by Cindy Sample
The man in question walked through the front door. “Hi, hon. Did we wake you?”
I bristled at the endearment but decided to ignore it. “You have to work on a Sunday?”
Hank’s dark expression almost matched the black San Francisco Giants baseball cap he wore to hide his receding hairline.
“Spencer wants to review some overruns in the budget. I told him whenever you restore a historical building you have to follow the code. He’s gonna try cutting corners, but I’m not letting him do it.”
I nodded in agreement, a rare occurrence. “Good for you. The Hangtown Hotel is an important project, and the renovation needs to be properly completed. That building will be the showcase of Main Street once it’s finished.”
“That’s what I keep saying.” Hank sighed. “I don’t know what the deal is with him.”
“Maybe he’s running out of money. His campaign for District Six Supervisor must be costing a fortune. I don’t think there’s an intersection where Spencer’s face isn’t smirking at me.”
“Oh, he definitely hasn’t let me forget about the election. That’s part of the problem. Spencer is already counting on winning the seat and holding his acceptance speech in the building. I told him I couldn’t guarantee it would be done by then.”
Hank shuffled his feet. “I better get going. Are you going to the fundraiser at Mountain High Winery tonight? I’d love to have you be my date.” His voice softened and he moved closer. “You’re looking real good lately. Have you lost weight?”
My son, who possesses bionic hearing only when he chooses, piped in. “Mommy’s taking Bimbo classes.”
Hank looked confused, and I corrected Ben. “Zumba classes,” I said. “Dance and cardio combined.”
Hank smiled. “Bimbo, Zumba, whatever it is, you look great. So about that date?”
Since I’d rather rope a bull than accompany my ex to a social event, I declined. “Sorry, Tom and I are going together.” Ever the optimist, I hoped the detective would be cavorting with me tonight and not with a skeleton.
A wistful look crossed Hank’s face. “Okay, guess I’ll see you there.” He moved forward to hug me, but I stepped back and said goodbye. My cell rang as I closed the door behind him.
“Hi, Tom. I’m glad you called. How’s it going?”
“Not well,” he replied. I could sense the frustration in his voice. “We not only have to treat this as a cold case homicide, but we need to ensure the site isn’t compromised from a historical standpoint.”
I clucked sympathetically, and we chatted a few minutes more before he signed off, apologizing for not being able to attend tonight’s event. In the past six months, the two of us had spent far more time without each other than together. A few months ago when Tom cancelled a trip to Hawaii for Liz and Brian’s wedding, I had questioned if it was possible to have a successful relationship with a homicide detective. Then he arrived on the Big Island and swept me off my feet.
Into his arms.
Nine hours later, I strolled along the scenic grounds of Mountain High Winery, arm in arm with the other main squeeze in my life, the man who was always there for me, Stan Winters, my GBFF, gay best friend forever. My friend, who idolized Carson Kressley of Queer Eye for a Straight Guy fame, never missed an opportunity to create a fashion statement. Tonight’s attire included a cream satin shirt detailed with red-beaded swirls and a mile of matching fringe across the front and back. Tight-fitting designer jeans and a taupe cowboy hat almost as large as the state of Texas completed his outfit.
I turned and the brim of his Stetson just missed colliding with my forehead. “Geez, Stan, you are one dangerous dude. Can’t we park your ten gallon headgear someplace other than on your head?”
“Sorry,” Stan apologized. “But I need the hat to complete my ensemble. I really want to fit in with the guys riding in the Wagon Train.”
Considering that ninety percent of the colored glass beads sold in Placerville adorned his shirt, Stan’s outfit seemed better suited for a Las Vegas showroom. We joined other partygoers waiting in line at the outside wine bar. Two bartenders dressed in burgundy polo shirts embossed with the Mountain High logo kept busy pouring wine for the insatiable crowd.
I recognized Chad Langdon, one of the owners of the Camino winery and a long time customer of Hangtown Bank where Stan and I both work. We finally reached the front of the line. “Hi, Chad,” I said. “This is a lovely event.”
