Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (15 page)

The kids must have heard our guests’ arrival because they were already downstairs hugging Mother, Gran and Bradford. I made room in my refrigerator for the salad bowls and brought out some appetizers––chips, salsa and my homemade guacamole, prepared with a super-secret ingredient that I will take to my grave.

Or sell for a large sum of money.

We moved outside to the back patio, shaded by the wide overhang Hank astutely insisted on adding when he designed our home. I couldn’t deny that my ex-husband knew how to build a decent house. My family settled into cushioned chairs around my glass-topped table.

Memorial Day weekends are notorious for their erratic temperatures, ranging from triple digits in the valley to below freezing in the Sierras. Today we enjoyed a postcard-perfect azure sky with the thermometer hovering in the mid eighties. A light breeze tickled the birch trees, which swayed together in perfect unison.

Mother and I chose chardonnay for our beverage of choice while Gran helped herself to one of Bradford’s pale ales. Gran noticed Mother’s gaze directed at the bottle gripped in her wrinkled hand.

“What’s your problem?” she said. “I’m not driving so I may as well be drinking.”

Gran leaned back, resting her Donna Reed pageboy bob against the back of the cushioned chair while her gaze roved around my tree-filled backyard. “This is nice, Laurel. Once your mother forces me out of my own house, I might move in here with you. It would be a sight better than living with all of those old folks at Golden Hills Manor.”

Bradford snorted but wisely kept his silence. Jenna and Ben threw me matching frantic looks.

Before I could tactfully decline my grandmother’s invitation to become my bunkmate, Mother chimed in. “Half the residents at Golden Hills are friends of yours, Ma. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you didn’t have to get in your car in order to play bridge or bunco? Plus all of your meals would be prepared. You wouldn’t have any maintenance issues to worry about––no broken heaters, leaky plumbing or skunks hiding under your front porch.”

Gran scowled at her daughter. “Better the skunks you can see than the skunks you can’t.”

Whoa. Was that a metaphor? Or had Gran drunk a little too much ale?

“Speaking of skunks,” I interrupted with possibly the world’s worst segue, “I’ve learned quite a bit about Darius Spencer. The man appeared to be a workaholic involved in numerous community activities, but he doesn’t seem all that popular in certain circles.”

“That’s what the gals and I discovered,” Gran announced with a triumphant smile.

“Yes, but did you have to ask every Main Street store owner if they wanted to string Darius up?” Mother carped at her. “If you’re going to help Laurel, you need to use some tact.”

“Tact don’t loosen tongues. You gotta catch ’em off guard to find out what they really think; otherwise, they clam up.”

Mother’s face turned the same shade of burgundy as my chair cushions. She looked like she wanted to make Gran clam up on a permanent basis.

“So what did you learn, Gran?” I asked.

“The gals and I stopped at the stores where Tricia posted her flyers,” she said. “We figured those owners might have a beef with Spencer.”

“Makes sense,” I agreed.

“That’s what I told your mother. The BBQ Bonanza planned to open up another restaurant in Shingle Springs, but Spencer’s no-growth plan would keep the small shopping center from ever getting built.”

“I don’t suppose they admitted to killing him.” I chuckled at my silliness.

“Nope.” She shook her head, reached into the pocket of her elastic waist jeans and pulled out a lime green piece of paper. “But they gave me a twenty-five dollar-gift certificate to pass along to the killer, should I happen to run across him or her.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Mother.

True, but also fascinating.

“Anything else?” I asked, hoping Gran had picked up a more useful clue, although the gift certificate was a nice find.

“Spencer was on the Historical Architectural Rules Committee.”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t surprise me. That man participated in every committee around.”

“I’m getting the impression he only involved himself in things that could benefit him personally,” said Gran. “Were you aware that the former owner of the Hangtown Hotel building tried to remodel it? The council deemed it unsafe, so he couldn’t get a permit to do the work.”

Mother’s eyes lit up. “Did Darius Spencer have something to do with denying the former owner a permit?”

