by Cindy Sample
The most important question was whether my best friend would let a murder interfere with her carefully orchestrated wedding plans. I already knew the answer. A resounding no.
The doorbell pealed as I put the finishing touches on Ben's sandwich, an easy task which consisted of a swipe of grape jelly on one slice of whole wheat bread, and a slap of creamy peanut butter on another. Thank goodness for the simple taste buds of seven-year olds.
The front door slammed. I could think of only one person who would barge in this early on a weekday morning. As the muffled voices grew louder, my suspicions were confirmed. I shoved Ben's pathetic sandwich into his blue and red plastic Spiderman lunchbox and snapped the lid shut. The last thing I needed was to be admonished yet again on my domestic skills. Or lack thereof.
“Morning, Mother. A little early for house calls, isn't it?” I pointed to the clock over the sink. “We have to leave in five minutes and I'm running late.”
“Of course you are, dear,” she responded. “If you organized the children's lunches, wardrobe and homework assignments the night before, you wouldn't always be running late, would you?”
If I would stop discovering dead bodies, I would also have time to become more organized. I bit back a response, wondering if my mother had heard what happened at the studio the previous night.
Tom Hunter's former partner, Detective Bradford, whom I'd dubbed “Tall, Bald and Homely,” had recently retired from the El Dorado County Sheriff's Department. Bradford and I had developed a mutual dislike of each other, which could either be attributed to his desire to incarcerate me for murders I did not commit, or the fact that he was now dating my mother.
Much as I hated the thought of my mother cavorting with the newly retired detective, she might have access to all kinds of super secret sheriff stuff. My stomach churned as I visualized the two of them intimately sharing information. On a positive note, my mother seemed mellower since they'd started dating. She was no longer the uptight woman who had harassed me my entire life.
A sudden roar disturbed my reverie. It appeared that my uptight mother hadn't totally turned over a new leaf. The buzz of the dust buster drowned out further conversation as my powerful mini-vac inhaled a few scattered breadcrumbs from the floor.
How many women do you know who scoop up dust bunnies while clad in a designer black wool suit, pearl necklace and pearl earrings? Wearing three-inch heels?
I snatched the dust-busting machine out of her hands, clicked it off and yelled at the kids to hurry up. “Mother, we have to go. Did you come here for a reason? Or is annoying your daughter on today's to do list?” The minute the words left my lips, I felt bad. My mother meant well but she always made me feel like an incompetent child.
She flicked a speck of dust off her sleeve. “Judging by the looks of this place, I should drop in every morning. One of your neighbors is listing her house with me. I thought I'd stop by before I met with her and spend a few minutes with my grandchildren.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And perhaps find out why my daughter is a murder suspect once again.”
I felt my cheeks turning rosy. “Oh, yeah, about that. Did your um...did you hear about it from Bradford?”
Now it was my mother's turn to blush and my turn to chuckle. It was kind of sweet that my sixty-two-year old widowed mother had found romance once again.
Although why she settled on that crotchety former detective was beyond me.
Mother grabbed a sponge from the sink, dampened it and began wiping down the white tile counters. Sigmund Freud would have a field day with her. Was her attempt to expunge stray crumbs from the counter reflective of her desire to tidy up her daughter's messy life?
She rinsed the sponge, flicked the faucet off then turned to face me. “Robert said someone died at the dance studio last night and you were involved. I was worried about you, sweetheart. What happened?”
I looked at the clock. Two minutes until departure time.
“A Russian dancer at the studio was murdered. Well, probably murdered. I had nothing to do with it and... Hold on,” I ran to the foot of the stairs. “Ben, Jenna, now!”
“Do you think you're a suspect?”
“I have no idea. But my shoe may be the murder weapon.”
Before she could ask me to explain my cryptic comment, the melodious tones of two siblings engaged in conversation erupted from the staircase.
“Twit,” Jenna yelled.
“Fathead,” her baby brother shouted back.
