by Cindy Sample
“She’s refusing to let me list her house until we prove her grandfather didn’t murder George Clarkson. She claims the Hangtown Historical Society is threatening to kick her off the board. And to rescind her nomination for the Distinguished Historian Award that will be given at the county fair. The award and that organization mean a great deal to her.”
“I doubt Tom has closed the file yet, so I’ll discuss it with him. He’s going to have his hands full with Spencer’s murder investigation now.”
I could practically hear the wheels of my mother’s active brain grinding through the phone line. “If Tom is distracted by the new murder, Mr. Bones may not be a priority. That will give you time to research and determine who did it.”
I sighed. “You are aware I have a full-time job.”
“Yes, but you’re good at solving puzzles. If you don’t agree to figure it out, your grandmother will try. We can’t have her running around town grilling the descendants of those early settlers in search of a killer from the last century.”
I giggled at the image of my grandmother dressed in a pastel blue trench coat and matching fedora gumshoeing it down Main Street. An octogenarian Nancy Drew on the loose.
“Okay, tomorrow I’ll plan on spending my lunch hour at the historical museum,” I said. “Maybe I can come up with a list of ancient suspects.”
I hung up just as my boss arrived at my office door, bearing an armload of files and a frown that appeared sand blasted on his face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My boss, Bruce Boxer, resembled the dog of the same name, but was not nearly as attractive. I couldn’t tell if his bark was worse than his bite, but I preferred not to find out. As Vice President of Business Development, his job description included luring local merchants and large depositors to our bank, using print advertising and online social media. Another important responsibility included attending every social, political and non-profit function in town.
When I initially applied for this position, I visualized spending many hours outside of the office as compared to hunkering at my desk all day underwriting loan files. I looked forward to mingling with members of the local Chambers of Commerce, participating on fundraising committees and attending a variety of social events and mixers.
So far, my duties had left me desk bound with nary a swizzle stick or Swedish meatball slotted on my professional calendar.
I greeted Mr. Boxer with a less-than-hopeful smile and a question mark in my eyes.
He threw a slick piece of paper on my desk. The same flyer he’d rejected the day before. Only someone had modified it. The artist had drawn a face on the hanging man that resembled the victim. In case there was any doubt, the unknown person included some verbiage––Slimebag Spencer gets what he deserves!
“Where did you find this?” My hand trembled as I gripped the flyer. This couldn’t be good. For the bank or for me.
“Someone taped it to the bulletin board next to the bank.” Mr. Boxer loomed over me, his left eye twitching erratically like a broken turn signal. “One of our customers brought it in. I thought I ordered you to get rid of those flyers.”
“I did, but we’d already handed a few of them out before we pulled them from the advertising kiosk. I dumped the remainder in the recycle bin.”
My boss looked as if he wanted to stuff me in the recycle bin.
“I am really sorry,” I apologized. “Is there anything I can do?”
He fell into the empty chair in front of my desk. “Not at this point. I hope none of our customers associates the bank with this horrendous crime.”
“It could be a kid pulling a prank.” That option appealed to me.
“I hope the police agree,” he said, his eye still twitching but at a slower rate.
“Shoot.” I dropped the flyer faster than if I’d picked up a hot tamale. “Our fingerprints are all over it.”
Mr. Boxer’s face paled. “I never thought of that. Should I call the police?”
“That’s okay, I can handle it.” I grabbed my cell out of my purse and hit speed dial. “I have my own personal hotline.”
My homicide hotline must have been engrossed in his investigation because he didn’t return my call. I tucked the modified flyer into a large baggie in case Tom wanted to look at it. I never leave home without them. Although my preference is to use them to transport meals that I can’t finish, as opposed to crime scene evidence.
Hank also didn’t respond to the two messages I left on his voicemail wondering whether he still intended to come to the house that evening. I decided dinner would be a bountiful repast of hot dogs and leftover pizza accompanied by a huge salad.
Ben, Jenna and I were sitting at the table, almost finished eating when Hank strolled into my cheerful yellow kitchen.
“How did you get in?” I asked. We live in a safe rural community, but I always lock the doors at night.
He dangled an array of keys before he shoved them into his jeans pocket. “I still have the key to your house.” He lifted his ball cap off his head, placed it over his chest and winked at me. “And to your heart, I hope.”
Jenna chuckled. I could feel my eyeballs wanting to roll in their sockets, but I forced them to stay put. I added another item to my “to do” list. Change the locks.
Hank opened an oak cabinet and grabbed a plate from the bottom shelf. He pulled out the cutlery drawer, which jammed before finally sliding free. “It would make more sense,” he said, “if you rearranged your steak knives and flatware like this.” He shifted the utensils around. “Then the knives wouldn’t get stuck.”
I felt like rearranging one of the serrated knives in Hank’s chest. Just because he built our house, Hank thought it gave him permission to advise me how to organize it.
Rather than get into yet another argument, I switched subjects. “Did you contact the police?” I asked.
