Authors: Cindy Sample
Dying for a Date (6 page)
Her sigh resonated over the line. My mother loves her grandchildren, but she prefers that familial visits be booked weeks in advance. “Well, there is a potential listing I want to preview in your area. I'll pick him up at your house then take him to McDonald's and get him one of those happy plastic meals."
McDonald's might not be pleased with her description of their kids’ meal but Ben would be thrilled to add a new toy to his collection of colorful plastic items that are never played with again.
I donned a sleeveless white top and my denim skirt and was pleasantly surprised to see the waistband was loose on me. Was the stress of dating burning off calories? Or was it the stress of knowing there was a murderer out there?
Jenna agreed to stay with Ben until her grandmother arrived. I slid into my compact car, shoved in a Shania Twain CD, and popped open the sunroof. My hair flew in all four directions as Shania belted out
I Feel Like a Woman.
I relaxed for the first time all week as my car zipped past red barns on decades old farms and newer stucco ranches on five-acre parcels. Horses cantered alongside the road as I careened down the twisty ten-minute drive into Placerville.
The sidewalks in front of the brick and pastel clapboard buildings lining Main Street were clogged with tourists, most likely on their way to Apple Hill, home to over forty apple and pumpkin farms, as well as wineries famed for their medal winning Syrahs and Zinfandels.
I finally squeezed my pint-sized car into a parking space between two massive SUVs. Clusters of hungry people mingled on the sidewalk outside the mauve Victorian house built in 1865 that housed Sweetie Pie's Restaurant. I politely pushed and shoved my way inside, hoping Liz was already seated.
Like a moth to a flame, the cinnamon scented air drew me to a glass bakery case piled high with their world famous cinnamon rolls drenched in a gooey caramel glaze. My stomach gurgled in response to the mouth-watering display.
I needed to find my friend before I succumbed to eating a two-thousand calorie cinnamon appetizer. I waved at the owner, who was scurrying around the high ceilinged room with its flower-sprigged wallpaper, attending to her customers. I walked into the sunny back room and found Liz seated at a corner table, her hazel eyes glued to the menu, gold corkscrew curls askew.
Liz and I became acquainted our sophomore year of college. She had just arrived from Kent, England, as a participant in an exchange program with the University of California at Davis. We met at a fraternity party during which both of our dates decided to drink themselves into stupidity. After hiking the three miles back to campus, we formed a friendship that has lasted twenty years. She's the Yin to my Yang; or maybe I'm the Abbott to her Costello. Either way, despite our differences, she is my best friend.
While I married immediately after college, embarked on a sensible banking career and bore two children, Liz traveled to exotic locales, seduced by the glamour of foreign countries. Not to mention foreign men, of all shapes, sizes and nationalities. After acquiring health and beauty tips from spas all over the world she eventually returned to El Dorado County and opened a state of the art luxury salon in El Dorado Hills. Once her Golden Hills Spa became a success, she moved on to the next goal on her “to do” list. Getting a man. Enter the Love Club and Brian.
I slid into the chair across from my pal, losing one of my red slides in the process.
"Are you ready to order?” Her bracelet laden wrists jangled as Liz waved her arms wildly at one of the servers.
"Well, hi to you too.” My buddy is always hungry and subsequently always dieting.
"Sorry, luv. I arrived early and I'm starving."
"Give me a second. I think I'll try something on the healthy side for a change.” I scrutinized the menu as I tried to wiggle my shoe back on my foot.
"I'll have the fettuccine Alfredo,” Liz told our server, snapping her menu shut.
I stared at her. Didn't she have a wedding coming up?
"So I'll spend an extra hour on the Stairmaster.” Her dimples appeared as she grinned at me. “Their fettuccine is worth it."
I ordered a chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side. The waitress promised to bring our iced teas right away.
"Do you have any more dates on your calendar? I was afraid you'd give up after what happened with that Garrett guy.” She patted my hand, her heavy gold bracelets clanking against the varnished wood table.
"You know if I hadn't already selected a couple of guys from the Love Club before I found out about Garrett, I probably would have dropped out. But I had lunch with a doctor yesterday and we're going out again next week."