I waited for the refrain.
“Mom,” they shrieked in unison as they burst though the doorway.
Ah, the joys of parenting. Mornings like this made stumbling over a dead body seem like a minor inconvenience in comparison.
“Ben destroyed my calculus homework.” Jenna threw a crumpled piece of lined paper at her brother. It bounced off his chest and floated to the floor, like a wounded bird.
My young son graced me with an impish smile, the one he used on his mother when he knew he was in trouble. “I was practicing origami. We learned it in school yesterday. I can fix it.” He picked up the paper and attempted to smooth out the wrinkles.
Jenna grabbed it out of his hand. The sound of ripping paper reverberated through the kitchen. She stuffed the torn homework in her backpack and screamed at Ben, threatening to cram him in there next.
We would never make it in time for my errant son to catch the school bus. My mother's maternal instincts kicked in. Whether it was her desire to assist, or merely prove once again that she is a superwoman, Mother grabbed Ben, his Spiderman lunchbox and his quilted parka, and marched him to the front door. “Laurel, I can drop Ben off at school and still get back in time for my listing appointment.”
I breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Mom.”
I shook my finger at my son. “Young man, I'll deal with you tonight.”
Mother zipped Ben's jacket and turned to me. “I'll also do a little research into that matter we were discussing earlier.”
We exchanged conspiratorial smiles, all mother/daughter angst forgotten. Sometimes my mother can be the most annoying woman in the world, but she always comes through in a crunch.
The drive from Jenna's beautiful woodsy campus to Main Street in Placerville was a quick ten-minute trip. The quaint gold rush town, formerly known as Hangtown, is the headquarters of my employer. During the gold rush, the local townsfolk took advantage of two huge California oaks to eliminate a few pesky troublemakers. Now the town is simply known as Placerville, named after the placer deposits of gold found in the hills.
Hangtown Bank was a gold mine itself. Owned and run by a local family for over one hundred years, the bank concentrates on bringing in deposits from foothill residents and using those funds to make home loans. Management eschewed the crazy loans that had brought down the mega banks and Wall Street investment firms a few years earlier.
Thanks to their conservative but gold-plated investment strategy, the bank recently received the distinction of number one rated bank in the entire state of California. Not bad for a family owned lending institution.
I flung open the double glass doors at eight on the dot. Vivian, our surly fiftyish receptionist, was hooking on her headset. I saluted the seven-foot tall burled wood bear the president moved into the lobby upon the request of his wife. Rumor had it Mr. Chandler originally purchased the bear for their house. He might know how to run a bank, but interior decorating was not his forte.
“Good morning, Vivian.” I smiled and gave her a cheery wave.
Vivian snarled her good morning. When it came to ferocity, she and the bear could be soul mates. The tellers were already readying their cash drawers for the onslaught of bank customers. I strolled down a hallway lined with wildlife photos taken in the Sierra Mountains, then past a few gray tweed cubicles, until I reached my own work station.
A few years after Ben's birth, my ex-husband's income as a contractor was sufficient for me to quit my manager position at one of the bank's b
ranches. Two years later, when Hank decided it was more fun to nail his client than nail her shingles, we split up. At that point, the only available position in the bank was mortgage underwriter, but I was thrilled to have a job again. Before the ink on the divorce papers dried, I re-entered the work force—another single working mom.
I threw my purse into my desk drawer. My phone rang and I mumbled a hello into the receiver.
“Are you trying to ruin my wedding? Why did you have to find a dead man?” shrieked the bride-to-be. “The sheriff cordoned off Golden Hills Dance studio so we can't rehearse tomorrow. What bloody bad luck!”
“Ah, Liz, considering the circumstances, you could be less callous about the situation.”
Her sigh echoed over the phone. “You're right, luv. You don't think I'm turning into one of those Bridezillas, do you?”
