Boot Points Read online

  “An accounting discrepancy.”

  “Addition errors get you five-to-ten these days?”

  “When you’re working for the wrong group of guys it can.”

  Ah. I stuffed the fry in my mouth. It was cold and chewy, tasted like stale potatoes, but I didn’t care. “So, does this book recommend having first dates in fast-food restaurants?”

  His cheeks turned pink. “I’m a little tight on cash. My assets are still frozen.”

  “Gotcha.” I sat back, swallowing the fry along with a gaggle of hysterical laughs trying to escape.

  “Would you excuse me for a minute, Violet? I need to use the restroom. I was a bit nervous waiting for you and it appears I drank too much.”

  “Sure.”

  “You won’t leave, will you?”

  “No way.” A free meal was a free meal.

  “I’ll be back before you know it.” He scuttled off.

  Two more fries followed the first. As I waited for him to return, I plotted more ways to torture my daughter and came up with some real winners come prom age.

  “Hello, Violet.”

  In the middle of swallowing another fry, I choked at the sound of Doc’s voice. Pieces of processed potato slipped into my nasal passage, making my eyes burn and water. Doc needed to quit showing up unannounced and discombobulating my throat muscles.

  After sucking down some ice water from the cup in front of me, I squinted up at Doc. He still wore his red T-shirt and blue jeans. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t call about Jeff’s place.”

  “I forgot.” I’d been too busy trying to sneak a peek into Ray’s desk all afternoon in between running petty errands for Jane. Unfortunately, the only thing I found besides the ordinary desk-drawer paraphernalia was a Rec Center Programs’ schedule. While this piece of evidence had a possible tie-in to the pool, it wasn’t exactly a bloody knife.

  His lips thinned. “You forgot to call me, or you forgot to call Jeff?”

  “Both. Sorry.” I slunk down in the booth, feeling like a five-inch stiletto heel for not following through on my words. Then I remembered what day it was. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at Natalie’s right now?”

  “I rescheduled.”

  “Why?”

  “Something came up.”

  “What?”

  His stare pegged me to the seat cushions. “You.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You figure it out.” He dropped onto the bench next to me and hip-checked me into the wall. “Harvey said to tell you to stand up while you eat. He can’t see you through the bushes.”

  “Why doesn’t he move?”

  “He said it’s too hot to sit outside. He’s got your Bronco idling with all the vents aimed at him.”

  “My air conditioner isn’t working.” It had released a loud rattle and a dying gasp on the way to pick up Harvey this afternoon, and then blustered hot air at me no matter how many times I kicked the panel. I could only imagine how expensive it would be to fix it. As if I didn’t have enough bills gobbling up my meager savings with Addy’s emergency room visit.

  “Yeah. Harvey’s pretty pissed about that.” Doc stole one of my fries. “Yuck, this is cold.”

  “Ummm, hello?” Gary was back, hovering and frowning.

  Doc looked up, his grin appearing. He held out his hand toward Gary. “Howdy. Are you the guy who’s been calling Violet?”

  “Uhh, yes.” Gary shook Doc’s hand. “I’m Gary.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gary.” Doc waved toward the opposite booth seat. “Please, join us.”

  “Who are you?” Gary asked as he sat down across from us.

  “I’m Doc, Violet’s fiancé.”

  I choked on another fry.

  Street View of the Historic Homestake Opera House (Used in the Fourth Book in the Deadwood Mystery Series: Better Off Dead in Deadwood)

  Very Short Stories from the Ann Charles’ Vault …

  Dancing With Dialogue

  Years ago in a creative writing class in college, we were given the assignment of writing a short story using dialogue only—no narrative elements allowed, not even the dialogue tags that tells who is saying what. This was a fun challenge for me, and you can see from my short dialogue-only story below, Dancing with Dialogue, that I was dabbling in romance long before I wrote about Violet Parker’s crazy love life.

  “Should I ask Joyce out?”

  “That’s something you should run by one of your guy friends, not me.”

  “Who do you think I should ask to dance tonight? The brunette in the hot-pants or the redhead in the mini-skirt?”

  “The brunette keeps rubbing all over Mr. Cowboy Hat.”

  “Good point. The redhead it is.”

  “You do realize she’s narcissistic.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “She watches herself dance in the mirror.”

  “Dang, you’re right. Who should I dance with then?”

  “Don’t ask me. I don’t know your type.”

  “Bullshit. How long have we been friends?”

  “Too long.”

  “What’s with the attitude tonight?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Spill it.”

