Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (26 page)

“It’s about time you came home, Mother,” Jenna grumbled.

I splayed my palm against my chest. Tonight had held one too many surprises. Once my breathing returned to normal, I smiled, secretly pleased at my daughter’s concern.

“What are you doing in my bed, honey?” I dumped my purse on my dresser then plopped myself down on my comforter.

“I was worried because you weren’t home yet, so I decided to watch television in here. I must have fallen asleep.” She stifled a yawn with her hand. “You shouldn’t worry your children by coming home so late.”

“Sorry, sweetie. The fundraiser went longer than I anticipated.”

“How did your dance go?”

How to answer that question without lying to my daughter? “It went well,” I replied. According to Liz, the women received a standing ovation, so my remark was completely true.

“Did Ben behave?” I asked automatically, then received a surprise when she frowned.

“Justin’s mother called and said he couldn’t come over to play with Ben tomorrow.”

“Did something come up?” I asked.

“She didn’t come right out and say it,” Jenna spat out, “but I think it’s because of Dad’s arrest. It’s not fair for people to treat us this way. Lindsay also called and cancelled our shopping trip tomorrow. She used that old ‘something came up’ excuse, too.”

I sighed at the lack of empathy from the other parents while trying to relate to their fears, unjustified though they might be.

“Our life will get back to normal soon.” I kissed Jenna on her forehead. “I promise. Now go to bed.”

She yawned through a muffled okay, rolled over on her right side and fell asleep in seconds. I didn’t mind bunking with my daughter, although first I needed to shower off all the nasty residue from the night’s events.

I wanted our normal life back as much as Jenna.

The next morning my head felt like a dozen miners were tunneling from one side to the other. Four Advil tablets did nothing to diminish the pain, making me wonder if I should heed Tom’s advice and drive to the hospital. My fingers tiptoed along my scalp, settling on a bump the size of a Cadbury egg.

Then I remembered Mr. Boxer’s command that the bank be decorated by tonight or else. My schedule did not allow for a six-hour stint in the emergency room. I brewed a large pot of coffee, hoping the caffeine would quell the pounding in my head. While I nursed my first cup, I mulled over the events of the previous evening. Which suspect most likely attacked me?

In my mind, the top three suspects were Chad Langdon, Phil McKinley and Scott Shelton. I had blatantly announced to the men that I intended to prove Hank’s innocence. One of them might have taken my comment seriously enough to remove a potential threat to his freedom.

Chad campaigned on a no-growth platform, yet he was involved in the Six Springs Development. Phil McKinley indicated he’d found a way to get around some of the county subdivision approval requirements. Both of them had substantial financial investments at stake. Either of them could have individually lifted me into the grape crusher or colluded together.

Scott Shelton remained an enigma. Bad guys didn’t necessarily dress all in black these days. So did many a fashionista. But the rancher definitely had a grudge against Spencer.

Brooding over my potential list of attackers was not helping to eliminate my headache. Nor were my three cups of coffee. I would never share this with Mr. Boxer, but I welcomed the opportunity to distract myself as well as the kids by decorating the bank.

In less than an hour, the three of us stood on the sidewalk outside Hangtown Bank. My keycard provided access and we hauled in the quaint items discovered in Gran’s shed. Quaint might be overly generous. My mother would have classified everything as crapola.

But what seems like crap to one person may be riches to another. The items would help spruce up the bank and that was my primary concern.

My daughter had inherited my mother’s artistic and decorating flair, which somehow skipped my genetic composition. Jenna giggled as she paired some of the old bonnets I’d collected with a couple of parasols. My daughter had been so quiet and reclusive since her father’s arrest that it was nice to see her sparkle like her normal self.

I debated informing the kids about Tom’s decision to take a closer look at Spencer’s murder case, but decided to wait until he came up with another conclusion––one that did not involve their father being tried for murder.

We finished decorating in less than two hours. Ben occupied the time by sliding down the hay bales repeatedly. It kept him entertained so Jenna and I could concentrate elsewhere.

“What do you think?” I asked my daughter once we finished.

