Free Better Off Dead in Deadwood by Ann Charles Page B

maybe it was more like poor Grandma Coop.
    “What did Cooper have to say to you after lunch yesterday?” Harvey asked.
    “Not much. He wanted the details on what I was doing Friday night—the night the coroner estimates Jane died.”
    “You have an alibi?”
    “Doc.”
    “Lucky girl.”
    When it came to Doc, I was. Well, except for the fact that my having kids seemed to wig him out.
    “Unfortunately, Cooper wouldn’t give me any details about Jane or who they think murdered her. Or why.”
    I checked the time on my cell phone. I had ten minutes until we opened to the public. While I was staring at the screen, the phone started ringing, the number unfamiliar.
    “Hello?” I answered.
    “Violet, it’s Jerry.”
    “Jerry?”
    “Your boss.”
    It all came rushing back—big shoulders, big feet, big expectations. “Right, sorry. I haven’t eaten lunch yet, so I’m a little scatterbrained.”
    “Are you ready for some company?”
    “You mean prospective buyers?”
    “And me.”
    “You?”
    “I thought I’d come by today to watch you in action.”
    My shoulders tightened so fast it was a wonder my head didn’t pop right off. The last thing I needed while playing hostess in Cooper’s house was my new boss breathing down my neck. Well, from his height, he’d be breathing on the top of my head.
    “Are you sure you have time to spare today?” I asked. Didn’t he have bookwork to go through or a big hammer to polish?
    “Plenty. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
    “Jerry, I’d rather you—” about that time I realized I was speaking to a dead line.
    Shit! My boss was coming.
    I glanced around Cooper’s living room, hoping I’d taken care of every last detail. What about the bedrooms? The bathrooms? I hadn’t even checked the toilets and shower yet to make sure Cooper had left everything clean.
    “Harvey, I’ll be right back.”
    I raced down the hallway, peeking in the guest bathroom where a vanilla-scented candle burned away. Cooper lit a candle? No, that had to have been a Harvey touch.
    Next door down, the bedroom-turned-office was empty of everything but a desk with a polished oak top. Even the books had been lined up according to height. I needed to hire Harvey for every open house.
    A little further back was Cooper’s bedroom. I’d been in there once before when I’d first checked out the house with Harvey in tow.
    Not much had changed. It still smelled like leather, only now mixed with pine thanks to the breeze rippling the gray curtains. Cooper’s room was filled with black things—from the dresser to the headboard to the leather lounge chair against the far wall. Even the bedside lampshade was black.
    Hitting the light switch, I started back up the hall then stopped.
    Wait a second.
    Heading back into his bedroom, I hit the overhead lights again and walked over to that black-shaded lamp, taking a closer look.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said and tore the cord from the wall, carting the lamp to the kitchen where the smell of sweet molasses made my stomach purr.
    “Harvey, what is this?”
    He pulled a tray of molasses cookies out of the oven and dropped it on the burners. He spared a glance at the pistol that made up the lamp’s neck. “It’s a Peacemaker.”
    “Is it a real gun?”
    “That’s not just a ‘gun,’ it’s a Colt .45, nickel-plated with a wooden stock. That there’s a piece of history.”
    “Great. Wonderful. I’m in awe. Does it actually work?”
    “Hell, yes. I bought that online for Coop’s birthday a few years back. It’s just glued to the base.” He pointed a spatula at me. “It’ll light up a crook so you can get a clear shot. You should get one.”
    I looked around for somewhere to hide the damned thing. “I can’t have a gun in here during an open house.”
    Harvey pulled the basement key out of his pocket. “Stick it in the basement room with the rest of his stuff.”
    “Cooper said not to go down there.”
    “Well, don’t