  “There’s nothing to spill.”

  “That biker dude over by the bar keeps staring at you.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  “Why don’t you go get us some drinks?”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “A little flirting might cheer you up.”

  “I’m not in the mood to flirt.”

  “That’s too bad. You look really good in those boots.”

  “Shut up.”

  “When you walked out wearing that dress, my mouth went dry.”

  “Since when do you pay attention to what I wear?”

  “With you, I pay attention to a lot. I bet you could snare any guy in here you wanted tonight.”

  “Any? You’re wrong.”

  “Prove it.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “Because I’m right.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Then prove me wrong.”

  “I already have.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Think about it.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I know. That’s been the problem since we met. I can’t stand this any longer. Here’s a ten for my drink.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere else.”

  “Wait!”

  “I’m tired of waiting. Let go of me.”

  “No, I’m not letting go. Not now. Don’t leave me.”

  “You’ll be fine without me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to ask Joyce out. I never did.”

  “Great. You don’t need my help after all. Now, let go.”

  “And I didn’t want to dance with the brunette or the redhead.”

  “So, why did you even drag me here tonight?”

  “Dance with me.”

  The Bullock Hotel in Deadwood by C.S. Kunkle

  Rainstorms

  Rainstorms was an experiment using a metaphor as a vehicle to tell a story. At the time I wrote it, I did not have any children, but I had watched my sisters raise their kids almost singlehandedly while balancing jobs and life. Just the bits of babysitting I did for them gave me a small taste of the insanity that can develop over years of parenthood. Now, after having my own kids and balancing a full-time day job and life, the following short story seems quite normal. In fact, I should probably go buy some more dog food.

  The first time it rained cats and dogs, I ran around trying to catch them before they hit the ground.

  The baby’s screams had drowned out the thunder, and the mountain of dirty clothes had blocked out the light, so I couldn’t see the building storm clouds through the laundry room windows.
Joey kept jumping off his bed onto the floor above me, so I didn’t think anything of the flickering 60-watt light bulb over my head or the distant dull thuds when the first few animals hit the roof.

  As I climbed the stairs with a basketful of folded clothes, Janey’s heavy-metal heartthrob blared through the hall and drowned out everything with screeching guitars. I stepped into her room to yell at her to turn down the music and an orange tabby bounced off her bedroom window, following by a brown and white beagle.

  I screamed and threw the basket. Clothes flew everywhere. Janey squealed in surprise and turned down the music. The pounding on the roof reverberated through my skull. I raced down the stairs, out the front door, and made a diving catch for a Doberman Pincher.

  The second time it rained cats and dogs, I dragged all of our mattresses out onto the front lawn and hid under the kitchen table. The baby had been teething that morning, and Joey had found the artist within himself. He was busy using the white living room walls as his canvas and his Crayola markers as his medium. I had just found a joint in the front pocket of a pair of Janey’s dirty jeans when I heard the first thump.

  The third time, Joey was practicing going potty like a big boy on the living room floor and Janey interrupted me while I was in the midst of scrubbing the carpet to ask about birth control. First came a bang, then a meow, and then a wiener dog landed on the hood of my minivan. I stood staring out the front door watching as animals dropped from the sky.

  The fourth time, my husband had just told me that he lost $20,000 of our savings at the horse track. This time I left bowls of dog and cat food out along the driveway and wore earplugs.

  Now I grow catnip in the flowerbeds and leave fifty pound bags of dog biscuits on the front porch. I don’t notice the rainstorms so much these days, just the extra cats and dogs hanging around the neighborhood.

  I took a part-time job to escape from home a few nights a week. My husband takes care of the kids when I work. Last night after work, when I crawled into bed and shut off the light, he turned to me in the moonlight and whispered. “Did you see anything strange falling from the sky tonight?”

  I pulled the cover up over my head and giggled.

  Bloody Mistletoe from Nearly Departed in Deadwood by C.S. Kunkle

  Metro Madness

  I chose to include this final short story because it shows the mixture of paranormal and humor that I was developing back before Violet Parker sprung to life in my head. As a side note, I was riding the city bus at the time, so I can thank King County Metro for the inspiration for this story.

  I’m sorry to say that my college professor was not thrilled with how I kept dabbling in the genre fiction world with all of my odd short stories. I have a feeling he thought I wasn’t taking his homework assignments seriously. Little did he know that what I was doing all of those years ago was practicing with different fictional elements, which I would someday compile and use in various full length novels. I was honing my skills, experimenting like a mad scientist with different combinations to create a fun mixed-genre story—aka the Deadwood Mystery Series.

