by Cindy Sample
“Bradford or Brian might have some suggestions as to a good defense attorney. I’ll see what I can find out. Anything else?”
“Just pray for me.”
“Do you have any idea what kind of evidence they have against you?”
“No. It must be some kind of stupid mistake.”
“Tom and I are having dinner tomorrow night. Maybe he’ll share something with me.”
“You’re still dating that jerk?” Hank sounded more horrified than if I were dating a zombie. “After he arrested your husband? I bet he threw me in jail to get me out of your life.”
“Ex-husband,” I corrected. “And I’m as upset as you are. But this has to be some kind of mix-up.”
“Let’s hope so,” Hank said. “If not––”
I heard a click followed by the dial tone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It didn’t surprise me that Mother’s vast database of real estate clients included an attorney or two who specialized in criminal law. Bradford chimed in with a list of defense attorneys he’d butted heads with in the past. A few of them, he grudgingly admitted, were darn good at their jobs.
After reviewing the list, I placed a call to Rex Ashford, the top defense lawyer in town according to both Bradford and Brian. My rooster clock chimed twelve times in the background, each chime sounding louder and surlier than the last, reminding me it was midnight. I assumed Rex wouldn’t respond until the morning, but criminal attorneys apparently keep odd hours. He picked up on the third ring.
I shared everything I knew about Hank’s situation with Rex, which took all of about thirty seconds. Since he practiced in Placerville, he already knew about the case. He promised to contact the Sheriff’s Office immediately to determine what evidence they possessed. Then he would meet with Hank as soon as possible the following day.
“It isn’t often, Ms. McKay, that I receive a call from a woman looking to hire an attorney on behalf of her ex-husband,” he said. “Usually they want me to find a way to put their ex-husband in jail, not get him out.”
“Well, we’re one big dysfunctional family. I should probably inform you that Detective Tom Hunter and I have been dating the past few months. That may have complicated the situation a tad.”
“You and Hunter are together?” Rex roared with laughter. “This case is getting more and more interesting.”
The attorney continued to chuckle as we hung up. As I climbed into bed, I realized we’d never discussed his fee structure. I suspected criminal defense attorneys made more in a few hours than I made in a week. Maybe he’d give a discount for the most entertaining case of the year.
I closed my eyes and tried counting sheep, but my busy brain decided to count the funds in my savings account instead. I finally realized it would be easier to solve the case myself than it would be to find the money to pay for an attorney. A Saturday morning visit to the Main Street businesses might provide a few answers to my many questions. It also might provide me with a hot outfit to entice my even hotter detective into divulging a detail or two about his latest homicide case.
I woke the next morning even more exhausted than the night before. I scrutinized my cheeks in the mirror, hoping the tiny lines creasing my face were due to me hugging my pillow all night and not a sign of my impending fortieth birthday.
The men in my life were certainly not helping me age gracefully.
The kids remained asleep, so I crept down the stairs into the kitchen. I brewed coffee then went outside to retrieve the morning paper. A few minutes later, I sat at the table with a cup of hot Kona coffee and a bowl of bran flakes in front of me. I flipped through the reams of advertising and finally pulled out the main section of the Sacramento Bee, which for some reason always ended up buried among the ads. I grabbed my spoon, turned the front page over and immediately dropped the utensil on the floor.
It had been several years since I’d gazed at my ex-husband over the breakfast table. This morning Hank faced me from the front page in full handcuffed ignominy.
The headline read Hangman Arrested in Hangtown Homicide.
The reporter spent several paragraphs detailing Darius Spencer’s candidacy as well as his numerous community activities. The article said the victim had hired Hank to remodel the Hangtown Hotel. That was the sole mention of my ex. Not a scrap of information on the reason for Hank’s arrest. Nor any mention that he’d formerly been married to moi. A fortunate omission but likely a short-lived respite. The odds of a reporter calling the ex-wife for a comment were increasing by the minute.
I shoved back my chair with so much force it smacked against the wall. Then I dumped my untouched cereal down the drain. If I didn’t help Hank get out of jail, my children could be scarred for life.
This mother was not about to let that happen.
There was little time to waste. If I wanted to pick up any gossip, the first place I should start would be the Hangtown Bakery where I could find hot donuts and even hotter gossip. I had a feeling Hank and I would need all the help we could get.
An hour later, I sniffed the soothing scents of cinnamon, chocolate and coffee permeating the air at Hangtown Bakery. A hint of something else tickled my sensory memory bank. A voice cackled from the rear of the large room, and nostalgia flooded my being as I recognized the familiar scent.
Mothballs and magnolia. My grandmother’s favorite perfume combined with the smell of her closets brought back memories of my youth, playing hide and seek with my brother in the nooks and crannies of her house. Gosh, I hated to think of her selling that beautiful old Victorian. It might be time to chat with my mother and see if I could talk her out of listing Gran’s property.
You can’t put a price on childhood memories.
Gran waved at me from her table in the rear. I squeezed between the crowded tables to join her and her friends. The three Miss Marples from the historical society blinked at me from behind their thick glasses. If not for their jogging outfits, each in a different pastel color, I’d never be able to tell them apart.
