Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (23 page)

“Your honey is on the board, remember? I’m sure he’ll feel obligated to attend.”

I mulled over Liz’s information. “Okay, but I’m not wearing that tortuous corset again.”

She sighed and I could almost sense her disapproving frown. “Whatevah,” she said, enunciating each annoying syllable. “I’m sure you can find an equally suitable but more comfortable top in one of the stores in town. Check out Redneck Bling. The blingier the better, I always say.”

Right-o as the Brits would say. Liz offered to pick me up at my house the following evening and I agreed. Even if I failed to woo my detective back into my life, at least I’d help improve the coffers of a worthy charity.

I returned to the parlor to find Gran and Fletch deep in discussion about some of my forebears’ exploits.

“I can’t imagine Granpappy rooting for the Confederacy, or getting involved in that Bullion Bend stick-up, but you’re welcome to go through the shed. Remember your goal is to prove old Harold innocent.” Gran looked at me. “Laurel, can you take this nice young man out back and let him look around?”

I nodded. I needed to rummage through the shed myself to find items for the bank. Plus if a four-footed oversized kitty showed up again, a man with a gun would be standing next to me. Although somehow I sensed Fletch and his weapon would not be nearly as terrifying to the mountain lion as my karaoke performance had been the other night.

We traipsed through the weeds, which seemed to have grown another foot since my last foray. By the time we arrived at the shed, tiny star thistle burrs coated his jeans and my slacks. Fletch had wisely worn leather cowboy boots. I had unwisely worn sandals and my toes were complaining about my poor fashion choice.

Fletch shoved open the heavy door then halted in the doorway. “Whoa.”

“Scary, isn’t it?” I said.

“I don’t suppose any of this stuff is categorized by time period?”

I almost fell on the floor laughing, but I didn’t want to land on any creeping critters. Battling the cobwebs hanging from the windows and rusty farm equipment sufficed as disgusting enough.

“I don’t think the shed has been a top priority for my grandmother.” I scanned the stacks of boxes crammed everywhere. “Nor anyone else in the family.”

“Do you have a game plan?” Fletch asked.

“How about we head for the nearest bar?”

Fletch laughed, but my remark wasn’t entirely in jest. It would take more than a couple of hours––more like a few months––to wade through the clutter.

We spent the next hour sifting through the contents of various boxes and cartons stored in the shed. We caught up on the latest news of our high school classmates, marriages, divorces, new additions. Fletch informed me his mother, whom I vaguely recalled from our early years, had moved to Florida. Actually, I remembered her excellent peanut butter cookies more than the woman herself.

I could almost visualize my tombstone. Here lies a woman who never met a cookie she didn’t like.

As we chatted, the pile of discarded trash grew exponentially. Mice had nibbled on the old books and newspapers that looked like they could have been interesting reading.

If you had absolutely nothing else going on in your life.

I sorted through the old volumes. Some I would donate to the Friends of the Library monthly sale. Others landed on the discard pile. Fletch helped me lift a large, heavy box that had been stored on the top shelf. When I dug inside, I discovered a treasure of family memories.

Several dusty journals and leather-bound photo albums had somehow managed to escape turning into a critter buffet. I grabbed a scratched wooden folding chair and plunked down. It squeaked its disapproval––a noise I optimistically attributed to its age and not the fudge I’d consumed earlier in the day.

Slowly turning the pages of one album, I smiled at the sepia photos of my grandmother as a small child. I assumed the pictures were of Gran since the petite blond woman holding her hand looked like a pint-size version of my own tall and elegant mother. I found it interesting that many of our family traits skipped generations. My personality resembled my grandmother’s far more than my mother’s, much to Mother’s dismay. And I definitely had not inherited my mother’s OCD genes.

“Can I help you go through those journals?” Fletch asked.

“No, that’s okay. You’ve spent enough time researching this case. I think my daughter will enjoy learning more about her family history. Plus it might take her mind off her father.”

Fletch threw me a sympathetic look. “I stopped and saw Hank a few days ago. He told me he’s counting on you to find out who the real killer is.”

