Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (18 page)

Instead, I would occupy my time getting my bank errands out of the way.

I whipped up a blueberry protein shake and poured it into a travel mug. Then I grabbed my purse and headed to the garage. Mornings were so much easier with the kids out of school.

The drive down Green Valley Road lightened my somber mood. The snow-tipped Sierras smiled a sunny good morning at me as I headed east toward Coloma. My favorite winery bordered Vicky’s property, but they weren’t open this early. Depending on how Hank’s arraignment went, I might want to curl up in their tasting room later today.

The Prius hugged the twisty curves of Gold Hill Road. To the right, miniature horses grazed and galloped along the fence. With their short legs, they’d be ready for a nap by the time they rounded the property. After my sleepless night worrying about the men in my life, a nap sounded fantastic.

I drove down the long gravel driveway to Vicky’s farmhouse-style residence. She met me on the front porch, a mug of coffee in each hand.

“How well you know me.” I chuckled as I reached for the steaming cup.

“I know Mr. Boxer, too.” She grimaced. “And I don’t envy your job.”

I glanced around her white-fenced property, at the colorful roses climbing up the latticework of the covered porch, the bucolic pastures in the distance. “Maybe someday I can afford to retire too. What a way to spend your days.”

“Hey, it’s not all sunshine and roses. Most of the time I’m either shoveling hay or shoveling shit.” She cracked a smile as we reached her large red barn. “But I do love my four-legged friends.”

Vicky introduced me to her equine family. She lent me some spare horse tack I promised to return as soon as the contest ended. We squeezed three saddles and two hay bales into my car, all my Prius could handle and strapped one additional bale to the roof.

“You should stop at Scott Shelton’s ranch next door,” she said. “His family has owned that place for over a century. As I recall, he has some interesting antiques in the house. He might let you borrow them.”

“I’ve never been formally introduced to him, but we bumped into each other at Antiques Galore last Saturday when he sold some guns to Abe…” My voice trailed off as I realized I shouldn’t discuss Scott’s financial woes with his neighbor.

“That’s okay. Scott’s had it tough since he lost the Hangtown Hotel. He feels like a failure.”

“Do you know him well?”

“Yes and no.” She gazed in the direction of her neighbor’s ranch. “Scott’s a typical strong silent cowboy type. Doesn’t stick his nose in anyone’s business and expects others to do the same. But when Brad is out of town on sales calls, I can always count on Scott to help me with this place if necessary.”

“That’s the kind of neighbor you need. Is there a Mrs. Scott Shelton?”

Her eyebrows veered upward. “Not for a long time. But he’s a little old for you. And aren’t you seeing that good-looking detective?”

Yes and no.

“Hey, speaking of my neighbor.” Vicky pointed at the gray truck moving up her driveway, a cloud of dust following behind. The driver parked next to my overloaded Prius, which now looked more dusty beige than periwinkle.

Scott extended one long denim-clad leg out of the cab of his truck. A black lab stuck its curious head out the window, greeting us with a lonely woof. The rancher motioned at his pet. It lay down in the passenger seat as quiet as a sleeping turtle. His dog appeared better trained than my son.

“Morning, Scott,” Vicky said then introduced me to her neighbor.

“We crossed paths last Saturday in Antiques Galore,” I added.

Scott merely nodded and turned to Vicky. “I have to leave a day earlier than expected to get the rig over the hill, so you’ll need to watch Polly starting tomorrow.”

“Is Polly your dog?” I asked.

“She’s his favorite mare,” Vicky answered for him. “Polly is pregnant so she doesn’t get to go on the Wagon Train this trip. But there’s always next year.”

Scott frowned. “We’ll see. This could be my last ride. I’m thinking of selling the homestead and moving to Alaska. Someplace not so crowded.”

“Scott, I can’t believe you’d sell your family home,” Vicky exclaimed.

He stared at the ground. “Too many snakes in this part of the country.”

I wondered if the reptiles the cowboy alluded to were the ones who crawled on the ground. Maybe a compliment would encourage him to open up. “I’ve always admired the people who participate in the Wagon Train year after year. I’d like to try it myself sometime.”

