Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4)

by Cindy Sample

  It was odd the equipment was still operating since there was no power, but maybe they had backup batteries to ensure the fermentation process wasn’t interrupted. I walked with my arms outstretched, petrified of crashing into one of the solid metal cylinders. Suddenly a cord caught my ankle, and I fell forward. My palms flew out to brace myself, but my left knee smashed into the unforgiving cement floor. I lay there for a few seconds, trying to catch my breath. I sat up, rubbed my knee and felt something sticky on my hand.

  I placed my fingertips against my nose and felt a surge of relief when I sniffed the pungent smell of wine, not blood. I stood tentatively, wincing from the pain in my knee.

  I limped forward trying to get my bearings. Where was that doorway I had originally entered? How would I locate it again in the dark? A loud clink of metal against metal almost made me leap out of my heeled sandals. I whirled around, grimacing as my knee protested the sudden movement.

  Nothing. Just my overactive imagination.

  I wondered if anyone had ever considered filming a slasher movie in a winery. That thought freaked me out so much that goose bumps appeared on my goose bumps.

  Just nerves, I thought, giving myself a pep talk. All I had to do was take one baby step at a time and eventually I would reach the opposite side of the enormous building. I remonstrated with myself for leaving my purse in Liz’s car so I wouldn’t have to worry about it while we were performing. I could have used the flashlight application on my cell phone to light my way or called for help.

  The back of my neck prickled with unease. A loud click sounded behind me. I stiffened. The smell of garlic-scented breath against my ear was the last thing I remembered.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I woke with my hands tied behind my back, my head pounding louder than a Broadway revival of Forty Second Street. I wiggled my fingers and my nails scraped against something metallic. My body lay stretched out uncomfortably on a very hard surface. When I shifted, my head bumped against something solid. I carefully moved in the opposite direction, sliding down almost a foot until my toes encountered another obstacle.

  Where was I and how did I get here?

  There was minimal space on either side of me, making me feel like I’d been stuffed into a coffin. Was I still in the Mountain High Winery building, or had my captor moved me elsewhere? Would that have been possible with so many people milling around the grounds?

  I tried to recall what other equipment winemakers used other than large storage vats or barrels. The only thing that came to mind would be the grape crusher, a ferocious machine that liquefied solid grapes in minutes. The machine performed the task far faster and cleaner than the old method of stomping on grapes.

  It was also far more dangerous. Especially if I was trapped inside.

  I shuddered as I recalled a tour I’d once taken that included a demonstration of the machine in action. My palms felt clammy as they strained against my cloth handcuffs. My claustrophobia kicked in and I began to hyperventilate.

  Calm down, Laurel. I tried to distract myself by contemplating who could have moved me in here and why. Why was easy. I must have said or done something recently, perhaps even tonight, which made Darius Spencer’s killer think I could be closing in. That was the good news. I possessed some important information about the murderer and possibly his or her motive.

  The bad news was that I didn’t know what it was.

  Even worse than that––not only did I not know where I was––neither did anyone else. Except for my attacker.

  How much time had elapsed since the blow to my head? Minutes? Hours? Liz and the Sassy Saloon Gals should have noticed my absence by now. Unless my friend assumed I’d bailed on her, something I had threatened to do repeatedly during the course of the evening.

  Good thing Liz and I drove to the winery together. I was almost positive she wouldn’t leave without me. Almost.

  My breathing grew labored, and my heart hammered in my chest. Did my current situation confirm Chad Langdon was the murderer? Who else would have knocked me out and placed me inside a piece of winery equipment?

  Silly question. Many people in our county were familiar with the process of making wine. No one could be ruled out at this point.

  I squirmed in the constricted space, attempting to slide my hands out of their bindings but to no avail. I tried to remember my Lamaze breathing, but that just reminded me of my children. Tears flowed down my cheeks as the faces of my family paraded before me. I blinked rapidly. Crying would not help. I needed to be proactive.

  I began yelling at the top of my lungs and kicked the heels of my shoes against the walls of the steel prison. Even though it seemed unlikely anyone would hear my cries, it was better than lying still with destructive thoughts filling my brain. My screams ricocheted off the metal walls.

  Tom was right. I had no business interfering in this investigation. Look where it led me. Now my children might lose both of their parents––one to life in prison and the other trapped in a dark coffin until oxygen and time ran out.

  I thought of the burly detective and the wonderful traits he possessed. How gentle and patient he always was with me. His excellent sense of humor. Visualizing his warm brown eyes made me tingle, proving I wasn’t dead yet.

  If only I could see Tom’s smiling face once more, I vowed to never again get involved where I didn’t belong.

  The sound of people screaming startled my reverie. Brilliant rays of light, brighter than a summer day made me wonder whether I had died and gone to heaven. I blinked, my blurred vision resting on a large figure bending over me. His chestnut hair grazed my cheeks as his soft full lips met mine.

  If this kiss wasn’t heaven then I didn’t know what was.

  Shrieks of joy provided a background chorus for our kiss. In shock, I stared at the people surrounding us as Tom helped me to sit up. He refused to untie me until he’d donned some protective gloves. Then he removed the fragment of cloth binding my hands together. My abductor had used a red calico kerchief, similar to the ones worn by a multitude of cowboys tonight. Tom tucked the small article of apparel into an evidence bag.

