Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4)

by Cindy Sample

“This is like CSI meets the History Channel,” Stan exclaimed. “So you already determined whodunit?”

  “I bet my granny was delighted with your discovery.” I smiled at the thought of my mystery-addict grandmother. “She’s a total crime buff.”

  “She didn’t appear all that excited when we asked her to identify the watch we found.” The deputy’s clear blue eyes seemed concerned. “That watch belonged to Harold Titus, your great-great-grandfather, which makes him the prime suspect for having pulled the trigger.”

  I stared at Fletch’s serious countenance. I vaguely recalled him pulling my braids in the fourth grade. Was the deputy now intent on pulling my leg?

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  Fletch shook his head. “Even though this is a cold case, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned any of this to you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. My granny must be beside herself. She’s always been so proud of the history of our family, not to mention being a member of the DAR.”

  Fletch chuckled. “Your grandmother is one tough old bird.” When I narrowed my eyes at him, he rephrased his comment. “I mean she’s one sharp senior citizen. She told the detective that you and she would get to the bottom of this crime. That her grandfather didn’t murder anyone.”

  “Well, I’m no historian, but we certainly will. There’s no way anyone in our family murdered a Clarkson or anyone else.”

  “Hunter said the minute you found out about the evidence you’d morph into Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Excuse me?” I growled, affronted that my boyfriend compared me to the elderly female detective Angela Lansbury played on Murder She Wrote. I thought of myself more as the West Coast’s version of Castle’s sexy Nikki Heat. Except for my height and weight, that is.

  “Bet your mother isn’t too happy with your boyfriend now.” Hank snorted then belched again.

  I sighed. It was time to get my ex-husband to his apartment and then learn more about this potential nineteenth-century scandal enveloping my family.

  Stan offered to drive Hank home, but I figured I could handle being his chauffeur for one night. I delivered my ex to his doorstep where he demonstrated his appreciation by trying to plant a slobbery kiss on my lips. I managed to avoid his misguided urge and led him to his sofa where he dropped into instant slumber. His snores serrated my eardrums as I closed the front door behind me.

  An hour later, comfortable in my plaid wingback chair, I chatted on the phone with my mother. “How’s your knee?” I asked.

  “It’s much better,” she said. “If only I could get rid of this new headache.”

  “You mean the discovery of my great-great-grandfather’s watch? How do you think it landed in the shaft next to the skeleton?”

  “I have no idea. Your Gran thought they were partners in a mine at one time. She was only five when Harold died at the ripe old age of ninety, so she doesn’t remember much about him.”

  “I hope Tom can determine the real murderer.”

  “Robert says if a cold case like this appears cut and dried, they’ll write it up the way they see the evidence. Which means your great-great-grandfather will go down in history as a murderer. We absolutely cannot let that happen. Can you imagine the impact that news would have on the price of Gran’s house?”

  Only a real estate broker could discover that her great-grandfather was a murderous villain and reduce its impact down to dollars and cents. Sometimes I admired my mother’s analytical mind. Other times she frightened the heck out of me.

  “I hope your boyfriend realizes how important this situation is to our family,” she said.

  “I’m sure Tom will do whatever it takes,” I responded, not entirely certain my affirmation could be backed up.

  “We’ll see.” She sniffed. “If he doesn’t pursue it, we’ll have to find the real culprit ourselves. At least we won’t have to worry about a killer coming after us, since whoever did it is long dead.”

  Depending on how much research we’d need to do through dusty tomes in the historical museum, I thought it far more likely we’d die of boredom.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning I pushed open the glass double doors of the two-story brick edifice that housed my employer, Hangtown Bank. Sherry, the receptionist, waved at me while she spoke into her headset. I patted the six-foot-tall burled wood bear that Gordon Chandler, the bank’s President, had purchased for his large Victorian home a few years ago. Since Dana Chandler possessed far superior decorating taste to that of her husband, she evicted the bear within minutes of its arrival and had it delivered to the bank’s lobby. Employees and customers alike had taken to greeting the bear when they entered the bank.

