Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) Page 17

  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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  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 exceptio
nally 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!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  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.

  Friday morning I arrived at work, exulting over the end of the workweek. Mr. Boxer promptly squashed my inner celebration by ordering me to complete my decorating project by Sunday evening at the latest. When Hangtown Bank opened its doors Monday morning, the bank’s pioneer spirit must be displayed in full gold rush splendor. Or else.

  Mr. Boxer left that simple implied threat on my voicemail then announced he’d be leaving early for a weekend getaway in the city. I wondered how the dignified Mr. Boxer relaxed on vacation, but the best I could visualize was an assignation at the San Francisco Opera House or the Museum of Modern Art.

  My personal daydream included a torrid tryst on a tropical island with my newly sleek body wrapped in Tom Hunter’s arms. Although with my luck, any exotic weekend foreplay would inevitably result in me turning into a sunburned, bug-bitten, dysentery-afflicted tourist.

  I shook my head. Thoughts of a future romantic rendezvous needed to go on the backburner for now. Possibly forever, based on the way our relationship was progressing. Or not progressing. Tom and I hadn’t spoken since our conversation at the hospital Wednesday night.

  I chewed on my ballpoint pen, finally admitting to myself that I’d behaved poorly that evening. The guy only wanted to do his job without my interference. Maybe it was time to cut him a break.

  I dialed Tom’s cell, expecting to leave a groveling apology in his voicemail. He startled me by answering his phone.

  “Laurel, what a surprise,” he said in a tone that sounded more official than personal. “I was about to call you.”

  “I wanted to apologize for the way I spoke to you at the hospital the other night,” I said into the receiver, wishing we were face to face, so he could read my body language.

  And maybe do something spectacular to said body.

  “I understand. You were upset about your grandmother and your close call with the mountain lion.”

  “And worried about Hank, of course,” I replied.

  “Yeah, of course.” His tone echoed his frustration over the line.

  “Do you have any news about his case?”

  “No,” he barked, not even trying to hide his irritation with me. “Although Deputy Fletcher’s research may have produced something helpful regarding the skeleton at your grandmother’s house, if you’re still interested in that case.”

  “Of course, I am. If it will help old Harold’s situation, it might cheer up my grandmother. She’s been in the dumps since they released her from the hospital. Mom put her under house arrest.”

  That comment finally elicited a laugh from Tom. Something about that man’s laugh was so comforting and yet so sensual.

  I heard Tom conversing with someone else before he came back on the line. “Fletch wondered if he could stop at your grandmother’s house and ask her some questions,” Tom said. “He’s off duty at five tonight. Do you think she’d mind?”

  “Are you kidding? This will provide a terrific pick-me-up for her. My boss already left for the weekend, so I can meet Fletch shortly after five. I need to complete my decorating project by Sunday night, and I hope to find some worthwhile antiques in Gran’s shed.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell him you’ll see him then. Goodbye,” Tom said. Before he could hang up, I called out his name.

  “Tom, maybe you can join me at Gran’s house tonight. Or stop by my house later. We haven’t been alone together all week.”

  “No, we haven’t.” I knew him well enough that I could almost hear him running his hands through his thick hair. “Look, Laurel, I’ve been thinking that maybe we should take a break.”

  My heart dropped faster than a Six Flags roller coaster. “What do you mean?”

  “This situation with Hank is creating too many issues between us, both personally and professionally. You running around looking for other suspects has damaged my credibility in the Sheriff’s Department.”

  I sat in silence, formulating a tactful rebuttal to his comment. “You understand my motives for trying to get Hank out of jail, don’t you?”

  Tom waited a few seconds before he replied. “I’m not sure that you are truly certain what your motives are. I think you have some unresolved issues with Hank which need to be addressed before you and I can proceed any further with our relationship.”

  “But, but…”

  “I have to go,” he said. “I’ll, um, I guess I’ll see you around.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The rest of the day passed in a blurred frenzy of activity while I tried to distract myself from the crushing impact of Tom’s words. I wanted to hide in a corner and wallow in pity, but instead, I soldiered on, working through the last-minute tasks Mr. Boxer assigned before he left for his fun-filled weekend.

  Only once did I give in to my despair. I ran over to the Candy Strike Emporium and purchased a one-pound box of homemade fudge. After I returned to the office, I phoned Liz at her spa, knowing my best friend would have wise counsel for me. According to her voicemail, she would be at a meeting all afternoon and not able to return calls until the evening. Throughout the day, I continued to hope Tom would call back and apologize for his dumb suggestion to take time off from one another. His silence was a deafening confirmation of his decision.

  I waddled out of the bank a few minutes after five, having consumed a third of the box of fudge. I eased into my overheated car, pushed the air conditioning to high, and managed to arrive at my grandmother’s house in less than ten minutes.

  When I stepped on the sidewalk leading to her front porch, I noticed a few patches needing repair. Gran had left her door unlocked, a better option than limping through the house to welcome visitors. I called out her name, hoping she hadn’t fallen asleep waiting for me.

  “Keep your shirt on,” she said, “I’m on my way.”

  “Stay where you are. I’ll come to you.” I headed in the direction of her voice, which sounded like it came from the living room, or more accuratel
y, the parlor. This room always gave me the feeling I’d time-traveled back to the early twentieth century. Decades-old blue striped wallpaper covered the walls above white paneled wainscoting. My grandmother had replaced some of the original furniture, but a few of the family ancestral pieces remained scattered throughout the house.

  Gran sat in her bentwood rocking chair, her left leg propped on her cherished needlepoint ottoman. An oversized book by one of her favorite authors rested on the mahogany end table. Blasts of cool air from the ceiling vents ruffled the lace curtains covering her windowpanes.

  I walked over and kissed her wrinkled forehead.

  “How’s my favorite granddaughter?” she asked. We both chuckled since I was and would always be her only granddaughter.

  I plopped down in a velour wing chair and leaned back, wondering whether to bother Gran with my romantic issues.

  “There are two lines on your forehead that need to disappear before they become permanent,” she said. “What’s your honey gone and done?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s as plain as the frown on your face,” she replied before pointing in my direction. “And you’ve left a trail of chocolate clues that anyone related to you would notice.”

  I looked down at my fudge-spotted blouse. My Gran could read me like her large-print book.

  I sighed and blew out my breath. “Tom thinks we should take a break from one another. He feels my involvement in Hank’s case has created a negative impact on him professionally.”

  “Men can be such jackasses.”

  I loved the way my grandmother never held back an opinion.

  “He also believes I still have feelings for Hank.” I scowled in her direction. “How can he think such a thing?”

  Her crepe-paper thin lips pursed together. “What do you think? Would you take back Hank if they set him free?”

  “Of course not.” I jumped up and began to pace the scuffed wooden floor. “Hank and I had good years together and bad years together. When he left me, my heart felt as if he’d ripped it in two. But time, as well as Tom, have helped to heal those wounds. Hank and I remain the supportive parents of our two children, but that’s the total extent of my feelings for him.”