by Cindy Sample
Gran claimed it was a deal she couldn’t pass up. I’m sure the car salesman felt the same about his elderly customer––a sucker he couldn’t pass up.
The museum was located in one of the many buildings comprising the El Dorado County fairgrounds and staffed by volunteers from the historical society, of which Gran held a long-time membership. I pulled open the heavy door and followed the scent of oatmeal cookies to the small research library where Gran chatted with several of the volunteers.
Gran grabbed my wrist with a strong grip and dragged me over to meet her friends. “Here’s my granddaughter, our own little Nancy Drew.”
She introduced me to the three white-haired women, all of whom bore a strong resemblance to Agatha Christie’s elderly sleuth, Miss Marple. One of the women went behind a desk and reached into her large handbag. I half expected her to yank out a set of knitting needles, but instead she slid a pair of heavy-duty reading glasses out of a Vera Bradley blue paisley case.
“So, Virginia,” asked the petite woman, her pale blue eyes magnified a hundredfold behind the glasses, “I understand they found old George Clarkson in your backyard.”
Gran nodded, the platinum curls of her Marilyn Monroe wig bobbing up and down. “That’s what Laurel’s honey said.”
Three fluffy white heads spun around to gawk at me. “What Gran, that is Virginia, means is that my detective, well, he’s not actually mine, he belongs to the Sheriff’s Office, I mean…” I babbled on and their faces became even more confused. “Anyway, after the crime scene techs examined the mine shaft, they concluded the skeleton was likely to be George Clarkson. They ordered a DNA test, but it’s not a high priority.”
The tallest of the women squinted at me. “Why do the cops think Virginia’s grandfather killed Clarkson?”
Gran answered before I could. “They found a watch with my granpappy’s name engraved on it down in the mineshaft, Betty, and that’s all it took for them to decide he’s a murderer.”
“That’s all they have?” Betty folded skinny arms over her flat chest. “Lazy asses. My great-aunt, Lulu Cook, the first female deputy sheriff of El Dorado County, wouldn’t put up with such nonsense. Trust me, with us researching it, I bet we can shred their so-called evidence into mincemeat.”
The other women nodded vigorously and I smiled watching them. My very own History Detective team. At first, I worried the excitement might be too much for the women, but as the octogenarians zipped up and down the aisles pulling out books and manuscripts, I realized having a mystery to solve could be a gift.
The women no longer seemed to care that Placerville’s version of Nancy Drew was onsite. Since my presence didn’t seem necessary, I decided to check out the displays. It had been ages since I’d visited the museum, and I’d forgotten some of the local stories I’d learned in grammar school.
I chuckled at the sketch of Charley Parkhurst, one of my favorite characters. He was a Wells Fargo stagecoach driver by day, but he had a reputation as the toughest, most alcohol-swilling gambler at night. Old Charley set all the stagecoach speed records back in the 1860s and even foiled a stagecoach robbery. Not until a doctor showed up at his deathbed did people learn Charley was a woman.
Way to go, Charley!
Gran and her friends seemed exhilarated by the opportunity to research the 150-year-old murder, so I kissed her soft wrinkled cheek and drove back into town. A few blocks from Main Street, the traffic on Highway 50 came to a sudden halt. I slammed on my brakes and barely missed smashing into the oversized Tahoe in front of me that blocked my view. To avoid the vehicle backup, I turned right on Pacific Avenue and parked along the street in a residential area. Parking in Placerville can be a hassle during certain events like Third Saturday Art Walk and Girls Night Out, but a traffic jam in the middle of the week seemed odd.
By now, a line of cars and trucks were bumper to bumper on California Highway 49, the primary north and south thoroughfare through Placerville and the gold country. I scurried down the sidewalk, curious to know what event had attracted this lunchtime crowd.
As I drew near the Hangtown Hotel, two men shepherding huge video cameras stepped in front of me. I scooted around them wondering how I would enter the bank with such a large crowd obstructing the entrance. Not until I laid eyes on the KNBA logo embellished on a white van did it click. The media had arrived.