  In honor of the upcoming Wagon Train festivities, the bear sported an enormous dove gray cowboy hat that Stan would undoubtedly attempt to filch. Someone had tied a blue bandanna the size of a tablecloth around the bear’s twenty-two inch neck and attached a handlebar moustache above his ferocious carved snarl.

  Smokey the Bear with a dash of Tom Selleck.

  Over the years, I’d held several different positions at the 150-year-old local bank. By the time Ben turned two, Hank was bringing in enough income as a contractor that I could quit my position of branch manager and become a stay-at-home mom. After our divorce, which coincided with the decline in the construction industry, which led to the decline in my child support, I had been lucky to return to the bank’s Main Street headquarters in a mortgage underwriter capacity. I enjoyed underwriting loans, but after three years, I wanted a change. When a position in the business development department of the bank opened up two months ago, I’d applied for it.

  Although my marketing expertise is on a par with my culinary abilities, in the past I’d managed to impress Mr. Chandler with my sleuthing skills. He figured anyone with as fertile an imagination as I possessed should excel in promoting the bank.

  He might not have realized the extent of my creative brain. No one informed me there is a fine art to promoting a conservative bank. Sponsoring non-profit fundraisers and local athletic teams are examples of appropriate promotions.

  My ad displaying the infamous “Hanging Man” of Placerville with advertising copy that read, Hangtown Bank wants to rope in your account, evidently was not a model example.

  Bruce Boxer, my boss, had slashed the flyer with a red marker and placed it in the middle of my desk with a sticky note on top. His illegible scrawl practically shouted his displeasure with me.

  NEW COPY BY NOON. DON’T SCREW UP!

  I stared across the room wondering if my career move had been a mistake. What would happen if I “screwed up” again? Would the bank allow me to transfer back to the mortgage department, or would they throw me into the street, forced to live off day-old baguettes from Hangtown Bakery?

  A hand waving in front of my face disturbed my gluten-filled reverie. Stan plopped into the one and only visitor’s chair I’d squeezed into the office, crossed his khaki-covered legs and leaned forward. “You look like you’re a gazillion miles away. Did you figure out the mine shaft mystery?”

  “I’m more concerned with figuring out how to save my job.” I handed Stan the glossy flyer with the photo of the Hanging Man dummy.

  My former assistant cringed. “How much wine had you drunk when you came up with that slogan?”

  “None. Maybe that’s the problem. I thought the ad would get people’s attention.”

  Stan sniggered. “You succeeded at that.”

  “Mrs. Needham, one of our oldest and richest depositors, thought the ad ‘too tacky’ for words. Luckily only a few flyers were given out.” I eyed my failed endeavor. “I love the history of this town and think we should use it to promote the bank. The gold rush era produced some great stories. The fact that Placerville was named Hangtown after the townsfolk hung some murdering thieving bandits from an old oak tree is fascinating stuff.”

  “Speaking of Hangtown scandals, did you speak with your detective about your own family mystery
?”

  “Tom’s coming over for dinner this evening so we can discuss it then.”

  Stan winked at me. “Do you two have a passionate rendezvous planned?”

  “No. We have a passionate game of Yahtzee planned,” I replied. “All three kids will be at the house.”

  “No wonder your creative juices dried up. You need to stimulate your endorphins.”

  “You are absolutely right.” I shoved back my chair and marched down to the break room. Within minutes, my creativity, fueled by a Snickers bar, produced a new flyer perched on my boss’s shiny mahogany desk.

  If he didn’t like this one, he could shove it up his pompous … pompadour!

  A few hours later, I stood in front of the stove, a frilly apron tied around my waist, stirring a large pan of fettuccine Alfredo sauce. My daughter ambled into the kitchen and burst out laughing.

  “Mom, I almost didn’t recognize you in those duds,” Jenna said, her auburn ponytail swinging back and forth as she shook her head in amazement. “I thought Martha Stewart dropped by for a visit. Are you hoping to convince Tom you’re a domestic diva?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said.

