Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (32 page)

Oh, crap. I couldn’t decide if Tom was being a hero or an idiot going after an armed former deputy when he himself was without a weapon.

A shot rang out and my heart stopped.

I’ve never been to Pamplona for their annual running of the bulls, but the pandemonium in Placerville that afternoon probably came in a close second. El Dorado county police cars zipped up Spring Street and down Coloma Street in search of their quarry. California Highway Patrol officers drove their familiar black and whites up various side streets searching for the presumed killer.

If I’d had any doubts about my theory, Fletch’s crazed escape and his Grannapping added proof to the evidence file by the minute.

I was tempted to leap onto the horse Hank had borrowed and search for Tom myself, but I decided the law enforcement officials didn’t need any two-legged saloon gals or four-legged animals clogging up the roadway.

Bradford arrived, slightly out of breath, to check on Gran and me. He told us Mother wanted to come to our rescue, but he’d convinced her that watching her grandchildren was her highest and best use today. I borrowed his cell and spoke with Mother and the kids assuring them Gran, Hank and I were all fine.

I wasn’t exactly fine since I still didn’t know Tom’s circumstances. Who fired that one lone shot? Was anyone hit?

I glanced up at the pedestrian bridge looming over the highway that Tom had roared across only minutes earlier. I squinted when I spotted someone’s dark hair through the mesh panel above the short solid wall of the bridge. It looked like a child with a pumpkin-sized head or an adult crawling back to town.

The head disappeared then bobbed back up as the bridge merged onto the open third floor of the parking garage. Although he’d discarded the frock coat, red brocade vest and bowler hat, that long-legged man was either Fletch or his identical twin. He stopped in the stairwell between the first and second levels and peered at the crowds circulating below, confirming my suspicions when he paused to rub his left shoulder exactly where Gran had thwacked him with her parasol.

The former deputy eased down the stairwell then donned a pair of sunglasses. Fletch’s car must still be parked over on Broadway where the Wagon Train participants met up this afternoon. He couldn’t escape without it or some other type of transportation.

“There he goes,” I said to my stepfather, rapping his bare arm for emphasis.

“What the––” Bradford rubbed his forearm.

I pointed to the deputy now headed into the parking garage. “I think that’s Fletch sneaking back into town.”

“That SOB. I trained him myself.” Bradford pushed Hank aside and heaved his bulk onto the saddle of the chestnut horse. The horse whinnied, complaining about the new rider whose weight exceeded Hank’s by at least seventy pounds.

Bradford leaned over and mouthed something to Gran. She winked then handed her lilac parasol to her son-in-law. He grabbed the ruffled umbrella and galloped down the street as if he were personally leading the charge of the Bumbershoot Brigade.

Drivers of cars haphazardly parked to the side of the highway leaned out car windows and snapped photos and videos of the chase. Instagram might soon receive credit for whittling America’s Most Wanted list down by one.

My immediate goal was to locate Tom. Two of the squad cars that had stopped to assist with traffic control peeled after Bradford. Seconds later, a motorcycle flew across the pedestrian bridge heading for the parking garage, the sun’s rays turning it into a roaring fiery-red dragon.

If Tom rode the motorcycle, I prayed he possessed enough skill to manage the sharp curves of the narrow ramps leading down to the ground floor. My grandmother grabbed my clammy hand and squeezed it tight.

The sound of brakes squealing and the crash of metal meeting metal echoed from the Center Street parking structure.

I dropped Gran’s hand as if it were a hot potato and raced toward the garage.

Uniformed officers and cowboys in full western regalia sprinted past me, unencumbered by high heels and low-cut costumes. I slowed my pace as I neared the structure, almost afraid to discover who or what had crashed.

I let out a huge sigh of relief when I discovered one squad car had collided with another. Two tan-shirted officers argued, causing me to wonder if they would ticket each other.

Bradford and Tom were nowhere in sight, but I spied a ring of cowboys standing by the Bell Tower. With so many officers milling about, I didn’t feel apprehensive about my own safety, only concerned about the well-being of the men in my life.

I scooted closer to the Hangtown Posse. The local cowboys graciously let me ease through. No need to stomp on anyone’s boot––something I was prepared to do if necessary.

