Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (31 page)

“Geez, they better take plastic. Be right back,” I yelled over my shoulder as I headed to the fake jail.

Several of Placerville’s leading citizens were currently vacationing behind bars, calling out to friends and family to help rescue them. I eyed the cutest felon in the bunch dressed in a white polo shirt and shorts. Everything Tom wore molded to his body in all the right places, but still…

“Did they arrest you for violating the dress code?” I asked him. “This is Wagon Train Day, not tee time at the country club.”

“My girlfriend forgot to mention that to me.” He accompanied his comment with a heart-ratcheting grin. “I like
your
dress code though.”

My pulse rate skyrocketed before my brain overrode the automatic stimulus of Tom’s comment on my overactive hormones.

“I know who the killer is,” I said, just as the crowd began hooting and hollering as the Wagon Train rolled into town. Chad Langdon and Janet Spencer waved from a splendid buggy near the front of the parade.

“I’m sorry,” Tom replied, his attention diverted by the spectacle. “What did you say?”

“The murderer. I figured it out.” I fumbled with my wallet trying to find enough cash to spring Tom. “I think.”

He sighed. “And you know this how?”

His question tripped me up. The evidence, which he might consider somewhat circumstantial, was on the person of the man driving my grandmother’s carriage.

As the four buggies containing the former El Dorado Roses came into view, I glared at Gran’s driver.

Fletch tipped his bowler in my direction then smirked.

Okay, that did it. I had to do something. Unfortunately, the only thing I could think of was to point at Fletch and scream, “
J’accuse
!”

“Who the heck is Jock Cues?” yelled Tom from behind bars.

Men! Our next date would include a late night showing of
Les Mis
é
rables
so he could bone up on the French translation of, “I accuse you!”

One of the horses up ahead suddenly balked, and the parade halted.

I ran over to Gran’s buggy. “You need to get down from there,” I said to her, flicking my head in Fletch’s direction.

“Laurel, what in tarnation has gotten into you? You got a crick in your neck or somethin? Stop bothering us and go back to your hussies.”

“We need to move forward.” Fletch’s voice cracked with fear. “Get out of our way.”

He lifted his booted foot and kicked at me. I jumped back but managed to catch sight of the Lucchese imprint on his sole. That combined with the guilty look on his face only added to my suspicions.

Which Fletch confirmed when he pulled a small gun from an ankle holster. He pointed it first at me then at my grandmother.

“That gun almost looks real,” she said, not quite catching on.

“It definitely is, Mrs. Sprinkle,” Fletch said, “and it comes with real bullets. Now tell your granddaughter to move away from the carriage so no one gets hurt.”

Gran’s faded blue eyes grew as large as the teacups decorating the front window of Placerville Hardware. She threw me a frantic look.

I climbed on the first step of the carriage hoping to extricate my grandmother from the horse-drawn vehicle. Fletch shoved me, and I fell to the ground in a puddle of satin and crinolines.

“Hey, Mom, look, a fight!” Some children called out from the crowd.

“Don’t you go hurting my granddaughter,” yelled Gran. She stood and clouted Fletch with her violet parasol. The unexpected attack from his passenger caused his gun to go off. The bullet hit the pavement less than a foot from where I’d been thrown. Asphalt chips assaulted my face and seared my bosom.

Now that really ticked me off!

Black Beauty reared then galloped toward Stagecoach Alley. The police had blocked the narrow street with a sawhorse to keep cars from inadvertently driving onto the parade route. Fletch brought the horse under control, but instead of rejoining the parade, he sped around the temporary barrier.

Fletch had hijacked Gran!

Liz and Stan each grabbed one of my arms and pulled me to my feet.

“Where’s that fellow going with your grandmother?” Liz pointed at the carriage now almost at the corner. It would soon be out of sight.

“I don’t know, but someone has to stop him.” I flagged down a stagecoach driven by one of my former suspects.

“Will you help me catch a killer?” I yelled up to Scott Shelton. With a lift of his left eyebrow, he reached down and attempted to haul me up next to him.

Okay. This looks a lot easier in the movies.

Between Liz and Stan both shoving me, and Scott yanking me up, I finally landed next to the driver.