  She was right, of course. I also hoped my detective would not detect the empty jars stuffed deep in the garbage that bore the label of the sauce I planned to serve for dinner.

  The doorbell rang and Jenna offered to greet our guests. I slid a tray of fresh made garlic bread––okay, frozen garlic bread––into the oven, closed the door and jumped when two hands wrapped around my waist. I whirled around so I could properly greet Tom with a welcoming kiss.

  My face fell at our surprise visitor. “Oh, it’s you,” I said to Hank. “I wish you’d stop grabbing me.”

  “Nice way to greet the father of your children,” he said.

  If I wasn’t the mature mother of his children, I would have rolled my eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I wanted to thank you for driving me home last night. I guess I had a little too much to drink.”

  “You think?” I set the timer on the oven then turned to him. “So are you and Spencer back on good terms?”

  Hank shoved a hand through his thinning dark blond hair. “I hope so. Another issue came up today. We need to replace the copper plumbing throughout the building. It’s only forty years old, but it hasn’t held up. Spencer is gonna have a fit when he finds out.”

  “You haven’t told him yet?”

  “We’re meeting at five tomorrow morning.”

  “Ouch. Early.”

  “Contractors don’t get to sleep in like bankers. Anyway, Spencer is giving a speech to a Sacramento Rotary club at seven a.m. so he said he’d meet me at the building first. I can’t order the materials without a check, and he still hasn’t paid me my last installment per our contract. ”

  Hank reached for a pink cardboard box he’d set on my tiled counter.

  “What’s that?” I asked, my salivary glands perking up. Pavlov would have a field day with my visceral reaction to the square pink box.

  Hank grinned and untied the string. He popped open the cover, and I peeked inside the box. Yum. Chocolate frosted double fudge brownies from the Hangtown Bakery.

  I couldn’t help but be touched by his thoughtfulness. “You remembered how much I love their brownies.”

  Hank’s voice grew soft and his green eyes twinkled as he moved closer. “I remember everything about you, honey, your likes, your dislikes, your…”

  “Boyfriend? Remember him?” A deep baritone interrupted Hank’s recitation. Although my heart rate had ratcheted up once I discovered the brownies, it was nothing compared to the palpitations Tom’s presence generated.

  Tom strode across the room, wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me as if I hadn’t been kissed in days. He delivered more heat in that kiss than in the Alfredo sauce erupting over the top of the pot and bubbling onto the stove.

  Whoops. I reluctantly released myself from Tom’s embrace and turned off the burner. I grabbed a sponge, wet it and proceeded to clean the hot white mess dripping down my stove, my dinner somehow managing to imitate my life.

  “I didn’t hear you arrive,” I said to Tom.

  “Ben must have been watching for us because he opened the door before we could knock. He and Kristy are up in his room.” Tom glanced at Hank. “Are you joining us for dinner?”

  Hank smiled. “Sure, thanks for the invitation.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I sputtered. I started to push Hank out the back door when Jenna entered the kitchen. She zeroed in on the pink box and popped it open.

  “Thanks, Dad. You remembered how much Mom and I love those brownies.”

  “Nothing but the best for my girls.” Hank put his arm around Jenna. She leaned in and granted her father a big smile.

  “So what’s for dinner, Laurel?” Hank sniffed looking puzzled. “Burnt toast?”

  Crap! I snatched a kitchen mitt and flung open the oven door. What happened to my timer? The garlic bread had transformed from frozen to a Cajun blackened version. I yanked the nasty smelling pan out of the oven and set it on a trivet. I glared at the controls before realizing I’d reset the clock instead of setting the timer.

  Between the Alfredo spill and the murdered garlic bread, I felt like throwing my apron away and calling it a night.

  Tom dumped the bread into my stainless garbage can and asked what he could do to help.

  “I’ve been craving some of Mountain Matt’s pizza,” said Hank. “How about I order a couple extra-large for dinner? I know you love their veggie special.” He dialed a number on his cell and left the room to hopefully phone in an urgent pizza order.