The bright red Harley rested on its side next to the Bell Tower. The chestnut horse Bradford had borrowed from Hank seemed to have handled its second mission of the day with aplomb. My stepfather gripped the shaft of the umbrella, prepared to attack or defend using any means necessary––even a pastel parasol, which I noticed dripped blood on the pavement.

Tom shoved a handcuffed former Deputy Fletcher down the stairs of the Bell Tower. A nasty head wound bled down Fletch’s right cheek. Two deputies latched on to Fletch, read him his rights and escorted him in the direction of the garage.

I threw myself at Tom, knocking both of us to the ground in front of the Hangtown Posse, the mayor, my family, and a few thousand onlookers. He sat up, shaking with laughter, while I wondered why the one time we ended up lying next to each other, we had to have an audience.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He rubbed the back of his head where he’d smacked into the pavement. “I felt fine until ten seconds ago. I didn’t realize you were a linebacker in training. What about you?”

I glanced down at my saloon girl outfit, fearful of a potential fashion disaster, but none of my assets were celebrating in public. I let Tom haul me to my feet where he gave me a proper kiss.

The crowd hooted, hollered, and clapped as we strolled, arm in arm, over to Bradford and his equine pet.

“So who caught Fletch?” I asked the two men.

“Robert bashed the back of his head with that unorthodox weapon.” Tom smiled and pointed at the ruffled parasol. “When Fletch stumbled, I took him down. I didn’t have my handcuffs with me, but your Hangtown Posse came prepared.”

Tom nodded to the men clothed in frontier wear who circled us. They shook Tom’s hand and mine then wandered off in search of more action. I imagined their playacting shoot-outs wouldn’t seem nearly as exciting now that they’d participated in a real chase.

Within seconds, Mother, the kids, Liz, Stan and Brian joined us in a frenzy of group hugs. The Mayor and Tom conversed for a few minutes before Tom joined our noisy group.

Holding tight to my children, I tried to answer their questions. All any of them knew was that Deputy Fletcher had buggy-nabbed Gran, and that Hank, Tom, and a myriad of police officials had gone after him. Not to mention Scott and me, leading the chase. I hoped the rancher’s gunshot wound didn’t end up being too serious.

“I’m confused, Mommy,” Ben said, clinging to my hand. “Where did you disappear to?”

“I think we’re all somewhat bewildered,” Mother remarked. “Laurel, you can enlighten us. Although, first, let me chastise my husband for terrifying the life out of me.” Mother marched over to Bradford’s side. Having sat through a million lectures from my mother, I could imagine the tirade he had in store.

The chestnut horse breathed a horse-sized sigh of relief when the supersized cowpoke climbed down. Bradford tied it to a pole and joined us.

“I don’t know where that horse came from, but hopefully Hank can track down its owner,” Bradford said, resting his arm on my mother’s shoulder. He looked over at me. “Now, Laurel, tell me exactly how you came to your conclusion about Fletch. Why on earth did he kill Spencer?”

“And tell it quick,” Tom said. “I need to get back to headquarters and interview the guy before he lawyers up. All I know is that former Deputy Fletcher shot at Laurel, although it could have been accidental, and he jumped off a moving carriage leaving your grandmother in danger. The fact he tried to run from the law doesn’t help his case, but I need more than that to charge him with murder.”

“He shot at me twice,” I said, my face reddening in anger. “But wounded Scott Shelton instead. Thank goodness you found that motorcycle and went after him.”

“No one takes a potshot at the woman I…” Tom’s voice trailed off as the carriage carrying Hank and Gran, clip-clopped up the street, halting when it reached us. Hank jumped out, tied up Black Beauty then assisted my grandmother. Mother rushed to Gran’s side while Hank threw his arms around me.

“Help,” I mouthed to Stan. He grabbed Hank’s arm and pulled him away.

“So you did get my message about Fletch,” Hank said to me.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“When I called you from Pollock Pines I said the killer might be Fletch.”

“Your call disappeared when my cell...” I glared at my grandmother who was looking at everyone but her granddaughter, “when I lost my phone. Anyway I didn’t catch that.”

“Next time you determine the identity of a killer,” interrupted Tom, “how about calling the cops?”

Hank’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets. “Like you would believe anything I tell you?”

