Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (11 page)

“How’s the case going?” I asked, feeling a tingling sensation in my lady parts, which always responded to the sound of Tom’s voice. I wondered if Pavlov had ever done a study on that kind of reaction.

“The case has taken an unusual turn,” he said. “Deputy Fletcher told me Hank is in your office.”

“He dropped by to see if I would ask a favor of you. Hank needs access to the hotel so he can begin work again. I don’t want to influence your investigation, but the sooner he gets back to remodeling the hotel, the sooner he’s out of both of our hair.”

A heavy sigh resounded over the line. “He may be out of your hair sooner than you anticipated. Hey, I need to go. Please remember that I––”

I heard shouting in the background. “Aw, crap,” he said. “I’ll call you tonight.”

Fletch poked his head around the corner of my office. “Where did Hank go?”

I shrugged. “I’m not the boss of him. I have no idea.”

Fletch cursed then galloped down the hallway heading for the teller area.

What was going on with the Sheriff’s Department? They all sounded over-caffeinated today. Out of curiosity, I decided to follow Fletch. I reached the bank lobby, which as usual on a Friday, was wall-to-wall with merchants and seniors.

Friday was also cookie day!

I grabbed a Nutter Butter. It couldn’t compete with Gran’s cookies but would do in a crunch.

I chuckled at my silly pun then flung open the bank door. Doug Blake, the bookstore owner, almost mowed me down in his effort to get inside and to the section cordoned off for our merchant customers.

Once out the door, I paused on the sidewalk, looking to the right then to the left where Fletch and Hank stood next to the Hangtown Hotel, a few doors down from the bank. They appeared to be in a heated discussion. Their conversation was probably none of my business, but that had never stopped me before. It also looked like they could use a mediator.

I’d only taken a few steps in their direction when the shrill cry of a siren brought me to a halt. A dusty white sedan bearing the imprint of the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Office rocketed down Sacramento Street. Its tires squealed as the car rounded the corner, nearly taking out a bystander waiting to cross Main Street.

The car pulled into a vacant parking spot in front of Antiques Galore, across the street from where Hank and Fletch stood. They stopped arguing to stare at the new arrivals. Two men, one in a suit and another in uniform, jumped out of the car and crossed the street.

Geez. Was someone robbing the bank?

No, that couldn’t be the case because the officers were heading away from the bank, striding toward the Bell Tower. Some shoppers stopped to watch the men. Others scurried in the opposite direction. Something I should have done myself. Instead, I watched a deputy stop in front of the Hangtown Hotel, grab my ex-husband’s forearm and twist it behind his back.

Then he handcuffed him.

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it. My ex-husband Mirandized on Main Street then shoved into the backseat of a squad car. I darted between two SUVs crawling down the street, their drivers gawking at the scene, paying no heed to pedestrians attempting to cross to the other side.

The squad car flashed its left turn signal and pulled out seconds before I reached it. Through the dust-spotted rear window, Hank’s frightened eyes met mine. He mouthed the words “help me” as the vehicle merged into traffic.

Fletch busied himself with pedestrian traffic control, attempting to persuade the numerous bystanders to go their merry way. Not being in a merry mood myself, I marched up to the deputy and punched him on his khaki-clad arm.

His hand instantly moved to his holster. When Fletch realized who’d hit him, he had the decency to look abashed. “Sorry, I didn’t find out about the arrest until I got that radio call.”

“Some friend you are, Deputy.” I spat out the words. “What was that all about? Why did they handcuff Hank?”

Fletch put a hand under my elbow and tried to lead me down the street. “Do you want to get some coffee so we can talk?”

“I don’t have time for chit chat. Why did they haul my husband away?” I shook my head, so rattled I wasn’t thinking clearly. “I mean my ex-husband. I have a right to know what’s going on.” I ducked around Fletch then noticed a short man with a brown goatee and a zealous gleam in his eyes loping down the sidewalk in our direction. “Before my kids and I find out in the local paper. Here comes Neil Schwartz from the
Mountain Democrat
.”