“Takes dedication, hard work and money.” His sharp gray eyes assessed my well-filled lacy white top and flowered skirt. His gaze eventually landed on my three-inch wedge sandals. “Not much fun for a city gal.”

I bristled at his assessment. Liking cute shoes didn’t automatically proclaim me a wimpy city girl. I tried to come up with a brilliant rebuttal, but he mumbled goodbye and sauntered back to his truck.

“Not the friendliest guy in town,” I muttered.

“Aw, did he hurt your feelings, city girl?” asked Vicky, falling into a fit of giggles.

I frowned then joined in. “I prefer to think of myself as an urban cowgirl. But maybe it’s time to get some manure-kicking boots to demonstrate my country roots.”

On that note, Vicky and I hugged each other goodbye. With my car crammed full, I decided to forego stopping at Scott Shelton’s ranch for additional antiques. It sounded like he had enough on his mind without this city gal annoying him.

I drove out Vicky’s long driveway then turned right on Cold Springs Road toward Placerville. The hay bales in my car smelled heavenly for all of three minutes until I began to sneeze and the interior of my car turned into hay fever hell.

So much for riding in a covered wagon. I was relegated back to wussy wimp status. Scott Shelton didn’t have to worry about me annoying him on his Wagon Train journey.

After hauling all of the items from my car into my office, I checked to see if any other marketing duties awaited my attention. A new “to do today or else” list prepared by Mr. Boxer glared at me and I glared back. I whipped out a flyer extolling the bank’s hot rates on our CD accounts and another one for a new loan program. Once I completed those two exciting projects, I picked up the phone to call Gran.

The phone rang seven times before she answered.

“Hold your horses, toots,” she said. “I need to put my hearing aid in.”

I waited almost four minutes before she got back on the line. “What took so long?” I asked.

“Oh, Judge Judy is on and I wanted to see if she gave the jackass who sued his mother any money.”

“Well…?”

“Well, what?”

“Did the jack… er, did the plaintiff win?”

“Nope. That is one smart judge. We could use her in this county.”

I wagered if Judge Judy heard the charges against Hank, she’d have him out of jail by the end of her show.

“Hey, Gran, I’m decorating the bank and many of our supplies are eroded and corroded. Do you have any memorabilia I could borrow? Anything that would fit in with a gold mining or western theme.”

“Your mother’s been bugging me to get rid of the stuff stored in the shed. How ‘bout I check it out and call you back.”

“Thanks. You’re the best. But don’t go lifting anything too heavy. Promise?”

She muttered something about young whippersnappers and bid me farewell. My grandmother had been an active woman all of her life, first raising my mother and my uncle then working as a bookkeeper. After retirement, she became involved with a variety of community activities, including the historical society. She fought the physical realities of aging with every tool she could––including weekly Tai Chi classes.

I’d missed a call on my cell while chatting with my grandmother. I checked voicemail and discovered a message from Hank’s attorney. I hoped he had good news after the arraignment. Assuming good news was even an option.

I called Rex back, but he’d left the office. His secretary promised to have him return my call.

A few minutes later, my cell rang again, but it was neither the attorney nor Gran.

“Hello, luv, what are you up to?” asked Liz.

“My life seems to be on perpetual hold. I’m waiting for the attorney to call back with an update on Hank’s hearing and waiting for Gran to call back with an update on old crap. Waiting for Tom to call back and admit he’s full of …” My voice petered out as Liz’s throaty chuckle floated over the line.

“My word. You are in a pissy mood today. Is there anything I can do?”

“Can you talk your husband into finding out what evidence the prosecution has on Hank?”

“Hah,” she said. “I have a better chance of winning the lottery than getting anything out of my tight-lipped husband. I take it you haven’t been able to crack your boyfriend’s code of silence either.”

“I’m not sure I still have a boyfriend. Hank’s arrest has driven a huge wedge between us.”

The phone remained silent for so long, I thought we’d lost our connection. Then Liz said, “You don’t suppose Tom is jealous of Hank, do you?”

I snorted. “Don’t be silly. What does Tom have to be jealous about?”

“Hank hangs around you and the kids a lot. At least, he did before they arrested him. Which I’m sure Tom had nothing to do with.”

