Dying for a Date (25 page)

Stan opened a drawer in the black lacquer dresser before I could stop him. After looking at the decor, I had no desire to learn anything further about Garrett, like the style of his underwear. Or size.

Ick. Too late. Stan held up a teeny-weeny zebra print thong.

I peeked in the bathroom, which continued the jungle theme with leopard print wallpaper and matching towels. Where on earth did he find this stuff? There was a large Jacuzzi tub, enormous dual head shower stall, and dark brown oversized wicker hamper. Mother and Stan walked up and peered over my shoulder.

"I would kill for a bathtub that size,” I mused. My companions stared at me. Guess I could have phrased that better.

The room down the hall from the master bedroom was probably a guest room, very plain and furnished in beige on beige. The last room appeared to be Garrett's office. Now this was more like it. Garrett must have been a golfer because he had a multitude of golf related souvenirs decorating the top of a large glossy ebony desk. It sure beat the animal safari theme in his bedroom. Framed prints of what I gathered were various famous golf courses hung next to a wall that was lined with matching polished black bookcases and file cabinets. Stan wandered over to examine the prints.

I opened a few of the file drawers but as I suspected they were empty. Either cleaned out by Garrett or the sheriff's department.

"Anything in there?” Mother asked.

I sighed and slammed another drawer shut. “No. I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I'm just desperate to find something that would point to a suspect other than me."

"If you'd only listened to me and not joined that stupid Love Club."

"Hey, what's done is done. You don't need to air our dirty laundry in front of Stan."

Stan's face lit up. “Dirty laundry.
CSI
always goes through the laundry hamper."

"Ick.” Mother and I responded in unison. At least we agreed on something.

Stan wandered off to emulate his favorite investigators. I opened the rest of the desk drawers. Nada.

"Oh, girls,” trilled my buddy from the master bedroom.

After accidentally viewing Garrett's zebra print thong, I didn't need to learn anything further about his personal habits, but his office wasn't providing anything useful. We returned to the master bath.

"Voila,” Stan said, pointing to the opened wicker hamper with the panache of Vanna White. The hamper was full of teeny animal print bikinis, T-shirts and dirty socks. No vowels or consonants that I could see.

"Stick your hand in all the way to the bottom,” he instructed.

It was a very big hamper full of dirty laundry. Double Ick.

"Stan, you have five seconds to reveal the secret in the bottom."

He smirked.

"Wait a minute. That's the secret, right? A false bottom?"

"That's my girl detective."

I knocked the hamper over. Not subtle but effective. Dirty disgusting smelly underwear, tube socks, T-shirts and...

Tax returns?

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I grabbed the stapled returns off the floor. “Interesting choice of filing cabinet."

"He must have been afraid someone would go through his files in the office and the house. Who would think to look in his dirty laundry?” Stan's smile was as wide as the double sink vanity.

Underwriters review tax returns all day long so it only took me a couple of minutes to rifle through the pages. Nothing jumped out other than the fact that all six returns showed excellent income, in the hundreds of thousands. Maybe Garrett kept them in a special place because they were his best clients. He was definitely a weirdo. Just because the returns were filed in his dirty laundry didn't mean there was anything dirty about them.

We debated what to do with the papers. Since I was a prime suspect, I couldn't keep them. Mother didn't want anything to do with them, so I turned them over to Stan Spade's safekeeping until I figured out a way to tell Tom what we'd uncovered. We locked up the house and Stan and I hurried back to the office, hoping Earl wouldn't notice we'd been gone for over an hour.

I plowed through my loan files to make up for the time I'd spent out of the office then left a little after five to pick up my son. Soccer practice went into overtime. Although I'd planned on cooking a homemade meal for a change, the unhappy duet of Ben's and my growling stomachs left me no choice. I was forced to buy a home-cooked Chinese dinner from Lotus Garden, the closest takeout to our house.

The phone rang as I cleared the dishes—okay the cartons—from the table. Jenna grabbed it. She spoke briefly then handed it to me.

Who is it? I mouthed. She shrugged and walked out of the kitchen.

"Hello,” I said, my voice husky, expecting to hear Tom's voice.

