Free Better Off Dead in Deadwood by Ann Charles

give you a key.”
    My eyes popped open. “A key?” That was like some kind of commitment, wasn’t it?
    “I can’t have you breaking all of my windows,” he said.
    I heard the screen door creak open.
    “Mom,” Addy called out from the doorway.
    “Over here, Addy,” I said, sitting up.
    “Layne won’t give me the remote so I can back up the movie to watch the scene where they open the shark’s gut again. When I tried to take it from him, he pinched me.”
    “Like mother, like son,” Doc said in my ear, snickering.
    “You big baby,” I whispered to him. To Addy, I said, “I’ll be right there, sweetheart.”
    “Okay, but you better hurry or I’m gonna sock him in the nose.”
    “No hitting!” I said to her back. “Doc, I have to go.”
    “Come see me tomorrow.”
    “At work?” I asked. Doc worked every day of the week, pretty much like me. Building a successful business didn’t allow for much time off.
    “Yes, at work. I want to frisk you against my desk.”
    “Oh.” Goosebumps rippled over my skin.
    “Get some sleep for once, Boots, and dream something happy.”

Chapter Five
    Sunday, September 2nd
    Early the next afternoon, I stopped at the Piggly Wiggly grocery store on my way to Cooper’s house and almost ran over a zombie in the parking lot.
    No shit.
    There I was, merrily cruising toward an empty spot with cookie dough in the forefront of my thoughts—as it often was—and out popped a black-haired zombie with a torn, blood-stained shirt and hillbilly pants belted on with a rope. He was pushing a grocery cart with a six-pack of beer, laundry soap, and a loaf of bread.
    And here I’d been worried about killer albinos. Silly me.

    The zombie guy was gone by the time I grabbed the cookie dough and returned to the Picklemobile, making me wonder if my nightmares and the resulting lack of sleep were now expanding to include hallucinations about the walking dead.
    Old Man Harvey’s Ford truck hogged Cooper’s drive, so I parked on the street.
    Cooper opened the door before I reached his bottom porch step. His holey T-shirt, torn jeans, and bare feet made me do a double-take. Who was this laid-back looking guy and what had he done with Detective Cooper?
    He squinted down his broken nose at me. “You’re late.”
    Ah, there was the detective I knew and hissed at when he wasn’t looking. My mistake.
    I glared up at him. “There was a zombie at Piggly Wiggly.”
    That wiped the scowl off his face. He laughed, his carved features softening. “Did it try to bite you?”
    “No. He bought beer and bread.”
    “Do you want me to arrest him?”
    “That would require you to actually capture him first.”
    “Watch it, Coop,” Harvey said, peeking around the detective’s shoulder. “She’s feisty this morning. She must not have gotten any last night.”
    Damn Harvey for being right.
    “Can it, old man.” I pointed the Picklemobile’s key at Cooper’s shirt. “Please tell me you’re not wearing that today.”
    “What’s wrong with my shirt?”
    “It’s your bullet-hole shirt.” His proof that Kevlar was a necessity in his career. “Buyers don’t need to be reminded that you own and carry a gun for a living.”
    “I own and carry several guns.”
    “Wonderful. You should start a club with bullet-hole filled jackets. Can’t you put on a different shirt?”
    “This is a different shirt from my other one.”
    I looked down at the wide circle full of tiny holes in the cotton—shotgun spray by the looks of it. The holes did appear smaller than before.
    “Exactly how many times have you been shot?” I asked.
    “I stopped counting after this happened.” He pointed at his shirt.
    “Are you two going to stand there flapping your lips all day, or are we gonna have us an open house?” Harvey asked.
    Cooper stood back to let me by. “What’s in the bag?”
    I slipped past, careful not to touch him lest he slap handcuffs on me for assault. “Cookie dough.”
    “What?” Harvey