Nearly Departed in Deadwood by Ann Charles Page B

scruffy, crusty exterior, Harvey’s interior decorating skills were worthy of a Good Housekeeping spread. With leather furniture, butcher-block countertops, new bathroom fixtures, and a vase of fresh wildflowers on the maple, claw-foot table, I knew the house would show well.

          The problem was Harvey’s Timbuktu address. I had a better chance of winning this year’s Ironman Triathlon than selling his place before Jane kicked me out on my hind end.

          “You look like someone spanked your puppy,” Harvey said as I stuffed Mona’s camera back in my purse.

          After searching his face to make sure that wasn’t some weird sexual innuendo, I gave him a cockeyed grin. “Sorry. I’m just having a run of bad luck lately.”

          “Me, too. Fate must have brought us together.” Harvey grabbed my arm as I turned toward the door. “Where are you going so soon? I made molasses cookies and opened a bottle of Kahlúa.”

          I really needed to hire Harvey a companion. Red, who’d managed to drag his sorry ass into the house and plop in front of his empty food dish, apparently wasn’t filling the role.

          “I wish I could stay.” Warm molasses cookies would be the closest thing I’d had to an orgasm in two years. “But I have some appointments this afternoon.”

          “It’s only ten.” He dragged me over to a barstool and shoved me onto it. “Have a seat.”

          His eyes had a determined glint. I dropped my purse on the floor at my feet. I could use a glassful of courage, anyway. “Where are those cookies?”

          He pulled a plate out of the stove and set it on the counter in front of me.

          “Did Margo make these for you?”

          Harvey shook his head. “My mama’s own recipe.”

          Sweet gooey goodness drew a groan from my throat. The crazy old buzzard surprised me at every turn—including the small armory of shotguns and rifles I’d stumbled upon in his bedroom while taking pictures. How many guns did one man need? It’s not like they were disposable. “So, you still hearing funny noises out behind your barn?”

          “Yep. I found a mutilated deer carcass back there the other morning. A big, 12-point buck.”

          I wrinkled my nose. “Mutilated? Like by a poacher?”

          “Nah. They’d have taken the antlers. That’s an impressive rack.” He grinned. “Kind of like your neighbor’s.”

          “You mean Miss Geary?” Harvey had ogled Aunt Zoe’s neighbor the evening we’d gone out to eat with the kids. She’d been weeding her flower bed wearing a tube top, short-shorts, and a pair of heels. I hoped my legs looked half as good as hers when I hit sixty.

          “Damned straight. I have to get me some of that.” Harvey growled and took a big bite of cookie. “So what’s on tap for today? Anything fun?”

          Chewing, I shook my head. Nothing I wanted Harvey to know about, anyway.

          Last night after the kids went to bed, I’d snagged the previous Wednesday’s copy of the Black Hills Trailblazer from Aunt Zoe’s workshop, looking for any details I could find on the most recent missing girl, Tina Tucker. She’d made page two. Why not the front page? Did Deadwood’s mayor have his boot heel on the chief editor’s throat, squelching any tales that might tarnish the town’s good-times reputation?

          The article consisted of text only, Tina’s ‘Missing’ poster’s picture absent. A few short paragraphs explained how Tina had left her grandparents’ house around seven Sunday evening to walk the four blocks home to her mom’s place. She’d never made it. Tina’s mother had gotten a flat tire on the way home from her job at a Sturgis diner. She’d pulled in the drive an hour later than usual and found the house empty, her daughter gone without a trace.

          The police said they were looking into the