I pointed toward the escaping killer and his involuntary hostage.

“Follow that buggy!”

Scott yelled something to his horses that increased their pace from a slow walk to a trot. He turned to me and with nary a twitch said, “May I ask who it is we’re chasing?”

“Jim Fletcher, a former deputy. I think he killed both Darius Spencer and Doug Blake.”

“You have proof?” Scott asked.

What was it with men and their need for proof? I didn’t have time to explain everything I’d discovered. Fletch kidnapped my granny. I chose to appeal to his protective male nature.

“He shot at me,” I said.

Scott looked at me in alarm and yelled at his team. I mouthed thanks, grateful for his help. As the horses trotted faster, I bounced up, down and sideways. We hit a pothole, and I almost flew off the coach. I grabbed hold of a bar located to the side of the uncomfortable cracked-leather seat and held on for my life.

Up ahead, Fletch paused at the Center Street intersection. He had two choices––either turn left and run into the rest of the Wagon Train on Main Street, which I imagined must be in a complete state of confusion by now, or turn right and merge onto Highway 50. Even with banners proclaiming Wagon Train Days and the reduced speed limit of forty m.p.h. through town, most travelers wouldn’t expect to find a stagecoach chasing after a horse-drawn carriage on a four-lane highway.

Fletch made his decision and turned right onto the highway. Scott skillfully held on to the reins as he attempted to catch up with Fletch, but the bulky stagecoach was no match for a speedy surrey. A couple of cars passed us in the left lane. Passengers rolled down their windows to view our progress.

I had no idea how Fletch planned to escape, and I had a feeling neither did he. My primary concern was to reach my grandmother before she suffered an accident or a heart attack. Tears blurred my vision as we raced past the clapboard and brick buildings that backed up to the creek on our right. Up ahead, the light at the Bedford Street intersection abruptly switched from green to red.

Good. Fletch would have no choice but to wait for the light to change again. After driving less than a block, my lower back and my butt hurt. And my twenty-first-century butt possessed far more cushioning than the posteriors of those early settlers.

We were slowly gaining on Fletch, who twisted around in his seat to check our progress. He must have decided that waiting was not an option. He flicked the reins and expertly wheeled the buggy around in a U-turn, reversing direction.

Scott attempted to follow in Fletch’s buggy tracks. The unwieldy stagecoach tilted to the left then it rocked to the right as we also attempted the U-turn. I clung to the bar with a death grip, my stomach and chest heaving. I’d better not heave myself out of my bustier, although at this point, a wardrobe malfunction seemed the least of my worries.

Scott finally steadied our vehicle, and we began gaining on the carriage. Fletch glanced back at us. He bent down, pulled out his gun and aimed it directly at me.

I ducked.

Scott wasn’t so lucky. The bullet hit him in his left forearm. He cried out, dropped the reins and fell against me. I grabbed on to his good arm, worried he would fly out of the stagecoach and land on someone’s windshield.

With no one driving our vehicle, the horses sped up, free to do whatever the heck horses do when no one is in charge. I bent down, scrambled to grab the reins and yelled, “Whoa.”

The two lively bay horses snorted in unison, completely unimpressed by my piloting skills. Scott’s face matched the ruffled white shirt he wore; his jacket sleeve was covered with blood.

“Are you okay?” I shouted at Scott. “Should I head for the hospital?” I tried to sound upbeat, not disclosing that the horses were kind of in charge right now.

He waved his right hand in a forward movement and accompanied the motion with a guttural curse, “Go get that asshole who shot me.”

I screamed at my horses to move it, hoping to narrow the gap between our horse-driven vehicles. Those must have been the magic words because they sped up, and we were soon closing in on Fletch. If only the traffic would disappear.

Cars veered to the left and right, leaving Fletch sufficient room to maneuver his buggy to the side of the road. He slowed it almost to a stop. Then in one athletic move, he jumped off and ran up the steep Coloma Street off ramp.

With no one holding on to the reins, Black Beauty went wild, and the buggy rocketed down the highway. From a distance, I could see the frightened horse swerve back and forth, her white stocking feet making me dizzy. At one point, Gran stuck her head around the back of the buggy. Although I couldn’t see her lips move, I guessed they were crying, “Help!”

