Dying for a Date (3 page)

Driving down Main Street, I automatically looked up at the mustached man in frontier clothing hanging from the pole above Hangman's Tree Tavern. The man is a dummy but it's still kind of cool. During the gold rush, the locals used two enormous oak trees downtown to eliminate a couple of troublemakers. After the hanging of “Bloody Dick” it was called Hangtown for a brief period. I thought about my encounter with bloody Garrett and decided those pioneer women would have been proud of me.

The Love Club is housed in the refurbished brick Cary House, best known as the hotel that provided beds for Mark Twain, Buffalo Bill and Ulysses S. Grant. Too bad Buffalo Bill wasn't around last night. I wouldn't have minded if a few shots of lead had pelted Garrett's posterior.

The Club's young receptionist greeted me as I pushed open the heavy oak door. With her perky nose, violet blue eyes, and blonde streaked mane of hair you could tell she wasn't a member.

I grabbed a few books from the shelves and settled into a chestnut colored leather club chair. The agency wasn't large but it claimed to be the most successful matchmaking service in northern California. Hard to argue with a seventy-five percent success rate.

Member profiles are separated by gender and divided alphabetically by first name into individual volumes. Garrett had been the one to select me, so I decided this time, I would do the choosing. I skimmed through the “H", “I” and “J” books. If I found a profile I liked, I could watch their DVD. Unlike the online dating sites, the agency required that photos and videos be updated annually. No false advertising at the Love Club.

The Harrys, Henrys and Hermans were all too old. On the plus side, they were probably too feeble to attack me. The “I” prospects looked like baby-faced boys, too young for me. I wasn't ready to be a cougar. I moved on to the “J” book.

The Love Club required that all clientele go through a credit check and complete a comprehensive psychological profile, supposedly to weed out any weirdos. Evidently they needed a little help with their system. But like Liz said, Garrett was probably an aberration.

New members filled out a six-page questionnaire, which included vital statistics like age, religion and education, hobbies, pet peeves, ideas for a romantic evening. A more practical approach would be to ask if the men left the toilet seat up, dropped their clothes all over the floor, and were attached at the wrist to the TV remote.

There were enough potential suitors in the “J” book to keep me occupied for my entire enrollment. I entered one of the screening rooms, sat down, and scrutinized the videos of four men. One of the reasons I had agreed to go out with Garrett was that not only was he attractive, his video had portrayed him as a man of integrity.

Did his attack mean that when it came to judging men, I was clueless? Maybe I couldn't tell the good guys from the bad ones. Or was I such a hot babe Garrett couldn't help himself?

In my dreams.

After reviewing their bios once more, I finally ended up choosing a doctor named Jeremy and an engineer named Jack. Neither of them made my heart hum, but they both appeared stable, if a little dull. After last night's excitement, dull sounded kind of appealing.

Once I turned in my choices, the club would notify the member by both email and voicemail that someone had selected them. If Jack or Jeremy was interested in me, they would be given my email address and phone number. A simple concept, but it worked. I scribbled my selections on the blank member request form then walked up to the glossy cherry wood reception counter.

"Hi, Laurel,” said the gorgeous blonde, batting her two inch eyelash extensions at me. “Did you choose anyone today?"

"Hi, Sunny. I thought these two men looked interesting. And safe. You wouldn't believe what happened last night when I went out with this guy named Garrett Lindstrom."

Her face grew paler than the white forms I held in my hand. “You were with Garrett last night?” she squealed.

"Uh, yes. Why? Did he tell you what I did to him?” I was surprised Garrett would have divulged what happened.

"You mean, you're admitting it?” Her voice rose to a crescendo, her eyelashes flickering so fast they were creating a draft.

"Of course. I'd do it again if the same thing happened on my next date."

Sunny looked at me like I was crazy. I was beginning to think she was missing a few screws herself.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the counter. “So what exactly did Garrett say?"

Sunny pointed her crimson tipped index finger at me. “Garrett didn't say anything. He's dead. You killed him."

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"You killed him. You killed him.” Sunny was now backed against the paneled wall, right and left forefingers crossed in front of her, as if she was trying to ward off a vampire. Or prevent the homicidal woman standing in the reception area from attacking her.

"What are you talking about—Garrett's dead?” The room started to tilt so I dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs, bent over and breathed deeply. I lifted my head and stared at the receptionist. “Are you sure we're talking about the same person? Garrett Lindstrom?"

Sunny picked up a black cordless phone, staring at me with anxious eyes. Was she going to call the police? Or use it as a weapon against the supposed murderer in the lobby.

"A sheriff's deputy stopped by a few minutes ago. A neighbor found Garrett this morning. Sitting in his car. In his driveway.” Her arms performed mini calisthenics as she expostulated. “His head was bashed in."

