Dying for a Date (12 page)

"Dare I ask about your weekend?"

"Shush.” I pressed my index finger to my lips. “We'll have the whole office asking questions if they find out I was involved."

I dropped my voice and leaned across my desk. “Have you heard anything about the accident from anyone else?"

He nodded. “Rosa mentioned it this morning when we were getting coffee. She said her entire family had been going to Dr. Slater for almost ten years since he initially opened up his practice. She raved on and on about what a wonderful doctor he was, very caring and friendly. Not the kind of doctor who gives you a ninety-second exam, then moves on to the next patient."

He stood and plucked at the pleats in his perfectly pressed khaki pants. “Look, I'll go back to my desk, give you time to read the article. Buzz me when you want to talk."

I read the article word for word, not skimming it like I normally would. It contained numerous glowing references to Dr. Slater, his career and contributions to local charities. His closest relative was a younger brother who also resided in El Dorado Hills. The reporter didn't mention any specifics regarding a murder investigation, just the statement that the authorities were looking into all possibilities and nothing was ruled out at this time.

My stomach knotted up as I continued reading. The last paragraph concluded:
The El Dorado County Sheriff's Department has indicated that Dr. Jeremy Slater was dining with a female companion at the River Inn, the evening of his death. They are withholding her identity pending further investigation. The waiter at the River Inn described the woman as a short middle-aged redhead.

Middle-aged? The nerve of that waiter. He was probably upset he didn't get a tip.

Well, here was a tip. Don't expect to get tips from women you describe as middle-aged.

At least the newspaper hadn't mentioned my name. My employer is a conservative bank that caters to an equally conservative clientele. Management would not be happy if I was implicated in a criminal inquiry. But what did the sheriff's department mean when they referred to further investigation of Jeremy's dinner companion?

I wished Liz were in town to discuss the latest debacle of my brief Love Club membership, but she and Brian had gone to Monterey to scout for wedding sites. The shrill ringing of my phone disturbed my reverie. I hoped it was Liz returning one of the many messages I'd left on her home phone yesterday.

"Hi,” I said.

"Ms. McKay, good morning."

I recognized the caller immediately but the formality in his voice didn't bode well. Was this what they meant by further investigation?

I decided to be equally formal. “Good morning, Detective Hunter."

"Detective Bradford and I would like to ask you some questions. Could you set aside a few minutes this afternoon for us to come to the bank and talk?"

"Not here,” I said, evidently too loudly. Mary Lou's blonde waves popped over our adjoining cubicle wall. I really was going to have to get a promotion so I could get my own office. These cubes were not designed to conduct a personal conversation in private although that's probably why they were constructed that way to begin with. “I'm sorry but I doubt if my boss would appreciate having the sheriff's department interviewing me here in the bank. You would be a bit of a distraction.” I wasn't sure what would create the greater distraction—the uniforms or Detective Hunter's imposing presence.

"There's a Starbuck's right around the corner from the bank. Would it be possible to meet there?” I asked.

I heard him confer with someone else. “That's fine. What time?” We agreed on two-thirty for our meeting. The minute I disconnected, Stan ambled over to my desk. He must have grown tired of waiting for me to buzz him.

"C'mon, the least you can do is give your favorite personal shopper some feedback on your new dress.” He eased into the chair in front of my desk. “Was the doctor so dazzled by your beauty that he fell into the river and plunged to his death?"

I frowned at Stan's warped sense of humor but realized I would never get any work done until I related what happened. Stan listened intently and only interrupted once.

"Dom? He ordered Dom Perignon for your first date? What a great catch he would have been. You need to be less careless and stop losing your dates."

"Okay, that's it. Go annoy someone else.” I swiveled my chair around and watched the icons on my computer screen blur together as tears of frustration clouded my contact lenses.

The springs on the chair squeaked as Stan abruptly stood up. I immediately regretted my small outburst. “Stan, I'm sorry. I'm really shook up and your cavalier attitude was the last straw."

He walked around the desk and squeezed the back of my neck. “You're right. I was totally out of line.” His gaze veered to the left. “Uh oh. You better get back to work. I spy Earl heading this way.” Stan quickly disappeared down the aisle to his own cube.