“Just the person we wanted to see,” crowed Gran. “We might’ve found our killer.”
Thirty pastry-eating, coffee-drinking heads turned in our direction. Subtlety was not Gran’s motto.
An unoccupied chair sat at the table next to Gran’s. The young couple making googly eyes at each other ignored me when I asked to borrow it. I squeezed the wooden chair between Gran and Miss Marple One, the tallest of the trio.
Gran seemed perturbed by my lack of enthusiasm. “You don’t look all that excited about our discovery.”
“Oh, no, that’s great,” I said. “One less dead body for me to worry about.”
She patted my palm with her own small hand. “I saw the article about Hank’s arrest in the paper this morning and called your mother. Barbara said you had the situation under control. How are my great-grandkids taking the news about their father?”
“Not well.” My eyes started to tear. All three Miss Marples reached into their oversized purses to offer me an assortment of embroidered hankies. I didn’t want my mascara to permanently stain the starched white linen, so I reached into my purse for a tissue to handle any cosmetic damage.
“I hired an attorney for Hank last night,” I said, “so hopefully he’ll be out of jail soon.”
“Those bozos at the Sheriff’s Department couldn’t find a killer if he walked into their office and confessed,” Gran declared to her friends.
“Don’t forget I’m dating the head bozo.”
“Oops.” She turned to the Miss Marple to her left. “Looks like we have another mystery to solve.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said sharply. “The only murder you’re allowed to investigate is your grandfather’s case. So what did you find out?”
The Marples leaned in, their fluffy white heads bobbing as Gran spoke.
“You remember how those officers were all hot to close the case ’cause they found Harold’s watch in the mineshaft?”
I nodded, rememberin
g how awful I’d felt when Fletch shared that news.
“We’ve been reading some old Mountain Democrat newspapers, and they mentioned a couple of stagecoach robberies that occurred on the route from Virginia City to Placerville.”
“Did Black Bart rob them?” I smiled thinking of the unarmed bandit who was so terrified of horses he robbed his victims on foot, leaving behind a poem to commemorate the occasion.
She shook her head. “Old Bart held up more than his share of coaches but not in El Dorado County. And these holdups were in the 1860s, more than a decade before Bart’s time. They never figured out who robbed the stagecoaches. But someone also sneaked into homes and boarding houses. Folks lost coins, jewelry, tools and other valuable stuff. In fact, when George Clarkson disappeared, most people figured he was the culprit and he’d vamoosed with the loot.”
“So how does this information help my great-great-grandfather?” I twisted around to see if the line at the counter had diminished. I was going to need some fresh coffee in order to follow my grandmother’s convoluted logic.
“Maybe someone stole Harold’s watch,” chimed in the smallest of the Marple triplets. “And it somehow landed in the bottom of the mineshaft.”
I mulled over their remarks. Their theory seemed somewhat farfetched, but I didn’t want to put a damper on their detecting. “Not bad, ladies. If nothing else, it should muddle things enough so the Sheriff’s Office doesn’t close the case immediately. I doubt it’s a high priority anyway, not with Darius Spencer’s murder needing to be solved.” I rested my face on my palms. “Or maybe that’s no longer a priority if they think they’ve arrested his killer.”
“There, there, child,” Gran murmured in the same soothing tone she’d used on the numerous occasions when she’d bandaged my scraped knees and elbows thirty odd years ago. “The girls and I are here to help you.”
“I don’t want you doing anything dangerous,” I instructed the women. “But I suppose a little gossip gathering couldn’t hurt.”
Gran’s blue eyes, handed down to every generation of my family, sparkled with pleasure. “That’s the spirit. We’ll infiltrate the Ladies League and the Hangtown Guild. Dig up a little dirt. That will be more fun than digging in our gardens. Right, girls?” She winked at her friends and they winked back––in unison.
I knew I should forbid my grandmother and her friends to get involved. But I figured they couldn’t get into too much trouble. If my childhood memories served me right, Gran had a knack for determining when someone lied to her.
The senior snoopers were officially on my payroll.
CHAPTER TWENTY
No sooner had Gran and her posse departed than a former bank employee entered the bakery. I hadn’t seen Rose Garcia since she’d left Hangtown Bank to assist with Tricia Taylor’s supervisorial campaign. Rose’s short black bob seemed to have acquired more silver threads in the past six months.
After Rose placed her order at the counter, she scanned the room. Since customers occupied all of the tables, I waved her over.
She set down her scone and coffee, and I stood to hug her. Rose had worked in the HR department, but when Tricia asked her to help manage the campaign, she didn’t hesitate to quit her job.
Sunlight streaming through the window made the sugar dotting her blueberry scone glitter brighter than the diamonds sold at Randolph’s Jewelry. My stomach growled in appreciation.
“Sounds like you need a pastry refill,” Rose said, biting off a chunk of her scone.
“I’ve yet to make it up there. Be back in a sec.” I dashed to the counter before anyone else could walk through the door. With a cup of coffee in one hand and a glazed cinnamon twist in another, I rejoined her.