“Yep.” Gran sipped her beer and licked her lips. “When the owner found out he couldn’t renovate it, he had no choice but to let the building get foreclosed on by the lender. Guess the name of the lender?”

“Darius Spencer,” yelled Bradford. He shrugged as three pairs of eyes glared at him. “Hey, I am a retired detective.”

Gran’s information corroborated what Abe had shared with me yesterday but with the additional twist of the permit denial.

“My suspect list keeps growing longer and longer.” I glanced at my watch. “I wish Rex would call with an update. I feel awful about Hank sitting alone in a cell when he should be here with his family.”

Mother shot me a curious look. “Laurel, even if Hank wasn’t in jail, you wouldn’t have invited him over for Memorial Day, would you?”

“No, I guess not, although...” My voice tapered off as I considered her question. Who would have thought that my ex-husband landing in jail would have brought us closer together than we had been in years?

My home phone rang, startling me, but providing an excellent excuse to escape my mother’s question regarding Hank. I ran into the house and picked up the phone, grateful to shove my confused feelings back where they belonged––hidden deep in my subconscious.

The defense attorney couldn’t have timed his call any better.

“Hi, Rex,” I said. “Do you have any news?”

“Probably not the news you’d like to hear from me. Because of the three-day weekend, Hank’s arraignment isn’t scheduled until Wednesday morning. They may refuse to grant him bail if they think he presents too much of a flight risk.”

“That’s plain silly,” I sputtered. “Hank wouldn’t take off and leave us behind.” Although I had to admit recent history indicated otherwise.

“It may not make a difference. Even if they granted bail, it could be a million dollars for a murder charge. When bail gets that high, the bondsman will require not only the $100,000 fee but also a million in collateral to guarantee the bond. Do you have that kind of collateral?”

“Hank doesn’t have enough collateral to get a mortgage on a doghouse, and I’m barely above water on my own home loan.”

So the answer to that question would be a resounding no.

“What now?” I asked.

“It’s only been two days since he was arrested, so I haven’t received the case file yet. On Wednesday I’ll find out if Hank will be charged with first-degree murder or a lesser charge, like manslaughter.”

“Since someone hung Spencer from the scaffolding, there’s no way his death could be an accident, is there?”

“Not hardly, although several witnesses in the bar noticed how intoxicated Hank became. The fact he was under the influence might be mitigating circumstances.”

This was sounding more and more like a bad episode of
Law and Order
. I was ready for a commercial break.

“What kind of sentence are we talking about?” I asked.

“Twenty-five years to life. With time off for good behavior and overcrowding that could bring it down to fifteen.”

Fifteen years or more for the father of my children to wear an orange jumpsuit? That didn’t work for me.

“Have you discussed this with Hank?” I asked.

“Yes. Hank claims he’s innocent. This is far too early in the process, but he informed me that even if they offered a plea deal down the road, he wouldn’t accept it.”

“Of course he’s innocent. Don’t you believe him?”

“In my line of work, you don’t choose to believe or disbelieve. All you can do is to try to get the best deal possible for your client.”

Shoot. What if the District Attorney was a friend of the victim and pursued the case to the max? Hank could be sentenced to life in prison.

I sniffed as miniature waterfalls coursed down my cheeks.

“I’ll call you when I have some news,” Rex said. “Until then, try to stay positive.”

“Thanks.” I attempted to wipe my cheeks dry with a tissue. “I realize you’re trying to do the best you can. When can I get in to see Hank?”

“Visiting hours are from one to three every afternoon and also two evenings a week.”

That was good to know. I was off work on Monday so my day was free to spend with the man who was not.

We hung up as the front doorbell rang. I walked into the foyer, threw open the door and flung myself into Liz’s arms. After a comforting hug, I offered to help Brian with his load. He handed over a glass plate piled high with something that appeared to be both chocolate and frosted, a combination guaranteed to be a hit at this house.

“I’m so glad to see the two of you,” I said as we entered my kitchen. I scanned all four walls in search of a place to hide her dessert from the kids until after dinner. Both of my children had inherited my chocoholic gene and were genetically blessed with an internal chocolate GPS system.