“If Tom’s detectives hadn’t thrown my husband in jail, I could have dealt with the situation.”

Liz waited a few seconds before replying. “You realize you referred to Hank as your husband?”

“A slip of the tongue. You know what I mean.”

“I may know what you mean, Laurel,” she replied. “But do you?”

I spent the remainder of the afternoon completing a variety of minor tasks while I waited for a multitude of people to return my phone calls. My best friend’s implication that I still had feelings for Hank gave me heartburn. When his attorney called back to inform me that the court would not grant Hank bail, my gastric inferno reached volcanic proportions.

I phoned Gran several times, but she never answered. My request must have prompted her to clean out her shed. Or she tired herself out and fell asleep. By six, Gran still hadn’t called back. As I walked to the parking lot, an uneasy feeling waged war with the flames burning in my belly. If something happened to my grandmother while she searched for stuff for me, I would never forgive myself.

I gobbled two pastel-colored Tums found in the bottom of my purse that I hoped were no more than a decade past their expiration date. I called the kids and told them to eat dinner without me then aimed the Prius east toward Bedford Street.

A few minutes later, I parked on the street in front of my grandmother’s Victorian. As I walked to her house, I reflected on the happy childhood memories spent there. After my father died when I was ten and my brother, Dave, was twelve, my mother supported us on her real estate commissions. She worked long hours, including nights and weekends, so we spent many hours under Gran’s watchful supervision.

The two women may have been polar opposites, but they remained united in one thing––their love for my brother and me.

I blinked back tears as I realized our family home would eventually belong to some other family. Yet, realistically, neither Mother nor I wanted to move into the hundred-year-old house. I enjoyed my rural subdivision, and the kids were happy with the schools in our district. After they wed, Bradford and my mother had purchased a single story contemporary style home in an adult community in El Dorado Hills, which suited their needs.

I banged on the door twice then turned the knob. Unlocked as usual. I walked through the house calling her name. No answer. I went out the back door and traipsed over to her detached two-car garage. She’d remembered to lock the garage, but when I peered through the window, her Mustang sat in its place, the crimson exterior sparkling as the sun’s rays shone inside.

If her car was here, Gran must be at home, unless one of her friends had stopped by to take her out to dinner. It seemed peculiar she hadn’t called me back, but she could be so engrossed sorting through stuff in the shed that she didn’t realize how much time had elapsed.

My great-grandfather had located the building, almost the size of a small barn, a distance from the house. I studied the dense weeds that had overgrown the path to the shed before my gaze shifted to a dozen vultures circling above me. The realization that the large black birds were undoubtedly salivating over tonight’s dinner, completely creeped me out.

Even from this distance, I could see the partially open shed door. That niggling feeling refused to disappear. What were a few scratches on my calves compared to my relief once I assured myself Gran was okay?

The star thistle played havoc with my bare legs. I began to realize why my mother wanted to relocate Gran to a retirement community. This property was a handful for an elderly woman to maintain. As soon as I returned home, I would arrange for someone to cut these weeds. They were a fire hazard as well as a hiking hazard.

I pushed on the shed door. It squeaked open, revealing a dark, musty interior. I threw the door open wide hoping the waning sunlight would improve visibility.

A weak voice cried out. “Who’s there?”

“Gran?” I shouted. “Where are you?”

“Way in the back. Be careful. There’s a lot of stuff in here.”

I eased my way through the shed, my eyes finally adjusting to the dimness. The sides of the shed contained built-in wood shelves crammed full of boxes. Stacks of cartons covered the cement floor leaving a narrow maze for a path. I bumped into an old rusty lawnmower, nicking my toe on the rotor and causing me to rethink that tetanus booster I kept putting off.

If I’d previously thought an
Antiques Road Show
visit might be in our family’s future, I was sadly mistaken. This shed needed the “We Haul Your Junk” guys to move in for a month or two.

“I’m coming,” I called out. “What happened?”

“You’ll see.” Gran sounded subdued, far from her normal ebullient self.

I bumped my knee on another antique/really old semi-rotting object and cursed the lack of a flashlight.