Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (21 page)

“Doug isn’t thrilled about the construction mess,” I said, “but the renovation would have been completed fairly soon, if Spencer were still alive.”

Or if Hank weren’t in jail, I thought to myself.

“You must not have heard that Spencer terminated Doug’s lease,” Tricia added.

“But Doug’s rented that space for over thirty years,” I protested. “Why would Spencer want to get rid of a successful tenant?”

“I guess once Spencer started the renovation, he realized its potential for bringing business meetings and small conventions into town,” Lars said. “He wanted the bookstore space for additional meeting rooms and such.”

“Doug told us he searched for a new venue,” Tricia said, “but the only available spot was a small space in a strip mall outside of town, not exactly a prime location for an independent bookstore. That’s why this no-growth movement is so ridiculous.”

I ignored her pro-growth sentiment as I gnawed over the possibility that my favorite bookstore owner could be a killer. Doug’s store offered a wonderful selection of mysteries for its patrons. He could easily research how to successfully murder his landlord without even leaving his store. And, despite having informed me he’d walked home from the bar that night, he wouldn’t be the first murderer to lie to me.

It was so
annoying
when they did that.

Tricia felt compelled to share that Lars had driven straight home after the Kings game ended, giving him an alibi. Although, from my perspective, spousal alibis were always subject to question. She waved to a local Superior Court Judge and walked away. Lars started to follow his wife then turned to me.

“Look, you may enjoy playing detective, but there are some people in this county who might not appreciate you digging up any dirt.”

I frowned at him. “People who had something to do with Spencer’s death?”

He pressed his beefy palm into my shoulder. “Influential people you don’t want to mess with. Trust me.” He removed his hand and walked across the room to join Tricia. I could feel the imprint of his heavy hand and even more heavy-handed threat long after he left my side.

Was I starting to make the true murderer nervous? Maybe there was a conspiracy at play, and Spencer’s killer had not acted alone. I needed to share Lars’s remarks with my family if I could ever locate them. This gala, I mean, memorial reception, must include the back of the estate as well. I decided to visit their guest bath before I wandered the grounds in search of my family and friends.

I tapped one of the servers on his white-shirted shoulder and asked for directions. He pointed down a very long hallway where he indicated a bathroom for the use of the guests. I meandered down a corridor lined with family photos as well as pictures of Spencer shaking hands with virtually every dignitary in the state. He’d even posed with former Governor Schwarzenegger. Both men wore the same smug “I can smoke a cigar wherever and whenever I want to” expressions.

Two doors remained closed, so I knocked on the first one which resulted in an annoyed “I’m still peeing” response. I waited patiently for the guest to relieve herself, so I could do the same. Once I completed that urgent task, I could continue with my own assignment.

After washing my hands and fluffing my hair in the luxurious marble bath, whose accessories probably cost more than a week of my salary, I opened the door onto the hallway. Simultaneously, the door next to the bathroom flew open, and Scott Shelton and I crashed into one another. His black felt cowboy hat went flying but luckily, no one else did.

“Sorry,” Scott apologized, helping me maintain my balance. The man moved with the force of one of his stallions. I fortunately remained upright.

He bent over to retrieve his hat while I straightened out my wool dress, which clung to my pantyhose, turning my knee-length dress into a mini. I glanced into the room Scott had vacated. The door opened into a magnificent study, including box-beam wood ceilings and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with leather tomes. French doors led to the gardens behind the house.

“What a gorgeous room,” I said to Scott. Then my brain clicked in. “What were you doing in Spencer’s office?”

He tapped his hat against his thigh before replying. “Looking for the bathroom.”

I pointed over my shoulder. “You were one room off.”

“So I see.” He looked as if he wanted to expand on his answer but could not come up with a better explanation. After another brief apology, Scott loped down the hall to the great room.

It didn’t take a detective to determine Scott had lied to me. What reason did he have for entering Spencer’s office? The same reason I had.

None. Which is why I closed the door behind me hoping no one else would enter while I checked it out.

