Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (7 page)

“Have you talked to him today?”

“He called me this morning. Right after he found the body.”

Stan’s mouth opened wide enough to swallow a mouse. The one resting next to my keyboard. “OMG. Your husband killed Spencer?”

“Hank is not my husband and don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t kill a fly.”

Well, my ex had eliminated a few hundred flies in his lifetime, and I’d personally witnessed him use a shovel to slice off the head of a rattlesnake. But we were talking about a man here, not a snake.

So I thought.

“Did you forget Hank punched Spencer at the Cornbread & Cowpokes soiree?” Stan reminded me.

“He merely imbibed a little too much that evening. Remember, Spencer had just fired him. Well, temporarily, until Hank apologized for his idiocy. Besides that’s not a sufficient reason to kill someone.”

“You never know what makes people snap.” Stan stood, smoothed his pressed trousers and snapped his own manicured fingers. “Let’s hope the police agree with you.”

Stan departed my office, but his final remark lingered on. I’d expected Hank to call me back after he met with the police, and his lengthy silence began to unnerve me. I dialed his cell and was almost ready to hang up when he picked up and whispered a soft hello.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “I’m worried about you.”

“Thanks, hon. I appreciate that.”

“Did you experience any problems explaining your situation to the cops?”

Hank cleared his throat. “I decided they were busy enough without me interfering, so I left.”

“You left the crime scene?” I could hear my voice growing shrill. “Without explaining you were there?”

“After you and I hung up, I walked downstairs and went out the back door to drop off my tool box in the truck. Then I decided to drive home. I figured the cops would call me if they had any questions. You think I screwed up by not hanging around?” He chuckled. “Hey, that’s funny.”

No, it wasn’t funny at all.

“There’s not much you can do about it now,” I grumbled, “except wait until the gendarmes come banging on your door.”

“The who? Oh, you really think they’ll want to talk to me? I’m only the contractor.”

I ticked off all the reasons the police would want to interview him, beginning with his fingerprints covering every wall of the building, him punching Spencer Sunday night and concluding with his presence at the scene of the crime.

“Laurel, I punched Spencer out of frustration combined with one too many beers. After I apologized to him, everything was cool with us. Certainly there are far more people who had a reason to kill him.”

At least one person must have a reason. His killer.

“You’ve spent a lot of time with Spencer lately,” I said to Hank. “Why don’t you come up with a list of possible suspects? Whoever is investigating this case might appreciate the help.”

“Great idea. You always were smarter than me.” Hank paused, waiting for me to disagree with him. It would be a very long wait.

“I’ll stop by the house tonight, and we can put our heads together,” he said. I started to protest, but he clicked off.

Seconds later, my cell rang. Mother. I debated between answering the call and doing what I should be doing at nine in the morning––my job. I was still annoyed with my boss so Mother won this round.

“Did you hear about Spencer?” I asked her.

“What? Oh, yes, terrible thing. Although he was an annoying rodent of a man.”

I stared at my cell phone to confirm it was my normally classy mother on the line. “Did you refer to Darius Spencer as a rodent?”

“I once called him a rat-faced liar to his face, so that would be an affirmative, dear.”

“You didn’t happen to ask your husband to hang Spencer from a pole, did you?”

“Of course not,” Mother replied. “If I were to murder someone, it would be far more subtle.”

“Good to know,” I said. “But why are you so down on Spencer?”

“No reason other than he foreclosed on one of my clients. He not only cheated me out of a commission, he stole their home right from under them.”

“You never mentioned anything about that to me.”

“It occurred a few years ago when you were still dealing with your post-divorce issues. The Beckers held plenty of equity in their house, but they had both lost their jobs and couldn’t keep up with their loan payments. Spencer acquired the Becker mortgage from the original construction lender and promised to work with them. I found a purchaser for their home, but we needed some time to work out the financing details. The next thing I knew, he’d foreclosed and the sheriff was knocking on their door to evict them.”

“That’s horrible,” I said. My mother put her heart and soul into helping buyers and sellers of homes. For Spencer to go and unnecessarily evict them seemed wrong.

