by Cindy Sample
When I arrived at the office the first thing I did was stop to see how Stan's investigating went. His cubicle was empty. No sign of him anywhere.
Omigod. If something happened to Stan at the casino I would never forgive myself.
I was ready to report a missing underwriting assistant when I walked by Earl's office. Stan was sitting in front of our boss's desk. He didn't look happy. Neither did Earl. I was relieved to see that my buddy was safe but what was going on?
The phone rang and I grabbed the receiver. “Laurel. Come to my office. Now.” Earl's voice was curt. Not at all like the smitten boss who'd been hanging around my desk lately.
"Yes, sir.” I would have to find out about Stan's meeting after my own. I grabbed a yellow legal pad, turned right, left then right again, arriving at the door of Earl's office just as Stan rose, indicating their conversation was over. Stan averted his gaze as he exited the office.
My chest constricted but I summoned up a fake smile. “Hi, Earl. I'm almost finished with yesterday's submissions."
Earl stood up, walked to the door and closed it. Loudly. One might even suggest that he slammed it. I surmised this would not be a social visit. He lowered himself into his ergonomically correct leather chair, which groaned in response, then waved at me to sit in one of the visitor chairs.
"Laurel, I'm not going to waste your time, or mine. It appears you haven't been honest with me.” He grabbed a forest green Mont Blanc pen and rolled the slim cylinder back and forth over his desk blotter, the only uncluttered area on his desk.
"I don't know what you're talking about.” I perched on the edge of my chair. That was no lie.
Earl took a break from staring at the rolling pen. He looked tense and...mad. “It's come to the bank's attention that you're being investigated by the sheriff's department for the murder of a respected member of our medical community."
My stomach clenched as my mind raced. Could Stan have told Earl? I was sure Tom would forewarn me if they were going to question anyone at the bank about me. Who else did that leave?
I grabbed the arms of my chair for support. “I don't know where you could have received your information."
"From you—” He glared at me. “You told Anne Lewis about your involvement with Dr. Slater when you cancelled your interview yesterday. She followed up by calling a friend of hers in the sheriff's department."
Rats. I squirmed in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my bare legs, trying to get comfortable. “Anne doesn't have all of the facts. Yes, I did go out on a date with Jeremy Slater. Yes, he did fall into the river. Yes, he did drown that evening. And yes, he was murdered."
Hmmm. So far my defense was somewhat lacking in inspiration. I decided to go on the offensive. “I can't believe you would question my innocence. I barely knew Dr. Slater. Plus the sheriff's department doesn't consider me a suspect.” Or at least I didn't think Tom did. As far as Bradford, all bets were off. Actually all bets were probably on me.
"Even worse,” Earl continued, his expression still morose, “a reporter from the Mountain Democrat has been hounding the president of the bank for a comment. Ask me how happy Mr. Chandler was about that."
I suspected Mr. Chandler, the bank president, wasn't pleased about having a murder suspect working for the bank. Was the reporter that guy with the Draino chuckle? I had to get him off my back.
"You should have mentioned this situation to me. Not only is the bank's reputation at stake but Dr. Slater was one of our best customers."
Great. Now I wasn't merely losing dates, I was also responsible for losing deposits.
"Earl, I'm sorry. Since I had nothing to do with Jeremy's death, I didn't think it was important for anyone at the bank to know about it. I promise I'll keep you informed about anything else I hear about the case."
"Make sure you do that."
His pen fidgeting was driving me crazy. I was about to grab it out of his hand when he dropped another bombshell. “You know if you hadn't joined the Love Club we wouldn't be in this situation."
Interesting segue from death to dating. “Um, I've only gone on two dates so far."
"Yes, but look what happened each time.” His gaze started at my chest and drifted down to my crossed ankles. “There are eligible bachelors here in this office. Stick with people you know rather than this dating service."
Since I couldn't think of any bachelors at the bank that I personally considered eligible I needed to direct the conversation elsewhere. “Did Anne say anything further about rescheduling my interview?"