Chad frowned, and I visualized him sorting through his mental rolodex trying to remember my name.
“Oh, hey, Laurel,” he said. “Good to see you again. What can I get for you?”
I ordered a pinot noir, and Stan decided to try their old vine zinfandel.
“This is a nice coincidence,” Chad said. “I have a loan question I’ve wanted to ask someone. Maybe I can bend your ear later on when it’s not so crowded.”
I peeked over my shoulder at the restless and thirsty throng behind us. A tall cowboy, dressed in faded jeans and a faded black hat, glowered at me.
“Sure,” I said to Chad. “We’ll be around. Thanks for the wine.”
The excellent pinot noir required a hearty dinner, so Stan and I stood in another lengthy line. Once our paper plates were loaded with pulled pork, beef ribs, multiple starchy salads and cornbread, we looked for a place to sit and spotted Liz and her husband, Brian, at a picnic table under a large cedar pine. Brian was chatting with a handsome urban cowboy who sat across from him.
When Stan and I appeared, the dark-haired stranger who looked to be in his thirties, rose and sauntered off.
“Did we interrupt something?” I asked.
“Not at all,” said Liz. “You saved me from being bored to death from dreary legal chit chat.”
Brian, an El Dorado County Deputy District Attorney, jerked his thumb in the direction of the man who’d vacated the seat. “Since I lost a case against one of Rex’s clients, I’m more than happy to say goodbye to that hotshot.”
The four of us ate in silence, enjoying country rock tunes played by a local band. My feet kept rhythm with the contagious beat of the music. As twilight set in, the constellations glimmered in the velvety night sky. I sipped my wine and watched a few couples strut their stuff on the temporary dance floor set up for the fund-raising event.
Liz and Brian eventually joined the dancers. Her husband might be a successful prosecutor, but he would never survive on Dancing with the Stars. But when you’re in love, who cares if your partner is waltzing to a two-step?
A perfect evening for romance yet here I sat next to my gay friend. Stan shared a wistful smile with me, probably thinking similar thoughts.
I sniffed the air. The fragrance of cedar pines and barbeque combined with a familiar scent from my past. As my nasal memory bank shifted into overdrive, I sensed the whisper of beer breath tickling my ear lobe.
“May I have this dance?” murmured a low voice.
“Tom?” I jumped out of my seat, elated at his presence. The man standing next to me wrapped his arms snugly around my waist. I turned and realized this man stood several inches shorter than my six-foot-three boyfriend.
I frowned and pulled away from Hank’s embrace.
The welcoming smile on his face disappeared, but that didn’t stop him from offering his calloused palm to me. His eyes pleaded with me to take it.
“C’mon, Laurel,” he said. “One dance for old time’s sake?”
I shook my head then sighed as the band began playing one of my favorite songs by Rascal Flatts. My sandaled feet automatically tapped to the beat of “Life is a Highway.”
Hank beamed what looked to be an alcohol-enhanced smile. “Only one dance and I promise not to bother you anymore.”
I threw a plaintive look at Stan who ignored it and shoved me into Hank’s arms. “If you don’t dance with Hank,” he said. “I’ll be forced to two-step with you.”
Some choice––the rhinestone cowboy or my ex-husband. I reluctantly let Hank lead me onto the d
ance floor. Once we began moving, I gave myself over to the music. Even the realization that I danced with Hank didn’t remove the grin from my face.
The song ended, and the dancers clapped and hooted. The musicians switched gears and slowed down the tempo. Couples moved closer together, and Hank attempted to do the same with me. I pushed him away and stomped off the floor. I’d had enough bonding for the night.
Hank followed me, hot on my irritated heels. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to an abrupt stop.
“Laurel, aren’t you ever going to forgive me for leaving you?” he pleaded.
I stared at him for a few seconds before replying. “I have forgiven you, Hank, but I’ve moved on. You need to do the same.”
Three years ago, Nadine Wells hired my husband to replace the shake shingles on her roof. It only took a few days before she replaced me. Then nine months ago, she replaced Hank with a prominent plastic surgeon in the area.
