Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (30 page)

I shifted into drive and had my car tooling down Bedford Street when my own brain shifted into gear. “What nice young man? Did Tom stop by to see you?”

She shook her head so vehemently I worried both her bonnet and her wig would flip off. Today, Gran wore Queen Elizabeth II gray curls, suitable for El Dorado Rose royalty.

“Not that hunky fella you keep pushing away. That other dude. The history buff.”

“Oh, you mean Deputy Fletcher. What did he want?”

“He came by this morning, asked if you finished with Harold’s journals. He thought they would be helpful solving our case.”

“Jenna’s reading them, but it’s slow going. That’s sweet of Fletch to be so concerned about proving your grandfather’s innocence.”

“He’s an eager beaver. That’s for sure. He was real disappointed I didn’t have the journals. Told me he’d check out the shed again and maybe the area up by the mine shaft in case he can find anything else helpful. I guess he didn’t shut the door all the way.”

“Wow. They should have used Fletch to solve Spencer’s murder. He’s quite the detective, isn’t he?” I reached the stoplight and waited, counting the seconds until it changed to green. My cell rang and as usual, my Bluetooth was nowhere in sight. I recognized Hank’s ringtone, but no way would I chance a cell phone ticket today of all days. I instructed Gran to pick up the phone and to hit the green button.

“Helloo, who’s there?” she trilled. She listened to the caller then turned to me. “Kind of hard to hear, but I think it’s your husband.”

“Ex-husband,” I said automatically. I pointed to the speaker button at the top of the phone. “Hit that button for me.”

She punched it and Hank’s voice filled the car. “Laurel, where are you?”

“Better question, where are you?” I asked.

“I’m in Pollock Pines,” he said. “Listen, I think I figured out the killer.”

“What?” Gran screamed. She lifted her thin arms in the air and in one lithe move flung my cell out her passenger side window. The hot-pink encased iPhone soared through the air. At its current speed, it would hit Hangtown Creek in five seconds or less.

“Oops.”

I stifled the urge to scream at my grandmother that we were literally up the proverbial creek. Losing the phone was a pain in the butt, but the situation could be remedied at a store later today. Everyone I knew would be hanging out on Main Street, so worst case, I could resort to an old-fashioned method of communication––face to face conversation.

The more serious question was who did Hank identify as the killer and was he currently in jeopardy?

I took a few deep breaths to calm down. “Hank said he was in Pollock Pines, so he should be in Placerville in less than ten minutes.”

“You did hear him mention the K word, didn’t ya?”

I nodded while simultaneously flicking my right turn signal and easing down the exit ramp to Broadway.

“Just because Hank thinks he knows who the killer is doesn’t mean he’s right. I have a list of viable suspects and see how far I’ve gotten.”

“But the killer has struck twice now. They must be concerned you’re getting close.”

I secretly agreed with her, but I didn’t want to worry her more than necessary. For now, my priority was to safely deliver Gran to her buggy and then get my own chassis down to Main Street. I turned into a parking lot filled with covered wagons, horses, cowboys, and all things western. A few classic black carriages festooned with ribbons clustered together.

I jumped out of the front seat and zipped around the car to assist my grandmother. Her authentic ivory button-top boots made walking in Manolo Blahnik stilettos look like an Easy Spirit walk in the park by comparison.

“Damn boots,” Gran muttered. “Didn’t women have bunions back in those days? It’s a good thing I can sit on my butt during this parade ’cause I can barely stand up straight.” She demonstrated her point by listing to the right and almost knocking me down.

I straightened her up and held on to her elbow as we went to join the other Roses. The three elderly women, decked out in jewel tones of satin, velvet and lace, used dainty hankies to blot the rivulets of perspiration running down their powdered cheeks. It wasn’t easy wearing authentic nineteenth-century attire in the summer months. For the first time, I felt grateful my costume veered toward the slutty side of gold rush fashion.

The women welcomed Gran with air kisses and hellos. The carriages and covered wagons scattered around the parking lot looked to be somewhat chaotic, but I assumed someone was in charge of the convoy. A familiar face in an unfamiliar suit popped into sight.

“Fletch, my word, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” I giggled at my weak attempt to emulate Miss Kitty. Or maybe I was doing Scarlett O’Hara.

