Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (14 page)

I glanced down at my watch. I’d picked up useful tidbits from both Doug and Rose. According to Rose, Tricia’s husband, Lars, and his developer partner, Phil McKinley, were unhappy with Spencer’s no-growth platform. According to Doug, more people disliked Spencer than not.

Including Doug.

With my brain swirling with suspects, I decided to stop detecting for now. If ever an occasion justified retail therapy, this was it. I passed by Antiques Galore, one of my favorite stores. Although depression-era glass, bone china, and other collectibles normally filled the front windows, Abe Cartwell, the owner, had created a pioneer theme this week that displayed a set of valuable-looking antique pistols.

I entered the store, hoping his antiques might help me formulate some ideas for decorating the bank. Abe waved at me from behind his ancient brass cash register, where he counted out a stack of bills to a tall customer with graying hair and moustache, who stood on the opposite side of the counter. The man shoved the money in a beat-up brown wallet, which he placed in the back pocket of his faded jeans. He tipped his straw cowboy hat to me then strode out the door.

Abe came out from around the counter. “Laurel, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.” He grabbed my hands in his large calloused ones and peered into my face. “This business with Hank got you down?”

I nodded and sniffed. “It’s been tough, especially for our kids seeing their dad on the TV screen––in handcuffs.”

Abe’s black handlebar moustache bobbed under his hooked nose. “I can’t imagine Hank committing murder, much less hanging Spencer out to dry.”

“Doug Blake told me Spencer made quite a few enemies. People with better reasons to kill him than Hank.”

Abe aimed his bald spot, surrounded by a ring of black curls, at the door. “Take Scott Shelton, the cowboy who just left. I can’t think of anyone with a bigger grudge against Spencer.”

“He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. What was his beef with Spencer?”

“Hah. Good one.” Abe smacked his thigh and hooted. “Scott owns a cattle ranch near Coloma, but he also owned the Hangtown Hotel before Spencer took it away from him.”

“How and why did Spencer do that?”

“Scott couldn’t get any of the banks to finance a building needing so much renovation, so Spencer loaned him the money,” said Abe. “It was one of his investment company’s side businesses. When Scott couldn’t make the payments, Spencer foreclosed.”

“That’s tough. Scott must have been devastated about losing the building.”

“If this occurred a hundred years ago, Scott might have challenged him to a shootout at high noon.” Abe pointed to the gun display in his windows. “It’s been tough for him financially. He’s been leaving stuff here on consignment ever since he lost the building. Scott needs the money to purchase supplies for the ride down the hill. It’s a grueling trip physically and not inexpensive either.”

“Scott’s participating in the Wagon Train?”

Abe nodded. “He’s gone every year since he was a babe. Scott’s father helped found the Wagon Train more than sixty years ago. The old man was probably rolling in his grave after Scott lost the Hangtown Hotel to Spencer. The Shelton family originally owned that property then lost it in the Depression. Scott bought it back when the previous owner needed to sell for financial reasons. He had great hopes for bringing it back to its former glory.”

Interesting tidbit. Could the man whose failure might be causing his father to spin in his grave also be the man who put Darius Spencer in his?

That evening Tom and I sat across from each other in a romantic corner booth at Pappa Giannis, one of my favorite Italian restaurants located in nearby Cameron Park.

I sipped from a glass of Lava Cap chardonnay and nibbled on the restaurant’s hot buttery garlic bread, carbs to die for. Not a particularly romantic food choice since anyone within kissing distance would keel over from my breath, but the delicious bread was worth it. Plus it didn’t look like I’d be getting close and personal with my detective tonight. Not the way our conversation had progressed so far.

“Isn’t there one tiny bit of information you can share with me?” I implored him.

“Laurel, I’m trying to stay as removed from this case as possible,” he replied. “I don’t want Hank’s arrest to create any issues between us.”

“It already has. I know you won’t agree, but I don’t feel like I have a choice. I need to free Hank from jail, whether it’s with your help or not.” I waved my hands to illustrate my point and my garlic bread flew across the table landing on Tom’s plate.

“Oops, sorry. I hope you don’t arrest me for assaulting a police officer with a gluten-filled weapon.”

