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

“Not at all,” said Liz. “You saved me from being bored to death from dreary legal chit chat.”

Brian, an El Dorado County Deputy District Attorney, jerked his thumb in the direction of the man who’d vacated the seat. “Since I lost a case against one of Rex’s clients, I’m more than happy to say goodbye to that hotshot.”

The four of us ate in silence, enjoying country rock tunes played by a local band. My feet kept rhythm with the contagious beat of the music. As twilight set in, the constellations glimmered in the velvety night sky. I sipped my wine and watched a few couples strut their stuff on the temporary dance floor set up for the fund-raising event.

Liz and Brian eventually joined the dancers. Her husband might be a successful prosecutor, but he would never survive on
Dancing with the Stars
. But when you’re in love, who cares if your partner is waltzing to a two-step?

A perfect evening for romance yet here I sat next to my gay friend. Stan shared a wistful smile with me, probably thinking similar thoughts.

I sniffed the air. The fragrance of cedar pines and barbeque combined with a familiar scent from my past. As my nasal memory bank shifted into overdrive, I sensed the whisper of beer breath tickling my ear lobe.

“May I have this dance?” murmured a low voice.

“Tom?” I jumped out of my seat, elated at his presence. The man standing next to me wrapped his arms snugly around my waist. I turned and realized this man stood several inches shorter than my six-foot-three boyfriend.

I frowned and pulled away from Hank’s embrace.

The welcoming smile on his face disappeared, but that didn’t stop him from offering his calloused palm to me. His eyes pleaded with me to take it.

“C’mon, Laurel,” he said. “One dance for old time’s sake?”

I shook my head then sighed as the band began playing one of my favorite songs by Rascal Flatts. My sandaled feet automatically tapped to the beat of “Life is a Highway.”

Hank beamed what looked to be an alcohol-enhanced smile. “Only one dance and I promise not to bother you anymore.”

I threw a plaintive look at Stan who ignored it and shoved me into Hank’s arms. “If you don’t dance with Hank,” he said. “I’ll be forced to two-step with you.”

Some choice––the rhinestone cowboy or my ex-husband. I reluctantly let Hank lead me onto the dance floor. Once we began moving, I gave myself over to the music. Even the realization that I danced with Hank didn’t remove the grin from my face.

The song ended, and the dancers clapped and hooted. The musicians switched gears and slowed down the tempo. Couples moved closer together, and Hank attempted to do the same with me. I pushed him away and stomped off the floor. I’d had enough bonding for the night.

Hank followed me, hot on my irritated heels. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to an abrupt stop.

“Laurel, aren’t you ever going to forgive me for leaving you?” he pleaded.

I stared at him for a few seconds before replying. “I have forgiven you, Hank, but I’ve moved on. You need to do the same.”

Three years ago, Nadine Wells hired my husband to replace the shake shingles on her roof. It only took a few days before
she
replaced me. Then nine months ago, she replaced Hank with a prominent plastic surgeon in the area.

Hank must have spent considerable time in personal reflection while he worked in southern California. Since his return, he’d seemed determined the four of us would become a family again. While I was pleased our kids could spend time with their father, I couldn’t seem to get across to him that I was no longer part of the equation.

The shrill sound of a microphone penetrated my eardrums. The musicians departed and on the stage, Chad Langdon introduced Darius Spencer. The District Six Supervisor candidate wore a plaid shirt, pressed jeans and a cowboy hat so shiny it probably still bore the price tag––suitable attire for a politician in vote-getting mode. The small crowd applauded enthusiastically as he began a prepared speech. Hank’s attention zoomed to the stage, and I was grateful for the distraction.

Spencer wasn’t the worst politico I’d ever heard, but he wasn’t particularly riveting. In the crowd, I spied three familiar faces—the attorney who’d been conversing with Brian earlier, Doug Blake, the owner of my favorite bookstore and Abe Cartwell of Antiques Galore. I hadn’t realized the two Main Street proprietors were fans of the candidate’s no-growth platform, but they appeared to be listening intently. I wondered if Spencer’s pro-growth opponent, Tricia Taylor, would also address the gathering.

