Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (16 page)

I smiled and wiped away a stray tear as I answered via my own phone. “What woman wouldn’t look beautiful in these surroundings? Are they treating you okay?”

“Yeah, I get my three meals.” Hank sighed.

“Rex said he’s still waiting for the case file. He hasn’t seen the evidence they have against you.”

“I don’t care what they say they have. I’m innocent,” Hank shouted then lowered his voice when the guard’s head snapped to attention. “You have to believe me.”

“I do, of course, I do. But why did you lie to me about going back to the hotel that morning?”

He slumped in his seat. His dark-blond hair brushed against the collar of the jumpsuit. Hank needed a haircut before he approached the bench for his arraignment.

“I didn’t want you to find out I got drunk again,” Hank explained. “I was upset with Spencer. And fuming about you and Hunter being together. I didn’t intend to drink that much, but Fletch and Abe each bought me a beer. Then Lars and one of his builder buds started buying rounds whenever the Kings scored. It wasn’t until the bar closed and I weaved my way to the truck that I realized I shouldn’t be driving.”

“Good thinking.”

“Maybe not in this case.” He shrugged, the over-sized jumpsuit flopping with his movement. “If I’d made it home and not entered the Hangtown Hotel, I might not be sitting in a cell.”

“Doug Blake said you told him you were going to sleep it off in the hotel.”

“Yeah, I always keep my camping gear in my truck. Since Spencer and I were meeting in a few hours that seemed the most prudent thing to do. I hauled my sleeping bag into the building and shoved it into a corner. Threw my hat on the floor next to it. I felt thirsty and kinda dehydrated, so I went back to the truck to get the water jug I keep behind my seat. Once I climbed into the back, I felt woozy. I guess I passed out. I didn’t wake up until five-thirty and freaked out, worried I’d missed Spencer and he’d fire me for good this time.”

I stared at my ex-husband for a full minute before responding. “That is the sorriest alibi I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, that’s what my attorney said. And the cops.”

“Tom also said your fingerprints were on a two-by-four with Spencer’s blood at the base.”

Hank’s expression grew puzzled before he cried out, “Oh, geez, that must have happened when I straightened up some of the lumber. I was worried Spencer would get annoyed if the place looked like a mess.” He blinked back tears. “Guess I’m screwed, huh? Make sure you tell the kids how much I love them.”

If my purse had been handy and Hank wasn’t trapped behind a barrier, I would have whacked him on the head with it.

“Hey,” I said. “We’re not going down without a fight. If you didn’t kill Spencer, then someone did. And I’m not about to let them pin it on you.”

The next morning I moped around the office, unable to accomplish anything constructive on the marketing front or my own personal front. My sandaled heels practically wore a hole in the industrial strength carpet from trekking back and forth to the break room.

By eleven o’clock, after traipsing past Stan’s cubicle a dozen or more times, he jumped out of his chair and barricaded my path.

“What is going on with you?” he asked.

My hand wobbled with java jitters, so Stan grabbed my full cup before I spilled it all over the gray carpet. He set it on his desk.

“Sit,” he ordered. And I did.

“Talk.”

And I did. I shared the latest update about Hank’s arraignment scheduled for the next day and his insistence on his innocence. Stan can be a goofball at times, but his work as an underwriter requires him to be analytical, which makes him the perfect confidant. He’s excellent at both jobs.

“So your grandmother spoke to some of the Main Street shop owners over the weekend?” Stan asked.

“A few. She got the impression Darius Spencer wasn’t too popular around here.”

Stan mulled that over. “Odd that a man so disliked would run for election as a Supervisor.”

“She only spoke with a few store and restaurant owners. I’m sure there are plenty of people who supported him and his no-growth platform.”

“I guess we don’t need to concern ourselves with the no-growth people then,” Stan said. “It’s the pro-growth people who are the likeliest to have wanted him out of their cumulative hair.”

“No one would kill someone over a political platform,” I objected.

“Heads of state have been assassinated over political issues,” Stan reminded me. “Someone as active as Spencer could have annoyed a multitude of suspects.” He tapped his pencil against his palm before he pointed it in my direction. “You’re right. This is enough to turn someone into a coffee-swilling addict.”