My first priority was rescuing Gran, but I was also worried about Scott’s condition. Not to mention the killer was on the move. Suddenly, an unlikely hero burst on to the scene.

A chestnut quarter horse ridden by an unusual looking cowboy galloped down Center Street. The cowboy wore a San Francisco Giants black and orange baseball cap and a plaid shirt I’d ironed on many an occasion.

“Hank,” I cried out. His horse bolted over a red Mini Cooper heading east, knocking off the antenna before it successfully landed in the inside lane of the westbound highway.

A huge Dodge pickup truck narrowly missed ramming Hank and his horse, possibly not noticing the fleet-footed animal that could apparently leap over small cars, that was now passing on his left. The driver gave Hank a one-finger salute then pulled off to the side of the highway. Good move, because our stagecoach was inches from ramming the Ram’s tailgate.

The roar of a motorcycle startled me. I pulled up on the leather reins and much to my surprise, the horses responded. I guided the team to the side of the road hoping a CHP motorcycle would come to my rescue.

I looked to the left and right before I craned my neck to peer ahead. Nope, no bikes in front of me. I peeked over my shoulder at a motorcycle-free road. That’s when I switched my gaze to the only direction left––UP.

A shiny red Harley streaked across the pedestrian walkway that crossed over the freeway, joining the shops of downtown Placerville to the historic residential district on Coloma Street. The biker must be chasing Fletch. If he timed it correctly, he could reach the killer in seconds, depending on the dirty deputy’s speed and stamina. I hoped the pursuer––whoever he might be, knew Fletch was armed and getting more trigger-happy by the minute.

I took a moment to check on my rancher. “Hanging in there, Scott?” I asked. He merely groaned. I couldn’t tell if it was due to my insensitive question or his wound. Blood continued to pool on his jacket and drip onto his pants.

Meanwhile Gran’s carriage careened down the highway. I could see her holding on to her lilac bonnet with one hand as she bounced from side to side. Black Beauty swerved around a police car attempting to halt traffic and aimed for the Kentucky Fried Chicken.

The horse must not have been in a batter-fried mood today. Seconds later, it switched directions and galloped across both lanes heading directly for the enormous hill bordering the right lane of the westbound highway. Gran’s buggy was seconds away from crashing into a slab of solid rock.

I watched in horror, too far away to do anything.

Hank and his chestnut mount galloped down the pavement, only a few feet behind the runaway horse. My jaw dropped in shock as my ex-husband caught up with the crazed animal. Somehow, he managed to grab the loose reins and halt Gran’s carriage mere inches from the unforgiving mountain of rock.

My eight-legged team and I had finally come to a mutual agreement that I was the boss of them. As I approached the buggy, I could see Black Beauty and the chestnut horse nuzzling one another, while Hank comforted my grandmother who seemed none the worse after her terrifying ride.

Knowing Gran, she’d undoubtedly relished every minute of it.

I reined in my horses, and they drew to a stop, surprising the heck out of me. An ambulance pulled next to my stagecoach, and the paramedics quickly loaded Scott for the short trip to Marshall Hospital.

A Hangtown Posse member offered to take my place driving the stagecoach, and I gratefully relinquished my reins to his more capable hands. I slid off my perch and followed one of the EMTs over to Gran’s carriage. He offered to take her to the hospital, but she declined, saying she wasn’t missing out on any action.

I joined Hank who stood to the side of my grandmother’s carriage.

“Amazing horsemanship,” I said to my former husband. “I didn’t know you could ride and jump like that.”

He blinked and his face paled under his sunburn. “Neither did I. Never jumped a horse before.”

Gran put her hand over her heart. “Mercy me. You got guts, I’ll say that for you.” She leaned down and whispered in my ear. “Not too bright, is he, dear, but very gutsy.”

“That motorcycle rider took a chance going after Fletch,” I said to Hank. “Did you recognize him?”

“Couldn’t you tell?” he said, “that was Tom. I never pictured him for a biker type. He was wearing casual clothes when we ran into each other earlier. Do you know if he carried a weapon on him?”