Liz is my best friend. Who was I to tell her she had passed the Bridezilla stage weeks ago? My girl friend had waited until she turned forty before she agreed to tie the knot with her perfect man, Brian Daley, an El Dorado County Assistant District Attorney. And the perfectionist whose friendship I'd cherished for over twenty years would accept nothing less than perfection when it came to her special day. Fortunately Brian was more than happy to accommodate his fiancee with her fairy tale wedding.
I quickly reassured her. “The studio shouldn't be closed for long. Dimitri was found in the parking lot so I doubt they'd need to keep the inside of the studio off-limits for more than a day or two. Once they search the place for clues... Omigod.”
“What is it?”
“I remembered an argument I overheard between Dimitri and someone else halfway through my lesson. I forgot to mention it to Detective Hunter last night.”
“Tom Hunter was there? Do tell. Did you want to melt into his arms when you saw him?”
Maybe. A little. “Nope, it was all business between us.”
She snorted. “As in monkey business?”
“No. As in murder business.”
“You better not be a suspect. We don't have time for that.”
Like I did?
“Did you hear that the broken heel of my right shoe was stuffed into Dimitri's mouth? The sheriff's department confiscated both shoes. There's no way I can afford to buy another pair.”
“Eeuw. Brian didn't tell me all of the details. Gross.” She paused for a minute to ponder the implications of my bridesmaid apparel being taken into official custody. “The wedding is more than two weeks away. If they return your shoes, you can super-glue the heel back on.”
“Super-glue the bloodstained heel someone shoved in a dead man's mouth?”
Liz either needed a copy of Miss Manner's book on wedding etiquette or D. P. Lyle's guide to forensics.
“Okay, maybe that's not the best option. Don't worry. We'll come up with something. Can you meet me here at the spa? We have so much left on our to-do list.”
We agreed to meet on Monday for lunch at the yummy health-conscious cafe in her beautiful Golden Hills Spa. Then I hung up the phone and laid my head down on the one and only uncluttered spot on my desk.
Our to-do list?
I could barely “to-do” my own maternal and professional activities these days. If you added in shopping for Christmas presents, attending the kids’ various holiday events, and baking cookies for the annual holiday exchange, three weeks was not enough time to get ready for Liz's New Year's Eve wedding.
The ring of the phone interrupted my ten-second pity party. Probably Liz with an addendum to her to-do list.
“What now?” I barked into the receiver.
The voice on the other end barked back a response. A baritone response.
“Ms. McKay,” said Mr. Chandler, the bank president. “Come to my office.”
My bark was reduced to a mouse-like squeak. “Now?”
“Now.” The phone slammed in my ear as the president of the bank ended our conversation.
Could this also be the end of my career?
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
EIGHT
* * * *
As I trudged up the stairs to the second floor where the executive offices were located, I wracked my brain trying to think of any loan files I might have screwed up. One bad loan could significantly impact the bank's bottom line. Was I in danger of being fired over a poor underwriting decision?
By the time I reached the executive level, my spirits had sunk lower than my heels that were sinking into the plush gray carpeting. The management team worked out of large glass-fronted offices, furnished with mahogany desks and matching credenzas. Black and white framed prints of scenes from nineteenth-century Placerville were hung along the hallway. I paused to examine a photo of former President Ulysses S. Grant ambling along Main Street. Back in the day, this town was quite the burg. Unfortunately, the former general and president had no advice to share this morning.
Belle, Mr. Chandler's assistant, frantically waved at me to hurry up. It was time to face the big boss. I thrust back my shoulders, pasted a suck-up smile on my face and entered his spacious office. The short, portly, silver-haired president stood up from behind his massive desk and gestured to one of the navy tweed visitor chairs. I settled nervously into the uncomfortable and undoubtedly pricey seat, in a pose I'd perfected whenever I landed in trouble in school—hands demurely folded, legs crossed at the ankles.
Mr. Chandler lowered his charcoal gray pin-striped frame into an oversized leather executive chair. His desk was not only totally devoid of the clutter that covered every inch of my own desk, it was devoid of anything. No papers, pens, or mugs. An ocean of shiny mahogany stretched between us.
