He’s my client.”

          “You got him to sign a contract?” Mona sounded surprised.

          I plucked the contract from my tote and held it up.

          Ray snorted. “There’s no signature on that, Sweetheart.”

          “There will be after tonight.”

          “What’s tonight?” Mona asked.

          My cheeks heated. I mumbled my answer as I stuffed the contract back into my tote.

          Mona leaned forward. “You’re doing what with Harvey?”

          “Going out to dinner.”

          Ray’s laughter rumbled