Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (20 page)

I thought back to earlier that evening when I’d first discovered her in the shed. “There were a few leather bound volumes scattered off to the side. Are they first editions?”

“No, I think they’re…” She stopped when the nurse bustled in to check her vital signs. Gran leaned back, her face etched in a million tiny lines. She swallowed the two pills the nurse handed to her and waited while the nurse logged everything on to a chart. The nurse also suggested her patient remove her wig, but Gran shooed her out of the room saying she’d deal with it after her guests left.

As the nurse disappeared down the hall, I leaned forward, curious to see what else Gran had to say about her discovery.

“So what did you want me to do with those old books?” I asked.

She yawned then looked at me, her confused eyes meeting my curious ones.

“What books?” she asked, before her head dropped, her pointed chin coming to rest on her hospital gown, followed by her not-so-soft snores echoing throughout the room.

We tiptoed out of the room although it wasn’t necessary since Gran’s snores were loud enough to wake the walking dead. If hospital stays weren’t so expensive, my recommendation would be to leave her there for a few weeks so we wouldn’t have to worry about her. I mentioned my concern about Gran’s recent memory lapses to the doctor, but she assured us forgetfulness was normal and Gran was doing great for her age.

I arrived home, a little after eleven, feeling tired and dejected. My grandmother had been a solid presence in my life for thirty-nine years. She’d always reminded me of the Unsinkable Molly Brown. Gran would have made a great pioneer woman. Other than a few months last year when she flew to the east coast to spend time with her brother who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, she’d always been there for me.

It was time to reverse our roles. I needed to be there for her.

I discovered my children in the family room, cuddled next to each other, watching television. The kids’ eyes remained glued to the screen. When I turned on the light, they both jumped and Ben ended up sprawled on the floor.

“You scared us.” He came over and wrapped his arms around my waist.

Jenna put the movie they were watching on pause. “Is Great Gran okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” I reassured Jenna, hoping to reassure myself.

I ruffled Ben’s hair. “Honey, why aren’t you in bed?”

“My sister,” he elaborated by pointing to Jenna, “invited me to watch a movie with her. An offer I couldn’t refuse. I’m learning how to romance a woman.”

My head whipped around. “What are you watching?”

Jenna giggled. “
Enchanted
.”

Ah, the story of my life––not!

“Liz called,” said Jenna. “She wondered what you’re wearing to the funeral tomorrow.”

I smacked my forehead with my palm. Between Gran’s injury and my lion-taming encounter, I had almost forgotten about Darius Spencer’s funeral the next evening. The political candidate had been such a prominent figure in El Dorado County the service would undoubtedly be packed with mourners.

Or people celebrating his demise.

What were the odds the person responsible for his death would also attend?

The next day, my family, friends and I attended Darius Spencer’s memorial service, which represented politics at its worst. In her eulogy, Janet Spencer claimed her deceased husband would have been thrilled had he known that his platform would continue. The widow’s stiletto-heeled steps seemed springier than I remembered, almost as if Spencer’s demise had given Janet a new lease on life.

The widow also announced that in lieu of flowers, mourners should donate to the campaign of Chad Langdon, her husband’s beloved cousin and now write-in candidate for the Sixth District Supervisorial seat.

I didn’t think the service could get any tackier, but once again she proved me wrong. After her remarks, Janet invited supportive political candidates to address the crowd of over five hundred mourners. An opportunity they could not refuse.

I sat with Mother and Bradford to my left, with Liz and Brian on my right. The largest room in the chapel was wall-to-wall mourners.

And voters.

I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I owned one suitable black dress, a light wool blend, perfect for a romantic dinner in front of a roaring fire, but not for a hot summer evening. After an hour listening to one politician after another extolling Spencer’s virtues or, to be precise, his campaign’s virtues, I’d experienced enough politicking to last me a decade or two. I stared across the room at the two large Darius Spencer campaign posters flanking the podium, and wondered what Spencer would have thought of this political send-off.