  Our fifteen years of marriage had not been a total loss if my ex still remembered my food preferences. I contemplated my boyfriend, wondering how long it would take before he and I had that kind of relationship.

  Tom walked over and put his arms around me. I leaned in and rested my head against his burly chest.

  “I’m sorry about dinner,” I mumbled, on the verge of tears.

  “Not a problem,” he said. “I like pizza.”

  “How about Hank?” I asked.

  “Him, I don’t like so much, but I can survive his company for one night.”

  In the eight months since Tom and I first met, we’d spent some odd evenings together. A few of them even included face time with a killer. Eating dinner squeezed in between my ex and my boyfriend ranked right at the top of the list.

  The first few minutes consisted of complete quiet accompanied by the sound of three adults, one teenager and two eight-year-olds chomping on their pizza slices. Pumpkin, our homely black and orange kitten, sat under the table, waiting for a stray veggie to come her way, courtesy of my son. I wished Ben loved his greens as much as our weird cat did.

  Hank finally broke the silence.

  “Thanks again for bringing me home last night.” He grinned at me. “You’re always there for me, hon.”

  Ben stopped chewing and looked up, a smudge of tomato sauce decorating his small pointed chin. “How come Mom drove you home, Dad?”

  Hank and I exchanged looks. “Um, there was a problem with my car last night,” he finally said.

  I almost snorted mozzarella up my nose at Hank’s response. I supposed an incapacitated driver could be considered an automotive issue. But I saw no need to share Hank’s alcoholic excess with our kids.

  “I heard Deputy Fletcher also came to your rescue at the fundraiser,” Tom said. “Lucky for you.”

  Hank smirked at Tom. “There’s nothing like the relationship between a quarterback and his tight end. Fletch and I took the team to the state championship our senior year at El Dorado High.”

  Ben reached for another piece of pizza. He bit off half the slice and attempted to talk at the same time. “I’m gonna be a quarterback, too. I got your arm, don’t I, Dad?”

  “You sure do, son. Maybe when you grow up, you can join my construction company. Wouldn’t
it be fun to work together?”

  Ben shook his head. “Nope, I’m gonna be a detective. Like Tom.” He smiled first at Kristy and then at her dad.

  Tom grinned at Ben, but I could tell my son’s innocent comment upset his father. Hank didn’t respond, in itself a sign that Ben’s remark perturbed him. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to quiz Tom on his new cold case.

  “We can use a detective in this family, Ben. We have a family mystery to solve.”

  My son’s ears perked up. His green eyes widened, and he actually dropped the rest of his pizza back on to his plate. I’d finally learned how to get his full attention.

  “We do? How many dead bodies do we got?”

  “Do we have,” I said, automatically correcting his grammar.

  Ben looked confused. “How many dead bodies do we got to have?”

  Tom’s shoulders heaved as he tried not to laugh at Ben. Or his mother.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “So, Tom, how many dead bodies do we got to have before you figure out my great-great-grandfather didn’t murder George Clarkson?”

  Jenna’s mouth opened and closed before she managed to squeak out a question. “Someone in our family killed a Clarkson? Is he related to Rich Clarkson?”

  “There’s a Clarkson on every corner in this town, Jenna. I suppose Rich must be related to George in some fashion.”

  “I hope my great-great-great-grandfather didn’t kill any of Rich’s relatives,” Jenna said. “He’s totally awesome.”

  “I’m sure your great-great––” I hesitated because I was having a difficult time keeping track of the greats dangling from the branches of our family tree. “Anyway, I doubt Harold Titus had anything to do with George Clarkson’s death. Just because they discovered Harold’s watch in the mineshaft does not make him a killer. Maybe George stole the watch and happened to be wearing it when he died.”

  “Hey, that’s a good possibility,” Hank chimed in.

  It was good, wasn’t it? I patted myself on the back for coming up with a reason to remove Harold as a suspect.

  “We haven’t finalized anything yet,” Tom said. “There will be a lot more investigating before we close the case. I promise.”