Tom drank half of his cabernet and remained silent. I couldn’t.

“What kind of example would I be setting for my children if I leave their father languishing in a cell? Hank’s attorney will eventually have access to the evidence. Why not speed things up and share a tidbit or two with me? We could trade information.”

Tom leaned across the table and I bent forward, hoping my new teal-blue scooped neck top would distract him into sharing some clues.

“How about we trade kisses instead?” he said with a sexy smile that normally would have had me drooling in my wine glass.

But tonight I refused to get distracted. I threw out my first piece of evidence for the defense.

“I discovered the Liars’ Bench Bar was packed with men watching the Kings game the night Spencer was killed,” I said.

“And we found out Hank went into the Hangtown Hotel not long before Spencer’s murder.”

“I’m sure that’s a coincidence. How did Hank explain his presence?”

Tom sighed. “I shouldn’t share this, but your ex-husband claims he didn’t enter the hotel until five forty when he discovered Spencer’s body.”

“So there you have it.”

“Jake at Hangtown Bakery saw Hank enter the back door of the hotel a little after two a.m.”

I sipped my wine while I processed his information. “Hank had been drinking all night. Maybe he was confused about the time.”

“Was he also confused about hitting Spencer on the head?” Tom said. “We found Hank’s fingerprints on a two-by-four.”

“Of course, his fingerprints are on lumber. Hank is doing a lot of the renovation work himself to save that cheapskate Spencer some money.”

“But why were Hank’s fingerprints on a two-by-four that had Spencer’s blood on the opposite end?” Tom asked.

Our server chose that moment to deliver our entrees, gnocchi for Tom and pasta alla Vodka for me. After Tom’s last remark, I needed a pitcher alla Vodka. My ex-husband had a lot of explaining to do.

After our uncomfortable dinner and short silent drive back to my house, Tom pulled his car into my driveway. We sat in silence––two stubborn people, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Tom reached for my left hand. His fingers gently traced a circle on my palm before they started working their nimble way up my arm. I trembled at his touch. I needed to have a heart-to-heart talk with my erogenous zones, many of which I hadn’t known existed until I met the sexy detective.

Tom began to kiss me, starting at my wrist then working his heart-escalating magic up my forearm, creating a magnetic force that caused me to slide closer to him.

I might have principles, but I am not a statue. He tucked one of my errant curls behind my ear, and my resolve melted faster than ice cream on a hot summer’s day. I turned to meet his eager lips, my breasts pressing into his chest. I could feel his heart pumping, and the hardening of his…

Ouch. Darn that gearshift.

I pulled away, panting. A wise decision since every window of my house appeared to be open.

Tom blew out a breath. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”

I waited a few seconds before replying. “I know this is a big case. Considering Spencer’s involvement in our community, I’m sure a lot of pressure has been put on you and your team to solve it quickly.”

Tom reached for my hand and turned to me. “I’m relieved you can sympathize with what I’ve been going through. Hank would not have been arrested if the Sheriff didn’t feel one hundred percent certain. The District Attorney is comfortable with the evidence the detectives brought to him. I realize it must be horrible to discover your husband is a killer. Maybe they argued, and it got out of control. Hank admitted to the detectives he’d been drinking heavily that night.”

“In fifteen years of marriage, Hank never once laid an angry hand on me. And, difficult though it may be to believe, I can occasionally be annoying.”

Tom chuckled at my comment.

“What I can’t figure out is why someone hung Spencer on the scaffolding,” I said.

“It might have seemed like a good idea at the time. When people are under the influence, they commit some strange acts. Trust me, when I worked in San Francisco, I saw things far weirder and more disgusting than Spencer’s corpse hanging over Main Street.”

I shuddered, contemplating the hideous crimes Tom had confronted in the past. What must it be like to face reminders of the uglier side of life on a daily basis?

“I wish you could look at this from my point of view,” I pleaded with Tom. “Other than a younger brother on the east coast who Hank hasn’t seen in years, he has no family besides the kids and me. Someone has to be there for him.”

Tom volleyed a shot back to me. “He must have friends he can count on.”