  The detective never left home without them. Especially when his girlfriend was in the vicinity.

  He lifted me out of the coffin as if my body were as light as paper mâché. My left leg buckled, but with Tom’s arm wrapped securely around my waist, I could stand. The throng of people surrounding us assaulted me with questions.

  Liz reached my side in seconds. She hugged me hard enough to crack a rib. I didn’t think she would ever release me, but curiosity finally beat out concern. She stepped back and asked the obvious question. “Who did this to you?”

  I glanced back at my prison, and my entire body trembled. “I don’t know. Someone hit me on the head then dumped me in there.” My eyes scanned the people standing around me. I immediately ruled out Liz, Brian and Stan.

  Janet Spencer bore a shocked expression on her carefully made-up face. Chad Langdon looked puzzled. Several members of the Hangtown Posse, dressed in assorted western wear, shuffled their booted feet. Scott Shelton stood alongside the men, so he must also be a member. Their expressions indicated concern, but nothing more.

  Would the person who attacked me be foolish or arrogant enough to stand in front of me now? That was one question I needed answered.

  The second question I addressed to Tom. “How did you locate me?”

  Liz answered for him. “I was bloody annoyed with you, missy, when you didn’t show for the performance. When the party started to break up and you still hadn’t appeared, I knew something must be wrong. We looked all over for you. Then I remembered you were coming here to use the loo. I found Tom and he put together a search party.”

  She gestured at the Sassy Saloon Gals, a couple of Mountain High employees attired in burgundy polo shirts, several Sheriff’s Deputies including Fletch and Chuck Kramer. Even Rex had stayed to help which was nice considering the defense attorney billed at $300 an hour.

&nbs
p; My brain was awake enough to compute that mathematical equation and concerned enough to wonder if looking for me counted as billable hours.

  Tom squeezed me and I beamed up at him, safe in his arms. “We searched this building but couldn’t find you anywhere.” He pointed at Stan who bustled to my side. “Then your pal found something none of us noticed.”

  I must have looked confused, so Stan directed my attention to the floor. “I saw one red sequin in the restroom and then two more on the floor by this scary piece of equipment. They screamed CLUE!”

  “You’re lucky.” Chad stepped forward and pointed at my former prison. “We only use the pulverizer in the fall. It’s completely soundproof, so you might not have been found for months.”

  One of the winery employees chimed in. “Yeah, and if someone pressed the ON button by mistake, you’d have been crushed in minutes.”

  So I had been trapped, mere seconds away from the pulverizing machine turning me into liquid Laurel.

  I looked at Tom and Stan. Then I blacked out for the second time that evening.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Several hours later, I sat in Tom’s car, parked in my driveway. I did not intend to tell my kids about tonight’s incident. They were worried enough about their father’s arrest. The fact that someone intentionally tried to kill me would remain my secret. Assuming the story didn’t make it into the Mountain Democrat. It was definitely National Enquirer worthy.

  After my discovery, Tom conducted brief on-site interviews with Chad and the Mountain High Winery staff, but no one had noticed anything unusual. Although it would be difficult to obtain fingerprints from cloth, Tom still hoped the calico neckerchief that had bound my hands would provide a clue.

  He urged me to let him take me to Marshall Hospital to get my head checked out, but I refused. He probably figured stuffing me into a hospital bed was the only surefire way to keep me out of trouble.

  “Honey, you don’t make things easy for me, do you?” Tom said with his hand strongly clasped around mine.

  I perked up at his use of the endearment. “So you don’t want us to take a break any longer?”

  “That was one of my dumber ideas,” he admitted.

  “You realize that I don’t intentionally try to get into trouble.”

  “I know, and despite your bumbling approach…” I eased my hand away, but he quickly pulled it back to him. He gently kissed my fingers one by one, to ease the pain of his bumbling conversation.

  “Sorry. I need to work on my conversational skills,” Tom said. “I’m going to admit something to you now.”

  My heart pulsated and my lady parts tingled like they were holding a going-out-of-business sale as I wondered if Tom would finally declare his love for me.

  “I think you may be right about us arresting the wrong person for Spencer’s murder,” he said.

  Not exactly the most romantic declaration, but I would take it.

  “Does your conclusion have anything to do with my near-death predicament tonight?”

  He turned to me, his face serious. “Yes. Someone wants you out of the way and permanently. My guess is you’ve stirred things up with your questions and you’re making them nervous. Can you think of any other explanation? It obviously was intentional.”

  “I hate to think it took me being stuffed into a grape crusher to change your mind, but I’ll accept your apology.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Was I apologizing?”

  I tilted my head at him and smiled. “I certainly hope so.”

  Tom grabbed me in his arms and proceeded to apologize in the most delicious fashion. Although the next time he apologized to me, I intended to move it to the privacy of my bedroom.

  Fifteen far-too-short minutes later, Tom walked me to my front door.

  “I know I’m repeating myself, but please be careful. Don’t go anywhere unless you’re surrounded by other people.”