Growing bored, I prepared to depart when Doug asked Spencer about the Hangtown Hotel renovation. His inquiry piqued my curiosity, so I decided to stick around. My ex surprised me by interrupting with his own comment.

“Yeah, Spencer,” said Hank, “how about telling these folks about your cost cutting measures on the hotel?”

The candidate’s face turned the same color as the calico bandanna tied around his neck. “Hank, this is not an appropriate forum for that discussion.”

People turned their heads to stare at Hank. Embarrassed, I sidled a few steps away.

“What forum would you suggest I use to tell your constituents their candidate is willing to sacrifice their safety to help his campaign bottom line?”

Spencer struggled to contain his anger as the crowd increased in size. I moved back to Hank’s side, grabbed his hand and tried to pull him away, but he dug in his scuffed boot heels. His stubborn nature hadn’t diminished since we’d split up.

“Cat got your tongue?” Hank snickered. A few of the bystanders tittered at his comment. Spencer thrust back his shoulders and marched in our direction, people moving aside to let him through. His next remark, punctuated with repeated pokes to Hank’s chest, demonstrated there were no fluffy kitties interfering with his vocal prowess.

“Hank McKay,” Darius Spencer yelled, “you’re fired!”

During our fifteen years of marriage, I’d frequently criticized my ex for acting first and thinking second. Hank stared at Spencer for a few seconds before he raised his right fist and punched his about-to-be former employer’s pudgy jaw.

Spencer’s beady black eyes widened. He stepped back, and then he dropped. To the ground. Landing at my feet, in fact, right on my polished toes. Although on the short side, Spencer’s entire weight pressing on my bare toes caused me to shriek.

Spencer’s wife, Janet, whom I knew from our weekly Zumba classes together, joined in the chaos. Her screams rose to an operatic level as she rushed to her husband’s aid. Within seconds, two El Dorado County Sheriff’s deputies formed uniformed bookends on both sides of Hank. He stood silent, chest heaving, rubbing his red swollen fist.

One of the officers assisted the candidate to his feet.

Spencer pointed a shaking finger at Hank and sputtered, “Arrest that man.”

“Hey, hold on there,” said Stan, rushing to our aid. With his supersized cowboy hat, he looked as fierce as Yosemite Sam.

Two more deputies appeared, both of whom I knew since we’d all graduated from El Dorado High School. Fortunately for Hank, the star quarterback of our high school team, the men had all played football together.

Hank directed a woozy smile at the taller, sandy-haired deputy. “Hiya, Fletch.”

Fletch shook his head at my ex. “Hey, pal, I think you’ve had one beer too many.” Chuck Kramer, the other officer, turned to Darius Spencer. “Are you all right, sir?”

Some Good Samaritan had filled Spencer’s bandanna with ice cubes and he pressed the frozen compress against his reddening jaw. The glare Spencer sent Hank looked even icier than the compress.

I elbowed Hank and whispered in his ear. “You better apologize before they arrest you for assault.”

“Yeah,” Stan said in agreement, “and throw in a free night’s lodging for you at the county jail.”

Chuck ushered Spencer and his wife over to a picnic table so they could converse in private, while Fletch remained with Hank and me. I hoped Janet wouldn’t hold Hank’s punching her husband against me. She seemed like a nice woman although somewhat on the quiet side. Even though future fisticuffs were unlikely, I wondered how she felt about her husband running for office. It couldn’t be easy assuming the public role of a candidate’s spouse.

The rest of the spectators drifted off, many of them to the dance floor where the band rollicked once again.

“What were you thinking?” I asked my ex.

“I guess I wasn’t, thinking that is.” Hank shrugged his shoulders. “Must have been a gut reaction to him firing me. Geez. What a mess.”

“If you don’t want the kids to see your face plastered over the front page of the
Mountain Democrat
, you’ll suck it up and apologize to Spencer.”

Hank exchanged glances with Deputy Fletcher, his former teammate. Fletch nodded in agreement. The two of them walked over to the table where Spencer held court. I followed, prepared to latch on to Hank’s fists should he feel compelled to slug his boss again.

“I’m sorry. I was totally out of line,” Hank said to the candidate. “Guess I had a few too many beers. Please accept my apologies.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. I could almost visualize the inner workings of a politician’s brain as he tried to determine whether forgiveness would be beneficial to his campaign. He finally stood and put out his hand to Hank. My ex shook it heartily.