“Of course, he does. But it’s not the same.”

“Hank is one lucky man to have you in his camp. Not many ex-wives who were dumped for another woman would be this supportive.”

“Guess I’m just a softy,” I said, “although it helped when he admitted leaving me was the dumbest thing he ever did.”

Until now. I sincerely hoped my loyalty toward my children’s father didn’t prove to be one of the biggest mistakes of
my
life.

“Laurel, I assure you we have the right guy,” Tom said firmly. “You need to let this go.”

“Look, I promise to stay out of your way. But you have to know that I’ll do whatever it takes to help Hank. I have to for the kids’ sake.”

“I admire your loyalty,” Tom said, his eyes glimmering with concern. “But keep in mind if the detectives are wrong and Hank didn’t murder Darius Spencer, then there is a killer out there who will do anything to prevent discovery.”

Sunday morning I temporarily shifted from detecting mode into domestic diva mode. Every year I invite family and friends over for a pre-Memorial Day celebration. Even though Hank’s arrest dampened my mood, I didn’t want to cancel our get-together.

Jenna attempted to maintain a stoic front, but occasionally I noticed tears glistening in her eyes as she helped dust and vacuum. My heart went out to my poor daughter, making me feel helpless. Ben adopted a proactive approach. He pinned Bradford’s old badge on his Spiderman tee shirt, grabbed a pen and small pad of paper and proceeded to search the house for clues. Pumpkin followed in his wake, evidently not worried about that old “curiosity killed the cat” adage.

I didn’t want to discourage Ben from detecting since it kept him and the cat occupied. Plus, his search eventually led to the discovery of two missing G. I. Joes, an old tube of mascara and a melted Milk Dud.

At the supermarket, I purchased burgers, hot dogs, buns, and beverages. My guests insisted on contributing appetizers and salads. I wasn’t certain if their offers reflected on my culinary abilities, but I’m all for delegating when it comes to domestic duties. The fewer hours I spent slaving over a stove meant the more time I could allocate to my investigative checklist.

With a few minutes to spare before my company arrived, I ripped a couple of pages out of Detective Ben’s notebook and created a short list of my own suspects.

Tricia and Lars Taylor. Political opponents of Spencer’s no-growth policy. Were they willing to win the election at any cost so Lars could pursue his own commercial development?

Phil McKinley. The rabid pro-growth subdivision developer.

Janet Spencer. The spouse must always be included as a potential suspect. Especially one rumored to have an unhappy marriage.

Any of the Main Street proprietors who didn’t approve of Spencer’s renovation plans. That could be a long list or a list of one––bookstore owner Doug Blake.

Spencer foreclosed on several people, including my mother’s client and Scott Shelton. Could there be others that he’d brought to financial ruin?

The more suspects I added, the more dismayed I became. This investigation might require an army of amateur detectives. Fortunately, my crack team or as Tom might refer to them, my crackpot team of detectives, were gathering here today.

Mother and Bradford were first to arrive with Gran huddled in the back seat of their SUV. Mother did not condone her own mother’s hot rod purchase, so she had restricted Gran to daytime driving and within the Placerville city limits. When Gran took to the road in her convertible, her matching red boa flying in the breeze, the locals knew to give her a wide berth.

Bradford beeped open the rear power door of the car, reached in and pulled out two large covered bowls. He handed them to Mother and Gran then grabbed a six-pack of beer in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. From the doorway, I could hear Gran and Mother arguing as they walked down my sidewalk. I sensed Bradford might need the entire six-pack before this day ended.

Gran thrust her salad bowl in my hands. “Laurel, please inform your mother to butt out of my business and mind her own beeswax.”

Yeah, right.

Mother’s face suffused with anger. “Maybe if you’d maintain some decorum, I wouldn’t need to get involved in your beeswax. You’ve created a very sticky situation for me.”

Bradford threw me a half-hearted smile and followed his wife into my house. I debated whether I was brave enough to get in my car and take off, leaving the women to squabble the night away without any help from me, something they’d been doing since the day I was born. The flavorful aroma of my grandmother’s honey-baked beans made my decision for me. They were too good to pass up.