Hank must have spent considerable time in personal reflection while he worked in southern California. Since his return, he’d seemed determined the four of us would become a family again. While I was pleased our kids could spend time with their father, I couldn’t seem to get across to him that I was no longer part of the equation.
The shrill sound of a microphone penetrated my eardrums. The musicians departed and on the stage, Chad Langdon introduced Darius Spencer. The District Six Supervisor candidate wore a plaid shirt, pressed jeans and a cowboy hat so shiny it probably still bore the price tag––suitable attire for a politician in vote-getting mode. The small crowd applauded enthusiastically as he began a prepared speech. Hank’s attention zoomed to the stage, and I was grateful for the distraction.
Spencer wasn’t the worst politico I’d ever heard, but he wasn’t particularly riveting. In the crowd, I spied three familiar faces—the attorney who’d been conversing with Brian earlier, Doug Blake, the owner of my favorite bookstore and Abe Cartwell of Antiques Galore. I hadn’t realized the two Main Street proprietors were fans of the candidate’s no-growth platform, but they appeared to be listening intently. I wondered if Spencer’s pro-growth opponent, Tricia Taylor, would also address the gathering.
Growing bored, I prepared to depart when Doug asked Spencer about the Hangtown Hotel renovation. His inquiry piqued my curiosity, so I decided to stick around. My ex surprised me by interrupting with his own comment.
“Yeah, Spencer,” said Hank, “how about telling these folks about your cost cutting measures on the hotel?”
The candidate’s face turned the same color as the calico bandanna tied around his neck. “Hank, this is not an appropriate forum for that discussion.”
People turned their heads to stare at Hank. Embarrassed, I sidled a few steps away.
“What forum would you suggest I use to tell your constituents their candidate is willing to sacrifice their safety to help his campaign bottom line?”
Spencer struggled to contain his anger as the crowd increased in size. I moved back to Hank’s side, grabbed his hand and tried to pull him away, but he dug in his scuffed boot heels. His stubborn nature hadn’t diminished since we’d split up.
“Cat got your tongue?” Hank snickered. A few of the bystanders tittered at his comment. Spencer thrust back his shoulders and marched in our direction, people moving aside to let him through. His next remark, punctuated with repeated pokes to Hank’s chest, demonstrated there were no fluffy kitties interfering with his vocal prowess.
“Hank McKay,” Darius Spencer yelled, “you’re fired!”
CHAPTER SIX
During our fifteen years of marriage, I’d frequently criticized my ex for acting first and thinking second. Hank stared at Spencer for a few seconds before he raised his right fist and punched his about-to-be former employer’s pudgy jaw.
Spencer’s beady black eyes widened. He stepped back, and then he dropped. To the ground. Landing at my feet, in fact, right on my polished toes. Although on the short side, Spencer’s entire weight pressing on my bare toes caused me to shriek.
Spencer’s wife, Janet, whom I knew from our weekly Zumba classes together, joined in the chaos. Her screams rose to an operatic level as she rushed to her husband’s aid. Within seconds, two El Dorado County Sheriff’s deputies formed uniformed bookends on both sides of Hank. He stood silent, chest heaving, rubbing his red swollen fist.
One of the officers assisted the candidate to his feet.
Spencer pointed a shaking finger at Hank and sputtered, “Arrest that man.”
“Hey, hold on there,” said Stan, rushing to our aid. With his supersized cowboy hat, he looked as fierce as Yosemite Sam.
Two more deputies appeared, both of whom I knew since we’d all graduated from El Dorado High School. Fortunately for Hank, the star quarterback of our high school team, the men had all played football together.
Hank directed a woozy smile at the taller, sandy-haired deputy. “Hiya, Fletch.”
Fletch shook his head at my ex. “Hey, pal, I think you’ve had one beer too many.” Chuck Kramer, the other officer, turned to Darius Spencer. “Are you all right, sir?”
Some Good Samaritan had filled Spencer’s bandanna with ice cubes and he pressed the frozen compress against his reddening jaw. The glare Spencer sent Hank looked even icier than the compress.