"The HR department decided they had sufficient candidates to choose from. Between missing your appointment and your involvement in a murder, they selected someone else."
My face fell at the news. This was turning out to be one crapola day.
"Looks like you're fated to stay in this department.” Earl ran a hand over his balding pate, his smile so satisfied you'd think he'd won the lottery. “I promise to assign you additional responsibilities. It'll give us an opportunity to work closer together."
Oh goody. At least I was still employed although I would have preferred a position where my boss wasn't hitting on me, harmless as Earl was.
I left his office and went straight, well, left right left, down to Stan's cube. I parked myself in the chair beside his desk. “Stanley, why the long face when you came out of Earl's office?"
He took off his glasses, rubbed his bloodshot eyes then pushed the wire rims back on his pointed nose. “I should have told you before. When you applied for the branch manager posting, I assumed you would get it, so I asked Earl if I could move up to a full underwriter. He said I could, provided you got the position. I guess they won't promote you, right?"
I nodded glumly. “Evidently they prefer their managers not be murder suspects. I'm afraid if we don't solve the murders I'm going to be fired."
Stan's frown reversed into a grin. “Hey, wait until you hear what Stan Spade discovered last night."
"Really? At the casino?"
He nodded. “It took me awhile to track Radovich down. That place is huge.” Stan sent me a sheepish look. “And I got a little distracted by the dollar slots. But I won eighty bucks."
"Swell. So..."
"So, after that I wandered everywhere and finally spotted him in a private room in the back. Texas Hold ‘Em poker. Five thousand minimum."
"Five thousand dollars?"
"Yup, five thousand minimum to get in the room. Just one table with six guys. One guy had a ton of chips in front of him. Our doctor did not. He must have lost big and lost fast. I tell you, this guy definitely has a gambling problem."
"How long did you stay?"
"Not long. Once his chips were gone he left the table so I left the casino. My eighty bucks was starting to burn a hole and I didn't want to leave it behind in the slots."
"Excellent work. Are you ready for more?"
"Yeah, baby,” he said, rubbing his palms together in the worst Austin Powers imitation I'd ever heard. I mentally rolled my eyes.
"Remember that first guy I went out with who was murdered?” I said.
"Sure. Garrett somebody. Why?"
"After we left the funeral home last night, I drove by his house. It's listed for sale so if my mother can get us in, we might find something the detectives missed. What do you think?"
"Are you kidding?” He flashed me a brilliant smile. “I'm in."
I went back to my desk and called Mother's office. Penny, the receptionist, said she was on a call and asked me to hold. Penny also asked if I'd eliminated any more dates.
Everyone's a comedian.
As I waited on the line, I tried to recall my conversation with Earl. Something he'd mentioned didn't make sense. Mother's abrupt greeting interrupted my thought process. “What do you want, Laurel?"
"Oh, hi. I was wondering if you could get me into Garrett Lindstrom's house in Serrano. I drove by last night and it's listed for sale. Can you show it to Stan and me this afternoon?"
There
was a slight delay and I heard her punching some device. “I'm booked almost all day, but I could probably squeeze you in between one and three. I need to call the listing agent but since the house must be vacant I should be able to use my lockbox key."
"Perfect. We'll meet you there at two."
My observant mother would no doubt notice my crumpled hybrid. If she suspected my car crash was due to our investigating, she'd have that key back in the lockbox faster than I could say Prius. I told Stan about the accident and asked if he could drive.
"You were rammed from behind? After we split up?” His jaw dropped so low it almost touched his loafers.
I nodded. “I'm amazed the car got away with only a small scratch. Probably some kids driving too fast."
The freckles on his nose popped out as his face paled a few shades. “I think we may be asking the right questions. Someone is scared and they tried to stop you. Permanently."
Much as I was starting to agree with Stan, I wasn't ready to give up. I had too much at stake. “We just need to be more cautious from now on."
