by Cindy Sample
"What now, Matt?” he said, looking over my shoulder.
I turned around to see the deputy beckoning to Bradford. The senior officer rolled his eyes then followed the deputy. I was tempted to use the opportunity to relocate my undesirable underwear but I was also curious what the deputy had discovered. I followed the curmudgeonly detective across the hall and into the bathroom.
Matching schisms appeared on both sides of the detective's craggy face as he broke into a broad grin. Was he admiring the rainbow colored tropical fish decor, which dated back to Jenna's toddler days?
Or was he looking at...
What was that strange thing sitting on the vanity? It was almost a foot long. Funny shaped metal on the top with a chipped red wood handle.
"Ms. McKay, thank you for making our job so easy,” he said. “I never expected the murder weapon to be out in full view."
"Look, I don't know what that, that...” I waved my hand at the offending tool, “that doohickey is."
Bradford snickered. “You know, I was beginning to think you were one of the smartest criminals I've ever encountered. But it looks like Detective Hunter was finally successful in getting you to let your guard down. Imagine having the nerve to use the same pipe wrench not only as a murder weapon, but to fix a leaky pipe.” He pointed to the wet spot under the sink.
The leak my ex-husband had fixed minutes before.
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TWENTY-EIGHT
Two hours later I was curled in a fetal position on the sofa, dressed in my red Betty Boop flannel pajamas and fleece robe. Multicolored candy wrappers littered the coffee table as I attempted to distract myself by watching a mindless reality show.
The detective and his deputy had packaged the evidence, Hank's pipe wrench, which they were rushing to the crime lab to determine if the red paint on the handle matched the paint flecks discovered in the victims’ wounds.
I half expected Bradford to cuff me and take me down to headquarters. Fortunately my fingerprints weren't on the tool or I would have received an official invitation to a sleepover at the jail. With my luck I'd be bunking with Burly Bertha, one of the Hangtown jailhouse locals.
Bradford repeated his previous warning not to leave town then he and Mengelkoch pulled out of my driveway, tires squealing. I called Tom on his cell and we conversed briefly.
I accused him of pretending to fall for me in order to get me to confess to a crime I didn't commit. I waited for his response but he didn't deny anything.
So I hung up on him.
As far as the pipe wrench, what could I say? It was Hank's. But did that make him the murderer? I clutched the remote to my chest, massive hiccupping sobs wracking my body as I contemplated the duplicity of the men in my life. A bundle of fur jumped on my lap, and a pair of sympathetic green eyes stared into mine as a tiny sandpaper tongue licked salty tears from my cheeks.
Pumpkin and I cuddled together watching TV until the late news came on. The two anchors greeted their audience and immediately launched into the lead story: the unsolved murders of El Dorado County.
I bolted up, disturbing the sleeping kitten. Pumpkin squawked as she tumbled off the sofa, landing on all fours. I grabbed my furry friend and she settled next to me. Two pairs of eyes glued to the news.
Camera shots veered from the River Inn to the hilly shot they had shown on the earlier broadcast. Someone in the sheriff's department had leaked the surprising fact that the same weapon might have been responsible for the deaths of three prominent residents of El Dorado County—a CPA, a doctor, and a real estate appraiser.
The reporter interviewed several locals all of whom demanded that additional resources be brought in from the FBI to solve these horrible crimes. The camera switched back to the reporter on his hillside perch. His expression was grave as he spoke into the mike, “Chuck Basso, signing off from El Dorado County."
With this kind of media publicity it could be mere hours before they hauled me in. What would I use for my defense? Tell them the father of my children owned the pipe wrench?
"Pumpkin, what should I do?” I moaned to the kitten. She stared at me with unblinking eyes then proceeded to clean her privates.
We all have different ways of dealing with stress.
I dealt with my own stress by watching I Love Lucy reruns into the wee hours of the morning. I woke at six, bleary eyed, bushy haired, and with a crick in my neck, but bound and determined to prove my innocence. Without the kids to slow me down I arrived at the office a half hour early.