"Hi, Laurel. It's Peter."

"Oh, hi."

"We're still on for this weekend, I hope. I thought we'd try a new restaurant in Placerville called the Sequoia. It's received some excellent reviews."

"Sounds good."

We agreed he would pick me up at seven on Friday. We chatted for a few minutes until I begged off saying I had to help Ben with his homework. After my car crash, I was having reservations about going out with Peter. What if something happened to my mother's colleague while he was out with me?

Maybe I should start doling out pepper spray to my dates. Just in case.

The phone trilled again as I mulled over my situation. Probably Mother trying to make sure I hadn't screwed up her matchmaking efforts.

"Yes, Mother, Peter and I are still going out Friday night.” I grabbed a sponge and started cleaning the kitchen counters.

"Well, that's disappointing news,” said a deep familiar voice. Startled, I knocked over Ben's unfinished glass of milk. White liquid spurted all over my lactose intolerant silk blouse.

"You are so lame,” I muttered as I dabbed at the spots with a wet towel.

"Excuse me?"

I apologized for my lame remark. I hoped Tom wouldn't remember my earlier comment.

"So, about this dinner date Friday night,” he said. I swear the man has a memory like an elephant. Of course that could be the reason he made detective.

"Just dinner at the Sequoia with a friend of my mother's. You know how that goes."

"Sure. My parents have fixed me up a few times. They feel I've been a grieving widower long enough. They think Kristy needs a mother."

"A little feminine influence couldn't hurt,” I agreed, envisioning the muddy tomboy as she attacked the boys on the soccer field.

"It's hard to be both a mother and father at the same time. I guess you can relate to that first hand."

"Definitely.” There was a lull in the conversation. Should I tell him about our discovery today or wait to see why he was calling?

"Uh, Laurel, I've been thinking that I was sort of off base last night, you know, at the memorial service. I realize you and your friends are only trying to clear your name and since you don't know what you're doing, you can't really interfere with our investigation."

Hmmph. If this was Tom's definition of an apology, it wasn't working.

"Great. I've managed to put my size twelve in it again."

I dropped into the nearest chair. This could be a lengthy phone call. “Would you like to start over?"

"First I want to apologize for my behavior the other night. It was absolutely inexcusable.” He paused. “By the way, do you really think it's safe to go to dinner on Friday?"

"Safe for me, or my date? My mother would kill me if I cancelled."

"Okay, but try to stay out of trouble."

"Trouble? Me?” I laughed. “I don't suppose there's anything new with my case."

"One dead end after another. No pun intended. Add to that a fatal motorcycle accident off of Salmon Falls Road late last night. You didn't crash into any bikes on your way home, did you?"

"No, but something crashed into me,” I mumbled.

"What?” His shout was so loud I thought my receiver would explode.

"I was rear ended last night. I just missed colliding with a tree."

"Are you okay? Did you report it?"

"No. I mean, I'm okay but I didn't report it. The car or truck that hit me just kept on going."

"Jesus H.,” he swore. “Laurel, why didn't you call me? Where did it happen?"

"On Bass Lake Road. I was on my way home after driving by Garrett Lindstrom's house."

Uh oh. TMI. Too much information.

"You just happened to drive by Lindstrom's house last night?” His tone of voice had ventured back into frostbite territory.

"Um, kind of. I was checking to see if the house was listed For Sale."

"And?"

"It is. So Stan, my mother and I sort of looked at it today."

His voice softened, something I'd noted didn't usually bode well for me.

"So now your fingerprints are all over the house, correct?"

Fingerprints. That was dumb. Next time I'd bring latex gloves with me.

"Um, well, sure, but my mother and Stan's prints are there too."

"Your mother and Stan are not murder suspects."

Right. “We found some clues.” He'd be happy about that.

"Clues we missed.” His sigh was so forceful I felt it through my receiver. “Sure."

"Did your guys find the tax returns in the laundry hamper?"

"What?"

I spent the next five minutes explaining Stan's unusual but effective foray into Garrett's dirty laundry.

"I'll get someone over to Garrett's house right away,” he said.

