Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (6 page)

Tom grinned at Ben, but I could tell my son’s innocent comment upset his father. Hank didn’t respond, in itself a sign that Ben’s remark perturbed him. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to quiz Tom on his new cold case.

“We can use a detective in this family, Ben. We have a family mystery to solve.”

My son’s ears perked up. His green eyes widened, and he actually dropped the rest of his pizza back on to his plate. I’d finally learned how to get his full attention.

“We do? How many dead bodies do we got?”

“Do we have,” I said, automatically correcting his grammar.

Ben looked confused. “How many dead bodies do we got to have?”

Tom’s shoulders heaved as he tried not to laugh at Ben. Or his mother.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “So, Tom, how many dead bodies do we got to have before you figure out my great-great-grandfather didn’t murder George Clarkson?”

Jenna’s mouth opened and closed before she managed to squeak out a question. “Someone in our family killed a Clarkson? Is he related to Rich Clarkson?”

“There’s a Clarkson on every corner in this town, Jenna. I suppose Rich must be related to George in some fashion.”

“I hope my great-great-great-grandfather didn’t kill any of Rich’s relatives,” Jenna said. “He’s totally awesome.”

“I’m sure your great-great––” I hesitated because I was having a difficult time keeping track of the greats dangling from the branches of our family tree. “Anyway, I doubt Harold Titus had anything to do with George Clarkson’s death. Just because they discovered Harold’s watch in the mineshaft does not make him a killer. Maybe George stole the watch and happened to be wearing it when he died.”

“Hey, that’s a good possibility,” Hank chimed in.

It was good, wasn’t it? I patted myself on the back for coming up with a reason to remove Harold as a suspect.

“We haven’t finalized anything yet,” Tom said. “There will be a lot more investigating before we close the case. I promise.”

“You better continue to look for another suspect,” I said. “Otherwise you’ll have to contend with three generations of the Titus women digging up our own clues.”

“Make that four.” Jenna raised her glass of milk, and we clinked to our female solidarity and the pursuit of truth, happiness and frosted chocolate brownies.

I woke in the middle of the night with my bladder screaming at me. Once awake, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I thought back to our dinner the previous evening. It ended amicably enough although Hank refused to get the hint his presence wasn’t needed or wanted by his ex-wife. He seemed determined to deprive me of my boyfriend’s company. And his kisses. Tom and I only managed to exchange one chaste goodnight kiss before he and Kristy drove home.

Hank and I needed to sit down and discuss my personal situation. Just because he was currently single and seemingly intent on spending time with me did not mean the feeling was reciprocal. We had both grown up and moved on.

At least, I had. It was time for him to start a new life as well.

It took forever before I fell back to sleep only to be awakened a short time later when the phone rang. Outside my bedroom window, the sky resembled a Turner painting in swirling shades of pink and blue.

I switched on my nightstand lamp and mumbled “Hello” into the phone.

“I need your help,” the caller whispered.

“Who is this?”

“It’s your husband.”

“What?”

“It’s Hank.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so in the first place? And stop referring to yourself as my husband. That spec home sailed a long time ago. You’re not my––”

Hank interrupted before I could throw any more confusing metaphors into the mix.

“Laurel, listen to me. I’m in trouble and I need your help.”

Geez. What now? I grabbed the clock and brought it so close to my myopic eyes that my eyelashes dusted it clean. A few minutes before six. What kind of trouble could Hank be in before the sun rose?

“I thought you were meeting Spencer at five,” I muttered into the phone. “Did he show?”

Hank paused for a few seconds before he replied. “Kind of.”

“What?”

“Spencer is here. In a sense.”

I sighed. “Hank, I need to jump in the shower and get ready for work. Can you speak in plain English?”

“I’ll try,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I overslept this morning. When I arrived, Spencer wasn’t waiting for me, so I figured he left to get to his Rotary meeting.”

“He was probably ticked off at you for being late. Did you try calling him?”

“Yeah, that’s when I heard his cell ringing upstairs.”

“Maybe he left his phone behind when he drove off.”