There is a fine line between sleuthing and trespassing, and I really wished someone would clue me in as to that line of demarcation. Maybe someday one of my favorite cozy authors would write a book on
An Amateur’s Guide to Sleuthing
.

I paused for a minute questioning my intentions before I persuaded myself that Hank’s freedom was at stake. My gaze swiveled around the room. I jumped when my eyes locked with Spencer’s. He stared at me from behind a framed 24 x 36 sized campaign poster.

It almost felt like Spencer’s eyes were following me around the room, but I had work to do. I presumed the detectives examined all of Spencer’s papers. But they may have been so satisfied with whatever evidence they found on Hank that they hadn’t bothered analyzing the victim’s financial statements. There were no signs of fingerprint powder, crime scene tape or anything official, but Janet undoubtedly would have had a cleaning service remove anything the crime scene techs left behind.

Besides a massive desk and the bookcases, the office included a small drafting table in a corner of the room. A set of blueprints rested on top, so theoretically they were exposed to the public.

I identified the plans as those for the Hangtown Hotel renovation. Hank must possess another set of blueprints, possibly at his apartment, but more likely at the site itself. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this. Plus technically, as pro bono detective for the defense, I had a right to review them.

At least, that’s how I justified my current position. I glanced at Spencer’s poster, and I could swear he smiled in approval at my decision.

Or that glass of champagne was causing me to see things.

Over the years, I had reviewed enough appraisals on new construction to feel comfortable reading blueprints. Spencer’s decision to remove the wall between the hotel and the bookstore made a lot of sense. Not only would the additional space provide meeting rooms at street level, but there would also be additional hotel rooms on the second floor. Someone had penned multiple notations where the demolition of the wall would occur.

I flipped the pages back to the way I’d found them then walked over to Spencer’s desk. Going through his drawers seemed morally reprehensible. Yet there must be a reason why Scott sneaked into Spencer’s office.

I wondered if the lanky rancher found what he’d been searching for. He hadn’t been holding anything when he bumped into me, but he could have hidden something from sight. Spencer had already foreclosed on the hotel. Did he hold additional paper on Scott’s ranch? Could that be the reason Scott mentioned moving to Alaska?

Or had Scott threatened Spencer and now hoped to recover any menacing missives he’d sent the victim?

The sound of voices in the hallway abruptly ended my moral dilemma. I hoped the newcomer was merely a guest who needed to use the bathroom and not a family member on their way to the office. I bumped into the desk and knocked the stack of papers to the floor.

I bent over and grabbed the scattered documents. Putting them back in their original order proved an impossible task, but maybe Janet wouldn’t notice they’d been disturbed. I shuffled them into a pile, glancing at the document resting at the top of the stack.

I squinted at the tiny font on the lengthy grant deed, perusing the more salient terms of the deed. Why would Chad Langdon grant his ownership share in Mountain High Winery to his cousin?

The sound of a low male voice outside the office door spooked me, and the document floated to the floor. I bent over and retrieved it as a female trilled a response. I froze as the glass doorknob slowly rotated.

It’s amazing how fast I can move when necessary. I escaped through the French door mere seconds before anyone entered the room. The glass door nicked shut behind me, and I cowered with my back against the stucco exterior wall, hoping to peek inside to catch a glimpse of the new intruders.

Three couples, all of whom looked like they belonged on the cover of
Town and Country Magazine,
stared at me. I couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse for peering back into the room, so I smiled and asked for directions to the bar. The size zero blond, with an improbable double D chest, turned glazed turquoise eyes on me and pointed toward the gazebo. Based on her tipsy expression, she’d visited the bar a few times herself.

Even though I was thrilled to escape detection, I was annoyed not to have discovered who’d entered the room after me. It could have been another lost soul in search of the bathroom. Or Janet. Or any of the other suspects on my growing list.

I finally discovered my family and friends stationed next to the temporary bar. Smart planning. I didn’t need any more alcohol, but I knew from past experience that this caterer served delicious appetizers.