Hank slid into the spindle-backed chair across from mine. He grabbed a slice of pizza and chewed for a few seconds before answering. “I talked to the dispatcher this afternoon. Told her I’m the contractor for the renovation, and they could call me if they had any questions about the remodel.”
“Why’d you need to call the police, Dad?” asked Ben, taking one more slice before his pizza-loving father demolished the remainder.
“Darius Spencer, the man who owns the building I’ve been working on, died today.”
Ben chewed on that comment while he chewed on his pizza. “So do you still got a job?”
“Have a job,” I muttered.
Both McKay males looked at me, the unofficial grammar police, then at each other. Hank shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I should talk to his wife. I didn’t even think about who I’d be reporting to now.”
“Is Darius Spencer that creepy looking guy on all the billboards who’s running for Supervisor of the Sixth District?” Jenna said.
Hank and I nodded in unison.
“Did he have a heart attack?” she asked. “That picture makes him look like he has a permanent case of indigestion.”
“The police haven’t determined the exact cause of his death,” I said. “Although it looks as if someone murdered him.”
Jenna blinked startled blue eyes at me. “Do you think someone plans on killing all the candidates?”
“No, I don’t think there’s a politician-offing serial killer out there,” I responded. “I’m sure the police will resolve it quickly.”
“Is Tom working on the case?” Ben asked. My son reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out the shiny gold badge Bradford had given him when he retired from the Sheriff’s Office. Ben treasured the badge as well as his new grandfather. “Maybe Tom could use my help,” he said.
The doorbell rang and my heart jumpstarted. Perhaps my favorite detective decided to return my phone call with a personal visit. I rose from my seat and darted through the family room, barely avoiding stomping on Ben’s Game Boy that as usual, he’d tossed on the floor.
I flung open the front door a
nd greeted my boyfriend who stood next to an El Dorado County Deputy Sheriff.
Hmm. Why did I have the feeling this wasn’t a social call?
CHAPTER TWELVE
I resisted the urge to leap into Tom’s arms since a uniformed officer stood by his side. I recognized Deputy Mengelkoch from a previous visit when I was the subject of a murder investigation. I blushed, remembering the officers rummaging through my lingerie drawer in search of the murder weapon. I hoped that vision wasn’t burned in Mengelkoch’s memory like it was in mine.
“We’re looking for Hank,” Tom said. “He’s not at his apartment, so I thought I’d try your place. He seems to spend a lot of time here lately.” Tom pointed to the ten-year-old black Ford F-150 decorating my concrete driveway with fresh oil stains. “That’s Hank’s truck, right?”
I nodded and both officers stepped into my wood-plank entry. “We’re finishing our supper…”
Hank joined us in the foyer. “Can I help you, Tom?” Hank’s words were polite, but his tone of voice truculent. Was my ex reluctant to help the Sheriff’s Department? Or was it my detective boyfriend who needled him?
“We have a few questions for you,” Tom said, “about your relationship with Darius Spencer.”
“You already know I’m renovating that old hotel of his,” Hank said.
“Yes, I’m aware of that. It would help our investigation if you could answer some questions that have arisen.”
I’m not sure what Dear Abby would advise when your boyfriend, the head of homicide, tells your ex-husband he’d like to chat. I tried to remain calm and invited Tom and the deputy to join us in the kitchen.
Tom shook his head, declining my suggestion. “We need Hank to accompany us to the station. It’s a more appropriate venue.”
“You’re not arresting me, are you?” Hank yelled. His eyes, which he described as jade green and which I referred to as swamp green, bulged like oversized marbles as they bounced from Tom to Deputy Mengelkoch and back to Tom again. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
I moved between the two men, resting a palm on Hank’s chest, worried he might feel the urge to punch Tom. My ex didn’t need assault against a police officer added to his other problems.
Hank’s raised voice must have carried into the kitchen. Ben skidded into the entry, followed by his sister.
“Are you having dinner with us?” Ben asked the men, his face puzzled.
Tom’s cheeks reddened. “Not tonight, but thanks for the offer.”
Jenna, a straight A student, is no slouch in the analytical department. She stared at the four adults, giving an extra long glance at Deputy Mengelkoch. The young deputy was cute, a shaggy-haired, freckle-faced preppie all suited up in his official khaki shirt and forest green slacks.
“So why are you here?” Jenna asked Tom.
“They want to talk to your father,” I said, worried Tom would extract a pair of handcuffs at any minute.
“About Spencer’s murder?” she asked.
Ben’s eyes grew wide. “Dad, are you going to help Tom solve the case?”
It was Hank’s turn to flush. “Well, uh…”
Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out Bradford’s old badge. He plopped it into his father’s hand. “See, you can be an official detective, too!”
Hank’s eyes watered as he gazed at the badge. “Thanks, son.” He turned to Tom. “Do you want me to go down to the station?”
“Yes, it will be easier for us to, um…” Tom glanced at Ben, “solve the case if we’re all together at the Sheriff’s Office.”
I felt my mascara pooling on my cheekbones as my eyes filled with tears. A mixture of emotions assailed me: fear and concern for my ex-husband combined with pride and love for my son. As for my boyfriend, despite my not being thrilled about him taking my children’s father back to the station, I was grateful for his tactful handling of this awkward situation.
