Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (3 page)

“Did you discover something?” I asked, not certain I wanted to hear his answer.

“Some remains of old clothing chewed up by rats most likely,” he said. Mother and I both shuddered, envisioning the critters she briefly cohabited with down in the shaft.

“Plus this.” Tom pulled his gloved hand from his front pocket. “I’m not an expert on its age, so the medical examiner will have to complete tests on the body, or what’s left of it.”

We leaned forward to peek at Tom’s discovery. Although the object was smaller than today’s modern cartridges, there was no doubt in my mind what Tom had discovered––a bullet.

“So what does this mean?” Tina asked.

I had the answer to that question. It meant that the only person getting any action from my detective tonight was an old sack of bones.

Tom called in to headquarters and requested some crime scene techs. Although the corpse had obviously been dead a decade or two, or fifteen, the detective still needed to follow official protocol. Bradford seemed torn between helping his injured wife and assisting at the crime scene. I imagined it must be difficult to stop detecting after spending forty years on the force.

Since whoever killed the victim was long gone, my family didn’t need to remain at the site. Bradford and I supported Mother as she hobbled back to Gran’s house. Oddly enough, my grandmother seemed more excited than disturbed by the commotion.

She rubbed her liver-spotted hands together. “This is like watching
CSI
only better. I wonder if I should call the Red Hats to come over.”

“This is no cause for celebration,” Mother admonished Gran. “We need to get your property sold while the market is hot. I don’t think a dead body will be considered a property improvement.”

“Well, that dead body sure improved my disposition.” Gran chortled to herself. She scurried around her kitchen, making coffee and setting out homemade cookies for the men.

I swiped one of her chocolate and toffee chip cookies off the etched glass tray. Yum. When I bent over to grab another cookie, my corset protested loudly. I couldn’t wait to change out of this ridiculous costume and into a pair of shorts and a tee shirt.

“Are you ready to go home?” Mother asked me, her face pale and drawn. I could see she was in pain even though she would be the last person to admit weakness.

“Sure. Is it safe to leave Gran alone with all of these forensic people wandering around?”

“The better question,” Bradford chimed in, “is whether the crime techs will be safe with your grandmother and her friends.”

Two members of Gran’s Red Hat group had already arrived, dressed to kill with red boas wound around their necks and hats the size of turkey platters perched on their heads. The women directed the crime scene personnel where to go. The technicians didn’t seem to mind their elderly groupies since the women plied them with cookies.

Mother limped over to Gran’s side. “Please keep out of their way, Ma. We need to get this issue resolved as soon as possible so you can move to Golden Hills Manor.”

“There’s no rush to lock me up at the Manor,” Gran muttered, “I’m still in my prime, you know.”

Tom entered the kitchen through the back door. He shoved his hand through the hair tickling his shirt collar. “You might as well go home,” he said to me. “This could turn into an all-nighter. There are strict rules when exhuming a body this old.”

“Is it okay for Gran to be here?” I asked as I reached up and flicked some dust off his formerly white polo shirt.

He nodded. “She’ll be fine. Her friends can keep her company.”

“Will you still be able to attend the Cornbread and Cowpokes event with me tomorrow night?”

His chocolate-brown eyes lit up as he glanced down. “Will you be wearing that outfit?”

“Nope. I have to save it for the Wagon Train Parade.”

“Too bad,” he said with a rueful smile. “I’ve always been partial to black lace and red satin.”

My toes and every other nerve ending began to tingle as his gaze roved up and down my costumed body.

Ever the businessperson, Mother joined us and interrupted my fantasizing. “Tom, do you think I can hold the open house tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “You’d better cancel it. You’re more likely to have crime show addicts and historians than bona fide purchasers.” Tom took the baggie with the bullet out of his pocket and showed it to his former partner. “Do you know anyone who’s a specialist in old guns and ammunition?”

It didn’t surprise me that Bradford nodded. He’d been a member of the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Department since he graduated from the police academy. Tom, a widower with one young daughter, had relocated from San Francisco to Placerville only fifteen months ago.

“Deputy Fletcher is into old weaponry. He’s a member of the historical society, too, so if he can’t identify it, one of the other members should be able to.”