That was something we both agreed on. We took Stan's car and arrived at Garrett's house a couple of minutes late after making two wrong turns, both of which Stan blamed on my poor directions. Evidently gay men don't have any better navigational skills than straight men.
Mother's gleaming Chrysler was parked in the driveway. She stood on the front porch, arms crossed over her chest, the right foot of her Prada pump tapping her noticeable displeasure.
"You're late and you have lettuce on your blouse.” She picked the offensive piece of foliage off my chest and flicked it on the front lawn.
"At least I'm wearing healthy food these days.” I took a deep breath and tried to maintain my cool.
"The agent won't be meeting us so we can go inside. Hopefully this won't be another wild goose chase,” she said as she inserted the key in the lock.
Wild goose chase? We'd been collecting clues by the dozens. Not to mention the high probability someone had attempted to murder me last night. Not something I needed to share with the woman who brought me into this world.
The three of us entered the great room. All leather and glass topped tables. Garrett was one of those white freaks. White leather sofa, white walls, a few abstract paintings in shades of white and gray. Slate floors throughout the house.
Mother and Stan wandered down a long hallway to the left. I went the opposite direction into the kitchen, which followed the same theme, white cabinets with uncluttered black granite countertops. Chrome appliances. I opened a few doors but except for one cabinet filled with plates and glasses, the cabinets were empty.
Laughter radiated from the other end of the house. I followed the sound of their voices into the master suite, entering a replica of Hugh Hefner's bedroom straight out of the Playboy mansion. A leopard printed furry thing covered the king size bed. Mirrors lined most of the walls.
They both chuckled at the ceiling. Yuck. An enormous oval mirror hung over the bed.
Stereo equipment and a huge flat screen television comprised the rest of the furnishings. Garrett probably had a collection of porn for late night screenings. Other than the adult fantasy motif, the room was fairly sparse. I was certain the police would have removed personal items of any significance but calling Tom was not an option.
Stan opened a drawer in the black lacquer dresser before I could stop him. After looking at the decor, I had no desire to learn anything further about Garrett, like the style of his underwear. Or size.
Ick. Too late. Stan held up a teeny-weeny zebra print thong.
I peeked in the bathroom, which continued the jungle theme with leopard print wallpaper and matching towels. Where on earth did he find this stuff? There was a large Jacuzzi tub, enormous dual head shower stall, and dark brown oversized wicker hamper. Mother and Stan walked up and peered over my shoulder.
"I would kill for a bathtub that size,” I mused. My companions stared at me. Guess I could have phrased that better.
The room down the hall from the master bedroom was probably a guest room, very plain and furnished in beige on beige. The last room appeared to be Garrett's office. Now this was more like it. Garrett must have been a golfer because he had a multitude of golf related souvenirs decorating the top of a large glossy ebony desk. It sure beat the animal safari theme in his bedroom. Framed prints of what I gathered were various famous golf courses hung next to a wall that was lined with matching polished black bookcases and file cabinets. Stan wandered over to examine the prints.
I opened a few of the file drawers but as I suspected they were empty. Either cleaned out by Garrett or the sheriff's department.
"Anything in there?” Mother asked.
I sighed and slammed another drawer shut. “No. I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I'm just desperate to find something that would point to a suspect other than me."
"If you'd only listened to me and not joined that stupid Love Club."
"Hey, what's done is done. You don't need to air our dirty laundry in front of Stan."
Stan's face lit up. “Dirty laundry. CSI always goes through the laundry hamper."
"Ick.” Mother and I responded in unison. At least we agreed on something.
Stan wandered off to emulate his favorite investigators. I opened the rest of the desk drawers. Nada.
"Oh, girls,” trilled my buddy from the master bedroom.
After accidentally viewing Garrett's zebra print thong, I didn't need to learn anything further about his personal habits, but his office wasn't providing anything useful. We returned to the master bath.