Hank left with Tom and the deputy. At first, I worried they would require him to ride in the backseat of the squad car, but they informed Hank he could follow them to the sheriff’s office.
My chest flooded with relief at that statement. I reassured the kids the detectives merely wanted their father’s assistance, and my remarks seemed to satisfy both of them. After repeating my mantra to my children, I decided the statement most likely was true. After working with Spencer for several months, Hank might have personal insight into who would have wanted the man dead.
The home phone rang while I stacked the dirty dishes in the dishwasher.
“Hi, Gran.” I rested the receiver on my shoulder while I rinsed off the rest of the plates.
“Did you solve this case yet?” she squawked.
“Case? You mean Darius Spencer’s murder?” I asked.
“No, not that Spencer twit. Good riddance to political rubbish.”
“Good grief, Gran. What did you have against him?”
“Oh, he comes from a long line of political nitwits. His father, Ned Spencer, was a classmate of mine. If Ned’s father hadn’t acquired so much land around here during the depression, I don’t know how those fellows would have made a living. Ned served on the Board of Supervisors for eight years which was about seven years and 364 days too long.”
I’m not the most politically astute person in town, but I vaguely remembered Spencer’s father had been a county supervisor twenty plus years ago. Back when I was more interested in the high school quarterback than local politics.
“Anyway, child, you need to concentrate your investigatin’ on our case,” Gran said. “We gotta get Harold off the hook. And fast.”
“Harold died more than eighty years ago. I don’t think he’s in that big of a hurry to get his reputation cleared.”
“It’s not his name I’m worried about. It’s mine.”
“Settle down, Gran, you don’t want your blood pressure to jump.” The last thing we needed was for her to get overexcited and drop dead worrying about this long dead case. Putting Hank’s situation out of my mind for the moment, I asked, “Are you taking your meds?”
“I had a ginger ale and whiskey. That will medicate me for now. So what’s our plan?”
“Meet me at the county historical museum tomorrow at noon. We’ll delve through the books together and try to come up with a list of suspects.”
“That’s my girl. I’ll bring some supplies to help with our detecting.”
I envisioned my grandmother draped in a cape and deerstalker hat. “You mean magnifying glasses for reading those handwritten journals from the nineteenth century?”
She snorted. “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll throw one in with a dozen of my oatmeal raisin cookies.”
If there’s one thing my grandmother has learned over the years, it’s how to bribe her family to get her way.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The phone rang early the next morning while I assembled our lunches, trying to avoid stepping on Pumpkin, who could smell tuna from a mile away. By brown bagging my own meal today, I could devote my entire lunch break to visiting the museum with my grandmother.
I glanced at Caller ID and grabbed the phone.
“Hank, are you okay?” I’d tossed and turned all night worrying about his interview with the Sheriff’s Department.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I didn’t return home until after midnight and didn’t want to call you that late.”
“How did it go?”
“Okay, I guess. I thought Tom would interview me, but I waited over an hour for two other detectives to show up.”
Curious. I would have felt better with Tom in charge of the investigation, but maybe he was too busy with other cases.
“What did they ask?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. I discussed the remodel and some of the issues that came up recently. They wondered how someone could have gotten into the building, but I didn’t know how many keys Spencer gave out.”
“Did they mention any potential suspects?” I opened the refrigerator door and
grabbed a container of sliced fruit while I waited for Hank’s answer.
“Nah, they questioned me but wouldn’t answer any of mine.”
“What did they say about your assault on Spencer?”
“It wasn’t an assault, Laurel, merely an altercation.”
“An altercation that involved your fist and his face,” I clarified.
“Yeah, well, I explained to the detectives I had too much to drink that night. And that we shook hands afterward, so no harm, no foul.”
That might be true in Hank’s case, but someone definitely caused Spencer to foul out––permanently.
“What are you going to do about finishing the renovation?”
“I can’t do anything while it’s a crime scene, although they said they’d be done late today. I should give Spencer’s wife my condolences and find out if she wants me to continue. It would be a shame to leave the building in its current shape. The Hangtown Hotel would have been the pride of Main Street when we finished.”
And the pride of Hank McKay. I had to hand it to my ex-husband. The man knew how to renovate a building.
His tone brightened. “As long as the building construction is in limbo, I’ll have lots of free time. I can spend it with you and the kids.”
I glanced at my rooster clock hanging over the sink. I could almost visualize the cocky bird crowing at me to get my tush in gear. I told Hank that since summer break began the next day, the kids would enjoy hanging out with him. In the meantime, their mother had better things to do, like driving the kids to their last day of school and herself to work.
Promptly at noon, I pulled my Prius into a parking space next to a fire-engine-red Mustang convertible I lusted after. Sporty convertibles, unfortunately, are not practical modes of transportation for soccer moms. They are also not a sensible choice for eighty-eight-year-old drivers who can barely see over the leather-wrapped steering wheel, but that didn’t stop my grandmother from purchasing her muscle car.