“How are you enjoying your new position at the bank?” Rose asked.
My doleful expression provided the answer to her question. “Mr. Boxer is a bit of a bear to work for.”
“That’s what his last employee said when we did her exit interview,” she said. “We chatted with him about his communication skills, but it sounds like they could still use some improvement.”
“Well, I’ve made a gaffe or two along the way.” I told Rose about my Hanging Man flyer mishap.
She laughed then began choking. Chuckling while eating a scone is not a recommended activity.
I prepared to wallop her back when she stopped coughing. “Oh, Laurel, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in days. I needed that. Running a political campaign has been a far more negative experience than I’d envisioned.”
“How so?”
“Oh, I guess I’m naïve when it comes to this stuff. Since Tricia and I have been friends forever, it seemed an easy decision to assist with her campaign. It’s just…” She stared out the window at the Saturday traffic crawling down Main Street. “I didn’t realize how influential her husband would become. Or his cronies.”
“Regarding some of Tricia’s political positions?” I asked.
She nodded. “Tricia and I seemed in complete agreement when we first planned her campaign. I classified her as a moderate, primarily interested in improving the county’s finances, keeping roads, parks, etc. well-maintained, working with agricultural and business interests to best represent them.”
“Initially, I thought that, too,” I said, “but she seems to have switched to an ardent pro-growth position. We could use some new businesses in this area, but with the drought impacting our water supply, and the current traffic congestion on Highway 50, I don’t think we have enough resources to handle the type of residential growth she’s envisioning.”
Rose swallowed the last dregs of her coffee then grimaced. I couldn’t determine if her expression was due to the bitter brew or her employer’s opinions.
“Tricia’s husband, Lars, suffered significant financial losses when the real estate economy went bust,” Rose said. “He still owns huge tracts of vacant land he bought over a decade ago. He wants to develop it into high-density housing, but Spencer and his supporters were against any new development in our district.”
“How does Spencer’s death impact Tricia’s campaign?”
“Unless someone attempts a write-in campaign, which hardly seems likely with the election in ten days, Tricia will be the only candidate for that district.”
I tried to think of a tactful way to phrase my next question but decided that was impossible. I’d go with the Laurel McKay blurt-it-all-out approach.
“You don’t think Lars had anything to do with Spencer’s murder, do you?” I asked.
“Of course not.” Her voice rose. “I’m shocked you would even suggest it. Plus they already arrested someone. I didn’t catch his name, but he’s a local contractor.”
“That contractor is my ex-husband.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you surprised he did it?”
“Hank did not kill Darius Spencer.” I thumped my empty coffee cup in emphasis. “I don’t know what evidence the police possess, but they have it completely wrong.”
Rose didn’t appear as convinced as I was. “Well, I suppose they could be mistaken.”
“Have you run across anyone else who had it in for Spencer? Besides Tricia and Lars.”
Rose bristled at my comment. “Tricia didn’t have it in for the man. Obviously they didn’t see eye to eye on growth in this county, but she didn’t dislike him.”
“Well, someone detested him enough to kill him. Maybe someone else disagreed with his position.”
“Hmm, I suppose that’s a possibility.” She gathered the remains of her breakfast. “Some of Tricia’s supporters are a tad rabid about their right to develop their property. Especially Phil McKinley, the owner of the Six Springs project. But I can’t imagine anyone murdering someone over a housing development.”
“Could you keep me posted if you hear anything? This is such an ordeal for my children.”
“You poor thing. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.” Rose looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get going. Tricia has a speech tonight at th
e Summer Festival fundraiser. These events are tough. I’ve put on ten pounds since her campaign started.”
I gazed down at three tiny crumbs, the remains of my cinnamon twist. Detecting wasn’t helping my diet plan either.
I walked out of the bakery and stared at the throngs of pedestrians cramming the sidewalks. Weekends provide a busy tourist trade for Placerville since Highway 50 takes travelers directly from Sacramento to the south shore of Lake Tahoe. You can bypass the downtown, but why do that when well-stocked antique stores line both sides of Main Street? Not to mention excellent dining options. And sweet shops.
Someone must have passed a law making it mandatory for gold rush towns to have a candy store on every block. A decision I heartily agreed with. I darted into the Candy Strike Emporium, packed as usual. Their homemade truffles and fudge were a must-have purchase.
Even though it wasn’t my face on the front page of the paper this morning, I still felt like people were staring at me. I hoped I was just overly sensitive due to my new status as the divorced wife of a suspected killer. Our situation had Lifetime movie written all over it.
I gnawed on a piece of fudge while I ambled down the sidewalk. Maybe if I stared at the scene of the crime, some wonderful deductive thought would pierce my confused brain. Although crime scene tape no longer covered the building, several onlookers peeked into the windows. There couldn’t be much to see other than dust, plywood and tools. Maybe they hoped an apparition or two would flit through the empty rooms.
From my perspective, a paranormal killer would be a definite improvement over my former husband being jailed.
I stared at the metal and wood scaffolding from the opposite side of the street. How had Spencer been killed before the murderer strung him up? Would a woman have enough strength to do the deed?