Gran rolled her eyes at my idiocy. “Looking sharp, young man, although you look kind of like a dude in that getup.” She pointed to his gray felt bowler, black frock coat and red brocade vest. His boots were standard cowboy issue though.

“Oh, Gran, I think Fletch looks quite the dandy––very Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

Gran eyed the deputy. “You do remind me of a young Robert Redford. I had such a crush on that man. I wonder if he’s single. When you get home, can you gobble him and find out, Laurel?”

“Google, not gobble. Sure thing, Gran. I’ll get right on that since I have NOTHING else to do with my time. No killer to catch or anything.”

“You must be happy about Hank’s release,” Fletch said. “No more sleuthing to do.”

“I won’t be happy until the real murderer is behind bars. Tom is re-examining the case, so maybe you’ll get to work with the homicide division.”

Fletch shook his bowler-topped head. “Nope. Too late for that. I gave notice yesterday. I’m moving to Florida to spend time with my mother. She’s been ailing, and I feel I should make her my priority.”

“Aren’t you a good son?” Gran beamed at Fletch then sent me a dark look. “Your mother could take lessons from this young man.”

“Mother is only doing what she thinks is best for you.”

“Maybe it’s time she did what
I think
is best for me,” Gran retorted. “Hey, let’s send her down to Florida to help out Fletch with his mother.”

“I’m sure she would enjoy the company.” Fletch winked at me. He escorted Gran to an elegant carriage pulled by a beautiful black mare appropriately named Black Beauty. “May I have the honor of driving you down Main Street, Mrs. Sprinkle?”

“Sure can,” she responded with a slight curtsey and swirl of her lavender skirt. I watched Fletch assist Gran onto the hard leather seat. He reached into his pants pocket and removed an old-fashioned pocket watch. The shiny object drew Black Beauty’s attention, and she nudged his arm. The timepiece flew in the air and landed at my feet. I bent over to retrieve it before one of the horse’s slender, white-stocking legs crushed it to pieces. The watch sprang open, and I glanced at the engraving on the left side before snapping it shut. As I returned it to Fletch, I glimpsed the lovely pictorial design on the front.

“What a unique timepiece,” I said to him. “I noticed the inscription to Miles Mickelson. Was he a relative of yours?”

Fletch stared at me, his face reddening and replied, “Sure” before he shoved the watch back into his pocket. “Ready to join the others?” he asked Gran.

“Could you take a photo of us first?” I asked Fletch. “I lost my phone so we’ll have to use yours.” I shot a look at my grandmother who fiddled with her parasol, choosing to ignore my comment.

Fletch pulled his cell from an inside suit pocket while I climbed in the buggy next to Gran. Fletch politely snapped a couple of photos. He started to put his phone away when she interrupted. “Laurel, take a picture of me with this fancy fellow.”

Fletch looked ready to protest then thought better of it. He reluctantly handed the phone to me and we switched places.

I snapped a couple of photos of the two of them then scrolled back to see how they came out. Gran would shoot me with her own rifle if I screwed up. My eyes jumped to some earlier photos that bore a remarkable resemblance to the interior of the Hangtown Hotel. I recognized several shots taken along the wall adjoining the hotel and the bookstore.

How odd. I looked at Fletch. “Why did you take photos inside the Hangtown Hotel?”

He reached down, snatched his iPhone from my grasp and shoved it in his suit pocket. Then he flicked the reins and the carriage rocketed away. Gran bounced backward against the seat but quickly recovered. She waved her hand with the panache of Queen Elizabeth herself.

Gran’s carriage was about thirty yards away when I remembered the other question I’d wanted to ask Fletch, whether he’d found anything interesting in the shed this morning. His tenacity investigating our cold case continued to amaze me, especially now that he no longer worked at the Sheriff’s Department.

I climbed into the Prius and headed for town. The parade required the closure of Main Street for much of the day, so while I searched for a parking space, I also searched for answers to the questions buzzing through my brain regarding Fletch’s photos taken inside the old hotel. I finally squeezed the car into a spot on Spring Street, a half-mile from the Bell Tower where I had agreed to meet Liz and the rest of the Sassy Saloon Gals.

