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CHAPTER2
Later that afternoon, I whipped into the parking lot behind Calamity Jane Realty and found a late ‘60s, black Camaro SS with white rally stripes hogging my parking spot. I glared at it long and hard, telepathically leveling plague-laden curses at the nitwit who’d ignored the Private Parking sign.
Years ago, around the time my butt wound up peppered with BBs thanks to my best friend’s little brother, Deadwood had been a quiet town, struggling to survive on its golden past. Historic buildings lined Main Street and parking spaces were abundant.
Then came the gambling.
As thousands of new tourists and millions of new dollars poured in, casino after casino crowded the main drag with bright window signs promising big bonanzas. The only thing abundant these days were slot machines, and finding an empty parking spot on a hot summer day was tougher than lining up triple red sevens for the progressive jackpot.
Swearing, I cruised through one parking lot after another, finally sliding into a too-tight spot three blocks from the office. The meter ate every bit of spare change from my ashtray.
By the time I yanked open Calamity Jane’s front door, I’d shucked my jacket and sweat beaded my upper lip. A whoosh of cool air sprinkled with a hint of jasmine swirled around me as I stomped to my desk and flung my jacket on it.
Mona, my coworker, new-found friend, and mentor all wrapped in one stunning, flame-haired package, placed a Post-It on my phone. Another stronger whiff of jasmine hit me. “You okay, Vi?”
“No.” I glared around the office. “Where’s Ray?” Should I poke the jerk in the eye or bust his kneecap for sending me out to Harvey’s without mentioning the old man’s ardor for his gun?
“He’s showing the place on Dakota Street to that cute young couple who were in here the other day.”
“You mean the Rupps?” I flopped into my chair and snarled at Ray’s empty seat.
Mona smiled. “They’re so sweet, the way they’re constantly giving each other those googly-eyed stares.”
Pushing fifty, Mona had yet to land her happily-ever-after. Her rose-colored glasses rarely left her face, for her true love might be the next man she met … or the one after.
“They came in looking for you, but Ray couldn’t reach you on your cell.”
That’s because I was out in the sticks playing spin the bottle with a loony old kook.
“So he took them out himself.”
“Wait a second!” I sat up straight, suddenly realizing what she was saying. “Those were my clients.”
“The house is a real fixer-upper. I doubt they’ll be interested.”
For Ray’s sake, I hoped she was right. I picked up the Post-It and stared at Mona’s writing. “What did Layne want?”
“He said something about finding a skeleton in the backyard and needing you to pick up a jar of worms on your way home.”
Some days, my son made electroshock therapy sound appealing. I reached for the phone.
Ray Underhill burst through the front door, his face furrowed, his fake tan two shades redder than usual.
“Who in the hell let them put this shit in our front window again?” He ripped free a piece of paper taped to the plate-glass and held it out.
Missing: Nine Year Old Girlit read in bold letters. A slightly fuzzy, black-and-white picture of a blonde with a smile too big for her face took up the bulk of the page; a local phone number and “$10,000 Reward!” filled the footer.
It took me a breath and a blink to realize this wasn’t the same Missing poster I’d seen stapled to poles and stuck in store-front windows for the last few months. This was new—a different girl, a different amount, but the same story.
Mona crossed her arms. “I taped it in the window.”
“What are you thinking?” Ray wadded up the sign and tossed it in the trash on his way 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?”