Fletch whipped his head around. “Shoot, there’s no way I’m going to be responsible for telling the paper they arrested Hank for murder. That’s the lieutenant’s job.”

I froze, my stomach feeling as if I had swallowed a fifty-six ounce slushie. “You’re not serious.”

Fletch nodded. “Dead serious.”

“But Tom didn’t say anything to me.” Not one single word.

“Oh, c’mon, Laurel, you can’t expect Tom to share stuff like this with you.”

“He’s had no problem sharing my…” I said then stopped. My personal business was none of Fletch’s business.

Fletch led me to the gelato café a few doors down. He ordered a small cup of chocolate for each of us. I told him that I felt too upset to eat, but he insisted on treating. He must have thought the frozen dessert would cool me down. We took our bowls to the back of the restaurant and sat at a corner table.

“So you have no idea what evidence they have on Hank?” I stared at the gelato as if the frozen dessert could miraculously provide answers to my questions.

“Nope. I’m not even sure Tom has been kept abreast of everything. From what I’ve heard around the office, I think he was concerned about a conflict because of your relationship with him. That’s why he brought in investigators from Sacramento County.”

I dipped into the gelato to be polite. It did make me feel better––for all of two seconds.

“I don’t understand how Tom could arrest Hank without discussing it with me first. What does that say about our relationship?”

Fletch looked confused. “But you don’t even like Hank.”

“That’s irrelevant.” I frowned at the deputy. “Plus now that Hank’s been arrested, who’s going to look for the actual murderer?”

Despite my protestations that I was too upset to eat any gelato, I managed to finish every bite. With my brain and body re-energized, I jumped out of my chair with new resolve. I had an ex-husband to get out of jail. Then I peeked at my watch. And a job to get back to before my boss noticed my disappearance.

I thanked Fletch for the gelato, gave him my cell number and asked him to call when he had any news he felt he could share. He encouraged me to contact Tom for more details, but I was still too annoyed to call my boyfriend.

I realized that as head of the homicide division, Tom had no obligation to keep me informed of his crime-fighting activities. But I also felt, however irrationally, that Dear Abby would concur that proper etiquette decrees your boyfriend should warn you when he’s about to arrest your ex-husband.

I shoved open the door to the bank and found the lobby devoid of customers. And cookies. Only a few crumbs littered the trays. I trotted down the hallway hoping my lengthy absence had gone unnoticed. I zipped through the doorway, completely forgetting about the boxes Stan and I had carried in earlier. I crashed into a stack of cartons knocking one of them over as well as myself.

Seconds later, Stan found me sprawled on the floor with a mountain of fake gold nuggets and coins strewn on my lap and around the carpet.

“Did you decide to decorate without me?” he asked. He lent me a hand and pulled me up off the floor.

“No, only moving too quickly,” I said ruefully. “I have some urgent business to attend to.”

Stan picked up the fallen box and started repacking it. “Like getting Hank out of jail?”

“You heard?”

He stuck the carton on top of a shorter, sturdier stack of boxes then sat down. “Mary Lou saw his arrest on her lunch break.” Stan looked at me. “Did you see that one coming?”

I glared at him. “Of course not.”

“Don’t forget Hank punched Darius Spencer at the fundraiser.”

“Yeah, but they worked everything out. Hank didn’t mention any issues other than Spencer being a cheapskate.”

“Well, sweetie, your ex isn’t the most communicative of men, is he?” Stan crossed his legs, brushing off a minuscule fleck of gold from his pressed taupe trousers.

“True.” I sighed. “Hank either under-communicates or over-communicates.”

“Maybe he and Spencer over-communicated together and got into another fight. Didn’t Hank mention a problem with some cost-cutting measures Spencer wanted to implement that would affect the safety of the building?”

“Yes, but that’s not a good reason to murder someone.”

Stan cocked his head. “So there are good reasons for murder?”

I threw my hands in the air. “You know what I mean.”

“Have you talked to your honey?”

“I’m not sure I still have a honey,” I corrected him.

“Did you and Tom have an argument over Hank’s arrest?”

