by Cindy Sample
The door opened and I moved aside to greet Janet Spencer, dressed in black as befitted a new widow. Although a black sports bra trimmed in hot pink with matching spandex shorts didn’t exactly comprise my definition of “widow’s weeds.”
“Janet, hi, um why are you––?” I sputtered in confusion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to see you in class tonight. How are you doing?”
She dropped her gaze and toed the floor with the right shoe of her silver-toned Nikes. When she looked up, tears quivered in her gray-blue eyes.
“I’m okay. Originally, I didn’t plan on coming tonight,” she said, “but Kay called to share her condolences and talked me into attending class. She’s a firm believer that dancing can cheer up anyone.”
I thought about it. I supposed our Zumba class could provide a brief respite from Janet’s troubles, although if my spouse had been murdered, I’d be home compiling a list of suspects. I guess everyone deals with grief in a different manner.
Some turn to swiveling. Others turn to sleuthing.
“Do you have any idea when the memorial service will be?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Not really. They still have to complete the autopsy before Darius’s body can be released to the funeral home.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. I still can’t believe someone would go to those lengths to um––”
“To humiliate my husband?” Her voice rose. “And our family?”
My face colored. “Well, it was a little extreme. Are you concerned about your own safety or that of your kids?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my. I just assumed one of Darius’s enemies finally did him in.”
I barely repeated the word “enemies” with a question mark, when the blast of a raucous samba beat echoed from the studio. Janet rushed off to join the students, and I finished my original mission before I lined up with them.
I squeezed in next to Liz whose hands and legs seemed in perpetual motion. The best thing about Kay’s Zumba class was the students could tone it down or rev it up depending on their age or physical condition. After three months of her classes, my body felt more fit than it had since my last pregnancy––a mere eight years earlier. One of these days, I might even be as toned as my mother.
Once class ended, I dragged myself to the side of the room, reached into my tote bag and chugged all sixteen ounces from my water bottle. Janet left a few minutes early, possibly to avoid any more sympathetic or curious glances from the other students, or nosy questions from me. I would have loved to learn more about her husband’s enemies. That could prove useful information for my favorite detective.
Liz and Kay chatted next to the CD player so I joined them. Kay complimented me on the improvement in my technique.
“Laurel, you’re doing so well,” she said, “you should dance with the group during the Wagon Train festivities.”
“Since I’ll be wearing that ridiculous saloon girl outfit, I think not,” I replied. “All it would take is one Zumba spin to the right and that dress would be spinning to the left. I wouldn’t want to distract the stagecoach drivers.”
“Is Janet performing with the group?”Liz asked.
Kay shook her head. “She dropped out. I thought dancing might take her mind off Spencer’s murder, but Janet said a public performance wouldn’t be appropriate.” Kay sighed. “That poor woman has gone through so much with that man.”
My eyes locked with Liz’s. “What do you mean?”
“I really shouldn’t share Janet’s dirty laundry,” Kay mused.
Oh, yes, she should. Dirty laundry can be a detective’s best friend.
“Laurel is helping the police with their investigation,” Liz informed Kay. “So anything you tell us could assist them in solving the murder.”
I raised both eyebrows at her comment but nodded at Kay. “I’m sure Janet would be grateful for the help.”
Kay looked around the studio to ensure no one hovered nearby. “Janet and I have been friends for years, ever since she enrolled her daughter in a tap class I taught. Marriage to Spencer hasn’t been easy, but she hung in there for the kids’ sake. When he told her he wanted to run for office, she became apoplectic.”
“A lot of women would be excited about the opportunity,” Liz remarked.
Kay shook her head. “Not Janet. She worried about negative publicity impacting her and the children. Then something happened that really freaked her out.”
Kay dropped her voice, and Liz and I both moved closer. “One afternoon, not too long ago, Janet received a phone call. Her caller ID indicated a private number so she has no idea who it was, but the caller said if her husband didn’t withdraw from the election that not only Spencer, but her entire family would be in danger.”
“That would bloody well freak me out,” Liz said. “Spencer must not have been scared since he didn’t drop out of the race.”
“Spencer told Janet not to worry,” Kay said. “He told her politicians get crazy calls like that all the time. He’d even received some phone threats at his campaign headquarters.”
I crinkled my brow as I mulled over Kay’s words. “I wonder if Janet told the police about the threat. I’m sure they have ways to track down the caller these days.”
Kay tapped her finger on her chin to the beat of the music. The petite dancer could never stand still without tapping at least one appendage. “Now that I think about it, Janet said Spencer figured it was his opponent.”
I tossed my head and beads of sweat flew off my brow landing on Liz’s designer workout top. She scowled at me, but I ignored her. “Tricia Taylor would never lower herself to making threatening phone calls,” I said.
“But her husband might,” Liz interjected. “Lars is a developer so his interests were completely at odds with Spencer’s no-growth platform. What happens now that Tricia won’t have any opposition for the primary?”
Both women looked at me.
“She wins,” I said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
By Friday, I was more than ready for my workweek to end and the weekend to begin, even if it proved to be another romance-free Saturday night. I hadn’t connected with Tom in the last two days other than a few brief texts between us. I knew he was busy, but I was eager to share some of the information I’d discovered regarding Darius Spencer.