“Ms. McKay, I understand you've stumbled over yet another...corpse.”
“I didn't stumble over it, I mean him, that is Dimitri...” I said, flustered. “I strolled by and he was lying there. Dead.” My hands fluttered hopelessly as I tried to explain the circumstances in a more cogent manner. Not an easy task when confronted by the big boss.
Mr. Chandler cleared his throat. “Yes. You seem to have a knack for that, don't you?”
I stared at my nails, most of which were chewed down after last night's ordeal. Normal people develop a knack for knitting. Writing. Painting.
How come I have a knack for finding dead bodies?
“I guess Dana, I mean, Mrs. Chandler told you what happened to Dimitri.”
“My wife was most distressed. Ballroom dancing is her passion. Or at least her latest passion.” He frowned again. I couldn't tell if the frown was directed at me, at Dana or at her latest hobby.
“As you can imagine, I am not pleased with your involvement in another unseemly incident,” he said, his expression not masking his displeasure. “It was difficult enough explaining to the board when you became embroiled in that fraud scheme two months ago.”
Hold on. I was the one who saved the bank from being defrauded. Not to mention the perpetrator tried to murder me.
“Our board of directors would be quite displeased should the bank's name be mentioned in regard to this little matter. Don't you agree, Ms. McKay?”
Hmmm. I agreed that the board probably wouldn't want the bank mentioned in conjunction with a murder, but was Mr. Chandler implying the life and death of a dancer didn't equate in importance to the life and death of a bank?
I stared at my hands, worried that I might say something that would get me into more trouble. “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”
“Good. I can see we're on the same page. I'm relieved to know you will not risk the bank's reputation, again, by interfering in areas not of your concern.” He stood up, still unsmiling, and gestured toward the door. The meeting was over.
I stood and exited the office, not sure whether to be angry or relieved. What a weird meeting. He might think we were both on the same page but I wasn't sure we were reading from the same book.
Belle was away from her desk but she might know what her boss was alluding to because I didn't have a clue. I gra
bbed a lime green pad and scrawled a message asking her to call me later. Her phone already held a sticky note so I stuck mine next to the other one.
The writing on the other note was barely legible. It read, “schedule meet Det Hun.” A phone number was scribbled below. A cell number unrecognizable to most people, but which was easily identifiable to someone who had dated Detective Hunter.
So Tom had called the president. Did that mean he was checking up on me? Dana? Mr. Chandler? Or maybe it meant nothing at all. Tom was active with several local charities. He could have been soliciting the bank for a donation.
Yeah, right. And I didn't have two left feet. I knew what he was up to. There was an investigation afoot.
I ran down the stairs and turned the corner. Smack into my underwriting assistant, the man who thought of himself as the Watson to my Holmes. Although it was more like the Hardy to my Laurel.
“Sorry, Stan, you okay?”
“Fine. What about you? I heard you received a summons from El Presidente.” Stan looked concerned, as any responsible underwriting assistant would. “Did we screw up any loans?”
“Nope. He wanted to discuss Dana and her dance partner.”
We reached my cubicle and Stan dumped several four-inch thick loan files on my desk. He dropped into my visitor chair, crossed his khaki-covered legs, and pushed his wire rims up his pointy nose. The soft gray eyes behind the clear glass lenses looked puzzled.
“Mr. Chandler called you up to his office to talk about his wife and her dance partner? Do I detect some yummy gossip?” Stan's eyes popped out in anticipation of a little bank dirt.
“Of course not. Dana would never lower herself to have an affair with Dimitri. Not that it's even possible.”
“Is Dimitri gay? Can you introduce me to him?” My assistant rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Most of those ballroom guys are so straight. What a waste.”
“Sorry, Dimitri is unavailable. Permanently.”
“Hey, nothing in life is permanent except death and taxes.”