Tom thanked him then left to complete his thankless exhumation. I walked over to my grandmother and hugged her goodbye.

“Be a good granny, okay?” I said. “Don’t give Tom or his crew any trouble.”

She threw me a wide-eyed “Who me?” look and went back to grilling the crime techs.

I grabbed one more cookie then followed my mother and stepfather out the door. I figured if I couldn’t devour Tom tonight, I’d settle for second best––devouring Gran’s homemade cookies.

The phone trilled on my nightstand the next morning. I knocked the receiver over then jumped out of bed to retrieve it before the caller hung up. My contact lenses rested in their pink plastic case on my bathroom counter, so I squinted at the name on the display.

“Morning, Liz,” I mumbled.

“What happened to you yesterday?” she asked. “I worried all night about your mother and your granny. Or were you and Tom too busy playing Sheriff and Saloon girl to call me?” Her husky laugh carried over the phone line. “Aren’t you happy I provided a little fantasy for the two of you?”

“What you provided was a corset torture chamber. It took me an hour to extricate myself from that thing.” I directed a baleful glance at the garments piled on my blue plaid wing chair.

“Didn’t you and Tom have a hot date last night?” she asked.

I plopped back on top of my covers and shared the skeletal discovery with my friend.

“Ooch. I wonder who the dead guy is,” Liz said. “Do you think one of your relatives killed him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I muttered, not mentioning that her question had also occurred to me.

“You never know if there’s a black sheep or two grazing under your family tree,” she said. “I have to run. Let’s catch up at Cornbread and Cowpokes tonight. I’ll see you and Tom there, right?”

“Maybe. He might not make it if he’s still working on this case.”

“That’s too bad. Although this case sounds like it’s cold enough to have freezer burn.”

On that note, we signed off. I entered my bathroom and began my morning routine. I popped in my left contact then heard my kids yelling my name downstairs. I glanced at the clock. Nine a.m. They weren’t supposed to be home until noon. With only one lens in place, I cautiously trod down the stairs to find out why they’d returned so early.

Jenna, my sixteen-year-old, and her recently turned eight-year-old brother, Ben, had spent the night with their father. My ex-husband is a builder, and the previous year he’d relocated to Southern California for a few months to complete a historical renovation. Hank finished that job in February. His current project involved restoring a former gold rush hotel in downtown Placerville.

The kids were overjoyed about their father’s return to town. Joy wasn’t the word I would use to describe my state of emotions now that Hank was a continual presence in our lives. Annoyed would be a more apt description. Since I was in a relationship for the first time since our divorce three years earlier, Dr. Phil would probably tell me I should no longer be upset that my former husband left me for another woman.

But Hank’s infidelity still stung. Instead of nailing roof shingles, he’d been nailing his client.

Ben rushed up and threw his arms around me. I ruffled the thirty-odd cowlicks in his shaggy brown hair. “What are you kids doing back so early?” I asked.

My tall, whippet-thin daughter wheeled her navy overnight bag over the threshold. “Dad got a phone call, and he has to meet with the owner of that building he’s working on.”

The man in question walked through the front door. “Hi, hon. Did we wake you?”

I bristled at the endearment but decided to ignore it. “You have to work on a Sunday?”

Hank’s dark expression almost matched the black San Francisco Giants baseball cap he wore to hide his receding hairline.

“Spencer wants to review some overruns in the budget. I told him whenever you restore a historical building you have to follow the code. He’s gonna try cutting corners, but I’m not letting him do it.”

I nodded in agreement, a rare occurrence. “Good for you. The Hangtown Hotel is an important project, and the renovation needs to be properly completed. That building will be the showcase of Main Street once it’s finished.”

“That’s what I keep saying.” Hank sighed. “I don’t know what the deal is with him.”

“Maybe he’s running out of money. His campaign for District Six Supervisor must be costing a fortune. I don’t think there’s an intersection where Spencer’s face isn’t smirking at me.”

“Oh, he definitely hasn’t let me forget about the election. That’s part of the problem. Spencer is already counting on winning the seat and holding his acceptance speech in the building. I told him I couldn’t guarantee it would be done by then.”