"Umm, there's a strong possibility they aren't there anymore."

I held the phone away from my ear while he ranted. When the decibels diminished to a moderate level, I jumped back in.

"We were afraid the killer might come back to the house and discover them. There has to be a reason why Garrett hid the returns in the hamper. Anyway, I assumed you wouldn't want me to hang on to them since I'm your number one suspect so Stan took them home. He's going to bring them to the office tomorrow."

"Fine, just fine,” he replied.

Funny, he didn't sound fine.

"Would you like to know what we found out when we followed Dr. Radovich?” Maybe that would put him in a better mood.

"You followed Dr. Radovich? When?"

"Oh, we sort of ended up behind his car after Jeremy's memorial service,” I muttered.

The sound of garbled conversation in the background came over the phone.

"I need to go. I'll come to the bank tomorrow to pick up those tax papers. But listen to me. No more following suspects, no more attending memorial services, no more visiting dead guy's houses. My job is difficult enough without worrying about you all the time."

"But—"

"Good-bye.” The phone slammed in my ear.

Alrighty then.

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I had barely settled into my office routine Wednesday morning when the phone rang.

"Laurel, it's Liz. Guess what I discovered?"

"What?"

"Something dodgy is going on at Slater and Radovich's medical practice."

I closed my loan file. Detecting definitely trumped underwriting. Even though it meant putting aside the credit file of a well known Hollywood personality buying a mega mansion in Lake Tahoe. Yes, a little glamour occasionally wanders into the life of a mortgage underwriter.

"What did you find out?” I asked.

"I stopped at their office yesterday to drop off some brochures for Tara. That kid may dress like a bimbo, but she's a brainy bimbo. After we chatted at the service, she decided to do a little investigating herself. Neither she nor Carol have anything to do with the books, so she had to wade through a ton of clutter in Radovich's office before she found something."

Liz paused for effect. Why did my detectives have to be so dramatic?

"Tara eventually found the checkbook for the practice in his miscellaneous file. She has no idea how much money they normally keep in the account but Dr. Radovich has been writing checks to himself every week for several months. For thousands of dollars."

"Wow. That ties in to the losses Stan noticed at the casino Monday night. I wonder if Jeremy realized what Radovich was doing."

"Should we follow him again?"

"No, I think we're supposed to leave that to the sheriff's department. When I spoke with Tom last night he was adamant that we stay away from the doctor."

"Any new developments I should know about?” She giggled. “Either from a criminal or a sexual perspective?"

"Very funny. Most of our conversation consisted of him yelling. Although he did say he was worried about me."

"Worried about you getting hurt? Or worried he might have to arrest you?"

"Thanks, Liz. You really know how to boost a girl's spirits. Oh dear. Stan Spade just appeared with our latest evidence. Call you later."

I hung up to greet my assistant. Clad in a belted beige trench coat and plaid fedora, Stan looked more like a pervert than a detective.

"Nice duds,” I remarked.

He tipped his hat to me before he plunked it down on my desk. The tax returns were clasped to his chest. “I swear I couldn't sleep a wink last night worrying someone might break in and steal these. I made an extra copy just to be on the safe side.” He thrust the originals and the copies into my waiting arms.

"Did you look at them?” I asked.

"Nah. I figured my job was to discover the evidence. Your job is to evaluate it.” The sound of approaching footsteps got our attention. Stan grabbed his hat and slunk away while I quickly stashed the purloined papers in a drawer.

Carl King, manager of the loan-servicing department, paused in front of my desk. He was dressed in his standard navy blue suit, crisp white shirt and red and navy striped tie. He handed two fat manila files to me. “Laurel, I'd like you to review these delinquent loans. They're ready to go into foreclosure."

I grabbed the files and blinked at him in surprise. Despite other banks’ issues, conservative Hangtown Bank hadn't foreclosed on a property in over twenty-five years.

"Did I approve them?"

"No. Mary Lou underwrote both of them and Earl countersigned since both loans are over a million. That's why I want you to examine them. Just to make sure...” he hesitated, obviously not wanting to cast aspersions on my co-workers. “Let's just say I'd like another set of eyes to check over the paperwork."