She scratched her chin with an elegantly shaped index finger. It would have been more elegant if the nails hadn’t been gnawed off, a genetic characteristic we shared.

“We need more filler in the main lobby,” she said. “Are there any additional things we can use?”

I shook my head, which proved to be an exceptionally bad move. I winced at the pain and said, “Let’s hit a couple antique stores. I have some petty cash left, and we might find some bargains.”

Ben’s face fell. “I hate those stupid stores. That old stuff smells poopy. And it’s pro’bly full of cooties, too.”

“There are no cooties,” I said, although Ben wasn’t entirely wrong about the olfactory factor permeating some of the historic Main Street buildings. While most stores bore nostalgic scents such as lemon oil and lavender, there were a couple that smelled moldy or, as Ben so elegantly described it––just plain poopy.

We first stopped at Placerville Hardware, the oldest hardware store west of the Mississippi, dating back to 1856. Crowded floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the maze of narrow aisles offering everything from toilet plungers to gold-rimmed teacups.

I’m firmly convinced there’s a dead body stuffed somewhere in the store. They just hadn’t discovered it yet.

After I purchased a gold pan and cowboy hat for Ben, we headed over to Antiques Galore. I immediately noticed the change in the window display. The silver pistols no longer rested on the red satin centerpiece. An ornate jeweled bracelet and earring set dazzled sidewalk shoppers.

I pushed the door open, the kids lagging behind me. Jenna checked out an old Victrola record player. I instructed Ben he could look but not touch anything, or else!

Abe waved from behind the counter where he rang up a purchase for a middle-aged couple. I meandered through the store in search of anything old, showy and cheap. Abe specialized in quality merchandise, so the odds of him offering anything fitting the remainder of Mr. Boxer’s paltry budget were slim.

Near the back of his vast store, I found a clearance table. A couple of slightly tarnished horseshoes would fit with my theme. A towering pile of books looked ready to fall over, so I restacked them into two piles. I pulled out an oversized pictorial book and rifled through the pages.

The population of Hangtown during the Gold Rush was surprisingly similar to today’s population of 10,000 in the city proper, making it the third largest city in the state behind Sacramento and San Francisco at the time. Back then, Main Street consisted primarily of jewelry stores, hotels and at least twenty saloons.

A tad different from the makeup of today’s city.

I examined a photo of the original Hangtown Hotel. According to the book, it was quite a showplace, claiming the biggest stage in town until the construction of the Empire Theater. The hotel also boasted the largest number of female companions.

Now how did they define
female companions
back then?

I grabbed my horseshoes and the book and ambled up front. Abe’s cash register pinged yet another sale. A cute couple wearing matching yellow polo shirts, khaki shorts, white curls, and satisfied smiles exited the store. I plopped my purchases on Abe’s glass counter.

“How are you doing after last night’s ordeal?” asked the sympathetic owner.

I gently patted the bump on my head. “Other than my head feeling like a runaway horse stomped all over it, I’m okay.”

“You’re sure lucky they found you.”

I started to nod then settled for a smile. “I’ll take a pounding headache over a pulverizing any day.”

Abe kindly switched our conversation to something less terrifying than the previous night’s misadventure. He held up the horseshoes. “You taking up riding?”

“Nope. Some last minute items to decorate the bank.” I pointed to his store windows. “Although I don’t know how we’ll compete with your wonderful wares. I see you sold Scott Shelton’s antique guns.”

Abe shook his head. “No, Scott came in and bought them back. Even paid me a commission although I told him he didn’t need to.”

“He must have hated parting with something so valuable and sentimental.”

“Said he came into some money and wanted to wear them on the Wagon Train trek.”

“That jewelry set you put in their place is gorgeous,” I remarked. “My mother’s birthday is coming up. Can I take a look at it?”

The portly owner shuffled over to the window, removed the bracelet and earrings and placed them in front of me.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” he said.

“They look like family heirlooms.” I picked up the bracelet and admired the skillful workmanship. When I peered closer, I noticed some minuscule engraving inside the gold band, “To S, love forever, M.” Aww, that was so sweet.