"Voila,” Stan said, pointing to the opened wicker hamper with the panache of Vanna White. The hamper was full of teeny animal print bikinis, T-shirts and dirty socks. No vowels or consonants that I could see.
"Stick your hand in all the way to the bottom,” he instructed.
It was a very big hamper full of dirty laundry. Double Ick.
"Stan, you have five seconds to reveal the secret in the bottom."
He smirked.
"Wait a minute. That's the secret, right? A false bottom?"
"That's my girl detective."
I knocked the hamper over. Not subtle but effective. Dirty disgusting smelly underwear, tube socks, T-shirts and...
Tax returns?
[Back to Table of Contents]
TWENTY-THREE
I grabbed the stapled returns off the floor. “Interesting choice of filing cabinet."
"He must have been afraid someone would go through his files in the office and the house. Who would think to look in his dirty laundry?” Stan's smile was as wide as the double sink vanity.
Underwriters review tax returns all day long so it only took me a couple of minutes to rifle through the pages. Nothing jumped out other than the fact that all six returns showed excellent income, in the hundreds of thousands. Maybe Garrett kept them in a special place because they were his best clients. He was definitely a weirdo. Just because the returns were filed in his dirty laundry didn't mean there was anything dirty about them.
We debated what to do with the papers. Since I was a prime suspect, I couldn't keep them. Mother didn't want anything to do with them, so I turned them over to Stan Spade's safekeeping until I figured out a way to tell Tom what we'd uncovered. We locked up the house and Stan and I hurried back to the office, hoping Earl wouldn't notice we'd been gone for over an hour.
I plowed through my loan files to make up for the time I'd spent out of the office then left a little after five to pick up my son. Soccer practice went into overtime. Although I'd planned on cooking a homemade meal for a change, the unhappy duet of Ben's and my growling stomachs left me no choice. I was forced to buy a home-cooked Chinese dinner from Lotus Garden, the closest takeout to our house.
The phone rang as I cleared the dishes—okay the cartons—from the table. Jenna grabbed it. She spoke briefly then handed it to me.
Who is it? I mouthed. She shrugged and walked out of
the kitchen.
"Hello,” I said, my voice husky, expecting to hear Tom's voice.
"Hi, Laurel. It's Peter."
"Oh, hi."
"We're still on for this weekend, I hope. I thought we'd try a new restaurant in Placerville called the Sequoia. It's received some excellent reviews."
"Sounds good."
We agreed he would pick me up at seven on Friday. We chatted for a few minutes until I begged off saying I had to help Ben with his homework. After my car crash, I was having reservations about going out with Peter. What if something happened to my mother's colleague while he was out with me?
Maybe I should start doling out pepper spray to my dates. Just in case.
The phone trilled again as I mulled over my situation. Probably Mother trying to make sure I hadn't screwed up her matchmaking efforts.
"Yes, Mother, Peter and I are still going out Friday night.” I grabbed a sponge and started cleaning the kitchen counters.
"Well, that's disappointing news,” said a deep familiar voice. Startled, I knocked over Ben's unfinished glass of milk. White liquid spurted all over my lactose intolerant silk blouse.
"You are so lame,” I muttered as I dabbed at the spots with a wet towel.
"Excuse me?"
I apologized for my lame remark. I hoped Tom wouldn't remember my earlier comment.
"So, about this dinner date Friday night,” he said. I swear the man has a memory like an elephant. Of course that could be the reason he made detective.
"Just dinner at the Sequoia with a friend of my mother's. You know how that goes."
"Sure. My parents have fixed me up a few times. They feel I've been a grieving widower long enough. They think Kristy needs a mother."
"A little feminine influence couldn't hurt,” I agreed, envisioning the muddy tomboy as she attacked the boys on the soccer field.
"It's hard to be both a mother and father at the same time. I guess you can relate to that first hand."
"Definitely.” There was a lull in the conversation. Should I tell him about our discovery today or wait to see why he was calling?