  My bus driver is a vampire, but nobody believes me.

  Not even my sister, who rides the bus with me every day. She tells me that I need to seek help. I told her that I have consulted a higher authority on the subject, but she does not feel that my Magic Eight Ball counts.

  So, a week ago I decided to prove it to her.

  On Monday, I held my compact mirror up in the front of his face. He frowned at me and asked me to sit down.

  On Tuesday, I wore a necklace of garlic under my sweatshirt and sat right behind him. He opened his window and told me to move back a few seats.

  On Wednesday, I sprayed him with a squirt gun filled with holy water. He bellowed and confiscated my squirt gun, and then advised my sister to remove me from his sight as quickly as possible.

  On Thursday, I carried a wooden stake and showed it to him. He threatened to take me to the police station.

  Today, I pressed a cross I made with popsicle sticks against his forehead. He slammed on the brakes and kicked me off his bus.

  Now, as the bus rolls past me, I wave at my sister, but she is too busy hiding behind her book to see me. I decide to walk to the next bus stop and wait. Oh, well, vampire or not, he definitely needs to work on his anger management.

  Pulling out my phone, I dial my sister’s cell phone.

  “Yes?” she says. I can hear the squeaking and rattling of our bus in the background.

  “I guess he’s not a vampire after all,” I tell her.

  “Did you take your pills today?”

  “Let’s catch the earlier bus Monday morning,” I say and hang up.

  On Monday, we climb on the bus, show our passes to the driver, and then take a seat on the right—our lucky side.

  My sister pulls a book out of her briefcase and begins to read. I lean my head back and stare at the driver as we bounce along.

  Three stops later, my sister lowers her book and looks at me. “Please tell me you’re not going to start with the vampire thing again.”

  I smile at her. “No. I don’t believe in vampires anymore.”

  “Thank God!” She raises her book.

  I lean over and whisper, “But did you notice all of the hair in the driver’s ears? I wonder how he feels about silver bullets and full moons?”

  Ann’s Bookends by C.S. Kunkle

  About the Author

  Ann Charles is an award-winning author who writes mysteries that are splashed with humor and romance and whatever else she feels like throwing into the mix. When she is not dabbling in fiction, arm-wrestling with her children, attempting to seduce her husband, or arguing with her sassy cat, she is daydreaming of lounging poolside at a fancy resort with a blended margarita in one hand and a great book in the other.

  Connect with Me Online

  Facebook (Personal Page): http://www.facebook.com/ann.charles.author

  Facebook (Author Page): http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ann-Charles

  Twitter (as Ann W. Charles): http://twitter.com/AnnWCharles

  Twitter (as Deadwood Violet): http://twitter.com/DeadwoodViolet

  My Main Website: http://www.anncharles.com

  My Deadwood Website: http://www.anncharles.com/deadwood

  Also By Ann Charles

  Deadwood Mystery Series

  Nearly Departed in Deadwood (Book 1)

  Optical Delusions in Deadwood (Book 2)

  Dead Case in Deadwood (Book 3)

  Better Off Dead in Deadwood (Book 4)

  An Ex to Grind in Deadwood (Book 5)

  Meanwhile, Back in Deadwood (Book 6)

  Short Stories from the Deadwood Mystery Series

  Deadwood Shorts: Seeing Trouble

  Deadwood Shorts: Boot Points

  Deadwood Shorts: Cold Flame

  Jackrabbit Junction Mystery Series

  Dance of the Winnebagos (Book 1)

  Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (Book 2)

  The Great Jackalope Stampede (Book 3)

  The Rowdy Coyote Rumble (Book 4)

  Goldwash Mystery Series (a future series)

  The Old Man’s Back in Town (Short Story)

  Dig Site Mystery Series

  Look What the Wind Blew In (Book 1)

  (Starring Quint Parker, the brother of Violet Parker from the Deadwood Mystery Series)

  Coming Next from Ann Charles

  Deadwood Mystery Series

  A Wild Fright in Deadwood (Book 7)

  Copyright

  DEADWOOD SHORTS: BOOT POINTS

  Copyright © 2013 by Ann Charles

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-940364-00-1

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means now known or hereafter invented, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, Ann Charles.

  This book is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition

  Editing by the Grammar Chick

  Illustrations by C.S. Kunkle

  Cover Design by Sharon Benton, Q42 Designs

  Formatting by BiddlesEbooks

  Cover and Author Photo by Stephen Harris