“So I’m back on the job?”

Spencer’s forehead creased then he nodded.

“Looks like you don’t need us here anymore,” said Fletch. He turned to Hank. “Obviously you’re in no condition to drive. Do you have a ride home?”

Hank gazed at me with a worried expression on his face. What’s an ex-wife to do but agree to pilot her former spouse to his house?

“I’ll get him home,” I told Fletch. “Thanks for your help.”

“Not a problem. Hank never could hold his drink.” Fletch clapped Hank on the back. “Besides you have enough trouble on your hands.”

I reared back, startled. “What are you talking about?”

The deputy shifted nervously. “Didn’t Tom tell you about our discovery this afternoon?”

My face must have relayed my confusion, so he clarified his comment. “I’m kind of a history buff, so Tom asked me to look at the bullet he found in the mine shaft your mother fell into.”

I couldn’t decide if my one glass of wine had completely muddled my mind, or if Fletch was speaking in riddles. “What about that bullet? Will it help discover who the victim is?”

“That particular bullet narrows the time period down within a few decades, but there were other items the crime scene techs discovered in the shaft that will also help.”

“That’s great news,” I said, my smile wide. “Anything that will help identify the body?”

Fletch nodded. “We’re not positive, but the victim might be George Henry Clarkson.”

I knew the Clarkson family had settled in this area shortly after James Marshall discovered gold at his Coloma sawmill in 1848. Almost a decade later, my great-great-grandfather moved from Kentucky to Placerville.

“That’s amazing,” Stan said. “How could you identify someone from that far back?”

“We found a brass buckle in the shaft that was severely tarnished but with the initials GHC engraved on it.”

“How can you be sure it belonged to George Clarkson merely from the initials on the buckle?” I asked.

“Unless you’re related to a Clarkson, like one of the guys in our department,” Fletch replied, “you probably wouldn’t know that he disappeared sometime in the eighteen sixties, leaving his wife and young son behind. No one ever heard from him again.”

Stan rubbed his hands together in excitement. “Terrific detecting, Deputy.”

Hank shared his enthusiasm by belching in agreement.

I scowled at my ex and turned my attention back to Fletch. “Do you have any idea who could have killed him?” I hoped the discovery meant Tom wouldn’t need to put in long hours tracking down a 150-year-old villain.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Fletch said.

Hank, Stan and I exchanged puzzled looks.

“But that’s good news, isn’t it?” I said. “To identify the murderer so quickly?”

“We not only found the belt buckle,” Fletch replied, “but we unearthed another item of jewelry identified by the granddaughter of the presumed killer.”

“This is like
CSI
meets the History Channel,” Stan exclaimed. “So you already determined whodunit?”

“I bet my granny was delighted with your discovery.” I smiled at the thought of my mystery-addict grandmother. “She’s a total crime buff.”

“She didn’t appear all that excited when we asked her to identify the watch we found.” The deputy’s clear blue eyes seemed concerned. “That watch belonged to Harold Titus, your great-great-grandfather, which makes him the prime suspect for having pulled the trigger.”

I stared at Fletch’s serious countenance. I vaguely recalled him pulling my braids in the fourth grade. Was the deputy now intent on pulling my leg?

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

Fletch shook his head. “Even though this is a cold case, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned any of this to you.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. My granny must be beside herself. She’s always been so proud of the history of our family, not to mention being a member of the DAR.”

Fletch chuckled. “Your grandmother is one tough old bird.” When I narrowed my eyes at him, he rephrased his comment. “I mean she’s one sharp senior citizen. She told the detective that you and she would get to the bottom of this crime. That her grandfather didn’t murder anyone.”

“Well, I’m no historian, but we certainly will. There’s no way anyone in our family murdered a Clarkson or anyone else.”

“Hunter said the minute you found out about the evidence you’d morph into Jessica Fletcher.”

“Excuse me?” I growled, affronted that my boyfriend compared me to the elderly female detective Angela Lansbury played on
Murder She Wrote
. I thought of myself more as the West Coast’s version of
Castle’s
sexy Nikki Heat. Except for my height and weight, that is.