Dying for a Date (22 page)

I turned on my heel, but my dramatic exit was stymied because it was too dark to see the door. All of a sudden both doors flung open. A familiar profile appeared in a beam of light.

Hank.

My ex rushed to my side, fist raised, ready to come to my rescue. Tom glared at him then stomped out without another word.

"What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, frustrated with all of the men in my life.

"I was talking to some friends when I saw that man grab you and pull you in here.” Hank put his arm around my shoulder and drew me close. “Are you okay? Who was that guy? You know I'd do anything to keep you safe."

I took a long hard look at Hank. He seemed sincere, but an ex-husband's sincerity was questionable on the best of days. I brushed his arm away, opened the massive door and re-entered the lobby. “I didn't expect to see you here. How do you know Jeremy?"

"We ran into each other at a Sig Ep fraternity reunion last August,” he replied. “Jeremy was a year ahead of me and we didn't hang out that much during college. He wasn't much of a partier."

Spoken by the Panty Raid Prince of Sigma Phi Epsilon.

"When I found out he was practicing medicine I asked for his business card. Remember a couple of months ago when I hurt my back? I haven't had any medical insurance since our divorce, so he was willing to give me a break on his fees."

Hmmm. Did Jeremy discuss any of his financial issues with his former frat buddy? “So did you guys chat about anything other than your injury?” I asked.

"We talked about the construction business, how it's really been in the tank. I sort of hinted maybe he'd like to hire me to build him a house. He's a doctor. He must have tons of cash."

I had visions of Hank running around the frat house wearing a pair of tightie-whities over his head. Just the kind of guy I'd hire to build a custom home. “Any luck with that?"

"Nah, he wasn't interested. He did say he was having some loan issues and wondered if I could help him out. I told him that was your area of expertise. In fact I gave him your card."

Hank moved closer, mere inches from me. “So is that how the two of you ended up dating?"

I moved back, stumbling as my foot caught in the carpet. Hank caught me. He was so close I could taste the onions on his breath. Before I could respond, Liz appeared at my side. “Bugger off, Hank,” she said, with a look so scathing even my ex could get the hint. Liz had always intimidated Hank and apparently she still did. He quickly melted into the crowd.

She curled an arm around my waist. “Are you okay, luv? Did Hank say something to upset you?"

"No, but I was surprised to see him here. I didn't realize he knew Jeremy from college. Hank said he gave him my card but Jeremy didn't mention the connection when we first met."

"Jeremy probably thought you wouldn't go out with him if you knew he and Hank were acquainted,” Liz said.

"Good point. Did Brian say anything to you about us being here? Tom went ballistic. I sort of intimated he couldn't touch Jeremy when it came to intelligence and compassion.” I reached into my purse, grabbed a tissue, and blew my nose. “But he's absolutely right. We don't have any business being here."

"Bollocks. These men are all alike. Brian wasn't happy I was here either, even after I told him your theory of finding the bald headed guy. It would serve them right if we discover something."

"Absolutely,” I replied, feeling somewhat mollified. “It's not like Tom's been able to discover the murderer. And look what happened when Anne in HR found out about my relationship with Jeremy. Now my career is on the line as well as my reputation."

"Let me say goodbye to my honey. I'm sure I can get him to come around to my point of view when he comes home tonight,” she said, with a lascivious wink at me. She flicked her hand through her bronzed curls and sauntered over to Brian. Even in a suit, Liz could make her curvaceous hips swing seductively. The man didn't stand a chance.

I looked around for the rest of my retinue. Stan was conversing with a thirtyish man of average height and build. I scrutinized the back of his head—good, at least one baldy was being investigated. Of course, knowing Stan, he was trying to determine which team the guy was slugging for.

Mother was chatting with a heavyset woman in a tweed suit, and a tall man with a full head of hair. As I walked up, I overheard her say, “Laurel thinks she saw the murderer. That's why we came here tonight. To see if she could recognize him."

Some detective she was turning out to be. Before the end of the evening, she would probably tell every bald man at the service that we were in the process of investigating him. Fortunately, the man she spoke to was Peter Tyler. The woman I recognized as Penny, the longtime receptionist from the Centurion office.

