by Cindy Sample
Jenna slid her chair back and grumbled her way out of the room.
Mother waited until Jenna was out of earshot before her inquisition started. “Why would you let Jenna fraternize with someone who’s spent time behind bars?”
“Tony came to her rescue the other day when Eric Thorson was bothering her. I’m sure that’s the only reason she has a soft spot for him.”
“We don’t need any boys distracting her right now. Not with those exams and college applications coming up.”
I was in full agreement with my mother, a rare occurrence indeed. The sound of two football fans hooting and hollering in the family room indicated the game was over and the Forty Niners had won. Mother picked up our cups, rinsed them out and loaded them in the dishwasher.
“Robert will be in a good mood. I need to talk him out of that foolish idea of assisting your boyfriend.” She glared at me.
“Tom doesn’t run his staffing needs by me, you know. I think your husband just misses being in on the action.”
“Maybe I can find some chores around the house. There are some pictures I need hung and a couple of faucets that should be repaired. Those tasks should keep him occupied.”
I doubted if replacing leaky faucets and hammering a few nails into the wall could ever achieve the excitement of a homicide investigation, but I planned on staying out of this discussion.
I had my own “to do” list to work on. It might not involve anything as important as solving a murder, but if I mucked it up, my career would be dead in the water.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A few minutes after eight the following morning, I walked through the glass double doors of Hangtown Bank’s corporate office, situated in a nineteenth-century brick building in downtown Placerville. After staying up until two a.m. to complete my marketing presentation, I’d neglected to set my clock radio. I was awakened from a sound slumber by ten pounds of fluff sitting on my chest, and a paw not-so-gently batting an early wakeup call on my chin.
Thank goodness for Pumpkin’s early alarm since it took an extra five minutes for me to mask my bruise with several coats of cover-up. The kids cooperated by getting ready without arguing over whose turn it was in the bathroom, and they both made it to their schools on time.
Sherry, the bank’s receptionist, glanced at her watch, but she merely smiled and winked at me. Working moms stick together. I was grateful my position didn’t require me to be tethered to a headset and switchboard by eight a.m. on the dot every day. Previously I’d worked at the bank in several capacities, first as a branch manager and then as a mortgage loan underwriter. I’d enjoyed underwriting but discovered that I missed the personal contact with bank customers. Sometimes analyzing a seven-hundred-page mortgage loan file just isn’t stimulating enough. When a position in the marketing department opened up six months earlier, I’d jumped at the opportunity to apply for the job.
My supervisor, Bruce Boxer, Vice President of Business Development and Marketing, not only bore a strong resemblance to his canine namesake in appearance, he’d barked at me on more than one occasion.
I’d worried whether marketing would prove to be my métier, or turn my life into what the French quaintly refer to as merde.
But then Cupid smote him with a perfectly aimed arrow, and Mr. Boxer morphed from a curmudgeon to the most relaxed boss ever. He was currently on a Mediterranean cruise with the new love of his life. Before he left on vacation, he’d begun handing more responsibilities over to me, making me curious if retirement was in his near future.
Which meant a promotion could be in mine. I was working hard to prove I was ready. Hangtown Bank was a well-run and conservatively operated local bank, owned by the same family for over 150 years. It took its name from the few years in Placerville’s colorful history when the town had been officially named Hangtown. Established during the California Gold Rush, the community had suffered with villains who attempted to procure their gold the easy way––via holdups and homicide. Fed up with the criminal element, the locals decided one day to mete out their own punishment. The stalwart oak hanging tree became a part of our city’s history.
I had barely settled into my economy-version ergonomic chair when Stan Winters, my friend and former underwriting co-worker, ambled in. Although Stan’s fashion sense occasionally drifted to something more suitable for the production of La Cage Aux Folles, today he could have posed for the cover of American Banker in his light gray pinstripe, aqua shirt and matching tie, a newspaper tucked under his arm.
“Hey, looking good,” I complimented him. “What’s the occasion?”
Stan preened and straightened his tie before sliding into my one and only guest chair. “The El Dorado County Musical Association invited me to a luncheon today. They also asked me to join their board.”
“That’s terrific. No one knows more about musical theater than you.”
He flapped his wrist at me. “Oh, please, there are probably one or two show tunes I haven’t memorized.”
He opened his mouth, and I interrupted him before he could belt out “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.” Despite Stan’s ability to rattle off the lyrics of every Rogers and Hammerstein musical ever written, he was completely tone deaf.
“You wouldn’t believe what happened to me this weekend,” I said, in an attempt to divert him from serenading me.
“You found another dead body?” Stan flourished the local newspaper with theatrical zeal, revealing the headline story complete with two prominent black and white photos.
In bold print, the title of the article screamed––Donut King’s Disturbing Death. Two large photos provided visuals. The photo of Axel Thorson looked like the one he’d used for official functions.
The photo to the right displayed a woman wearing a low-cut saloon girl dress perched on the top of a stagecoach. The caption under the photo read, “Local banker and Wagon Train supporter Laurel McKay makes a chilling discovery.”
“Oh, great.” I frowned at the paper. “Why did they have to mention me? And where did they get this photo?”
