Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) (33 page)

He smiled at me and at his former client. “Don’t forget a man is innocent until proven guilty. I’m heading to the jail right now to make sure my new client remembers that.”

I stared at Rex, wondering why I’d ever thought the attorney was good-looking. His white-toothed smile looked more rapacious than the shark in
Jaws
. Thank goodness, Hank and I didn’t have to rely on him anymore. Now it was Fletch’s turn.

Imagine having two paying clients for the price of one murder.

Talk about highway robbery!

Mother and Bradford offered to drive my children home, and Hank said he’d give Gran and me a lift back to my car. It seemed a lifetime ago that I’d watched her drive off with Fletch. I doubted any of us would forget this Wagon Train parade.

Once we arrived at my car, Gran thanked Hank for rescuing her. “Anytime, Gran,” he replied. “You know I think the world of you.”

I started to choke up then almost choked when Gran spoke.

“I’m looking forward to having you as a roommate, Hank,” she said. My contacts almost bounced out of my eyes and onto the pavement. Hank smothered a grin, and Gran tittered at my expression.

“Hank and I had a nice chat after he saved my life. I told him your mother wanted me out of the house because it’s too difficult to keep it up at my age. Hank said his landlord gave him notice while he was in jail, and he needed to find a new place.”

“I can fix everything in the house that needs repairing,” Hank said to me. “It’s perfect. Don’t you agree?

What could I do but congratulate the new odd couple?

The Hangtown version.

Sunday I almost welcomed the opportunity to catch up on the chores I’d deferred for three weeks. Fletch’s arrest would keep Tom occupied as he assembled evidence for his case. After our crazed Saturday, I looked forward to a quiet day.

Halfway through my vacuuming, Jenna called my name. She flew down the stairs, her fingers holding a place in one of the old diaries.

“What’s wrong?” I turned off the vacuum, alarmed at her expression.

“Nothing,” she said, her face flushed. “I found something in Harold’s diary that answers some of our questions about Mr. Bones.”

“That’s terrific, sweetie. Although now that Gran is rooming with your father and refuses to sell the house, it’s not as critical. But it would be nice to put Mr. Bones and his identity to rest.”

Her eyes gleamed. “I’m beginning to understand why you enjoy detecting so much. I think I figured out the killer.”

“You realize the only reason I’ve become involved in these cases is because someone I know and love has been accused of murder.”

“Yeah, sure. But after doing all of this research, I’m rethinking my career path. I’m not sure I want to be an astronaut after all.”

I glanced at the leather-backed diary in her hand. “So this project has inspired you to become a historian?”

She shook her head so adamantly her auburn tendrils smacked me across the face.

“Don’t be silly. I want to be a detective.”

Over the next few days, after the Wagon Train dust settled, I gave thought to my upcoming birthday. Something about the impending big four-O, the fact that you may have reached the midpoint of your existence, makes you pause to consider what you’ve accomplished in your life and what goals and dreams remain.

I had much to contemplate, but for now, I was grateful my family and friends were all healthy and safe. Also thankful that no new crow’s feet had appeared, nor had any mysterious hairs sprouted from my chin. Although it dawned on me if my vision began to diminish, how would I even know?

I informed my friends and family that I did not want a big celebration replete with black balloons, dead roses, and mugs covered with corny sayings. Gran offered to host a small dinner party at her house with only our family in attendance.

The best gift of all would be if Tom could stop by for at least part of the evening. He’d been working 24/7 on the case. Fletch remained in jail, charged not only with Spencer and Doug Blake’s murder, but also with shooting Scott Shelton, kidnapping Gran, and one very reckless and disorderly ride through town.

Stan surprised me with a small celebration at work, which perked up my flagging fortieth birthday spirits. Oddly enough, the majority of my coworkers’ wrapped gifts held dark chocolate. How did they guess? The bank president even dropped off a present for me as his thanks for Hangtown Bank winning first place in the decorating contest.

While I’d never thought about asking for a personalized gold pan, it was definitely a unique gift.