I was even more eager to share some kisses with him.
I arrived at work wondering what “fresh hell” Mr. Boxer would have in store for me. I opened my bottom drawer to stuff my purse inside and discovered the baggie with the “Spencer” modified flyer inside. The odds of there being any useful fingerprints on it seemed slim, but it would provide an excellent excuse to lure Tom over for a quickie kiss.
Tom took my call and said he would arrange for someone to pick up the flyer. He sounded distracted, but if I were responsible for catching the killer of an important member of the business community, I’d be preoccupied myself.
Seconds after I hung up, Mr. Boxer buzzed and asked me to join him in his office. The invitation didn’t sound optional, so I grabbed a legal pad and headed for the stairs. My boss worked on the second floor executive level. The management team occupied glass-fronted offices furnished with shiny mahogany desks and matching credenzas. Framed black-and-white prints of scenes from Placerville’s nineteenth century heyday lined the hallway. I stopped to look at a few photos featuring such luminaries as John Studebaker, who wheel-barrowed his way to fame, and former President Ulysses S. Grant. The nostalgic memorabilia made me wonder if Gran had any old photos of my great-great-grandfather.
When I noticed Mr. Boxer glaring at me from his doorway, I stepped up my pace and followed him into his office. Large cardboard packing boxes covered the floor of the huge and normally immaculate room. His bulbous nose twitched as he gazed in distaste at the dusty, slightly battered cartons. I sensed that before this meeting ended, I would wish for the ability to twitch my nose and make the boxes disappear from sight.
Mr. Boxer lowered himself
into his massive navy leather chair. I sat in the far less comfortable visitor chair, pen poised to take notes. He gestured at the haphazard stack. “Yesterday Mr. Chandler decided Hangtown Bank should participate in the Wagon Train decorating contest. He feels it will boost employee morale after that nasty event earlier in the week.”
I assumed the nasty event Mr. Boxer referred to was Darius Spencer’s hanging. I uncrossed my legs then crossed them again, wondering what my involvement would be. I could devise a cheerful flyer or memo to boost the staff’s spirits.
“So, there you go,” he said, pointing at the cartons.
There I go where?
I tried not to look confused, but that proved to be impossible. “I’m unclear how you want me to help with this project.”
He jerked a thumb at the boxes. “You’re in charge of decorating the bank for Wagon Train week. These items have been stored offsite since the last time the bank participated. You’ll have a small budget to work with in case you need to purchase additional things.”
“You have got to be kidding,” I said, then promptly regretted my words. If there was one thing Mr. Boxer was not, it was a kidder.
“No,” he said, drawing the word out into three syllables. “I’m not. But you have an entire week to complete the project. If necessary, you can request assistance from other employees.”
My eyes lit up with relief that I would have extra help.
“When they’re on break,” he clarified. “We certainly can’t take valuable staff away from their regular workload.”
Meaning that my work didn’t have value? I opened my mouth to protest then closed it just as quickly. I needed this job. Not only did I have two children to feed, if Hank didn’t get back to work soon, there could be another mouth at the dinner table in the near future.
Mr. Boxer requested I remove the boxes from his office at once, so I went in search of some assistance. Stan’s cubicle was empty indicating he was on his break. I zipped through the mortgage department cubicles and entered the staff break room.
Stan stood at the counter stirring a cup of coffee, chatting with one of the other underwriters.
“I need your help,” I said to him.
He scanned me from the top of my loose-fitting aqua blouse to the bottom of my beat-up straw wedge sandals.
“I can see that,” he replied. “When do you want to go shopping?”
I tried to look affronted, but Stan was right. In the last three months, I’d dropped eight pounds due to my energetic weekly workouts. My old summer clothes looked less appealing on me than potato sacks.
Or even potato skins.
“A shopping expedition would be wonderful, but it will have to wait a week or two. I need your expertise to help decorate the bank for Wagon Train week.”
Stan frowned. “I’m really more into Art Deco than nineteenth-century furnishings.”
I mimed a goodbye to our co-worker and pushed Stan out of the break room. “Anyone can do Art Deco. But how many people can successfully design Wagon Train deco?”
It took almost an hour for Stan and me to carry the cartons from Mr. Boxer’s office down to mine. Since my office had originally served as the bank’s supply room, one wall retained storage shelves, which we used to stack some of the boxes. The rest we piled on the floor leaving a narrow path from my desk to the door. We decided to sift through the boxes over our lunch break and then determine what else we needed. Stan left my office and seconds later Deputy Fletcher knocked on my office door.
The good-looking deputy grimaced at my mess.
“I hope these boxes aren’t the evidence Tom sent me over to pick up?” Fletch asked.
“No, they’re my problem, not yours.” I reached into my drawer and pulled out the baggie. “Someone hung this flyer on the bulletin board next door. I doubt it has any merit but thought Tom should check it out. Are you helping investigate Spencer’s murder?”
Fletch shook his head and dropped into the side chair. “I kind of hoped they’d utilize me in homicide for this investigation, but I haven’t been involved at all. I did hear they may be close to an arrest.”