After hoofing it from my car to Main Street, my face felt like it matched the color of my satin skirt. A restaurant offered a fifty-cent sarsaparilla special. I gratefully slugged it down while I jostled through the crowds on the sidewalk. I located the women in the distance, easy to spot in our matching smutty not-so-finery.

The Hangtown Posse, a group of volunteers who evidently never outgrew playing Cowboys and Indians, were also easy to locate since most of them were lying in the middle of the street, the result of one of their impromptu shoot-outs. The scent of discharged guns combined with the aroma of popcorn from the Candy Strike Emporium made me smile.

Gosh, I love this town!

I braced myself against a storefront as a throng of sticky-fingered kids passed by. The back of my head bumped against the metal historical marker placed on the building. I turned around to read the inscription and discovered that the building housing the Antique Arcade was originally known as the Mickelson building, the same name inscribed on Fletch’s watch.

In smaller font, a brief notation indicated Miles Mickelson died tragically in 1864. Suddenly I knew why that name resonated with me. I’d read about the merchant in the history book I’d purchased. Miles Mickelson was the unlucky person killed in that unsolved stagecoach hold-up. The robbery where the gold and other valuables had never been found.

Or had they?

What a strange coincidence Fletch possessed a watch belonging to poor Miles Mickelson.  I supposed the watch could have been passed down through several generations of his family. But Fletch had never mentioned the connection before. If my forebears had a building named after them, you could be darn sure my friends would all know about it.

A prickly sensation filled my stomach. And I didn’t think the sarsaparilla created it.

Fletch might have purchased the pocket watch from an antique store. But from my brief glimpse of the unique timepiece, it looked identical to the one Hank had shown me on his iPhone, the watch he’d discovered in the hotel and then turned over to Darius Spencer.

Did Hank tell Fletch about the historical items he’d discovered in the hotel? And did that information have anything to do with Fletch’s continued interest in solving our backyard mystery despite his recent resignation?

As Alice in Wonderland would say, things were becoming curiouser and curiouser.

I wasn’t about to point my finger at Fletch and yell “
J’accuse
” the next time I saw him. I wasn’t the star of
Les Miserables
and I was definitely no Inspector Javert. But this was definitely worth mentioning to Tom.

Especially since Fletch planned to leave Placerville––forever.

Was that one coincidence too many?

Of all the times to have lost my cell. I zigged and zagged around tourists and locals. One of my zigs almost caused my corset to zag, not an approved maneuver for any place other than the bedroom.

I was passing by Antiques Galore when an idea came to me. I threw open the door and raced into the store looking for Abe, whom I found chatting with a middle-aged couple. I reached his side and interrupted him mid-sentence.

“I’m sorry, Abe, but I have to know who sold you that antique jewelry set in the front window.”

Abe’s expression indicated his displeasure. “I can’t give you that information, Laurel.”

“It may be a matter of life and death,” I said. “Just nod if I’m right.”

I proceeded to whisper my suspect’s name in his ear. I was both relieved and saddened when he nodded. I apologized to the couple and flew out the door. A minute later, I joined Liz and Stan who stood in front of the Bell Tower. Stan was dressed to kill in his hot pink satin shirt, matching bandanna and a jumbo white Stetson.

“Liz,” I said panting, “I,” huff, huff, “need your” puff, puff, “phone.”

“And where exactly would I hide a phone in this outfit?” she replied.

Shoot. She was right. The skintight tops didn’t allow cell storage space.

“Mary at Placerville News let us store our purses in her back room,” Liz said. “You need to get a move on it. We perform a short dance then we’re supposed to round up some more guys to throw in jail.”

“You’ve been deputized?”

“No, silly, we stick them in the fake one over there.” She pointed to a large makeshift jail just down the street. “The ‘prisoners’ are supposed to raise bail money from their friends in order to get out. All the proceeds go to the Kids Club Nonprofit.”

“I think someone in the parade needs to be thrown into the real jail, but I’m not sure if I have enough proof yet. Have you seen Tom around?”

“Suzette deemed Tom cute enough to bring in a nice chunk of change, so she threw him in there a few minutes ago. I think he’s hoping you’ll bail him out.”