My boyfriend, dressed in his official uniform of khaki shirt and forest green trousers, conversed with a female newscaster against a backdrop of bright yellow tape. Tom frowned and ran a hand through his thick chestnut hair as the short-skirted, stiletto-heeled reporter prattled nonstop.
Vehicles crawled down Main Street as their distracted drivers and passengers used their camera phones to take pictures of the partially reconstructed hotel covered with crime scene tape. I had a feeling this would not be a case of any publicity is good publicity. The City of Placerville and the County Chamber of Commerce take a great deal of pride in their community. A tremendous amount of time and labor went into planning the annual Wagon Train festivities. It would be a crime if this crime eclipsed the historic event.
I sidled closer, curious if Tom or the detectives he’d assigned to the case were announcing an arrest. Leila Hansen, a reporter for KNBA, placed the mike inches from her plump collagen-filled lips. She gazed into the cameras, her sultry expression more appropriate to the bedroom than the sidewalk.
“I’m here in Placerville with Lieutenant Hunter of the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Department,” she greeted her television audience. She swiveled her left hip to the side and addressed Tom. “Detective Hunter, what progress have you made on the grisly murder that occurred at this site yesterday?”
Tom leaned over and spoke firmly into the microphone. “I’m afraid it’s still far too soon in the investigation, but we’re examining all evidence from the crime scene as well as interviewing different sources.”
“Is there any way this murder could be connected to the victim’s political campaign?”
“I can’t comment on that,” he said.
“Darius Spencer was a respected leader in the Placerville business community,” she said. “How much of a priority is this murder for your department?”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Tom’s tanned face, but he maintained a neutral expression. “Homicide is always a priority for our department. We are using all of our resources to solve this crime as quickly as possible. If you’ll excuse me, I have nothing further to say.”
Tom attempted to bypass Leila, but she wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to out scoop the other evening broadcasters. She stuck one slim leg in front of Tom to halt his departure.
“Do you think someone is crazy enough to reenact those hangings of more than a century ago?” Leila’s voice switched from husky to horror-filled.
A man in a red plaid shirt yelled out, “Maybe an unfriendly spirit got him. This old hotel is rumored to be haunted.”
Leila’s thick-lashed violet eyes widened at this unexpected and National Enquirer worthy comment.
Tom’s face froze. I doubted he’d considered the possibility that Spencer’s death could be the first of many. Even worse was the thought of a vengeful ghost unhappy the owner was tearing up his home sweet home. Many of the historic Main Street buildings were known for their spirited spirits. Had Hank noticed any signs of paranormal activity in the building?
I shivered and wondered if a ghostly spirit had passed through me. I spun around and sighed with relief when I realized the door to the air-conditioned drug store had opened behind me.
Tom grabbed the microphone and addressed the camera. “This murder was committed by a person, not a ghost, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t sensationalize it any more than necessary. Thank you. The Sheriff’s Office will keep the media apprised of our progress.”
Tom thrust the mike to Leila who handed it off to another woman. The newscaster latched onto Tom’s arm and continued to question him. I figured Tom could use an interruption fr
om the nosy newsy, so I wormed my way through the onlookers who began to disperse once the broadcast ended.
I approached Tom and waited for him to register my presence. When that didn’t happen, I leaned forward trying to catch Leila’s next question. She licked her lips and with a rapt look in her eye, laid her palm on his forearm. “I’m sure our viewers would also like to know if the detective in charge of this case is single.”
Tom took a surprised step back, allowing me the opportunity to answer Leila’s question.
“No, he’s not.” I pulled myself up to all five feet four and a quarter inches and thrust out my assets. “Are we done here?”
Leila eyed my chest, which I hoped was not covered with crumbs from the oatmeal raisin cookie I’d snagged from Gran. It’s hard to be impressive when you’re wearing your lunch.