I elbowed Hank and whispered in his ear. “You better apologize before they arrest you for assault.”
“Yeah,” Stan said in agreement, “and throw in a free night’s lodging for you at the county jail.”
Chuck ushered Spencer and his wife over to a picnic table so they could converse in private, while Fletch remained with Hank and me. I hoped Janet wouldn’t hold Hank’s punching her husband against me. She seemed like a nice woman although somewhat on the quiet side. Even though future fisticuffs were unlikely, I wondered how she felt about her husband running for office. It couldn’t be easy assuming the public role of a candidate’s spouse.
The rest of the spectators drifted off, many of them to the dance floor where the band rollicked once again.
“What were you thinking?” I asked my ex.
“I guess I wasn’t, thinking that is.” Hank shrugged his shoulders. “Must have been a gut reaction to him firing me. Geez. What a mess.”
“If you don’t want the kids to see your face plastered over the front page of the Mountain Democrat, you’ll suck it up and apologize to Spencer.”
Hank exchanged glances with Deputy Fletcher, his former teammate. Fletch nodded in agreement. The two of them walked over to the table where Spencer held court. I followed, prepared to latch on to Hank’s fists should he feel compelled to slug his boss again.
“I’m sorry. I was totally out of line,” Hank said to the candidate. “Guess I had a few too many beers. Please accept my apologies.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes. I could almost visualize the inner workings of a politician’s brain as he tried to determine whether forgiveness would be beneficial to his campaign. He finally stood and put out his hand to Hank. My ex shook it heartily.
“So I’m back on the job?”
Spencer’s forehead creased then he nodded.
“Looks like you don’t need us here anymore,” said Fletch. He turned to Hank. “Obviously you’re in no condition to drive. Do you have a ride home?”
Hank gazed at me with a worried expression on his face. What’s an ex-wife to do but agree to pilot her former spouse to his house?
“I’ll get him home,” I told Fletch. “Thanks for your help.”
“Not a problem. Hank never could hold his drink.” Fletch clapped Hank on the back. “Besides you have enough trouble on your hands.”
I reared back, startled. “What are you talking about?”
The deputy shifted nervously. “Didn’t Tom tell you about our discovery this afternoon?”
My face must have relayed my confusion, so he clarified his comment. “I’m kind of a history buff, so Tom asked me to look at the bullet he found in the mine shaft your moth
er fell into.”
I couldn’t decide if my one glass of wine had completely muddled my mind, or if Fletch was speaking in riddles. “What about that bullet? Will it help discover who the victim is?”
“That particular bullet narrows the time period down within a few decades, but there were other items the crime scene techs discovered in the shaft that will also help.”
“That’s great news,” I said, my smile wide. “Anything that will help identify the body?”
Fletch nodded. “We’re not positive, but the victim might be George Henry Clarkson.”
I knew the Clarkson family had settled in this area shortly after James Marshall discovered gold at his Coloma sawmill in 1848. Almost a decade later, my great-great-grandfather moved from Kentucky to Placerville.
“That’s amazing,” Stan said. “How could you identify someone from that far back?”
“We found a brass buckle in the shaft that was severely tarnished but with the initials GHC engraved on it.”
“How can you be sure it belonged to George Clarkson merely from the initials on the buckle?” I asked.
“Unless you’re related to a Clarkson, like one of the guys in our department,” Fletch replied, “you probably wouldn’t know that he disappeared sometime in the eighteen sixties, leaving his wife and young son behind. No one ever heard from him again.”
Stan rubbed his hands together in excitement. “Terrific detecting, Deputy.”
Hank shared his enthusiasm by belching in agreement.
I scowled at my ex and turned my attention back to Fletch. “Do you have any idea who could have killed him?” I hoped the discovery meant Tom wouldn’t need to put in long hours tracking down a 150-year-old villain.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Fletch said.
Hank, Stan and I exchanged puzzled looks.
“But that’s good news, isn’t it?” I said. “To identify the murderer so quickly?”
“We not only found the belt buckle,” Fletch replied, “but we unearthed another item of jewelry identified by the granddaughter of the presumed killer.”