Having learned from past experience never to be empty handed when Earl appeared, I rummaged through my file drawer pretending to be in search of something. I felt a brief touch of a beefy palm on my shoulder and spun around, narrowly missing colliding with my boss.

"Laurel, I haven't had an opportunity to say good morning to you yet. Did you have a nice weekend?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, fine,” I mumbled and continued my drawer ravaging. Earl eased his hefty frame into the chair Stan had vacated.

"Anything new and exciting in your life?” he asked, as a chorus of squeaks protested his visit.

Nope. At least nothing I planned to share with my boss.

He clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned back. “I wanted you to know how pleased the bank is with your performance. The delinquency ratio on the loans you've underwritten is the lowest in the department and I know you're handling more volume than any of the other underwriters."

Well, that was a relief. My life had been so chaotic recently I worried that I might screw up some of the loans I was underwriting. My shoulders relaxed and I blasted a broad smile at my boss. “Thanks, Earl, I appreciate the feedback."

"Just thought you should know we recognize your hard work. I was afraid you might apply for that branch manager position.” He winked at me. “I wouldn't want to lose such a valuable and attractive employee."

Branch manager? How did I miss that? Well, duh, if I paid more attention to my career than my sex life I might have noticed. As soon as Earl stepped away I would check the job postings in the break room to see if it was too late to apply.

But what was this about a valuable and attractive employee?

"Anything else I can do for you, with the exception of a raise, ha ha?"

Ha ha. “No, Earl, everything is fine. Bye.” Hopefully he would get the hint that I had work to do. Like finding out what the bank is paying branch managers these days. I could use a pay increase, especially now that there was an extra mouth to feed, albeit a very tiny mouth. Although at the rate Pumpkin was streaking through our house, our breakage costs could well exceed any salary increase.

Earl left my cube, giving me another one of those gentle pats on my shoulder.

I spent the next four hours trying to cram in a full day's work. I wasn't sure how long the meeting with the detectives would take and that branch manager posting needed to be checked out as soon as I returned.

On my way out, I stopped in the ladies room to refresh my lipstick and peel off a few stray orange and black hairs from my teal silk blouse. I zipped through the lobby, walked outside and shivered. Although the sky was as bright as the sky blue crayon in Ben's Crayola box, it was chilly—probably only in the mid fifties. My jacket was still hanging in my cubicle so I increased my pace to a slow jog. I flung open the door of Starbucks and barreled straight into one massive detective.

"Whoa, little lady,” he said, in a fair imitation of Gary Cooper.

Little lady. How cute. Way better than the newspaper description of a short, middle-aged woman.

My nipples hardened and I drew back. Must be the brisk wind outside that produced that effect. It couldn't possibly be the proximity of my chest to his. My face flushed as I apologized. “Sorry to crash into you. It's cold outside."

"Any time."

Any time?

"I saved that table.” He pointed to the rear of the restaurant. “A hot drink should warm you up. What can I get you?"

"I'll have a grande nonfat mocha with one Equal and two squirts of cinnamon syrup, hold the whipped cream."

He rolled his eyes. “Women. Even their drinks are complicated.” He whipped out his pen and his dog-eared spiral notebook from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. The dark brown leather looked soft and touchable.

I wanted to reach out and caress him.

I mean the jacket. I wanted to caress the soft leather jacket.

"Okay, repeat that one more time. Are you sure you didn't forget anything?” His pen hovered over his pad.

I described my concept of the perfect mocha again. It was a good thing Detective Hunter kept that notepad handy to write down my order. Was that the same pad that contained his notes on the investigation?

I meandered back to the corner table in the rear of the Starbucks, the scent of freshly roasted coffee, chocolate and cinnamon permeating the room. This was one of the larger Starbucks and the store was furnished with an ample number of wooden tables and chairs, plus some seating areas with cushy deep green upholstered chairs. The only other occupants were two fortyish women at one table surrounded by shopping bags and a single man carrying on a conversation with himself. Or maybe not. A Bluetooth gadget stuck out of his ear.