"Ah. A doctor. Now we're talking.” She lifted her left eyebrow and leered. Liz needed to stop watching soaps. That one eyebrow lift was almost professional.
I shrugged. “I didn't hear any bells ringing, but he was very pleasant."
"Well, don't expect to hear bells right away.” She shook her charm bracelet and it tinkled in response. “It takes time, persistence, and patience to find the right guy. Dating isn't a game—it's a full-time occupation. Remember how many losers I went out with?"
How could I forget? Before she met her fiance Liz had dated and dumped so many men that I'd lost count. She demonstrated classic signs of becoming a serial dumper when Brian popped into her life.
Strangely enough I could have sworn I heard a faint tinkling when Detective Hunter said good-bye the other night. Must have been the brass wind chimes on my porch.
"So tell me what happened with the detectives. Anyone I might know?"
"Some old grump named Bradford and a big burly guy called Hunter."
"Oh...I've heard about that Detective Hunter,” Liz said, her eyes dancing. “The dispatcher at the sheriff's department said as far as eye candy goes, he's a Godiva God."
A vision of the detective's chocolate brown eyes popped through my head.
"I heard he has a cute bum. What did you think?” She winked at me as she reached for a roll.
"I didn't notice."
Liz opened her mouth, aghast at this lack of anatomical perception on my part. Fortunately the server arrived with our entrees and I escaped a lecture. I smiled as she inhaled the creamy fettuccine. “That fettuccine looks and sounds fabulous. Can you find a way to enjoy your pasta and talk about the murder at the same time?"
Patience hasn't made it on my list of virtues.
"Honey, you need to slow down,” she admonished me. “Enjoy lunch with your best friend. Remember,
carpe diem
—seize the day."
Carpe diem
? I was more worried about
corpus delicti
.
I speared an oversized piece of romaine lettuce. “C'mon. Brian must have shared something about the Lindstrom case. They don't really think I'm a suspect, do they?"
Liz put her fork down and dug through the emerald green Marc Jacobs tote that perfectly matched her silk blouse. I tried not to slobber on the buttery leather as I admired the craftsmanship. The only chance I had of owning a designer purse was to get lucky at a garage sale.
"I was afraid I would forget what he told me so I took some notes.” Liz rummaged through the capacious bag and finally yanked out a sheet of lined pink paper. She grabbed her fork and somehow managed to eat her pasta with her right hand while reading from the page in her left.
"Let's see. The sheriff's department doesn't have any suspects other than you.” She raised her perfectly arched eyebrows at me. “Rumor has it there were fingerprints in some unusual places."
My fork dropped out of my hand, clanging against the delicate china plate. I shuddered, remembering Garrett's attack and our front seat gymnastics.
"The coroner said the victim was hit with some kind of blunt object. Brian implied that Garrett's head smacking the window probably wouldn't have created that type of injury.” She peered at me over her plate of pasta. “You didn't whack him with anything other than his cell, did you?"
"Of course not. What do you think I am?"
She pursed her lips. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but you did hit Hank in the forehead with that dinner plate. The night he announced he was leaving you for Nadine."
I gulped. Oh yeah. That night.
"That was an accident. It was supposed to fly over his head, like a Frisbee. It's not like I wanted to break a hundred dollar piece of china over his lame-brained head."
She nodded in sympathy. “Men may come and men may go, but Royal Doulton lasts forever."
We finished our lunches, paid our bill and cruised down Main Street. Placerville is an antique road show mecca for buyers who have the energy, time and knowledge to wade through piles of crap.
I mean old stuff.
We stopped in Placerville Hardware, the oldest operating hardware store west of the Mississippi. The scuffed wooden floors creaked as we squeezed our way down the narrow aisles. The bulging floor to ceiling shelves looked like they were a sneeze away from toppling over. A few gold pans were stuck next to some shovels so I decided to buy one for Ben. One of these days we'd make it over to Coloma, site of Sutter's mill where the first nugget of gold was discovered.
Liz purchased a bone china teapot in a cream and violet pansy pattern in one of the antique stores. As the cashier wrapped the teapot in bubble wrap, Liz turned to me. “He's single, you know.” I must have looked confused because she punched me in the forearm. “Detective Hunter. The Godiva God. He's a widower."