I sighed so deeply the inch of dust on the album powdered my nose and cheeks. “My life is a disaster. My boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, based on our conversation this morning, says my interference has created issues with the Sheriff’s Department. But my kids are traumatized by their father’s arrest. What if Hank ends up in prison just because no one bothered to ask the right questions?”

“You’ve got a lot on your plate, that’s for sure.” Fletch rubbed his chin, leaving a dusty gray shadow behind. “Look, I can’t promise you, but let me see if I can learn anything helpful. I mean, a man can’t just let his old quarterback sit in a cellblock, can he?”

“No, he can’t.” I jumped up and hugged the deputy. “You’ve officially…” I stopped when I caught his expression, “okay, unofficially joined Team Hank.”

A neighbor’s rooster crowed an early wakeup call the next morning. I rolled over and peeked at the clock. Six thirty on a Saturday morning was far too early for this mother to rise and shine. My arms felt sore from hauling the old books and gold mining stuff from Gran’s shed to my car.

After my return home, I’d stayed up well past midnight reading my great-great-grandfather’s journals. Despite Harold’s spindly handwriting and the faded ink, his description of his younger days kept me turning pages until my eyes refused to stay open any longer. While the information proved interesting from a historical standpoint, it didn’t answer any burning questions about the body in the bottom of the mineshaft.

Oh, well. Mr. Bones had remained hidden for more than a century. A few more days or years would not make a difference in anyone’s life. Except for Gran, who was desperate to learn the truth about her grandfather’s past.

And my mother, who wanted the property on the market yesterday.

A half hour later, Jenna slid into one of the oak spindle-backed kitchen chairs. The mouth-watering scent of the Kona coffee I’d brewed must have wafted its way upstairs. Her eyes appeared redder than mine were.

“You’re up early,” I said to her. That was my subtle way of asking why she wasn’t sleeping until ten like usual.

“I had a nightmare.” She rubbed her eyelids so hard I thought her tender skin would peel off. “About Dad. I dreamt that some old guy with a badge, strung him up on the gallows. When they let it drop, Dad fell and…then I woke up.”

I reached for her slim hand and stroked it. “Did you and Ben watch a western last night?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s probably because I leafed through the newspaper to check out the Wagon Train activities next week. I guess my subconscious mixed the two thoughts together. When can we visit Dad?”

“He told me he doesn’t want you kids to see him in jail. Plus he’s optimistic he’ll be out any day now.”

“But what if they don’t let him out and he goes to trial? There’s no possibility Dad can get the death penalty, is there?” Her face was so ashen her freckles looked like they’d been painted on her cheeks.

“Of course not. He’ll get off. He has to…” My voice petered off as I wondered what would happen if Hank did not get out of jail.

If I couldn’t prove my ex-husband did not kill Darius Spencer.

I slammed my mug down, and the lukewarm liquid slopped on to the table. A guilty verdict was not an option. Maybe I should stop my subtle approach to sleuthing and start accusing some of the more likely suspects. Would I upset someone enough to confess to his or her crime?

Hardly. It was far more likely I would become the next victim. But it was beginning to look like that was a chance I needed to take.

I told Jenna about Harold’s old journals, and she jumped at the chance to help solve at least one mystery. With that project delegated, I would have more time to shop and sleuth along Main Street this morning.

My costume search began at Redneck Bling. The store lacked bustiers, but it definitely did not lack bling. I selected a long-sleeved red sequined top, a pair of dangling earrings and a matching set of inexpensive rhinestone bracelets to adorn my wrists tonight. The jewelry reminded me of Hank’s handcuffs. I stuffed the bag in my purse and switched my brain into detecting mode.

Next stop––Blake’s Books.

Doug had acted peculiarly toward me ever since the police arrested Hank. I wondered about the reason for his unusual behavior. This might be the perfect opportunity to confirm Tricia Taylor’s comments regarding Spencer’s proposed expansion.

I pushed on the door and two tiny bells tinkled overhead. Snowball, the oversized long-haired white cat, stretched luxuriously across a pile of books in the window display. She threw me a sleepy-eyed look then furiously began licking her toenails.