A few minutes later, Detective Hunter strode toward our table with my mocha grande and what looked like a plain cup of coffee for him. Typical policeman. It was too bad Starbucks didn't sell jelly doughnuts. That might have softened him up.

The two women eyed him as he carefully wove his way down the aisle trying not to spill the drinks. They simultaneously reached into their purses, grabbed their respective compacts and applied fresh lipstick.

Interesting effect he had on women. Present company excluded, of course. Too bad his personality wasn't as agreeable as his face, and his shoulders, and his...

Hunter placed the drinks on the table then hung his jacket over the chair. I couldn't help but notice how his soft tan turtleneck molded to his muscled chest. The sound of his voice interrupted my pectoral musings.

"One nonfat grande mocha with one equal, two squirts of cinnamon, no whipped cream, and good old French roast coffee for me. How did I do?"

"Excellent,” I replied. “If you ever decide to make a career change, you can always get a job here."

"Well, if I don't start making progress on both these murders, the sheriff may give me the option of being recruited by Starbucks."

"Two murders?"

"Two murder investigations with one common thread.” His dark eyes, the color of my mocha, pierced right through me as he sipped his coffee.

I gulped my mocha. Ouch. Hot. Very hot.

He lifted the notepad from his pocket and picked up his pen again.

"Taking another order?” A little levity couldn't hurt.

His brow furrowed as he contemplated his notebook, then me. Okay, maybe it could. “Ms. McKay..."

"Please call me Laurel,” I interrupted. “After all, our kids play soccer together. You don't think a soccer mom could be a murderer, do you?"

"Are you kidding? I've seen soccer moms on the sidelines. They're scary.” He softened his words with a slight smile. “Ms. McKay...” He hesitated then continued, “Laurel, the waiter at the River Inn stated that you disappeared from the table several minutes after Jeremy left the dining room. He said you were gone for quite awhile, sufficient time to have ventured outside the restaurant and confronted Jeremy. Where did you go and why?"

I gnawed at my thumbnail, a precursor to heavy cerebellum activity for me, and reflected back on that evening. “Well, the waiter kept pouring champagne in my glass so I kept drinking it, waiting for Jeremy to return to our table. Eventually I needed to use the ladies room. I was kind of inebriated. Wait a minute. Did the waiter say anything about those two men by the river?"

"What men?"

Now it was my turn to be frustrated. I was about to chastise him when it dawned on me that we had never discussed the mysterious strangers.

"When you were grilling me,” I paused as he frowned. Okay. Poor word choice. “When you and I discussed the incident Saturday night, I was kind of in an alcoholic haze. Yesterday I remembered the two men. I meant to give you a call today but you beat me to it."

He picked up his coffee cup and drained it. “Tell me more."

"I wish there was more to tell. I stepped outside looking for Jeremy and noticed two men standing along the bank of the river. One man's back was to me. He was on the tall side and it looked like he was balding, although I'm not really positive because it was dark out, although the moon was shining, kind of..."

He looked confused and I didn't blame him. I backed up and tried again.

"Anyway, there were two men talking but I couldn't see them clearly, and one of them was about Jeremy's height. It was chilly out so I went back inside and went into the ladies room. Then I sat down in this comfy lounge chair and fell asleep for about fifteen minutes."

He cocked his eyebrow at me.

"Honest.” I held up my right hand. “That's the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

He slammed the notebook shut and threw it on the table. “Laurel, this is no joking matter. Do you have any idea how serious this is?"

I slumped down in my chair. “I just can't believe I'm a suspect in both of these deaths. Who needs an alibi when she falls asleep in the ladies’ room?” My face lit up as I remembered something pertinent to the investigation. “What about the fact that Garrett was killed by a blunt instrument and not from his head hitting the window when I smacked him with his cell. Doesn't that exonerate me from his murder?"

His smile evaporated in less than a second. “You know this how?"

Darn. When was I going to start engaging my brain before my lips? I needed to divert his attention from the fact that someone in the District Attorney's office might have shared some official inside information with his fiancee, who might have shared it with her best friend.