Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (13 page)

“You remember how those officers were all hot to close the case ’cause they found Harold’s watch in the mineshaft?”

I nodded, remembering 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.

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 the 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?

Maybe two people colluded in his death. That would have made the task much easier. Had Tom or the detectives considered they might be looking for a couple of murderers. If so, then Hank would have needed an accomplice.

Omigosh. Could that be why I’d received so many strange looks? Did people think Hank and I were in cahoots?

Shoot. We hadn’t
cahooted
together in years.

Someone jostled my elbow, and I almost dropped my fudge. Doug Blake, the silver-haired bookstore owner steadied me.

“Sorry, Laurel,” he apologized. “I’m trying to avoid the crowd over there, but it’s almost as busy on this side. Crazy situation, huh?”

“I still can’t believe someone murdered Spencer,” I replied.

Doug snorted. “I can’t believe it took that long for someone to knock him off.”

“What?”

“Spencer gave time and money to the community,” Doug said. “I’ll grant him that. But he was one of the most arrogant, deceitful men I’ve ever run across. He was a wheeler dealer with the cards always stacked in his favor.”

“Did he wheel and deal you out of anything?”

Doug took his black-rimmed glasses off, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He remained silent while he cleaned both lenses. I waited, hoping he would feel compelled to fill the silence.

“What’s done is done,” Doug said. “Spencer is gone and Main Street is better off for it.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

“I could give you a legal pad full of names, but it’s not my concern. And it shouldn’t be yours since they already arrested, oh…” Doug’s voice trailed off when he realized who he was conversing with. “Hey, I was sorry to hear about Hank. He was so excited about this renovation.”

“Yes, he was, and there’s no way he would have killed Spencer.”

“I can’t see it myself. Although I heard him badmouthing Spencer that night right before he was killed. Well, it was actually in the wee hours of the morning.”

“What are you talking about? Hank came to my house for pizza Monday night.”

“He might have shared a pizza with you earlier in the evening, but he was raising heck at the Liar’s Bench around midnight. That guy doesn’t hold his liquor too well.”

“Who else did you see in the bar?”

“It was pretty full that night. The Sacramento Kings were playing the Lakers, and the game went into double overtime. Every time the Kings tied it up with the Lakers, Lars bought a round of drinks for everyone. Trying to drum up votes for his wife, I guess. I was glad I could hoof it home instead of worrying about getting into my car.”

I gnawed on my lower lip. “Did Hank drive himself home? It doesn’t sound like he was in any shape to do that.”

Doug pointed across the street again. “I remember Hank mentioned something about sleeping it off in the hotel. Said he had a sleeping bag and camping gear in his truck.”

If Hank spent the night in the hotel, how did he sleep through someone killing Spencer and hanging him on the scaffolding?

I felt like I’d been sucker punched when I realized the cops might be right.

Maybe Hank
had
done it!

As I strolled down the sidewalk, I thought about Doug’s comment regarding Hank. I simply couldn’t fathom my ex as a killer, so instead I mulled over the news that the Liars’ Bench bar had been crammed full of potential suspects the night of the murder. Of course, just because the men were fans of the Sacramento Kings didn’t automatically make them killers.

It merely meant they were
optimists
.

Doug hadn’t mentioned anything about the victim being in the bar that night. If Hank had badmouthed his boss then Spencer most likely wasn’t present. I wondered how the killer lured Spencer to the hotel.

Or did the killer find out about the five a.m. meeting between Spencer and Hank?

Was there any possibility the victim was fooling around with another woman? If so, wouldn’t he prefer a fluffy bed as opposed to a sawdust-filled tryst?

Perhaps Spencer was being blackmailed. Or he was blackmailing someone else.

Or maybe I’d drunk too much coffee and eaten too much sugar this morning.