Dead Case in Deadwood Read Online Free Page B

a
step.
    "I’m Cornelius Curion."
    No way was that his real name.
    Somehow, I managed to paste a smile on my lips. A glance at
Natalie’s bug-eyed, mouth-gaping stare confirmed that I wasn’t the only one flamboozled
by the pale-skinned oddity of a man.
    "Hello, Mr. Curion. How can I help you?"
    "I need to hire your services."
    No. Absolutely not. I’d never live it down if the
locals saw me cruising around in the Picklemobile with this guy in the cab.
    I skirted the issue by asking, "Are you looking to buy
or sell in the area?"
    "Buy." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a
wad of hundred dollar bills thick enough to choke a rattlesnake. "And I
plan to pay cash for it."
    On the other hand, there was my utter lack-of-money situation.
Plus, Deadwood residents already had me labeled as a ghost-loving freak, so a
cruise through town with a top-hat wearing, dead president body double couldn’t
really hurt. Abe Lincoln was carved into Mt. Rushmore, after all, so Cornelius
was practically a celebrity already around these parts.
    "I’d be happy to help," I told him.
    Natalie let out yet another gurgling sound, drawing
Cornelius’ and my gazes.
    "Sorry," she said, faking some coughs into her
closed fist. "Something in my throat."
    "You should get that checked out," I told her with
a zip-it glare.
    She turned away from us, her shoulders shaking from more
than a coughing fit.
    "Excellent," Cornelius said, focusing those
cornflower eyes back on me.
    "Did you have a particular house in mind?"
    "Not a house," he said, smiling—well, half-smiling.
Only one side of his mouth seemed to be participating. The other side twitched
twice, but stayed flat. "A hotel."
    Hotel? Okay, I could make that happen. Probably.
    "One of the hotels in Deadwood?" I asked, trying
to remember if there were any for sale on Main Street. Hotel owners sometimes
tried to keep that sort of information hidden from the public in order to keep
business flowing without any hiccups.
    "Yes," Cornelius said, stroking his pointed
goatee. "The haunted one."

Chapter Three
    It really should have been no surprise that an Abe Lincoln
lookalike waltzed into Calamity Jane’s and asked me to help him buy a haunted
hotel. After all, I had started the day looking at a dead guy’s deflated penis,
a surefire omen of how my day was going to go. It was foolish of me to think
things couldn’t get any worse.
    Natalie had totally bailed on me in the midst of Cornelius’
visit, which was not very guardian-angel-like of her at all. Luckily, after she
left, Cornelius had only stayed long enough to secure an appointment with me at
Calamity Jane’s at two o’clock.
    An hour after Honest Abe exited stage left, Ray Underhill
burst through the front door.
    Sweat stained the pits of his lemon yellow shirt. His usual good
ole boy sneer was replaced by a pinched brow; his tie crooked, his fake-tanned
cheeks extra ruddy. A waft of air riding on his coattails hit me, making my throat
burn. He must have flea-dipped in Stetson cologne this morning.
    "What are you gawking at, Blondie?" he asked, a
snarl on his lips as he shot me a glare bloated with contempt. "Did I yank
on your chain?"
    I shrugged and focused on my computer screen again. "You
remind me of something the cat puked up."
    Ever since I’d landed the Associate Broker position instead
of his nephew, Ray and I had shared a love-hate relationship, as in we loved to
hate each other—loudly and often. But a week ago, we’d both had our hands
slapped by Jane for not playing nicely together. Now we kept our "kiss-my-ass"
and "go-blow-a-goat" jabs to a minimum, except when Jane was out of
the office, such as this very moment.
    "Slept with any new clients lately?" Ray asked, tossing
his keys on his desk. "Is that why you’re wearing the shades? Too many
late nights spent boinking our neighbor boy?"
    Ray knew Doc and I were playing hanky-panky behind closed
doors. Not long ago, he’d used a pair of women’s underwear to trick me