She smiled and extended her hand. “Leila Hansen. Are you assisting in the investigation, Miss––?”
“No, she is not,” Tom answered for me. “Thank you, Ms. Hansen. We’ll contact you with any updates.” He placed his hand on the small of my back and propelled me along the sidewalk, away from the news crew but in the opposite direction of the bank.
Tom opened the door to Hangtown Bakery. He surveyed the room, but it appeared safe from media intruders. He led the way to an unoccupied table, pulled out my chair for me then practically fell into the opposite seat.
“Tough day?” I reached across the table and took his large hand in mine. Our fingers remained intertwined for a few heavenly minutes.
“I need to get back to the office,” he said. “But I had to escape that woman first.”
I released his hand. “Where did that guy come up with the idea of a homicidal haunt?”
Tom tipped his wooden chair so far back I thought he would fall over, but years of practice had refined his tipping to perfection. “Who knows? It’s bad enough to have a public spectacle like Spencer’s murder, but for the media to add a paranormal element is sheer idiocy. All I need are a bunch of loonies running around with electro-magnetometers trying to mess up the crime scene.”
“So you don’t think an annoyed ghost knocked off Spencer?” I giggled, thinking that any self-respecting spirit would have taken it out on the contractor.
Tom shook his head. “No, this was plain and intentional murder.”
I moved closer, curious if he would share any details with me. “Nothing has been mentioned about how Spencer was murdered. I assume he was killed before he was strung up?”
Tom nodded. “We found something that could be the murder weapon,” he said. “But we won’t know for sure until after the autopsy. So his death could have been unplanned, a crime of passion of sorts. If so, then why the public hanging? What did the killer intend?”
“What do you think?” I asked.
Tom’s brown eyes darkened until they matched the filling in the bakery’s midnight chocolate cupcakes. I shook my head at my fantasizing, wondering whether I was hungry or horny.
“What I think is none of your business, as you very well know,” Tom said. “So how come you’re not at work?”
I glanced at my watch. Oops. I hoped Mr. Boxer was taking a long lunch himself.
“Gran and I met at the museum during my lunch break. She and some of her friends from the historical society are currently combing through the museum looking for George Clarkson’s murderer. It’s one way of keeping Gran out of your hair.”
He threw his palms up. “As far as I’m concerned they can research old journals and books to their heart’s content. My primary goal is to solve Spencer’s murder before those clues go cold. Tell your Gran she’s officially deputized.”
I laughed. “Throw in a badge for her, and you’ll get a lifetime supply of cookies.”
Tom stood and patted his rock hard stomach. I tried not to whimper. It had been a long time since I’d had access to his bare muscled chest.
“I think I’ll pass on the sweets,” he said, “but I’ll take some sugar to go.”
Still lost in my pectoral musings, I looked up, puzzled. Tom planted a soft kiss on my surprised lips. “It could be a few days or even weeks before we wrap up this case.”
“Need any help?” My lips curved, assuming the answer would be a resounding no.
Tom surprised me. He grinned and chucked my chin. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but keep your ear to the ground and listen to any rumors going around about Spencer’s death. You never know when gossip can lead to fact.”
In a small town like Placerville, that was a certainty. I sped back to work intent on my gossip-finding mission. One thing was certain. The sooner Tom wrapped up this homicide, the sooner he could wrap me in his welcoming arms.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When I returned to my desk, I discovered my boss had plans for me that did not include gossiping with bank customers and employees. I had forgotten that the victim had served on Hangtown Bank’s Board of Directors. Mr. Boxer requested, or rather ordered, me to write a press release detailing Spencer’s contributions to the bank and voicing the deep loss the board felt over his senseless death.
My goal was to present the bank and Spencer in the best possible light, so I spent several hours searching the internet. After reading one article after another, I wondered if Darius Spencer ever slept. The man served as a director on three other boards besides our bank. He participated on a multitude of local committees and was the founder and current chairperson of a non-profit that worked with disadvantaged youth. He owned a successful investment and insurance company. I was curious how he planned to handle all of those responsibilities if elected, but that question would remain unanswered.