If you’re going to sit in a store window all day, you better make sure your claws are clean.

My own claws might need sharpening in order to pry information out of Doug.

The proprietor walked behind his counter and dropped a stack of leather-bound books on the glass surface. I gazed at the volumes, stymied for an appropriate segue into my investigation.

“Are those local history books?” I asked.

“Yes,” Doug said before moving the pile to a shelf behind him.

“Could I take a peek at them? Did you hear about the skeleton found in my grandmother’s backyard? Gran is petrified her grandfather may have killed his former partner. My job is to figure out who this pile of bones really is. And how he ended up in that boarded-up mineshaft.”

Doug relaxed his shoulders and expelled a long breath. The proprietor seemed relieved we’d found a dead guy in Gran’s backyard. He turned to the pile and selected three volumes.

“These books all deal with the history of the gold country.” Doug laid the books in front of me. “Is there a particular incident you want to research?”

“I’m not sure. Based on a wee bit of evidence, the Sheriff’s Department thinks the victim might be George Clarkson. He and my great-great-grandfather owned a mine together. Clarkson supposedly disappeared in 1864. Everyone thought he ran away, but no one knew why. There were rumors he might have committed a robbery or two.”

Doug grabbed the volume on the bottom of the stack and opened it up. His index finger traced the Table of Contents. He flipped pages until he found the one on gold rush miscreants. I leaned over so we could pore through it together.

“This chapter goes into some detail about the local criminal element around here––a few of the more famous bandits like Bloody Dick Crone and Rattlesnake Dick.”

I chuckled and Doug broke into a wry smile. “Hey, they really existed. I didn’t make them up.”

“I’m laughing because I may have dated a dick or two,” I elaborated. “My ex-husband excluded from that description.”

Doug’s face grew serious. “So how is Hank faring?”

“Not well. I hope you don’t mind me asking, Doug, but are you angry with him?”

The vein in his temple pulsed, and he waited a few seconds to reply. “Hank and I did have words a few weeks ago.”

“Before Spencer was killed?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Did it have anything to do with Spencer’s plans to expand into your store?”

Doug stepped back, his eyes indicating surprise and a trace of something else. Fear?

“Did Hank tell you about the expansion?”

“No, Tricia and Lars Taylor mentioned it. They seemed to think it enough of a motive for you, to um…” My voice trickled off into an uncomfortable silence broken by the tinkling of the welcoming bell.

Doug forced a cordial smile at the newcomers who asked for the mystery section. He pointed to the left rear of the store. Once the couple had moved on, he eased himself onto his stool.

“Three weeks ago, I received a thirty day eviction notice. For this store where––” Doug grew angry, his volume increasing enough to catch the attention of the mystery fans. He wiped dots of perspiration from his forehead and lowered his voice so I could barely hear him.

“I’ve spent my entire life building up the reputation of this store. Without any thought of the consequences for me or my business, Spencer decided he could tear it all down. The day I received that eviction notice, I stormed into the hotel. Hank admitted he’d promised Spencer he wouldn’t tell anyone about the expansion plans. He’d even kept it from me, whom Hank has known for most of his life. I blew up at him then marched down to that asshole’s campaign headquarters, ready to––”

I never found out whether Doug threatened Spencer or not. The young couple walked up to the counter and plopped several new mysteries next to his cash register. My eyes landed on––
The Weed That Strings the Hangmans Bag
by Alan Bradley. With a huge inventory of mysteries, Doug was privy to numerous methods of silencing the man who threatened to take his livelihood away.

But did he?  And if he did, why would he take the trouble to string Spencer up?

When two chattering families burst into the store, I realized the answer to my questions would have to wait. Although I might learn something valuable at my next stop––the jail.

I went through the usual drill of handing off all of my belongings, including my new earrings, which the guard deemed sharp enough to utilize as a weapon. Hank’s skin appeared sallow, possibly due to the day-glo orange uniform he wore, or poor nutrition from his nine-day stint at the county bed and breakfast.

Orange is the New Black
––the reality show version.