“That’s great news. Do you have any idea who it is?”
“Nope. They’ve been real close-mouthed on this one. The department is still short one detective since they promoted Lieutenant Hunter last February, which is why I hoped to move up the ranks. But they’ve brought in a couple of detectives from Sacramento County instead.”
“Hey, you’d be a great investigator,” I said. Fletch may have been a football star, but he’d also been a member of the national honor society with me. He definitely wasn’t a dumb jock, like a certain former classmate turned ex-husband.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Fletch stood, the giant baggie in hand. “So are you managing to keep Hank out of trouble?”
I sighed with so much gusto the evidence bag floated out of his hand. “I didn’t think once we divorced that keeping an eye on him would still be included in my job description.”
Fletch bent over to retrieve the baggie. “Hey, the guy misses you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you can entertain him for a change.”
He laughed. “Sure, I’ll give him a call and we’ll go out.”
The deputy had one foot out the door when I had a thought. “Fletch, are you working on that Clarkson cold case?”
He shrugged. “Sort of. Tom asked me to check on that old bullet.”
“Can you determine the weapon from a bullet that’s over a century old?”
He put his hand up. “Only if we retrieve the original gun and match it up. But this bullet is somewhat distinct. It looks like a Minié ball, developed during the Civil War, which was widely used by a variety of guns. Prior to the invention of this conical shaped bullet, ammunition consisted of small spherical balls.”
Fletch must have noticed my glazed look because he quickly ended his historical ballistics lecture. “Basically this bullet narrows the time period to sometime between 1862 and mid to late 1870’s. I didn’t think this case was a priority though.”
“My Gran is in a tizzy thinking she could be the granddaughter of a murderer, and I’m worried it could impact her health. So proving someone else did the deed is a huge concern for me.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Maybe if I solve the cold case, it will help me get that promotion.”
“I’ll owe you big time if you can prove no one in my family had anything to do with Clarkson’s death.”
“You got it,” he said with a wave, almost ramming into someone standing in the doorway. Speak of the ex.
“Hey, Fletch, man,” Hank said. He and Fletch did some kind of goofy knuckle bump thing.
“What are you doing here?” Hank asked Fletch as he perched on one corner of my desk and winked at me. “Is Laurel in trouble again?”
I glared at Hank. “Get your butt off my desk. And why is your sorry bottom in my office anyway?”
“I hoped you had some pull with your, um, ‘boyfriend.’” Hank did air quotes. “Janet gave me the okay to continue the remodel. The crime scene tape is gone, but both doors are padlocked.” Hank turned to Fletch. “Do you have any idea how much longer before I can gain access?”
Fletch’s radio squawked before he could answer Hank’s question. I told Fletch he could use the empty office next to mine to take the call. A few minutes later, my cell rang. I smiled when I saw Tom’s name on the line. I made a shooing motion to Hank, who eventually got the hint and left my office.
“How’s the case going?” I asked, feeling a tingling sensation in my lady parts, which always responded to the sound of Tom’s voice. I wondered if Pavlov had ever done a study on that kind of reaction.
“The case has taken an unusual turn,” he said. “Deputy Fletcher told me Hank is in your office.”
“He dropped by to see if I would ask a favor of you. Hank needs access to the hotel so he can begin work again. I don’t want to influence your investigation, but the sooner he gets bac
k to remodeling the hotel, the sooner he’s out of both of our hair.”
A heavy sigh resounded over the line. “He may be out of your hair sooner than you anticipated. Hey, I need to go. Please remember that I––”
I heard shouting in the background. “Aw, crap,” he said. “I’ll call you tonight.”
Fletch poked his head around the corner of my office. “Where did Hank go?”
I shrugged. “I’m not the boss of him. I have no idea.”
Fletch cursed then galloped down the hallway heading for the teller area.
What was going on with the Sheriff’s Department? They all sounded over-caffeinated today. Out of curiosity, I decided to follow Fletch. I reached the bank lobby, which as usual on a Friday, was wall-to-wall with merchants and seniors.
Friday was also cookie day!
I grabbed a Nutter Butter. It couldn’t compete with Gran’s cookies but would do in a crunch.
I chuckled at my silly pun then flung open the bank door. Doug Blake, the bookstore owner, almost mowed me down in his effort to get inside and to the section cordoned off for our merchant customers.
Once out the door, I paused on the sidewalk, looking to the right then to the left where Fletch and Hank stood next to the Hangtown Hotel, a few doors down from the bank. They appeared to be in a heated discussion. Their conversation was probably none of my business, but that had never stopped me before. It also looked like they could use a mediator.
I’d only taken a few steps in their direction when the shrill cry of a siren brought me to a halt. A dusty white sedan bearing the imprint of the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Office rocketed down Sacramento Street. Its tires squealed as the car rounded the corner, nearly taking out a bystander waiting to cross Main Street.
The car pulled into a vacant parking spot in front of Antiques Galore, across the street from where Hank and Fletch stood. They stopped arguing to stare at the new arrivals. Two men, one in a suit and another in uniform, jumped out of the car and crossed the street.