“I’m especially pleased to see Brian,” I commented after hiding the dessert behind a stack of towels in the laundry room.

Brian’s eyebrows rose. Being the intelligent counselor that he is, he instantly caught on. “I can’t help you with Hank’s case.”

I put my palms up as if protesting his comment. “I wouldn’t think about asking you for help.”

Liz and Brian snorted in tandem. How well they knew me.

“No, honest. I have a legal question for Brian.”

“And it has nothing to do with Hank’s arrest?”

Geez. Those deputy DAs are a suspicious bunch.

“No, it’s kind of a ‘what if’ question. It came up on an episode of
Castle
the other night.”

“Hey, if you’re looking to educate yourself about proper police procedure, you won’t learn it from that show.”

Liz chuckled. “Sorry, honey. Laurel and I aren’t watching the show to pick up any crime scene tips. We only watch
Castle
because of Nathan Fillion. What a cutie.” She followed her remark with two smacks, leaving a pink lipstick trail on her husband’s cheek.

With Brian in a hopefully improved and less suspicious mood, I charged ahead. “So at what point would a prosecuting attorney offer a plea deal?”

Brian cocked his head, and I could almost hear his brain in action sifting through different case files. “There could be a variety of reasons. The Deputy District Attorney might feel they needed a stronger case to take it to trial. Occasionally there are extenuating circumstances related to the defendant.”

“Do people ever take a plea deal if they’re innocent?” I asked.

“Sometimes if it makes sense, their attorney may advise them to do so. Every case is different.”

“Darling,” Liz said to Brian, “You have to do something to help Hank. Even if he is a butthead, he’s Laurel’s butthead and, more importantly, Jenna’s and Ben’s father.”

Liz was no fonder of Hank now than she was twenty years ago when we met at a fraternity party at the University of California at Davis. That night both of our dates drank themselves silly, and we bonded over the three-mile walk back to the dorms. We’ve been best friends since.

Brian remained silent, only opening his mouth to ask for my corkscrew. I pulled out wine glasses for them, which he filled from the bottle they brought. He took a sip, swirled it around his palate and swallowed.

I wondered if the wine had loosened Brian’s tongue and his legal inhibitions or if his wife’s affectionate nuzzling of his ear had anything to do with his next remark.

“No promises. I can’t get involved with the case itself. I could get fired for interference, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”

Nope. I certainly didn’t want Brian to lose his job any more than I wanted the kid’s father to lose his freedom.

Or his own life.

Sunday had ended up as a wonderful bonding experience with my family and friends. Even though Hank had never been a favorite with any of them, especially after he deserted me for Nadine, they all agreed we needed to help him for the kids’ sake. The first stop on that path was to visit him in jail.

I dithered in my bedroom wondering what one wears to visit an ex-husband in jail if there is a chance she could run into her current boyfriend. I decided Dear Abby would tell me to focus, and not on my clothing. I threw on a sleeveless white top and a red floral skirt, a combination far cheerier than my mood. The El Dorado County Jail is located near the Placerville library, so I contemplated picking up some books for Hank to help occupy the long days and nights. But there could be a heck of a fine if I couldn’t return them on time. Would they even be allowed? Had anyone ever tried to hide a weapon inside a book?

It turned out to be a non-issue since the library remained closed on Memorial Day. I would visit Hank empty-handed, although hopefully leave with some worthwhile information.

The county jail was larger than I anticipated. They snapped my photo, checked my ID and my purse, which I placed inside a locker. After decades watching crime shows, I should have realized I couldn’t bring it in with me, although the closest thing to a weapon inside my purse was my lipstick wand.

I met Hank in a room divided into six partitioned areas filled with inmates and their visitors. We sat across from one another completely separated by a glass window. He wore an orange jumpsuit far too large for his frame. The circles under his eyes were as dark and large as Oreos.

I could feel my eyes start to tear, but I was determined to remain strong. The jail only allotted one hour for visitors, so we needed to make the most of every minute.

“You look beautiful,” Hank said into the phone on his side of the glass.