Liz fanned herself with her program then leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Talk about being bored to death.”

“Are these candidates as clueless as they appear?” I eyed the crowd of mourners, several of whom chose to listen with their eyes closed. I could use a power nap myself.

“I suppose it would be rude to slip out,” I remarked to Liz.

“No one is sneaking out,” said my mother, whose sixty-two-year-old hearing had not diminished a tinge. “Some of my clients are here as well as members of the Chamber of Commerce. We can’t do anything tacky.”

I personally couldn’t think of anything tackier than turning a memorial service into a political rally, but I didn’t want to annoy my mother who prided herself on her perfect etiquette. Mother could give Miss Manners a pointer or two.

Sometimes it amazed me that my grandmother had given birth to my mother. The two women were complete opposites––my mother was as classy as they come, although she sometimes acted as if she had a stick up her butt. My grandmother belonged in a class of her own and was usually the one prodding said stick.

I breathed a sigh of relief that Gran’s injuries kept her from attending the service. Although she was upset that she couldn’t help me detect, we were all better off with her spending a second night in the hospital.

I yawned and immediately a refrain of yawns echoed in the rows around me. The political orator at the podium finally realized his audience seemed more captivated by their phones than by him. He bid us farewell and handed the microphone to Janet.

Janet thanked the mourners for coming out to pay their respects and graciously invited everyone back to her house for refreshments. We waited our turn while the widow and other family members walked down the aisle, followed by attendees seated in the front rows of the chapel.

“Do you mind if we stop at her house?” Brian asked Liz. “It would be the polite as well as the politically expedient thing for me to do.”

She smiled at him. “Certainly, plus I have a condolence basket of spa items I wanted to drop off for her.”

I arched an eyebrow at my friend. “You’re bringing spa items to Janet?”

“Can you imagine how much collagen the poor woman has lost due to this tragic crime?” Liz asserted. Then she leaned forward to scrutinize my skin. “You’re looking a little dry yourself. Try my new aloe and grape extract moisturizer. It will solve all your problems.”

“I need to find a murderer, not a moisturizer,” I lamented. “But I definitely want to visit the Spencers’ house.”

“I’m also dying to find out if Janet wants to list it,” Mother said. I threw her one of my “do you always have to be in Realtor mode” looks. She had the decency to look abashed.

“It’s an enormous house and a lot of property for a single woman to take care of,” Mother defended herself. “Especially with both kids in college. I’m sure she’d love to have someone take it off her hands.”

“Let’s give her a week or two to mourn before you wave a listing agreement in front of her,” I suggested. Sometimes my over-achiever mother’s antics made me cringe.

She shrugged and turned her attention to Bradford who, as usual, ignored our mother-daughter commentary.

I gazed at the crowd of people filling the aisles, anxious to escape the overheated chapel. Political candidates and local business owners shook hands and conversed. Doug Blake and Abe chatted as they slowly made their way out of the chapel. Doug’s hands flailed in the air. He was either describing something to Abe or trying to turn himself into a human fan.

I ratcheted up the speed on my own program fanning. The mortuary must not have anticipated such a large crowd or their air conditioning needed a makeover. I could use a makeover myself since the sweat beading my forehead had turned my bangs into frizzy corkscrew curls.

As they passed by our aisle, Abe threw me a wide smile, but Doug frowned at me. Was it something I’d said? Done?

Or someone I married eighteen years ago?

Couples passed by our seats, many of whom I didn’t personally know, but who appeared to recognize me. After more than a dozen strangers shot curious glances in my direction, I questioned my decision to attend the service in an attempt to seek answers.

I remained positive Hank was innocent of this hideous crime, but until we proved it, I doubted anyone else would agree with me.

With the exception of one person.

Darius Spencer’s murderer.

The Spencer estate reminded me of something out of a
Luxury Home
magazine. I didn’t know how many acres they owned, but the money squandered on wrought iron fencing alone looked like it equaled my mortgage.