"Sssssh,” I hissed in Mother's ear. She looked confused so I moved closer and whispered, “You're not supposed to tell everyone what we're doing. You might tip off the murderer."

"Don't be silly, Laurel. They won't tell anyone about our detecting, will you?"

Penny's eyes sparkled as she responded. “Are you kidding? This is great stuff. I'm gonna get me a magnifying glass and a deerstalker hat and help. Big bad bald headed guys, ha ha ha.” She whacked me on the back and strode off chuckling.

Mother looked miffed as she stared at the departing receptionist. I wagered Penny wouldn't be laughing in the morning. The last thing an employee wanted to do was get on the wrong side of Barbara Bingham's desk.

Peter was busy placating my mother. “I'll keep everything you've said confidential. But don't you think this could be dangerous?"

"Trust me. If we find out anything we'll immediately share it with the police. I don't want to be a hero. I just want my life to return to normal. I'm tired of being a suspect in two murders.” “You've involved in two different murders?” Peter's eyebrows jumped a couple of inches and his voice ratcheted up to a tenor.

"Umm,” I was trying to figure out how to respond when Liz and Stan appeared, rescuing me from having to go into any further detail. Peter said goodbye without mentioning anything about dinner the following week. Did that mean our date was off? A woman suspected of two murders probably wasn't considered a social asset in the top producer circle.

The four of us climbed into the car and headed for Mark Slater's house.

"This investigating is way more difficult than I thought it would be,” Liz said. “I asked two couples what they were doing the Saturday night Jeremy was killed and they both walked away. Do you think I insulted them? Maybe I need to be a little more subtle."

"You think?” Stan mocked her. “You know, the sheriff's department may be able to use the storm trooper approach, but we civilians need to be more discreet."

"So what did you find out, Mr. Discreet?” Liz punched Stan in the shoulder.

"Hey. Watch it. I found out one of Jeremy's neighbors is gay and we're meeting for a drink tomorrow night.” Stan grinned. “His name is Barry and he's been single for a while too."

"Terrific,” Liz said. “What if he's the killer? Did he have a bald spot?"

"Practically every man attending the service was balding somewhere on his cranium, including Jeremy's brother. We need to check him out too,” Stan said. “You know, in ninety percent of murders, it's a close friend or relative."

"True,” Mother replied, “but don't forget they also say to follow the money."

"Exactly what we're going to do,” I announced. Someone had to take charge of this group. “The one thing we know for certain is that Jeremy was about to buy a house in Lake Tahoe. But he had some concerns about the purchase."

"What kind of concerns?” Stan asked.

"He never had a chance to tell me. But if anybody can squeeze information out of a bereaved mourner, you guys can."

Liz and Stan exchanged glances. Okay, as pep talks went, it kind of sucked.

"We're here,” announced Mother as she maneuvered the car into a parallel parking space. Parking skills are obviously not a genetic trait. The last time I parallel parked, I ended up on the sidewalk, less than an inch from a fire hydrant.

The Slaters’ house was located in the country club side of Serrano, an area of huge homes fronting the Robert Trent Jones designed golf course. I stopped to confirm the address, but by the time we climbed the limestone steps of the imposing French Manor style mansion, there wasn't much doubt this was the Slater residence. Lights blazed out of every gabled window.

It took all four of us to push open the massive paneled front door. As we stepped on the ivory marble floor, Mother nudged me, and pointed to the enormous chandelier hanging twenty feet over our heads, shooting out Aurora Borealis rays of light.

"Waterford."

Wow. Knowing what one Waterford crystal wine glass cost, I couldn't imagine the dollars invested in that light fixture. I bet they didn't get it at Home Depot.

We followed other dark suits into the living room, which was close to the size of my entire house. The two spotless ivory sofas flanking the fireplace would never have survived a day around my kids. The perfectly coordinated yellow and blue chairs, and matching draperies and rugs, looked like something out of
Architectural Digest
. I was both impressed and disappointed. Mark Slater certainly didn't need any of Jeremy's money, unless they were mortgaged to the hilt.

I glanced at some of the paintings hanging on the walls. Original works of art including some early twentieth century artists. Definitely not the thirty-nine dollar landscapes I've bought at weekend sales at the Holiday Inn.