  “I promise. Since you’re going to take another look at this case, I can go back to banking and being a mom.”

  “I wonder if I should have a patrol car drive by periodically.”

  “We’ll be fine. Now go catch that killer.”

  After one last ten-toe tingling kiss, I stepped into our foyer. I crept up the stairs, my sandals in one hand and my clutch purse in the other. I entered my bedroom, hit the light switch… and screamed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  A figure lay in my bed, tangled in a sheet and my lightweight summer blanket. Then my daughter sat up. She rubbed her eyes and scowled.

  “It’s about time you came home, Mother,” Jenna grumbled.

  I splayed my palm against my chest. Tonight had held one too many surprises. Once my breathing returned to normal, I smiled, secretly pleased at my daughter’s concern.

  “What are you doing in my bed, honey?” I dumped my purse on my dresser then plopped myself down on my comforter.

  “I was worried because you weren’t home yet, so I decided to watch television in here. I must have fallen asleep.” She stifled a yawn with her hand. “You shouldn’t worry your children by coming home so late.”

  “Sorry, sweetie. The fundraiser went longer than I anticipated.”

  “How did your dance go?”

  How to answer that question without lying to my daughter? “It went well,” I replied. According to Liz, the women received a standing ovation, so my remark was completely true.

  “Did Ben behave?” I asked automatically, then received a surprise when she frowned.

  “Justin’s mother called and said he couldn’t come over to play with Ben tomorrow.”

  “Did something come up?” I asked.

  “She didn’t come right out and say it,” Jenna spat out, “but I think it’s because of Dad’s arrest. It’s not fair for people to treat us this way. Lindsay also called and cancelled our shopping trip tomorrow. She used that old ‘something came up’ excuse, too.”

  I sighed at the lack of empathy from the other parents while trying to relate to their fears, unjustified though they might be.

  “Our life will get back to normal soon.” I kissed Jenna on her forehead. “I promise. Now go to bed.”

  She yawned through a muffled okay, rolled over on her right side and fell asleep in seconds. I didn’t mind bunking with my daughter, although first I needed to shower off all the nasty residue from the night’s events.

  I wanted our normal life back as much as Jenna.

  The next morning my head felt like a dozen miners were tunneling from one side to the other. Four Advil tablets did nothing to diminish the pain, making me wonder if I should heed Tom’s advice and drive to the hospital. My fingers tiptoed along my scalp, settling on a bump the size of a Cadbury egg.

  Then I remembered Mr. Boxer’s command that the bank be decorated by tonight or else. My schedule did not allow for a six-hour stint in the emergency room. I brewed a large pot of coffee, hoping the caffeine would quell the pounding in my head. While I nursed my first cup, I mulled over the events of the previous evening. Which suspect most likely attacked me?

  In my mind, the top three suspects were Chad Langdon, Phil McKinley and Scott Shelton. I had blatantly announced to the men that I intended to prove Hank’s innocence. One of them might have taken my comment seriously enough to remove a potential threat to his freedom.

  Chad campaigned on a no-growth platform, yet he was involved in the Six Springs Development. Phil McKinley indicated he’d found a way to get around some of the county subdivision approval requirements. Both of them had substantial financial investments at stake. Either of them could have individually lifted me into the grape crusher or colluded together.

  Scott Shelton remained an enigma. Bad guys didn’t necessarily dress all in black these days. So did many a fashionista. But the rancher definitely had a grudge against Spencer.

  Brooding over my potential list of attackers was not helping to eliminate my headache. Nor were my three cups of coffee. I would never share this with Mr. Boxer, b
ut I welcomed the opportunity to distract myself as well as the kids by decorating the bank.

  In less than an hour, the three of us stood on the sidewalk outside Hangtown Bank. My keycard provided access and we hauled in the quaint items discovered in Gran’s shed. Quaint might be overly generous. My mother would have classified everything as crapola.

  But what seems like crap to one person may be riches to another. The items would help spruce up the bank and that was my primary concern.

  My daughter had inherited my mother’s artistic and decorating flair, which somehow skipped my genetic composition. Jenna giggled as she paired some of the old bonnets I’d collected with a couple of parasols. My daughter had been so quiet and reclusive since her father’s arrest that it was nice to see her sparkle like her normal self.

  I debated informing the kids about Tom’s decision to take a closer look at Spencer’s murder case, but decided to wait until he came up with another conclusion––one that did not involve their father being tried for murder.

  We finished decorating in less than two hours. Ben occupied the time by sliding down the hay bales repeatedly. It kept him entertained so Jenna and I could concentrate elsewhere.

  “What do you think?” I asked my daughter once we finished.

  She scratched her chin with an elegantly shaped index finger. It would have been more elegant if the nails hadn’t been gnawed off, a genetic characteristic we shared.

  “We need more filler in the main lobby,” she said. “Are there any additional things we can use?”

  I shook my head, which proved to be an exceptionally bad move. I winced at the pain and said, “Let’s hit a couple antique stores. I have some petty cash left, and we might find some bargains.”

  Ben’s face fell. “I hate those stupid stores. That old stuff smells poopy. And it’s pro’bly full of cooties, too.”