Hank had a point, but I didn’t want the two men to come to fisticuffs, or worse, have Hank join his former football teammate in a cell.

“Why did you decide Fletch murdered Spencer?” I asked him.

“That night in the bar, before the hanging, I was in a real foul mood. The guys kept ragging on me about that argument Spencer and I had the night before. After Fletch bought me a couple of drinks, I dished about those old valuables I’d found during the renovation. I knew Fletch was all into local history, so I asked what they could be worth. I thought maybe that cheapskate Spencer could sell a few things and finally pay what he owed me.”

“How did Fletch respond?” Tom asked.

“Said he’d research it for me, but honestly I’d drunk so much that night I didn’t even think about it again until Laurel and I noticed someone had been digging inside the hotel. Not until I went fishing to clear my head did I remember my conversation with Fletch.”

“That’s not exactly staggering evidence,” Tom growled at Hank. “I hope you’ve got more proof than that.”

“I do.” I beamed at Tom. “I borrowed Fletch’s iPhone earlier to take some photos of Gran and him. When I checked to see how they came out, I noticed he’d taken interior shots of the hotel, close-ups of the section along the wall where Hank had found a few valuables. They were taken while the crime scene tape was up.”

Tom frowned. “I’m not sure what that proves. Maybe Fletch was trying to play detective. Not that he was supposed to go into the crime scene since he’s not on the homicide squad.”

“In addition to that, Fletch has been researching the history relating to the body in the mine shaft,” I said. “I think he learned about that old stagecoach robbery that took place back in 1864. When Miles Mickelson was killed.”

“Was that Mickelson the one the Mickelson Building was named after?” asked Mother. She turned an appraising eye on the building, as if estimating its current as well as historical value.

Good grief. The woman had a one-track mind. If the deputies hadn’t carted Fletch off to jail, she’d be shoving a listing agreement and pen in his handcuffed hands.

I continued citing my evidence to Tom. “The horse guiding the buggy bumped Fletch’s arm causing him to drop an old-fashioned pocket watch that looked exactly like a watch Hank found in the hotel. Plus when I picked it up, I noticed the inscription with Miles Mickelson’s name on it. When I asked Fletch if he was a relative he responded ‘sure.’”

“Sure?” Tom shoved his hand through his already unruly hair. “Please tell me that’s not your only evidence. Maybe the men were related to one another.”

“And maybe he stole the watch and a trove of other valuables from the Hangtown Hotel where they were buried long ago. Abe told me he recently purchased some valuable jewelry from Fletch.”

Tom stared at his notebook. He didn’t look as convinced as I was.

“Don’t you think it’s strange Fletch up and quit out of the blue?” I asked him.

“It could be a coincidence,” Tom said. “He said his mother needed him in Florida.”

“One more thing,” I said. “Check out his boot heel. I think it may be a match to the print you found at Doug’s house.”

“It’s a start. And between shooting at Laurel and wounding that Shelton guy, Fletch committed enough felonies around here to give me grounds for a search warrant.”

“Plus, he about terrified me to death,” Gran added, “when he threatened to kill me.”

After Tom took off to complete his official duties, Gran beckoned me to her side.

“That dude didn’t really threaten to kill me,” she admitted. “But he did threaten to throw me out of the buggy after I walloped him.”

“Close enough,” I reassured her. “Once they search his house, I’m positive they’ll find more items he stole from the hotel. Along with proof he killed both men.”

“Do you think Spencer caught Fletch digging around in the building?” Hank asked.

“If I had to guess,” Bradford said, back in detective mode, “the most plausible explanation is that Spencer arrived early for his appointment with Hank and caught Fletch messing around. Fletch clobbered him with that piece of wood they found with Spencer’s blood on it. Once Fletch realized he’d killed Spencer, he had the foresight to make a spectacle of the victim, knowing the man had made an enemy or two along the way.”

“Fletch is a smart man and he almost got away with it,” I interjected.

“Do you think he killed Doug, too?” Hank asked.

“I guess that’s up to Tom to figure out,” I said, slightly distracted by the figure hurrying past our group clustered next to the Bell Tower. I put my hand out to stop him. “Hi, Rex. Did you hear they arrested Deputy Fletcher? We think he killed Spencer. ”