I vaguely recalled reading about a famous philosopher who declared there were only six degrees of separation between each person and everyone else on the planet. Or maybe it was Kevin Bacon.
Regardless, in our small foothills community, the number must be even less. Just how many degrees separated my field of suspects from the victims?
Dr. Radovich—He had massive gambling losses and was stealing money from his partner. Was Garrett his CPA? If so he might have killed both Jeremy and Garrett to cover up the theft.
Earl Fisher—Jeremy's loan file was in Earl's credenza. Mike Clark did appraisals for the bank. Earl knew Garrett, even though he wouldn't admit how. Was my boss getting paid under the table to approve fraudulent loans?
Mary Lou—She underwrote both delinquent loans. She didn't like Mike. Was she part of a financial scheme involving Mike, Garrett and Jeremy?
Hank—Jeremy was his doctor. He disliked Mike Clark. He hated the thought I was dating again. He owned a pipe wrench. Did he own the pipe wrench?
Detective Bradford—He suspected me of killing off my dates. I suspected him of trying to date my mother. That was a crime in itself.
Okay, Bradford wasn't a suspect but any of the other four could have committed the murders. Would my ex-husband intentionally plan the trip to Tahoe, leaving behind the weapon that would implicate me in the murders he committed?
Omigod. Were my children at risk? I dialed Jenna's cell. No answer. I started to freak out but then remembered that cell service in Tahoe was erratic. I hated to involve my mother but it was time for some maternal advice. I phoned the Centurion office.
"Centurion Real Estate, Peter Tyler speaking."
"Peter, it's Laurel. Is my mother in yet?"
"No, amazingly enough. Sometimes I think she lives here."
His comment made me laugh. “Yeah, there's a reason why she's the top producer."
"Well, I'm going to give her a run for the money this month. Anyway I'm glad you called. I'm looking forward to dinner tonight."
Oh yeah. It was amazing how murder could distract a person from their social engagements. I doubted if I would be very entertaining as a dinner companion, but with Peter's knowledge of the local real estate market, I might be able to get some of my questions answered for the bank.
Tom was definitely out of the picture now that his underhanded scheme to trap me had been revealed. I still couldn't believe how he'd lured me into believing he cared about me.
We confirmed that Peter would pick me up at the house at seven. Mary Lou approached my cubicle so I said goodbye and hung up. “Sorry I jumped all over you when you mentioned Mike Clark yesterday,” she apologized.
I flapped my hand at her. “Don't worry about it. You know he's dead, right?"
She nodded as she slumped in the chair. “I read about it in the paper this morning.” Her baby blues widened as she met my gaze. “You don't think I had anything to do with it, do you?"
I shrugged and attempted to look non-accusatory. She contemplated the ceiling for a minute. “Okay, promise not to tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. Especially Earl."
I wasn't sure I should promise in case she revealed anything criminal, but I nodded.
"Mike and I lived together briefly five years ago. At the time I was working at another bank. One day I was underwriting a loan and the information on the appraisal didn't make sense. Mike was the appraiser so I asked him about it at dinner that night. It turned out the build
er bribed him and he falsified some information stating that the house was worth more than it really was. He promised me it only happened the one time and he would never do anything like that again. When I told him I would still have to report it to my boss at the bank, he hit me. I chickened out and never told my boss.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I moved out the next day."
Her face turned a sickly shade of green, which did not blend well with the tangerine angora sweater and skirt ensemble she was wearing. She rubbed her palm over her forehead. “I feel a migraine coming on. I think I better go home."
She grabbed her purse and raced down the hallway in her four inch stilettos. I stared after her, mulling over her rapid departure as well as her comments about the fraudulent appraisal Mike produced five years ago. Could there be an issue with the appraised values of the two delinquent files?