Hank shuffled his feet. “I better get going. Are you going to the fundraiser at Mountain High Winery tonight? I’d love to have you be my date.” His voice softened and he moved closer. “You’re looking real good lately. Have you lost weight?”

My son, who possesses bionic hearing only when he chooses, piped in. “Mommy’s taking Bimbo classes.”

Hank looked confused, and I corrected Ben. “Zumba classes,” I said. “Dance and cardio combined.”

Hank smiled. “Bimbo, Zumba, whatever it is, you look great. So about that date?”

Since I’d rather rope a bull than accompany my ex to a social event, I declined. “Sorry, Tom and I are going together.” Ever the optimist, I hoped the detective would be cavorting with me tonight and not with a skeleton.

A wistful look crossed Hank’s face. “Okay, guess I’ll see you there.” He moved forward to hug me, but I stepped back and said goodbye. My cell rang as I closed the door behind him.

“Hi, Tom. I’m glad you called. How’s it going?”

“Not well,” he replied. I could sense the frustration in his voice. “We not only have to treat this as a cold case homicide, but we need to ensure the site isn’t compromised from a historical standpoint.”

I clucked sympathetically, and we chatted a few minutes more before he signed off, apologizing for not being able to attend tonight’s event. In the past six months, the two of us had spent far more time without each other than together. A few months ago when Tom cancelled a trip to Hawaii for Liz and Brian’s wedding, I had questioned if it was possible to have a successful relationship with a homicide detective. Then he arrived on the Big Island and swept me off my feet.

Into his arms.

Nine hours later, I strolled along the scenic grounds of Mountain High Winery, arm in arm with the other main squeeze in my life, the man who was always there for me, Stan Winters, my GBFF, gay best friend forever. My friend, who idolized Carson Kressley of
Queer Eye for a Straight Guy
fame, never missed an opportunity to create a fashion statement. Tonight’s attire included a cream satin shirt detailed with red-beaded swirls and a mile of matching fringe across the front and back. Tight-fitting designer jeans and a taupe cowboy hat almost as large as the state of Texas completed his outfit.

I turned and the brim of his Stetson just missed colliding with my forehead. “Geez, Stan, you are one dangerous dude. Can’t we park your ten gallon headgear someplace other than on your head?”

“Sorry,” Stan apologized. “But I need the hat to complete my ensemble. I really want to fit in with the guys riding in the Wagon Train.”

Considering that ninety percent of the colored glass beads sold in Placerville adorned his shirt, Stan’s outfit seemed better suited for a Las Vegas showroom. We joined other partygoers waiting in line at the outside wine bar. Two bartenders dressed in burgundy polo shirts embossed with the Mountain High logo kept busy pouring wine for the insatiable crowd.

I recognized Chad Langdon, one of the owners of the Camino winery and a long time customer of Hangtown Bank where Stan and I both work. We finally reached the front of the line. “Hi, Chad,” I said. “This is a lovely event.”

Chad frowned, and I visualized him sorting through his mental rolodex trying to remember my name.

“Oh, hey, Laurel,” he said. “Good to see you again. What can I get for you?”

I ordered a pinot noir, and Stan decided to try their old vine zinfandel.

“This is a nice coincidence,” Chad said. “I have a loan question I’ve wanted to ask someone. Maybe I can bend your ear later on when it’s not so crowded.”

I peeked over my shoulder at the restless and thirsty throng behind us. A tall cowboy, dressed in faded jeans and a faded black hat, glowered at me.

“Sure,” I said to Chad. “We’ll be around. Thanks for the wine.”

The excellent pinot noir required a hearty dinner, so Stan and I stood in another lengthy line. Once our paper plates were loaded with pulled pork, beef ribs, multiple starchy salads and cornbread, we looked for a place to sit and spotted Liz and her husband, Brian, at a picnic table under a large cedar pine. Brian was chatting with a handsome urban cowboy who sat across from him.

When Stan and I appeared, the dark-haired stranger who looked to be in his thirties, rose and sauntered off.

“Did we interrupt something?” I asked.