“Spencer didn’t drive off,” Hank shouted into the phone causing me to shrink back.

“Listen, Hank, if you’re going to yell at me I’m hanging up.”

“Don’t do that,” he said, the fear in his voice unmistakable. “Please.”

In the background, I heard sirens, the shrill sound gradually increasing in volume.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Upstairs in the attic of the Hangtown Hotel.”

“And you have no idea where Spencer could be?”

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered. “You know the dummy that hangs over the Hangman’s Tree building a few doors down from the hotel?”

“Of course. I used the Hanging Man dummy in one of the bank’s ad campaigns recently.” Or attempted to until my boss shot me down.

“Well, now there’s two of them.”

I leaned back against my pillow. “Did vandals string up another dummy? Don’t worry. It’s not your concern.”

Hank’s loud sigh boomed over the phone. “It’s my concern when the new hanging man isn’t a dummy.”

I was about to chastise Hank for being a dummy himself when he finally elaborated.

“Spencer is hanging from the scaffolding of the Hangtown Hotel!”

The phone slipped and banged against my front teeth. “What do you mean Spencer is hanging from the scaffolding? Is he dead?”

“Well, I haven’t examined his body,” Hank said, “but he’s looking kind of limp and, um, dead-ish.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No, I called you first.” My ego was impressed Hank called me first. My brain decided he was an idiot.

“I heard sirens in the background a few minutes ago,” I said. “Are the police there now?”

“Someone must have realized he wasn’t a dummy and called the cops. Two police cars parked on the street in front of the building. What should I do?”

I rested the phone on my shoulder, which left my fingernails free for chewing. Certainly gnawing my nails down to their nubs would help me come up with a solution.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I said. “Just because you and Spencer scheduled a meeting this morning doesn’t signify anything. But why would someone kill him and string his body up?”

“Crazy, huh? Should I go talk to the officers?” Hank’s voice shook. He must feel awful after such a grisly discovery. I was feeling nauseous myself thinking about it.

“You can’t hide up there forever. The detectives will want to examine every inch of the building before long. Why did you go inside? Didn’t you notice Spencer hanging out front?”

“I always park my truck in the Center Street garage and enter through the rear door. Spencer has a reserved spot in another lot. Since the door wasn’t locked, I assumed he’d already arrived. When I didn’t see him, I figured he must have left. I called his cell and heard it ring up above me so I climbed the stairs to the second floor.” Hank gulped before he continued. “At first I thought someone had moved the dummy again. You know like the time he went missing and ended up sitting in a chair at the Liar’s Bench bar. I almost had a heart attack when I realized it was Spencer.”

I tried my best to reassure him. “You have nothing to worry about. The two of you merely have, I mean had, a business arrangement. Go downstairs and explain your situation to the officers. It’s far better if you tell the cops now than if they find out later you were on the premises. I’m sure the police will understand.”

Silly me.

Ninety minutes later, I stood on the sidewalk alongside a throng of spectators across the street from the old Hangtown Hotel. Yellow crime scene tape formed a barricade around the brick and clapboard building Hank was in the middle of renovating. Crime scene tape also covered the scaffolding. A few early birds displayed photos taken with their smart phones before the police took down Darius Spencer’s body.

I shivered, either from the early morning temperature or from the ghastly sight of Spencer’s limp frame that the woman next to me insisted on sharing via her iPad. The high definition version. Whoever hung Spencer intended to make a statement. No attempt had been made to disguise the death as an accident.

My heart went out to Janet, the victim’s wife, and their children. Losing a spouse was tragedy enough but for him to be killed in such a horrific manner would be even more devastating.

I’d expected Hank to be in the crowd, but I had yet to see him around. He might still be talking to the police or he could have gone home. Main Street had been cordoned off to vehicular traffic, but that hadn’t stopped people from parking a few blocks away and scurrying along the sidewalk to check out the crime scene behind the tape.