"Oh, what a shame,” I responded, remembering the detective's protective stance at the soccer game. Poor Kristy. Having lost my father at a young age I could empathize with his motherless daughter.
"Well, keep that in mind, in case your date with the doctor doesn't work out."
I rolled my eyes. “Liz, what are the odds that a widowed detective, who's investigating a crazy soccer mom for murder, would want to go out with said soccer mom suspect?"
She grabbed the paper bag that held her teapot and smiled. “Good point. Have fun with the doctor."
After supplying me with enough seaweed and cucumber moisturizer samples to keep my face glowing for the next year, we parted. I sped down the hill towards the Centurion Cameron Park office as fast as my little hybrid could move without drawing the attention of the CHP. I couldn't decide which was worse, getting a ticket, being a suspect in a murder case, or arriving late and risking the wrath of my mother.
I pulled into the parking lot, jumped out of the car, flung open one of the Centurion Realty glass double doors, and found myself chest to stomach with a tall blond-haired guy in a dark suit. He dropped a few manila folders, scattering them across the slate tiled lobby.
"Oh, let me help you.” I bent over to pick up the files.
"No. That's okay. I'll get them.” He knelt down and quickly scooped them up.
"I'm so sorry. I'm in a hurry to pick up my son. My mother is Barbara Bingham and she's been watching Ben all afternoon and I'm late as usual,” I rambled on.
A broad smile creased his face and a lock of hair fell over his forehead as he nodded sympathetically. “Ah, the formidable Barbara Bingham. I can understand why you wouldn't want to be late.” He held out his right hand. “I'm Peter Tyler."
"Laurel McKay,” I said, automatically shaking his hand. His handshake was firm, but not crushing.
"It's nice to meet you. I'm new in this office but Barbara has mentioned your name several times."
How embarrassing. I tried to imagine what she could have told him. The chatter of voices and footsteps interrupted us.
"Hi, Mom. Grandmother bought me a happy meal and it came with a Spiderman. Isn't that cool?” Ben thrust the tiny blue and red plastic figure in my face. I admired the miniature toy and thought how uncomplicated life is at seven years old. Maybe if I stuck to small plastic figures my life would be simpler too.
"Peter, you've met my daughter?” My mother looked only slightly frazzled from the three hours spent with her hyperactive grandson.
"Yes, we've introduced ourselves. She is every bit as delightful as you said."
Delightful? It was far more likely she would refer to me as difficult.
Since I didn't have time for her to admonish me on my tardiness I grabbed Ben's hand and turned to Peter. “It was nice meeting you."
"My pleasure,” he said, opening the door for us.
"Mother, thanks for taking care of Ben.” She frowned at our hasty departure. I anticipated a lengthy lecture in my future.
By the time Ben and I arrived home, Jenna was already there, having survived the ride to and from the mall. She assured me that everything she bought had been reduced by at least eighty percent and showed me the marked down price tags to prove it.
The three of us spent the evening nestled under an afghan on the sofa, munching on a bowl of buttered popcorn and watching a classic Julia Roberts film,
Runaway Bride
. The movie was fascinating because it depicted the way Julia's character redefined her personality every time a new man entered into her life. If the right man came along, would I turn into a totally different person?
I thought about the men who had recently appeared in my life.
The doctor. The real estate agent. The detective. My ex.
The dead guy.
The metamorphosis was beginning. Whether I liked it or not.
An artic frost icing my cheeks woke me early the next morning. The temperature had dropped more than thirty degrees. With the heat turned off, it was only fifty-five degrees in the house. Dark gray clouds glared balefully at me. I glared back.
After a long dry summer, most Californians welcome the first rain of the season. But rain and soccer are not a great combination from a mother's perspective. The kids revel in it since it gives them an excuse to slip and slide in the mud without getting into trouble. The lucky moms stand on the sidelines getting drenched then we get to launder the muddy clothes afterward.
The game was as awful as I anticipated. Blue and gold merged with muck brown as arms and legs tangled on the sloppy field. If Liz were here she'd say it was peeing rain. I peered through the showers pouring off the rim of my turquoise umbrella trying to determine which muddy player was my son.