Mother and Bradford agreed to pick up my kids, saving me from backtracking home to get them, so I arrived at Gran’s house before the rest of the family. I pushed on the front door but it didn’t budge. My grandmother’s new roomie must have implemented a new lockup policy. I rang the bell and seconds later, Hank greeted me from the doorway.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He grabbed my hand and yanked me into the foyer. I evaded his birthday peck, mumbled a hello and headed for the kitchen.

“Hiya, toots,” Gran yelled at me, her hands swathed in red hot pads the size of catchers’ mitts. “Your honey and I are cooking your birthday dinner.”

“My ‘honey’ hasn’t arrived yet,” I growled at her. Savory aromas drifting from the oven turned my frown into a grin. “Something sure smells good.”

Hank followed me into the kitchen and proceeded to toss what looked like a Caesar salad. Another hit with me.

I picked up a lid, bent over the bubbling pot and sniffed.

“Stop that.” Gran swatted my hand with a puffy mitt. “It’s a surprise.”

“Fine.” I backed away and assessed the domestic scene in front of me. “You two seem to be getting along.”

Hank beamed. “Gran is great. She cooks for me and keeps me busy fixing stuff.”

My grandmother is a recovering member of compulsives anonymous. When something doesn’t work right, she just keeps punching it until she completely breaks it.

They were a match made in Home Depot heaven.

A few minutes later, Mother and Bradford waltzed into the kitchen, followed by my kids, their arms laden with foil-wrapped boxes and shiny gift bags. Now this was the way to celebrate a birthday!

Tom arrived shortly after with a dozen roses, a bottle of wine, a box of truffles, and a very welcome kiss.

The man did know me!

We attempted to keep the recent murder from intruding on our celebration, but it remained unspoken for less time than it took for all of us to sit down at Gran’s mahogany dining room table.

Hank brought the subject up first. Considering his short-term imprisonment, he was the most vested in the answer.

“Did you locate any more historical stuff at Fletch’s house?” Hank asked Tom.

Tom eyed his forkful of beef stroganoff with longing. He sighed and put down his fork.

“Fletch had boxed everything up for his move,” Tom replied. “We also found some antique jewelry and gold coins in a suitcase.”

“Did you find proof of him killing Doug?” I asked. “Like the missing cell phone?”

“I can’t really share that information with you,” he said, although his head moved up and down while he spoke.

That was super secret detective code for yes.

“I heard they’re charging Fletch with voluntary manslaughter for Spencer but murder for Doug Blake,” Gran stated.

We all stared at her.

“Hey, I got my sources.”

Mother shook her head while Bradford snorted.

“I feel sorry for that young man,” Gran continued. “I’m sure natural curiosity got him digging in the hotel to begin with. Spencer must have surprised him and Fletch just popped him one. Then discovered he’d killed him.” She leaned in Tom’s direction. “How am I doing so far, Detective?”

“Better than those Sacramento detectives we hired.” Tom threw a glance in Hank’s direction. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

Hank glared at Tom but remained silent.

This seemed like the perfect opportunity to discuss Jenna’s findings.

“Honey,” I said to my daughter. “Why don’t you tell them about your discovery in Harold’s journal?”

My criminologist-in-training put her fork down, but before she could address the group, Mother spoke up. “So is that skeleton George Clarkson? And if so, why is Harold’s watch down there with him?”

Jenna shrugged. “I can’t say for certain it’s George Clarkson, but there’s a strong possibility. Let me explain about the watch, which started the entire chain of events. One night, Harold was playing cards in the Gold Nugget Saloon on Main Street. According to his journal, he’d been losing all night and was almost out of money. When he drew four of a kind, which he considered a sure thing, he threw his watch into the pot.”

“There is no sure thing in poker,” Bradford stated.

My mathematical daughter is no slouch at Texas Hold ‘em. “Nope,” Jenna agreed, “especially when one of the players cheats. At least, that’s what Harold claimed.”

“What does that have to do with the stagecoach robbery?” Tom asked. “We still don’t have the DNA results back, so I hope you’ll solve my cold case for me without it. That will free up some time to spend with my favorite person.”

The smile I sent Tom glowed brighter than the chandelier shining above our table.