Jake Russell, the owner of Hangtown Bakery, true to character, chose to profit from the crime by setting up his portable kiosk next to the barricade perimeter. The curious spectators could sip a cup of java and nosh on a jelly-filled doughnut while watching the Hangtown version of
Law and Order
. While I applauded Jake’s ingenuity, profiting from a murder lacked good taste.

Although Jake’s incredible pastries lacked for nothing.

A car bearing the insignia of the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Office stopped in front of the barricade. The driver rolled down his window and spoke to the city cop who then let the vehicle through. I recalled that the Placerville Police Department normally utilized detectives from the county for homicide investigations. The driver pulled behind a fire engine parked in the loading zone in front of Antiques Galore. The passenger door opened, and a dark-haired man unfurled his large frame out of the car.

I grinned. My homicide hotline had arrived on the scene. Once the detective entered the building, he would be off limits.

I called out his name. Tom halted, his internal “Laurel” GPS zeroing in on my location. He must have told the deputy accompanying him to go ahead because the younger man walked inside while Tom headed toward me.

“Excuse me,” Tom said. The crowd parted as if he’d majestically commanded the Red Sea to divide in half. He grabbed my hand, and we weaved in and out of the spectators until we reached the corner of Main and Sacramento Streets.

“What are you doing here?” Tom asked. “Shouldn’t you be at the bank?”

I glanced at my watch. “I still have ten minutes to spare. Hank called early this morning to tell me about finding Spencer, so I thought I’d see him here.”

Tom’s chiseled features hardened causing him to resemble a Bernini sculpture. “What do you mean Hank called you about Spencer? You’re not saying he had anything to do with the murder, are you?”

“You’re calling it a murder already? Normally you officials say a death is under investigation until you’re positive it’s a homicide.”

“Someone hung the guy from the scaffolding. He doesn’t appear to have done it on his own, so it’s not an accident nor a suicide.”

I frowned at Tom. “Do you know if the city police talked to Hank?”

He shook his head, looking even more confused than I felt. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s the deal with your ex?”

“Hank and Spencer scheduled a meeting for five, but Hank overslept and didn’t enter the building until close to six. He claims he didn’t notice anything unusual until he called Spencer’s cell. When he heard the phone ringing, he went up to the second floor and discovered the body hanging from the scaffolding. Then he called me. And I told him to talk to the police.”

“Hank called you?” Tom asked. “Not 911?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t say Hank was smart. But he’s not a killer.”

Tom’s eyes softened. “I realize the man’s an idiot. He let you go, didn’t he?”

Aw. After that compliment, I could have thrown my arms around him, but two men dressed in suits crossed the intersection and stopped to speak to us.

Tom nodded at the men. “Mayor Briggs, Supervisor Winkler. What can I do for you?”

“What’s the situation here, Lieutenant?” asked the mayor, his face flushed and his navy and yellow print tie somewhat askew. Then his gaze shifted to me. “Are you assisting Detective Hunter?”

I could think of a dozen ways I’d like to assist my detective, but I doubted Mayor Briggs had any of my R-rated scenarios in mind. Tom shot me a look indicating it was time for this civilian to trot down to her office while the police and politicos attended to business.

Fine with me. I winked him a goodbye and headed down the street.

I entered the lobby of the bank, which bustled with customers. Although crime scene tape blocked the sidewalk a few doors down, it had not impeded foot traffic. I returned to my supply closet turned office. I shoved my well-worn black Coach purse, a present from my mother, into my desk drawer and turned on my computer. Seconds later, Stan landed in my visitor chair.

“Can you believe what happened?” he asked.

I shook my head as I typed my password into my computer. “I saw photos of Spencer’s body hanging from the scaffolding, but I still can’t come to grips with it. Such a tragedy.”

“And a pretty ballsy thing for the killer to do,” Stan said before adding, “volleyball-sized balls.”

I nodded my agreement. “Was it someone with a huge ego, or someone who hated Spencer so much he wanted to make a grand statement?”

Stan rested his chin on his palms. “Could one man have done it alone?”

I pondered his question half wishing I’d seen the victim myself, half relieved I had not. “I’ll have to ask Hank if he thinks one person could have strung him up.”