My hands and head shook in agreement. When I spotted my boss coming toward us, my shakes increased to a 4.0 trembler on the Richter scale.

“Laurel, I haven’t noticed any Wagon Train decorations up yet,” Mr. Boxer said. “When do you expect to be finished with that project?”

Hmm. The more accurate question might be when was I starting it? I’d been slightly distracted, but I doubted I’d earn any brownie points mentioning my personal problems.

“Laurel and I were discussing our time frame,” said my quick-thinking friend. “We plan on spending our lunch hour viewing the storefront windows on Main Street to ensure we don’t duplicate anyone’s decorating theme. Hangtown Bank needs to have the best window display in town.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Boxer agreed. “Mr. Chandler expects the bank to win first place in the contest. Carry on.”

We watched as Mr. Boxer’s charcoal pinstriped back retreated down the corridor.

“Whew,” Stan said.

“I owe you one.”

“You owe me at least a hundred something or others, but don’t worry about it. How about we actually do what we told your boss. Grab a bite to eat and ogle the window displays.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Half an hour later, Stan and I strolled along a sidewalk crowded with shoppers. The Wagon Train’s official arrival in Placerville was twelve days away, but the town had already dressed itself for the occasion. An enormous banner welcoming the Wagon Train hung across Main Street. The historic Bell Tower, whose original purpose was to sound fire alerts, stood tall and proud in the small town plaza, festooned in red, white and blue ribbons. Although some shops and restaurants on Main Street chose not to participate in the decorating contest, the majority of them displayed true pioneer spirit. Our bank would have some stiff competition this year.

Hangtown Bakery, located across from the Bell Tower, displayed one of Darius Spencer’s flyers in their window, so we guessed the owner was on the low-growth side of the political hedge dividing the two groups. One of their servers, dressed in a nineteenth-century costume, identified her character as Lucy Wakefield, the original Pie Lady of Placerville. She rattled off the names of an array of tasty looking fresh-baked pies.

“Lucy was quite the entrepreneur,” Stan remarked as we shared a slice of apple pie à la mode, with an emphasis on the mode. “Supposedly she baked 240 apple pies a week and made a fortune selling slices to the miners. She earned over $25,000 in two years.”

“Wow. That would have been a lot of dough,” I said to Stan who groaned at my pun. “I bet she made more than most of the miners.”

“Could be. She was granted the first divorce in El Dorado County by an all male jury.”

“Did she remain single?” I asked.

“A year later, she ended up marrying a much younger man who’d testified on her behalf at her divorce trial.”

Interesting that Lucy remarried so quickly after her divorce. Females can be such softies. After Hank left me, I vowed to eschew men for the remainder of my days.

How easily a cool dude with hot kisses could change one’s perspective.

Jake, the stocky bakery owner, came out from the back to help clear the tables. I threw my own litter in the garbage, walked over and tapped him on his shoulder.

The black-bearded man whirled around, his arms laden with dirty plates and cups. He smiled when he recognized me.

“Hey, Laurel, what’s new?” His smile reversed into an “aw shucks I made a stupid remark” wince. “Sorry, that came out wrong. How’s Hank doing?”

“Not well, as you can imagine. I visited him at the jail yesterday.”

Jake dumped the dishes on a table. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“Sorry you told the detectives about Hank going into the Hangtown Hotel?” I folded my arms over my chest and shot an angry look at him.

“Hey, I was merely doing my public duty. The cops asked if I saw anything unusual when I arrived at the bakery that morning. I couldn’t lie about something so important,” Jake said. He moved to another table and began clearing the dirty dishes.

“Did you see anyone else out at that time?” I asked, but Jake must not have heard me. I tapped him on his shoulder to get his attention. “What time do you normally get in? I know bakery owners need to rise early. Just like your pastry.”

Geez. I shook my head. I couldn’t stop the bad puns from coming. Must be all the sugar I’d consumed.

“I usually arrive between two and two-thirty,” he said. “We open at six and it takes a few hours to prepare hundreds of muffins and scones for the early birds.”

Geez. Was I ever glad I’d chosen banking, not baking for a career.

“Would you call me if you remember anything else? Especially something that might help Hank.”