“Tom and I haven’t spoken,” I said, my voice chillier than the gelato I’d eaten earlier.

“Hey, you can’t blame the man for doing his job.”

“His job entails arresting the right person. There are a lot of people who didn’t care for Darius Spencer.”

Stan grinned. “So it looks like another case for us. I hope my detecting skills haven’t gotten rusty since Hawaii.”

From what I could recall, the extent of Stan’s detecting on the Big Island consisted of him infiltrating his scrawny body into a troupe of super-sized Samoan dancers supposedly in search of clues. But at this point I would take what I could get.

My cell rang with my mother’s ring tone. I dug into my purse and caught it before she hung up. I flicked my head in the direction of the door. Stan amazingly got the hint and left my office.

I hit the green answer button and greeted my mother with a dejected hello.

“I gather from your tone of voice you’ve heard the news about Hank,” she said.

“I had the honor of watching him get cuffed then thrown in the back seat of the squad car. How did you find out? It only happened a little while ago.”

“Tom called Robert earlier today to get his advice.”

“Gee, it would have been nice if he’d asked me for some guidance,” I grumbled. “Do you or your husband have any idea why they think Hank killed Spencer?”

“Tom may have shared that information with Robert but, if so, he didn’t choose to pass it on to me. I assume my husband would prefer that I stay out of police business.”

“Hank is the father of your grandchildren,” I pointed out. “That makes it
our
business.”

“True.” Mother giggled. “Maybe I can seduce Robert into revealing something to me tonight in bed.”

Ick! I closed my eyes hoping she wouldn’t feel the need to reveal anything further to her daughter––like their favorite position.

“Okay, Mom, why don’t you, um, implement your plan,” I replied, trying not to visualize any nighttime frolicking between the couple. “And I’ll work on mine.”

I hung up the phone and leaned back in my chair. Maybe I was looking at this situation the wrong way. If Mother could use her womanly wiles on her husband, perhaps the same method could work with my detective.

It was time that I embarked on an undercover mission.

Forget the trench coat and deerstalker hat.

My next stop would be Naughty Nellie’s.

I had barely hung up the phone when bank employees began wandering into my office to commiserate with me. While Facebook and Twitter might represent the new information highway, small town gossip frequently outpaced online avenues. By day’s end, I felt grateful my tiny office only held room for a couple of gossip girls at a time. The one bright spot in this disastrous day was a personal visit from the bank president.

Having been embroiled in a murder investigation himself five months ago, Mr. Chandler lent a sympathetic ear to my situation. He stopped by to see how I was holding up. His gesture touched me, although I realized it might have something to do with me providing him with a “get out of jail free” card last year.

Now I needed to figure out how to do the same for Hank.

I asked Mr. Chandler if I could leave early and he agreed. I needed to discuss Hank’s arrest with my kids before they heard about it through the media. Although the odds of my children watching the evening news were low, the odds of someone posting the arrest on Facebook were high. Mr. Boxer seemed unsympathetic about my situation, but he could hardly overrule the bank president. I promised my boss I would come in early on Monday to begin my new project and that seemed to pacify him.

I left work and drove to Greenhills, our semi-rural subdivision located six miles west of downtown Placerville. My cell rang when I was less than a mile from home. Rather than risk an accident trying to locate my Bluetooth, I decided to wait until I reached the house to return the call.

I hit the remote door opener and pulled into the two-car garage of the Craftsman-styled home built shortly after Jenna’s birth. Seconds later, the door leading into the house opened, and my two kids sprinted across the garage.

“Mommy, Daddy’s in trouble,” yelled Ben.

I opened the car door, grabbed my purse, and eased myself out. Ben flung himself at me, almost knocking me over.

Jenna hovered behind him. “Did you hear what happened to Dad?” Her eyes were red-rimmed and dried tears streaked her freckled cheeks.

I hugged both kids and with an arm around each of them, led them into the house. Despite my stomach feeling as if it was tied in multiple knots, I attempted to maintain a calm demeanor as we walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. “How did you learn about your father?” I asked.

Ben pointed at his sister. “Jenna saw Daddy on TV.”