I grabbed a white china plate and filled it with grilled veggies, then offset that healthy choice with a variety of pastry-filled items. It didn’t matter what the caterer stuffed inside. If flaky dough covered the item, it landed on my plate. Briefly.

Mother and Bradford stood next to Liz, Brian, and a handsome man in his thirties, attired in a well-fitted expensive charcoal suit.

“It’s about time you joined us,” Mother griped. “I was beginning to think you walked all the way from the funeral home.”

“Ha ha,” I said, although it sounded more like hack hack since the mini beef Wellington lodged itself near the top of my esophagus.

I grabbed Liz’s glass of champagne and swallowed several gulps of the expensive bubbles. I handed the flute back to my friend.

“Do you need a good thumping?” Liz asked.

My brows drew together. Yes, I did, but I didn’t want to discuss my sex life in front of a stranger.

Brian gave me a resounding thwack on the back.

“Hey, cut it out,” I yelled at him.

“We thought you were choking, luv. Where have you been? Rex has been dying to meet you.”

“Rex? You mean Hank’s attorney?” I swiveled my head to the left and right in search of the man who was supposedly the best defense attorney in Placerville.

The tall slender man standing next to Brian put his hand out to me. “It’s nice to put a face to a voice.”

Wow. For some reason I’d imagined Rex Ashford would be a dignified white-haired chap about my mother’s age. Not the dark-haired Chippendale lookalike I’d seen talking to Brian at the Cornbread and Cowpokes event. I wondered if his success was due to him charming the pants, or skirts, off the female jurors.

“Thank you for taking Hank’s case,” I said. “I know he’s innocent, and I’ve been trying my hardest to figure out who did it.”

“Your mother raves about your past sleuthing successes.” He winked at me. “Have you come up with any new evidence for me?”

I shook my head. “Nothing substantive. I have a list of suspects who are long on motives and opportunity, but I am sadly lacking in actual clues. Did you receive the evidence file?”

“The DA assigned the case to Camille Winterspoon,” Rex said, morphing into attorney mode. “She told me I’d have the entire file by tomorrow.”

I turned to Brian. “What’s Camille like? Hopefully, she’s not one of those bulldog prosecutors.”

“I assume you’re not referring to me.” A sly grin crossed Brian’s face. “Camille is more like a pit bull crossed with a lioness.”

Rex nodded. “They say she takes no prisoners, but she not only takes them, she gets them sentenced for exceptionally long terms. Sometimes a few years of case work are needed before new deputy district attorneys learn how to negotiate.”

“I hate to have her practicing her prosecuting skills on Hank,” I muttered.

Rex patted my forearm. “Let me see what I can do to get the charges reduced.”

Reduced would be nice. Removed would be far better.

Rex left our group and went off to share his condolences with Janet Spencer, and I updated everyone on my recent discovery in Spencer’s office.

Bradford frowned. “You weren’t going through the victim’s confidential documents, were you?”

Once a detective, always a detective.

“Not intentionally,” I weaseled. “I bumped into the desk and the papers scattered everywhere. That’s when I noticed the grant deed from Chad to Spencer.”

My mother, the vigilant broker, frowned in concentration. “Did you see if it recorded?” she asked.

I mumbled a bad word to myself. How quickly I’d forgotten my underwriting skills. “I didn’t notice.”

“Too bad,” she said. Her gaze veered in the direction of the patio outside Spencer’s office. “There are too many people milling around for me to sneak in and find out.”

“There will be no sneaking into the victim’s office by my wife,” Bradford announced firmly.

“Okay,” she meekly replied.

“If anyone is going into Spencer’s office,” said Bradford, “it will be me.”

I stared at the retired detective in amazement, and he shot me a conspiratorial grin. Let the force be with you!

Despite Bradford’s willingness to participate in a little amateur sleuthing, once we returned inside, we discovered the office had become a locked room in our absence. Mother indicated she could find out if the deed had been recorded through one of her sources, so retrieving the document wasn’t critical. I wondered what prompted Janet to lock the office, but that would remain her secret. Along with so many others she seemed to possess.