Many of the guests seemed to be acquainted with each other, probably relatives, or friends and neighbors. A petite woman with spiked blond hair, dressed in a clingy black Lycra spandex dress more suitable for clubbing than mourning, waved at us. I didn't recognize her but Liz waved back.

"Who's that?” I asked.

"That's Tara. Don't you remember her from Jeremy's office? She's the receptionist with the acne issue."

Liz swirled her head to the left and the right. “Lots of good spa candidates here. I should have brought more business cards."

"You're going to market at a memorial service?"

My brash friend chuckled. “Hey, with my health and beauty tips, these women can live ten years longer. Didn't you hear that collagen loss is approaching epidemic proportions? They need me.” With that remark, she crossed the room and greeted Tara.

Stan noticed his new acquaintance, Barry, standing by the enormous limestone fireplace, so he wandered over to expand on their friendship. The next thing I knew, my mother was striding across the room, smiling animatedly as she joined two elderly couples.

So much for my team.

My stomach gurgled. It had been eight hours since my last meal. Even Nancy Drew didn't look for clues on an empty stomach. The best place to start was obviously wherever the food was being served.

I maneuvered through the crowd in the living room and across the entry into an equally enormous dining room. The glossy mahogany table, which could have been Sheraton or Chippendale, but definitely not Ikea, was covered from one end to the other with plates of colorful pungent food. The aromas of garlic, onion and chocolate perked up my salivary glands.

I contemplated getting two plates, to keep myself balanced, but decided it would be difficult to shake hands with potential suspects. There was only one other couple in the room. The man's bald dome was almost as bright as the highly polished table. He was in his late sixties or early seventies, tall and stooped. I couldn't imagine anyone that age being able to knock Jeremy into the river. But, timing was everything. If he surprised Jeremy and pushed him just the right way, it might have worked. I would begin with them.

I sidled closer to the elderly couple and extended my right hand. “I'm Laurel McKay, a close friend of Jeremy's. Are you members of the family?"

"Oh, hello there,” the man responded, setting down his wine glass in order to shake my hand. “Yes, Jeremy is, or rather was, my nephew. I'm Henry Slater and this is my wife Bonnie.” Bonnie nodded at me with red-rimmed eyes as she stared at her plate of hors d'oeuvres.

"I'm so sorry for your loss.” I always feel inept talking to relatives of the deceased. “I will truly miss Jeremy."

Henry Slater focused his watery blue eyes on me. “How were you acquainted with my nephew, my dear?"

"We were friends, um, social acquaintances.” No point in going into more detail. I tried to think of something relevant to ask them. Interrogating required far more tactical skills than I seemed to possess.

"This is a lovely home. Mark must be very successful in his line of work.” I grabbed a piece of bruschetta and bit into it. Yum. Great caterer.

"Yes, he is.” Henry answered my implied question. “Mark is an attorney. He works with me in my law firm. In fact, the whole family consists of lawyers, with the exception of Jeremy. I guess you could call him an ambulance receiver, not an ambulance chaser, as my profession is often derided."

All attorneys. So money probably wouldn't be a motive among this family. Not unless someone was a really lousy lawyer.

"I wonder who the beneficiaries are in Jeremy's will,” I said, as I crunched on the bruschetta. Unfortunately my mouth and brain were not working in tandem. Henry seemed taken aback by my lack of tact and stepped away from me.

He placed his arm around his wife's waist. “Let's go, Bonnie. It was nice meeting you, I suppose,” he added under his breath, as they left the room with disgusted looks on their faces.

I didn't blame them. I was disgusted with myself. I had absolutely zero skill in conducting a discreet inquiry. The senior Slaters left their plates behind on the table. They probably lost their appetite after speaking with me. I wish I had the same problem. My stomach was carrying on a conversation with itself and it didn't sound happy.

Maybe the reason my questioning was so incompetent was that my brain had been deprived of carbohydrates. I contemplated the gold-rimmed platters of desserts, torn between a piece of chocolate mousse cake and an apple crumble. Someone tapped me on my arm and I dragged my gaze from the delectable desserts to the new arrival.