In most fraud situations the borrowers are the beneficiaries. In this case, if the loans went into foreclosure they would lose their custom homes. And their big down payments. It was odd they would purchase such beautiful houses and then not make any payments, unless both families had encountered some recent financial reverses.
I flipped opened the preliminary title reports to find out the name of the seller. The owner of record for both houses was TLC Partners.
According to the legal description, both lots were part of a subdivision called Bella Lago. The words evoked images of a beautiful lake setting. In El Dorado Hills, faux Tuscan architecture was prevalent, so the more expensive the subdivision, the more Italian the name.
I lifted Jeremy Slater's vacation home loan file from my three-tiered tray and placed it on my desk. The $1.2 million dollar loan that appeared delinquent on his credit report was on a property located on Via del Lago, the same property used as a comparable sale for the Andrews and Carter files. I googled the address. Just as the appraisal stated, the property was within a quarter mile of the Andrews and Carter houses.
Which proved nothing.
I tried Jenna on her cell. Nothing.
I called Liz. Voicemail.
I wandered down to Stan's cube. It was trench coat and fedora free. Where was my team when I needed them? I passed Earl's office. My boss was seated at his desk reading the funnies. He read the Dilbert comic strip daily, assuming it was a guide to good management skills. I heard him chuckling. If he was in a good mood, it might be an excellent time to ask about Jeremy's loan.
"Hi Earl."
His face creased into a welcoming smile, which resembled a leer, but at least it appeared friendly. He waved me into the office.
I settled into a chair and leaned forward. “You remember Jeremy Slater, right?"
He nodded. “Of course, one of the bank's best clients who died on your watch."
I wished people would stop thinking it was my responsibility to keep my dates alive. I was never going out with a large depositor again.
"Yeah, about that. Jeremy mentioned he was concerned about a mortgage he was trying to get on a vacation home in Tahoe. Did you help him with a loan?"
He reached into a jar of miniature candies, unwrapped the gold paper and stuffed the candy into his mouth. No invitation for me to do the same, so I tapped my foot and counted to ten while he chewed.
"We started processing an application for him on a condo but when we ran his credit it showed a ninety day delinquency on a mortgage with another bank. We denied his loan but he claimed the delinquent loan wasn't his. Since he is, or rather was, such a good client of the bank, I told him I would research it. Once he died there didn't seem to be much point in pursuing it."
Earl swiveled around and opened the credenza. He sifted through a stack of files, looking perplexed. It wasn't easy maintaining an innocent expression when I knew the missing Slater file was currently in my possession.
"I must have mislaid the file.” He reached for another shiny gold wrapped candy. “So how's that Love Club thing going for you?"
The last thing I wanted to do was discuss my social life with Earl. “I've given up on the Love Club."
He cocked his finger at me. “Wise decision."
I agreed. No more men from the agency. No more detectives from the sheriff's department. I was sticking with referrals from now on. Speaking of which, I needed to see if my mother had returned my call.
I returned to my desk, checked both my office phone and my cell. No messages from Liz, my mother, or Jenna. I dialed Stan's cell. “Where are you?” I whined.
"I'm home sick,” he sniffled sounding equally whiny. “What do you want?"
"I need you. Are you on your death bed or just lying in bed watching your soaps?” Stan was an All My Children addict, recording the program daily and catching up on the weekends.
He sneezed in response. “Don't you have anyone else to pester?"
Not really. Everyone had disappeared. Stan was it.
"I have some detecting for you.” That would be the true measure of determining how sick Stan really was.
"Can it wait? I've hung up my trench coat this week."
Okay, he definitely was ill. “I suppose, but..."
He sighed, sniffled, wheezed then sneezed. “Tell me what you want me to do."
I proceeded to explain about the multi million-dollar delinquent loans and the coincidence that they were all located in the same subdivision. Stan lived in El Dorado Hills so he could drive by the houses, see if the borrowers were home, and hopefully find out why they weren't making their payments. He reluctantly agreed to complete the task sometime over the weekend.