“Your wild stagecoach ride during the Wagon Train Parade last summer led to a wee bit of notoriety,” he said. “While I’m never surprised when you stumble over a dead body, how did you manage it this time?” He pushed his wire rims up his nose and examined me more closely. “And end up with a black eye. Tell, sister.”
Since I wouldn’t get any work done until I answered Stan’s questions, I shared everything that happened over the weekend, from the fight between the two teens, to my finding the victim and subsequent discussion with Detective Reynolds.
“Sad situation. You don’t think you’re a suspect, do you?”
“I think the detective suspects I’m a nuisance, but I barely know the Thorson family.”
“I’m not one to sugarcoat the situation,” Stan said, while I inwardly groaned at his pathetic pun. “But I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“Good. Because I’m giving a presentation to the Board tonight, and that’s my priority for today.”
“You’re moving up in the banking world. What’s your topic?”
“You know how I like to emphasize the Placerville community and its history in the bank’s promotional efforts,” I began when he interrupted me.
“Like that flyer you designed saying Hangtown Bank wants to rope in your account?” Stan stuck out his tongue and mimed having a noose around his neck.
My cheeks reddened. The promotion Stan referred to had focused on George, the dummy who hangs over the original Hangman’s Tree Bar on Main Street, a few doors down from the bank. I thought it a clever way of tying in some Gold Rush history, but my boss wasn’t as enamored of my historical creativity as I was.
“That was one of my first efforts. I’m far more subtle now.” I shoved a sample of one of the flyers I’d drafted into his hands.
“Nicely done.” Stan returned the flyer to me. “I like the idea of the bank sponsoring the annual Apple Tree bicycle race. It’s gre
at publicity for Hangtown Bank and the local farms and wineries that participate. You’ve got a winner there.”
“From your lips to the Board’s ears.” I returned his newspaper to him. “If only my fish-netted legs hadn’t landed on the front page of the paper the day I have to meet with the bank honchos.”
“Hey, it could have been worse. They might have submitted a photo showcasing your other assets.”
Stan was right. During a rowdy real life stagecoach chase, my saloon girl outfit had been seconds away from turning into a YouTube wardrobe malfunction. Today, I’d managed to conceal my Kim Kardashian curves under a boring Betsy Banker black suit. If you look like a professional and prepare like a professional, you can’t go wrong.
Right?
Shortly before six that evening, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. I rarely spent time on the plush executive level and those few occasions had resulted in me quaking in my clearance-sale heels. With my first presentation to the bank board due in a few minutes, I was trembling so violently I worried the nineteenth-century building might collapse.
I attempted an internal pep talk by rationalizing that a woman who has faced down a killer or two shouldn’t worry over facing a room filled with bank directors.
Although the plus side of facing off against a killer was that you didn’t have to worry about your PowerPoint presentation imploding.
My two-inch heels sank into the thick gray carpeting as I walked down the lengthy corridor past sepia photos of Ulysses S. Grant, John Studebaker, Horace Greeley, and other visionaries who had visited or resided in Placerville. Remembering their contributions to society boosted my flagging spirits and helped propel me down the hallway where the open door of the conference room awaited my arrival.
The twelve members of the Hangtown Bank Board mingled with one another near the back of the expansive room where the coffee, tea and pastries were. I’d already drunk enough coffee to flood a Starbucks, so my primary concern was that I wouldn’t rattle off my speech at warp speed. Or need a potty break mid-presentation.
The board was comprised of several Main Street store and restaurant owners, an attorney, a doctor, and several commercial farm owners including Walter Eastwood, owner of Valley View Vineyards and Orchard, one of the largest operations. The members came in all shapes, sizes and genders, although thinning gray hair was the most prevalent feature among the men. Some dressed in pinstripes while others wore logo-embroidered polo shirts and khakis.
A younger woman stood in the back of the room conversing with a short, stocky, silver-haired man––Mr. Chandler, the bank president. She appeared close to my age although I didn’t recognize her. Her glossy dark hair curled as if she’d spent years perfecting the style and her expert makeup enhanced her café au lait complexion. Her black-and-white geometric print dress completed the picture of a successful businessperson.
Who was she?
I laid the folder containing my presentation and handouts on top of the glossy polished cherry table. Belle, the president’s secretary, had promised the projector would be primed and ready for my spiel. Hopefully, I was primed as well.
After a few minutes, the board members assembled around the table. Mr. Chandler greeted everyone then introduced the visitor as Adriana Menzinger, the owner of a marketing firm located in Sacramento. Mr. Chandler announced that after the marketing department’s presentation, Ms. Menzinger would discuss the merits of my plan as well as present her own recommendations.
Although Mr. Chandler didn’t specifically say the words, it only took me a few seconds to realize that he, and perhaps the board, were considering outsourcing the bank’s marketing. Which meant I could be tweeting about my own unemployment in mere days.
Or hours. Talk about pressure.
My face felt hot and flushed. Rivulets of perspiration cascaded down my chest. Either the thermostat was broken or I was experiencing the first hot flash of my life.