Jake promised he’d let me know if anything came to mind, so I left him my home number and email address and returned to our table.

On our way out the door, Stan and I stopped to scan the short biography the bakery had posted about the Pie Lady. One of her famous quotes made me laugh. Lucy told a friend that if she desired a husband, she could easily find one, “with any amount of fortune as they are as thick as toads after a rain.”

Stan chuckled. “Speaking of toads, or rather, toadies.” He pointed at the sign on the red brick building to our left. We stood in front of Spencer’s campaign headquarters, located a few doors from the stately white, hundred-year-old county courthouse.

“Spencer can’t still be up for election,” I said. “Or did his staff forget to remove him from the ballot?”

“I’ve heard of cases where a candidate died, and his spouse jumped in and took his spot,” Stan said. “I once read about an election where the voters disliked a candidate so much they voted for his dead opponent.”

“Dead guys winning elections is definitely scary. Do you think Janet Spencer is considering running in her husband’s place?”

“Let’s find out.” Stan pushed open the door, and a bell tinkled our arrival. The small space consisted of six basic IKEA-style desks, a counter along the wall covered with printers and other office equipment, and a multitude of empty paper cups emblazoned with the Hangtown Bakery logo. Maybe that’s why Jake posted Spencer’s flyer on his bakery window. His business must have prospered from the candidate’s coffee-guzzling staff.

Since it was almost noon, it wasn’t surprising the desks were unoccupied. A tall woman, who looked to be in her late twenties, appeared in a hallway leading from the back of the building.

“Can I help you?” she asked, undoubtedly assuming we were tourists looking for directions to one of the numerous historical landmarks located throughout Placerville.

“Oh, um, we are, or were supporters of Mr. Spencer. We wondered what was happening since he…” My throat tightened as the vision of the politician, a noose around his neck, claimed my thoughts.

“Gone,” said Stan with a quick save. “Is someone running in his place?”

“Yes, although we haven’t broadcast it in the media yet,” she answered, her face reddening.

I wondered if the young woman’s blushing was due to her fair complexion or because of some irregularity with the new candidate.

“Aw, c’mon…” Stan glanced at her nameplate and urged her cooperation with a conspiratorial smile, “Anita, we promise not to give it up.”

Anita smiled at Stan’s silliness. “Nice try, but you’ll have to wait along with everyone else.” She walked over to a desk and glanced down at a pile of papers. “The announcement will be in tomorrow’s
Mountain Democrat
.”

“How wonderful someone could fill Spencer’s shoes so quickly,” I commented. “Not that anyone could ever fill his wingtips as adequately as Darius could…” My voice trailed off as my shoe scenario sent a confused expression to her face.

“You must have been devastated by his loss,” Stan said.

Anita’s strawberry-blond ponytail bobbed up and down as she nodded. “The staff couldn’t believe what happened to Mr. Spencer.”

“I still can’t stop thinking about him,” I said then suddenly started choking.

“Are you okay?” asked Stan.

I sent a frantic look to the young woman. “Water?” I gasped.

She turned and headed down a hallway that presumably led to a kitchen or at least to water that wasn’t piped in from muddy Hangtown Creek.

The minute Anita disappeared, I zipped over to her desk and picked up the piece of paper she had glanced at earlier.

Stan reached my side in seconds. “What’s that?” he whispered.

“Shush. It’s the press release. Let me read.” I skimmed the announcement, ignoring all the blah blah blah remarks to arrive at the name of the new candidate––Chad Langdon of Mountain High Winery.

Stan peered over my shoulder. “Chad Langdon. How interesting.”

A long freckled arm reached out and snatched the press release from my hand. “Do you still want the water?” Anita’s hazel eyes shot daggers at me over a full glass of H2O.

“Of course, thanks for your concern.” I drank all eight ounces in an attempt to display the appropriate amount of gratitude.

She frowned disapprovingly at us. “If you don’t have any more questions, I have a lot of work to do.”

Stan and I thanked her profusely and left her to get on with her duties. Once out the door, we discussed the media announcement.

“So Chad wants to take Spencer’s place,” I said. “That makes sense. A winery owner would have a vested interest in agriculture and tourism, maintaining the culture and financial solvency of this county.”