By Monday we might discover something that would help the bank deal with the delinquent loans. And maybe make them appreciate what a great employee I am. Just in case they were starting to doubt the wisdom of having a murder suspect in their employ.
I left the office promptly at five. Threatening rain clouds made the sky appear darker than usual for that time of day. It looked like the kids might get the snow they wanted.
The phone rang as I was zipping up my date night black skirt.
"Hello, may I please speak with Laurel,” said a familiar masculine voice, but one that I couldn't place at the moment.
"This is she."
I ran through my database of male callers. It wasn't that large of a database.
"Um, Laurel, it's Earl, you know Earl Fisher—from the office,” he added, as if there could be more than one Earl Fisher.
"Hi, Earl, what's up?” Earl had never called me at home before. Did he discover the missing Slater file in my desk drawer? I knew I should have put it back in his credenza.
He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner with me tonight."
Over my dead body was my first thought as I attempted to jab my pearl earring stud into place.
"I don't think that would be appropriate, Earl. Besides I already have a date tonight."
"Oh? You gave me the impression you were done with the Love Club. Wouldn't you be more comfortable going out with someone from the office? Someone safe?"
Safe? I wasn't sure Earl qualified for that category. But this was the perfect opportunity to grill him.
"Before I could even think of going out with you, I need to know more about your relationship with Garrett Lindstrom. Were you and he involved in a scheme to defraud the bank?"
"What?” he yelled. “Are you drunk?"
Not yet but the way my week had been going it sounded kind of tempting. I looked at the clock. Peter would be arriving shortly. Time to play hardball.
"Earl, my contacts at the sheriff's department informed me you're the number one suspect in Garrett's death."
Okay, I was stretching the truth a little. But it might shake him up and get him talking.
I must have sounded more threatening than I intended. A crash followed by a scream assaulted my ear.
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TWENTY-NINE
* * * *
"Earl, are you all right? What happened?"
"I dropped my glass,”
Earl responded, his voice quivering. “What do you mean I'm a suspect in Garrett's death? Garrett's dead?"
"He died a few weeks ago. You didn't know that?"
"No. I haven't seen him in several years. He used to live a couple of blocks away from us. Garrett and my wife became romantically involved after they both joined the neighborhood watch committee. I guess they decided it was more fun to watch each other."
"I'm so sorry. I had no idea.” Poor guy. I could certainly empathize with the torment of a wayward spouse.
"The four years since our divorce haven't been easy. I know you can't tell, but I don't date very often."
I didn't have the heart to tell Earl it was fairly obvious he didn't get out much.
"You didn't hear about Garrett's death on the news last night? Or read about it in the obituaries?"
"I don't watch the news. Too depressing. And who reads the obituaries?"
A few of my single girl friends read them daily hoping to find eligible widowers to date, but that probably wasn't relevant to our current conversation.
"I had no idea he was dead.” Earl paused and his voice reflected his terror. “Oh, jeez, you killed him, didn't you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, I heard you telling the staff you whacked him with a cell phone. You're a murderer. I'm calling the cops,” he shouted.
"I didn't kill—"
The dial tone buzzing in my ear was accompanied by the pealing of the doorbell.
Great. Now Earl and I suspected each other of murder. That reminded me. I never got around to reading that slip of paper that fell out of Jeremy's file when I removed it from Earl's credenza. It must still be in my jacket pocket. Could a fortune from a cookie contain a clue?
The doorbell continued its relentless ringing. Too many suspects. Too little time. The scrap of paper would have to wait until I returned home. I ran down the stairs, opened the front door, and was greeted by a smiling Peter dressed in a black turtleneck, charcoal blazer and slacks. He held out a spray of multicolored fall flowers. The last bouquet I'd received was from Hank on our first wedding anniversary. Seventeen years ago.