Janet Spencer and I had chatted occasionally during our Zumba classes. I knew the couple had two children in college, one daughter and one son. I could sympathize with her children’s loss. I was only ten when a drunk driver crashed into my father’s car, killing him instantly. As if losing a parent wasn’t distressing enough, those poor kids would have to deal with the notoriety of their father’s denigrating demise.
One recent Mountain Democrat article included an interview of Spencer as well as other Main Street proprietors regarding their thoughts on the restoration. Spencer enumerated in detail the grand improvements in the works. I smiled when he mentioned the name of his contractor. I hoped for Hank’s sake that he’d be able to continue his work. The successful reconstruction of a historical building could lead to some nice contracts in the future.
Some day he might even catch up on the back child support he owed me.
Toward the end of the article, I discovered not everyone in the community was enamored of Spencer’s big project. Doug Blake, of Blake’s Bookstore, located next door to the hotel, grumbled about the noise, dirt and commotion. Abe Cartwell from Antiques Galore complained the scaffolding was an eyesore, and he thought it hurt the tourist trade. Abe ended his comments on a positive note, though, stating the hotel should eventually draw more business to the town.
Their remarks caused me to consider whether someone disliked the scaffolding so much that they decided to hang Spencer in protest. That seemed a wee bit extreme but then murder always is. According to the reporter, Spencer originally promised the renovation would be completed in the fall, but obstacles had arisen which might delay completion until the following year. The setback only added to the anti-Spencer sentiment.
I needed to discuss the remodel with Hank, but I had a feeling he might be the instigator of said obstacles. Still, I felt proud of his decision to finish the job properly without resorting to shortcuts or cheap solutions. Although I assumed Tom and his detectives would interview anyone who had publicly derided the victim, I made a note to share the article with him the next time we connected.
After all, he had delegated me to the gossip patrol.
I finally whipped out a glowing press release detailing everything Darius Spencer had done for the town and for El Dorado County. Despite some bad press, the man had been an important presence i
n our community. I left out any negative comments from people unhappy with the deceased, a much larger list than I’d first realized. As far as I was concerned, Spencer could rest in peace.
I pulled into the studio parking lot shortly before seven. Since Hank remained temporarily unemployed, he’d decided to pick up the kids from school then take them to a River Cats baseball game in Sacramento. The kids enjoyed spending time with their father, and since their summer break began the next day, this would be a nice way to celebrate the end of the school year. I only hoped Hank remembered to monitor Ben’s hot dog and cotton candy consumption.
Otherwise, I would be the parent cleaning up the grisly aftereffects.
Jammin’ Dance Studio was only a fifteen-minute drive from my house, which meant I couldn’t use distance as an excuse for not attending on a regular basis. They offered classes in tap, Zumba fitness, hip-hop, and belly dancing. Despite the murder investigation that had interrupted our Hawaiian vacation, Liz and I had still managed to consume more high calorie tropical concoctions than we could burn off during our trip. Once we returned home, we vowed to support each other by signing up for an exercise class together.
Last December Liz had forced me to take ballroom dance to learn a choreographed foxtrot routine for her wedding. With those grueling lessons under my belt, the steps to Zumba were easy enough to follow. Occasionally, when the rest of the class swiveled to the right, I moved to the left, but by the end, we always came together.
A blast of cool air greeted me as I entered the studio, a sign that owner and teacher, Kay Lenhart, expected us to work up a sweat tonight. The rest of the students, including Liz, mingled and chatted at the front of the studio. I didn’t see Janet Spencer, but I hadn’t expected her to attend tonight’s class so soon after her husband’s tragic death.
It had only taken one Zumba class for me to learn that I, the mother of two children, one of whom arrived in my hospital delivery room at Mach Ten speeds, needed to make a pit stop before jumping up, down, and around the dance floor. The ladies’ room, located in a different building, was locked so I waited outside.