I sensed my bangs curling from the unexpected heat wave. I opened the bottle of water at my seat and spilled a few drops on my papers. My preference would be to dump the contents on my head, but instead, I gulped the refreshing water hoping it would diminish the heat overtaking my body.
It didn’t help. Just when I felt I’d reached the seventh circle of hell, Mr. Chandler announced it was my turn to speak.
I grabbed my notes and walked over to the LCD projector stationed at the end of the table. Although I’d loaded my presentation earlier in the day, someone must have used the laptop in the interim. As I searched through PowerPoint, my internal temperature increased degree by degree.
The shrill notes of “Shake It Off” caused me to jump. Everyone’s eyes shifted to the empty chair where my black purse rested.
Crap. I sprinted around the table, grabbed my handbag and dug deep for my phone. I recognized my daughter’s ring tone and assumed she was calling to find out when I’d be home from the afterhours meeting. I breathed a sigh of relief when the clamor stopped as quickly as it had begun. Everyone in the room was staring at me. Could this day possibly get any worse? I received the answer immediately as a new text appeared on my screen.
Mom, I’m in jail.
CHAPTER NINE
As a single mother supporting her family, my career means a lot to me. But nothing tops the safety and welfare of my children. I apologized to Mr. Chandler and the board, indicating I had a personal emergency.
I left the conference room and immediately dialed Jenna’s phone. It rang several times before landing in voicemail. For the next five minutes, I repeatedly tried to connect but always ended up with the same result. Squaring my shoulders, I re-entered the conference room and beckoned to Mr. Chandler. He grimaced but remained silent as he followed me out.
“Is there a problem?” the President asked in a curt tone.
I showed him Jenna’s text. “I can’t reach my daughter. I have to drive to the jail and find out what’s going on.”
Mr. Chandler had once spent a short and uncomfortable stay at the El Dorado County government-run bed and breakfast. Since I was the one responsible for his eventual release, he responded to the text as I hoped he would.
“You need to be with your daughter. That’s your first priority, although your marketing proposal is clearly important to the bank. I’ll ask Adriana to go through your presentation then the board can discuss it afterward. She may even be able to make some recommendations. You and I can meet tomorrow to discuss the results.”
The odds of Adriana Menzinger supporting my initiative over her own marketing plan were about one in a million, but I had no choice. I thanked Adriana and the board members, grabbed my purse and flew down the stairs faster than Taylor Swift could shake it off.
During my brief drive to the county jail, I speed-dialed both Tom and Bradford, hoping someone official could lend some aid. Neither answered his phone. Not surprising. Tom was embroiled in his own investigation. Bradford could be doing who knows what with my mother. The senior newlyweds continued to enjoy each other’s intimate company far more frequently than their Generation X daughter and her boyfriend.
So annoying.
A hundred different scenarios, none of them appealing, flashed through my imaginative brain. Jenna had arranged for a ride home with one of her girlfriends who also planned to attend a special band practice today. Did the girls get into an automobile accident?
There couldn’t be any other explanation. My daughter was an A-plus overachiever. How else could she have landed in jail? I made one last phone call asking Patty Swanson, one of the other soccer moms, to pick up Ben from his practice and take him to her house until I could get him.
I drove up the long winding road leading to the jail and pulled into their parking lot. My car slid into a compact space between two Sheriff’s Office patrol cars. I grabbed my purse hoping that whatever reason landed Jenna in jail would not require any bail exceeding the twenty-dollar bill in my pathetic wallet. After walking out on the Board of Directors that could be the
last remaining twenty in my possession for a while.
The last time I’d been in the building had been to visit Hank during his brief incarceration.
I’d never expected to pay a return visit.
I entered the lobby and explained my situation to the female staffer sitting behind the bullet-proof check-in window. She nodded sympathetically then typed something into her computer. The hot flash that had previously invaded my body disappeared, leaving behind clammy hands and a chilled sense of disbelief.
“Your daughter is fine, Ms. McKay,” she said. “And, for the record, she is not under arrest.”
The sigh I let out was loud enough for them to hear back on Main Street. Confusion quickly followed relief.
“I don’t understand. Where is Jenna?” My voice escalated until it was as shrill as an American Idol reject.
“She’s still downstairs in booking. Please wait in the lobby, and I’ll arrange for one of the deputies to escort her upstairs.”
I tried getting more answers from her, but she was already attending to the lank-haired, sad-faced woman waiting in line behind me.
I plopped into a metal chair that squeaked its disapproval. The chair was probably older than I was. Rumor had it the county would soon build a new jail. At the rate I was visiting the premises, I hoped they’d hire someone from HGTV to furnish the waiting area.
After what seemed like an interminable wait, but was probably only ten minutes, Jenna walked out, her face pale, her expression grim. I recognized the officer accompanying her as Deputy Becker.
When Jenna saw me, a huge smile of relief appeared. It quickly disappeared as she hung back, undoubtedly waiting to see if my response would be that of a loving mom or a judgmental jury.
Her disciplinary sentence could wait until later. I grabbed her slender frame and drew her into the biggest Mama Bear hug I’d ever delivered.