“When I ran into Spencer at a chamber meeting, I told him exactly how I felt about him shoving that poor family out their front door. He laughed and told me to suck eggs.”

“Do you think he made a practice of cheating people? It’s hard to believe a politician would lie for his own benefit.”

And what fantasy world did I live in?

After Mother stopped laughing at my absurd comment, she informed me about the real reason for her phone call. “Your Gran is driving me crazy.”

I felt like saying, “So what else is new,” but restrained myself. “What do you want me to do?”

“She’s refusing to let me list her house until we prove her grandfather didn’t murder George Clarkson. She claims the Hangtown Historical Society is threatening to kick her off the board. And to rescind her nomination for the Distinguished Historian Award that will be given at the county fair. The award and that organization mean a great deal to her.”

“I doubt Tom has closed the file yet, so I’ll discuss it with him. He’s going to have his hands full with Spencer’s murder investigation now.”

I could practically hear the wheels of my mother’s active brain grinding through the phone line. “If Tom is distracted by the new murder, Mr. Bones may not be a priority. That will give you time to research and determine who did it.”

I sighed. “You are aware I have a full-time job.”

“Yes, but you’re good at solving puzzles. If you don’t agree to figure it out, your grandmother will try. We can’t have her running around town grilling the descendants of those early settlers in search of a killer from the last century.”

I giggled at the image of my grandmother dressed in a pastel blue trench coat and matching fedora gumshoeing it down Main Street. An octogenarian Nancy Drew on the loose.

“Okay, tomorrow I’ll plan on spending my lunch hour at the historical museum,” I said. “Maybe I can come up with a list of ancient suspects.”

I hung up just as my boss arrived at my office door, bearing an armload of files and a frown that appeared sand blasted on his face.

My boss, Bruce Boxer, resembled the dog of the same name, but was not nearly as attractive. I couldn’t tell if his bark was worse than his bite, but I preferred not to find out. As Vice President of Business Development, his job description included luring local merchants and large depositors to our bank, using print advertising and online social media. Another important responsibility included attending every social, political and non-profit function in town.

When I initially applied for this position, I visualized spending many hours outside of the office as compared to hunkering at my desk all day underwriting loan files. I looked forward to mingling with members of the local Chambers of Commerce, participating on fundraising committees and attending a variety of social events and mixers.

So far, my duties had left me desk bound with nary a swizzle stick or Swedish meatball slotted on my professional calendar.

I greeted Mr. Boxer with a less-than-hopeful smile and a question mark in my eyes.

He threw a slick piece of paper on my desk. The same flyer he’d rejected the day before. Only someone had modified it. The artist had drawn a face on the hanging man that resembled the victim. In case there was any doubt, the unknown person included some verbiage––Slimebag Spencer gets what he deserves!

“Where did you find this?” My hand trembled as I gripped the flyer. This couldn’t be good. For the bank or for me.

“Someone taped it to the bulletin board next to the bank.” Mr. Boxer loomed over me, his left eye twitching erratically like a broken turn signal. “One of our customers brought it in. I thought I ordered you to get rid of those flyers.”

“I did, but we’d already handed a few of them out before we pulled them from the advertising kiosk. I dumped the remainder in the recycle bin.”

My boss looked as if he wanted to stuff
me
in the recycle bin.

“I am really sorry,” I apologized. “Is there anything I can do?”

He fell into the empty chair in front of my desk. “Not at this point. I hope none of our customers associates the bank with this horrendous crime.”

“It could be a kid pulling a prank.” That option appealed to me.

“I hope the police agree,” he said, his eye still twitching but at a slower rate.

“Shoot.” I dropped the flyer faster than if I’d picked up a hot tamale. “Our fingerprints are all over it.”

Mr. Boxer’s face paled. “I never thought of that. Should I call the police?”

“That’s okay, I can handle it.” I grabbed my cell out of my purse and hit speed dial. “I have my own personal hotline.”