I’d spent so much time running around town on my decorating and detecting missions that I hadn’t had time to prepare a sympathy casserole. Since the best caterer in town parked her trucks off to the side of the expansive six-car garage, it didn’t look like anyone would miss my runny lasagna.

Not until I trudged three blocks from my parking spot did I realize Janet had arranged valet service for her guests. Weirdest memorial ever!

A young woman in a conservative uniform greeted me and offered to take my purse and put it in a back bedroom. I would have preferred to hand off my panty hose as well. Dumbest fashion decision yet this week. For some reason, I’d decided bare legs were a no-no at a funeral. Now my thighs felt like they’d been encased in hot concrete.

Servers circulated with trays of champagne, which seemed somewhat inappropriate given the circumstances. Not wanting to appear rude, I accepted a glass and wandered through the house in search of a familiar face.

Tricia and Lars Taylor huddled with a dark-suited, heavyset and balding man I recognized as a bank customer although I couldn’t recall his name. I assumed the majority of the political candidates present were supporters of Spencer’s no-growth campaign. Were the Taylors here to show their respect or spy on their opponents?

Only one way to find out. The heavyset man moved to the bar and began a conversation with a local judge, leaving the Taylors alone. I ambled over and greeted them. Tricia and I brushed our cheeks together in air kiss fashion, and Lars shook my empty hand, the one not holding the excellent champagne.

“A sad situation, isn’t it?” I said to the couple.

“Tragic,” Lars replied, his florid face as red as the petals on the two dozen roses nestled in a crystal vase behind us. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his forehead.

“Spencer was a worthy rival,” said Tricia. Her brown eyes looked thoughtful as she gazed around the room, possibly in search of her new political opponent.

“You must have been stunned by his murder,” I said.

She sipped her champagne before replying. “Darius and I disagreed on many issues, but we kept it a fair campaign. It’s difficult to imagine his life being cut short by a disgruntled employee…” Her voice trailed off and her pale eyebrows lifted to meet her thick blond bangs.

Suddenly she blurted out, “Laurel, I know you and Hank divorced awhile ago, but do you think it’s appropriate for you to be here?”

I stepped back, affronted by her bluntness. “Janet and I are friends. I’m here to support her.”

Tricia didn’t appear convinced, and I wondered how many others in the room might share her sentiments.

“Plus I don’t believe Hank killed Spencer,” I asserted.

Lars latched on to my forearm. “If he didn’t murder Spencer, who do you think did?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I replied with so much vigor my champagne danced out of my flute and on to the off-white carpet.

He bleated out a guffaw. “So you’re gonna play Nancy Drew and interrogate people? Good luck with that.”

“Someone else committed the murder, and I intend to prove it.” I finished what remained of my champagne and placed the glass on the table. “I understand a large crowd gathered in the Liars’ Bench to watch the Sacramento Kings game the night Spencer died. Weren’t you also there that evening, Lars?”

“Me and half the merchants on Main Street.” Lars cocked his head to the side, displaying a long, thin scab running from his ear to his jaw line. “It was a noisy crowd that night, and Hank was definitely loopy. He seemed agitated but I dunno why.”

I did. According to Hank, he’d been upset about my burgeoning romance with Tom. Spencer’s murder had certainly halted any future burgeoning between Tom and me.

“Did you overhear Hank make any specific threats against Spencer?” I asked.

“I didn’t pay attention to everything the guy yakked about. I wanted to concentrate on the game.” Suddenly Lars snapped his fingers. “Someone else kept yammering on about Spencer that night. Said he’d about had it with his next door neighbor.”

“Spencer’s nearest neighbor is a half mile away from this house.”

Lars shook his head. “Naw, not here. I’m talking about the building next to the Hangtown Hotel.”

I tried to visualize that section of Main Street, but before I could respond, Lars pointed to two men entering through the massive double oak front doors.

“That’s who––your neighborhood bookstore owner.”

My brow furrowed while I pondered Lars’s remark. If I didn’t stop sleuthing, I would need a Botox infusion before my birthday.