My teenage detective continued her lecture. “A month after the poker game, George and his wife, Anna, invited Harold over for dinner. When he arrived, he discovered they had company––a male cousin of Anna’s had dropped by. Walter, the cousin, was the poker player who won Harold’s watch. According to his diary, Harold accused Walter of cheating. Then he stormed out of their house, jumped on his horse and headed for home.”

“Can’t blame the man,” said Gran.

“The next morning, Anna arrived at Harold’s house, sobbing. She confided that when George learned about Walter cheating, he made him hand over the watch so George could return it to Harold. He also ordered Walter to leave. That’s when Walter revealed he’d robbed the stagecoach resulting in Miles Mickelson’s killing. Because the sheriff was looking for him and his companions, he needed to hide out at their house for a few days.”

“Wow, this could be the plot for an old-fashioned western.” Hank mimed holding a movie camera. Ben pretended to shoot his father with an imaginary six-shooter. Everyone else ignored the boys and kept their eyes on Jenna.

“After Walter’s confession, George grabbed his hat and coat and said he was riding to town to inform the sheriff. The two men supposedly argued while they walked away. Ten minutes later Anna heard a distant gunshot.”

“So Walter shot George and shoved him down the mine shaft?” asked Bradford.

“I guess we won’t know for sure until the DNA results come back,” said Jenna. “Harold rode to Placerville to speak with the sheriff. He wrote that he later learned two robbers were shot dead, but neither George Clarkson nor Walter were heard from again.”

“But that means…” I said.

“The gold is still missing,” said Mother. I imagined her agile brain calculating a strongbox full of gold at today’s prices.

“The sheriff later discovered Walter spent one night at the Hangtown Hotel although he left before dawn,” Jenna added. “As far as I can tell, that was the end of him and the treasure until Dad began the remodel.”

We all turned our heads to stare at Hank.

He glanced around the table. “Guess I better buy a shovel.”

A few days after my birthday celebration, Hank asked me out to lunch as a thank you for helping with his case. Despite his hairline receding another inch in the last few weeks, Hank had regained his tan and seemed to have recovered from his brief stay in the county lock-up.

“So how are you and Gran getting along?” I asked, before nibbling on a piece of spinach from my healthy salad entrée, an attempt to make up for my stress-induced chocolate frenzy of the last couple of weeks.

“Your grandmother is a hoot,” Hank replied. “She’s asked me to chauffeur her to some of her club meetings, and I’m happy to accommodate her. Then she introduces me to her friends as her new ‘boy toy.’”

I gagged on the spinach and reached for my iced tea. That was so Gran. I hoped I’d be half that feisty in another five decades.

“I’m glad the DNA results came in proving Mr. Bones is related to the Clarkson family,” I said.

“Your Gran’s sure happy she’s not the granddaughter of a murderer. Although don’t be surprised if she starts digging up her backyard looking for that Wells Fargo loot.”

I might need to hide Gran’s shovels the next time I stop by her house. “Speaking of hidden loot, when will you be able to complete the renovation?”

“The historical society finished going through the place yesterday. They found a few more coins and a couple of lockets, but no missing strongbox. I can go back to work tomorrow.”

“I guess we’ll never know which of the bandits had the strongbox and where they buried it. Is there any chance Fletch dug it up?”

Hank shook his head. “Nope, I visited him in jail, and he said he never located it.” I must have looked surprised about Hank’s visit because he elaborated. “I went there because I wanted to ream him for letting me take the blame for killing Spencer. He told me he never thought the police would end up arresting me. After we talked awhile, I actually felt kind of sorry for the guy.”

“Well, I don’t. The man was responsible for me almost being pulverized into grape juice.”

“Fletch said he didn’t mean you any harm. He only meant to scare you away from the investigation. After you two chatted at your grandmother’s house the day before, he worried you might be getting close to figuring it out. He knew you were as tenacious as a bulldog and wouldn’t give up until you proved I didn’t kill Spencer. Fletch hoped to divert suspicion onto Chad Langdon, at least until he could get out of town.”

“Bulldog?” I growled at Hank. What was with the men in this town? Didn’t any of them picture me as a sexy detective? “So what’s his current status?”