My homicide hotline must have been engrossed in his investigation because he didn’t return my call. I tucked the modified flyer into a large baggie in case Tom wanted to look at it. I never leave home without them. Although my preference is to use them to transport meals that I can’t finish, as opposed to crime scene evidence.

Hank also didn’t respond to the two messages I left on his voicemail wondering whether he still intended to come to the house that evening. I decided dinner would be a bountiful repast of hot dogs and leftover pizza accompanied by a huge salad.

Ben, Jenna and I were sitting at the table, almost finished eating when Hank strolled into my cheerful yellow kitchen.

“How did you get in?” I asked. We live in a safe rural community, but I always lock the doors at night.

He dangled an array of keys before he shoved them into his jeans pocket. “I still have the key to your house.” He lifted his ball cap off his head, placed it over his chest and winked at me. “And to your heart, I hope.”

Jenna chuckled. I could feel my eyeballs wanting to roll in their sockets, but I forced them to stay put. I added another item to my “to do” list. Change the locks.

Hank opened an oak cabinet and grabbed a plate from the bottom shelf. He pulled out the cutlery drawer, which jammed before finally sliding free. “It would make more sense,” he said, “if you rearranged your steak knives and flatware like this.” He shifted the utensils around. “Then the knives wouldn’t get stuck.”

I felt like rearranging one of the serrated knives in Hank’s chest. Just because he built our house, Hank thought it gave him permission to advise me how to organize it.

Rather than get into yet another argument, I switched subjects. “Did you contact the police?” I asked.

Hank slid into the spindle-backed chair across from mine. He grabbed a slice of pizza and chewed for a few seconds before answering. “I talked to the dispatcher this afternoon. Told her I’m the contractor for the renovation, and they could call me if they had any questions about the remodel.”

“Why’d you need to call the police, Dad?” asked Ben, taking one more slice before his pizza-loving father demolished the remainder.

“Darius Spencer, the man who owns the building I’ve been working on, died today.”

Ben chewed on that comment while he chewed on his pizza. “So do you still got a job?”

“Have a job,” I muttered.

Both McKay males looked at me, the unofficial grammar police, then at each other. Hank shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I should talk to his wife. I didn’t even think about who I’d be reporting to now.”

“Is Darius Spencer that creepy looking guy on all the billboards who’s running for Supervisor of the Sixth District?” Jenna said.

Hank and I nodded in unison.

“Did he have a heart attack?” she asked. “That picture makes him look like he has a permanent case of indigestion.”

“The police haven’t determined the exact cause of his death,” I said. “Although it looks as if someone murdered him.”

Jenna blinked startled blue eyes at me. “Do you think someone plans on killing all the candidates?”

“No, I don’t think there’s a politician-offing serial killer out there,” I responded. “I’m sure the police will resolve it quickly.”

“Is Tom working on the case?” Ben asked. My son reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out the shiny gold badge Bradford had given him when he retired from the Sheriff’s Office. Ben treasured the badge as well as his new grandfather. “Maybe Tom could use my help,” he said.

The doorbell rang and my heart jumpstarted. Perhaps my favorite detective decided to return my phone call with a personal visit. I rose from my seat and darted through the family room, barely avoiding stomping on Ben’s Game Boy that as usual, he’d tossed on the floor.

I flung open the front door and greeted my boyfriend who stood next to an El Dorado County Deputy Sheriff.

Hmm. Why did I have the feeling this wasn’t a social call?

I resisted the urge to leap into Tom’s arms since a uniformed officer stood by his side. I recognized Deputy Mengelkoch from a previous visit when I was the subject of a murder investigation. I blushed, remembering the officers rummaging through my lingerie drawer in search of the murder weapon. I hoped that vision wasn’t burned in Mengelkoch’s memory like it was in mine.

“We’re looking for Hank,” Tom said. “He’s not at his apartment, so I thought I’d try your place. He seems to spend a lot of time here lately.” Tom pointed to the ten-year-old black Ford F-150 decorating my concrete driveway with fresh oil stains. “That’s Hank’s truck, right?”