Free Optical Delusions in Deadwood by Ann Charles Page B

toward her favorite corner, but said nothing. I counted to ten, waiting, then stuffed the listing agreement in my tote. Officially, I had everything I needed for a legitimate deal. But something about this whole setup smelled sour.

          Wanda wasn’t going to answer. I hoisted my tote over my shoulder. “Thank you, Wanda, for choosing Calamity Jane to represent you in this business matter. I’ll be in touch.”

          As I turned to leave, I heard a murmur come from her. I looked back at her. “What did you say?”

          She mouthed something that I didn’t catch. Miming was not my specialty. I always lost at charades.

          I stepped closer. “Sorry, what?”

          Her gaze locked onto mine, her eyes wide, frightened. My heart giddy-upped in response.

          “This house,” she whispered.

          “What about it?”

          “It’s haunted.”

           

          * * *

           

          The Deadwood library specialized in Black Hills legend and lore. It had a South Dakota room dedicated to that very subject, filled with all sorts of books, videos, and microfilm reels—which I was getting pretty handy at viewing in spite of my inability to speak technologese .

          The room also had a computer with a list of links to some of the best historical websites on the World Wide Web. As I sat at this computer minding my own beeswax, searching for information on the Carhart house, Doc came ramming in. The door rattled in its frame when he closed it.

          He stared me down, his jaw clenched along with the rest of his body. A five-o’clock shadow shaded the slight cleft in his chin and added a sexy flavor of ruggedness to his rigid demeanor. “You promised you wouldn’t sell it.”

          “You didn’t make me cross my heart.” Harvey must have been whispering sweet-and-sour nothings again, the big-mouth. “It’s nice to see you, too, by the way.”

          It was, in spite of his nostril-flaring resemblance to a bull. A black T-shirt and blue jeans molded to his torso, making me want to do the same.

          “Violet.” His tone warned.

          I didn’t feel like being chewed on any more today, especially after Wanda’s the-sky-is-falling disclosure. I turned my focus back to the website I’d been perusing before Doc’s interruption. “I guess you should have sealed that promise with a kiss.”

          He moved like a hot breeze, stealthy, breathing in my ear before I even realized he’d left the doorway. “There’s always that temptation with you.”

          The subtle scent of his woodsy cologne kicked my pulse into pitter-patter mode. “What are you doing here, Doc?”

          If this were going to be another tease and leave session, I’d like to know before my engine really got to choo-chooing. I turned and faced him. “Are you here to dig through some more death registry names? Or were you just passing by, saw my Bronco, and decided to come in and start poking at me for some Thursday afternoon fun?”

          He poked me, just above my left breast.

          “Hey!” I rubbed the spot. “That’s just a saying.”

          “You’re tense.”

          “You’re not supposed to really poke me.”

          “Why are you tense?” He looked at the computer screen. “And why are you reading about”—he leaned forward, his eyes scanning the screen, and read aloud my search criteria—“‘murders in Lead, South Dakota’?”

          “No reason.” I avoided his prying eyes. “Just killing time before my next appointment.” Which was twenty hours from now.

          He growled deep in his throat. “You are such a lousy liar.”

          “I’ll keep practicing.”

          “The Carhart murders were recent, but you’re looking further back.”

          “Stop playing Sherlock.”

          “What happened