“It must have been hard for the owner to part with them,” I remarked.

Abe sucked in his breath, but he remained silent. It wasn’t any of my business why the previous owner sold the lovely pieces of jewelry. I bent closer to read the minuscule price tag attached to the bracelet.

Ouch. “I don’t suppose that third zero behind the three is a mistake?”

“It’s a work of art as well as a piece of history.”

“I don’t disagree, but it’s too much for my measly budget. I’ll stick with the horseshoes and this book. I’m trying to solve the mystery of the skeleton in my grandmother’s back yard.”

“Boy, you’re a real Jessica Fletcher, aren’t you? Maybe you should stay away from sleuthing though. Look how close you came to getting crushed last night.”

Geez. Didn’t anyone think I looked more like Nikki Heat than the elderly detective from Cabot Cove? I began to reply when a huge crash startled us. Immediately following the deafening sound were the words no mother wants to hear uttered by her young son. Especially when he’s surrounded by cut glass crystal and English bone china.

“Oops.”

One hundred dollars’ worth of broken china fragments later, the kids and I finished decorating the bank. Ben claimed that his run-in with a small curio cabinet was due to him wanting to catch Abe’s Siamese cat. When the cat rebuffed Ben’s efforts and unsheathed its claws, Ben knew enough to back off. But he forgot to look behind him and crashed into the cabinet.

Abe seemed understanding about the incident, but I felt obligated to reimburse him for the damages and gave him all the twenties in my wallet.

Ben’s lower lip puffed out to twice its normal size. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I tried to be careful. That is a very dangerous store for a young child to be in.”

Jenna burst out laughing and so did I. Ben was correct. An antique store was no place for a small boy, especially if Ben had inherited his mother’s klutzy DNA.

Monday proved uneventful which, considering the incidents of the past couple of weeks, was a nice change. Mr. Boxer actually smiled a good morning at me, so he either approved of my decorations or enjoyed his time in San Francisco. I wondered if his visit included socializing with any “female companions.”

I debated calling Tom to see if his detectives were pursuing new leads but decided he would call me if he learned anything new.

I needed to update Rex regarding Tom’s and my conversation. Since the lawyer helped search for me Saturday night, he might realize the incident confirmed Hank’s protestations of his innocence. Rex already may have set legal things in motion.

My mother called as I was halfway out the door to grab a sandwich. “How is your headache, dear?” she asked. “Are you feeling better today?”

“A little, although I still need Advil now and then. I’m sure it will disappear eventually.”

“I believe you’ve become a headache for Spencer’s murderer. Does Tom think you need police protection?”

“He offered to have someone drive by my house in the evenings, but as long as I’m either at home or work I should be fine. The good news is that Tom is having the detectives re-examine the case. After I hang up with you, I’ll call Rex and give him an update. Maybe he can get Hank out of jail.”

“Funny you should mention Rex’s name,” Mother said. “Remember I mentioned I would check to see if that deed you found granting ownership from Mountain High Winery to Spencer was ever recorded?”

“Yes. What did you find out?”

“No deeds have been recorded between those two parties. Are you certain you saw Chad Langdon’s name on that document?”

“Positive. Almost.” My mind raced as I tried to grasp what this meant. “So if Spencer was about to record that deed transferring Chad’s interest in the winery over to himself, wouldn’t that be an excellent motive for murder?”

“Exactly what I thought.”

“Tom needs to find out about this. You didn’t do anything illegal to get that information, did you?”

“Don’t be silly. I simply networked.” She giggled. “But that’s not the only thing I discovered.”

My ear glued itself to the phone waiting for her response.

“I had my informant, um, I mean my friend, run every recorded transaction involving Spencer’s name in the past twenty-four months. Guess who else he foreclosed on?”

“I already know the answer to that. He took back the Hangtown Hotel from Scott Shelton. And Scott is not a happy camper.”

“Well, there’s one other unhappy person camping out a few doors down from your office.”

“What? Who?” Was she going to share her news or turn this into a one-hour primetime special?

“Two months ago, Spencer filed a Notice of Default on a million dollar loan for a property located on Coloma Road.”