I shuddered and slumped back against the chair. This couldn't be happening. All I did was hit Garrett on the nose with his phone. You can't kill anyone that way. Although his head did hit the window and there was blood everywhere, but I thought that was normal with any head injury.

"You really didn't know he was dead?” Sunny was clutching the phone like she'd been given an extra lifeline, but at least she hadn't dialed the police. Yet.

"No,” I whimpered.

She hesitated then set the phone down, inching closer to the reception counter. “You don't look like a killer."

I chose to take her comment as a compliment. “Umm, thanks,” I said with a half-hearted smile.

Sunny must have decided my non-threatening visage meant it was okay to confide in me. “The deputy said they found one of our invoices on Garrett's desk and guessed he was a member. They want me to find the women who chose him, and who he picked in the last few months. I found twenty so far, but I didn't come across your name yet."

Twenty women? Who did this guy think he was—Don Juan Lindstrom? Well, with his amorous assault style maneuvers, it was unlikely he ever went on a second date with anyone.

My head buzzed with unanswered questions, but a line of single females had formed, waving their selection forms at Sunny. I stared at the women waiting in line. Had any of these women been on a date with Garrett? Perhaps they too fought off an attack by him.

Or...killed him.

The line of restless women distracted Sunny as she immersed herself in paperwork. I slipped out the door and walked through the parking lot mulling over this startling development. Sunny wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier. She could have mixed Garrett up with someone else.

During our dinner, Garrett mentioned he lived in Villa Dolce, one of the gated subdivisions that comprise the massive Serrano housing development in El Dorado Hills. It couldn't hurt to do a brief drive-by, and it might make me feel better.

Fifteen minutes later I was driving up Serrano Parkway. Villa Dolce was located near the top of the Parkway on the south side of the street. By riding the bumper of a black SUV, I was able to sneak through the gated stone entry. After aimlessly driving up one street and down another, all lined with earth colored stucco McMansions that blended into the earth colored hills, the futility of my mission sank in.

Hoping to find an escape out of the maize maze, I turned right then slammed on my brakes. It would be impossible to miss the spacious one-story house with the beige Lincoln Town Car in the driveway. The two sheriff's cars parked in front of the house. And the yellow tape stretched...everywhere.

Sunny was right.

My first thought was that Garrett must have been one heck of a CPA in order to afford a house this expensive. Or maybe he was involved in something shady. One of his clients might have disagreed with his method of depreciation and accelerated Garrett's death.

As my car crawled down the street in the direction of the house, two of the county deputies, clad in pressed khaki shirts and forest green pants, glanced up. The dark haired officer with the miniature Hitler moustache frowned at me. Time to move on. My pastel vehicle wasn't designed for undercover detecting.

As I drove to Jimmy's house to collect my son I pondered my predicament. Should I contact the police and tell them what happened on our date? I didn't think the
Dating for Dummies Guide
had any advice on what to do when your date is found dead less than twenty-four hours after you hit him with a cell phone.

The car rolled to a stop in Jimmy's driveway. Before I could open my door, Ben ran out of the house and slid into the backseat. His navy backpack, which reeked of antique bananas, was unzipped as usual and its messy contents scattered everywhere. “Mom, I'm so hungry I could eat a Tyrannosaurus Rex.” He rubbed his stomach for emphasis.

"Sorry, Ben, no T-Rex burgers tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

"For real, Mom?” he squealed in delight.

Since I had to dash Ben's hopes for a prehistoric burger I promised to whip up his favorite fudge for dessert. If he cleaned up the gummy bears, banana peels and GI Joes strewn across the back of the car.

The message light was blinking on our phone when I got home. “This is your mother, Barbara Bingham. Call me."

Did she think her only daughter forgot her name? Mom would have to wait until I called my best friend. The last thing I needed was maternal advice from the woman who could do no wrong. At least in her own mind.

I didn't want the kids to overhear my conversation so I went upstairs, plopped on my bed and speed dialed Liz. “It's me. He's dead,” I sputtered into the mouthpiece.

"Laurel? What are you talking about? Who's dead?"

"Garrett. My date. I went to the Love Club this afternoon to complain about him and they told me he was found in his car. Dead."

"Oh my. That's a bit of a downer."

Talk about British understatement.

"You don't think there's any way I could have...” I gulped, “killed him?"

"Don't be silly. With a cell?” She paused as if she were contemplating the odds of a mobile phone killing. “There must be a reasonable explanation for his death."

"I hope you're right. What should I do?"

"Let me see if Brian has heard anything. I'll call you back."

Brian, her fiance, is not only an assistant District Attorney for El Dorado County but he's a terrific guy. I blew out the breath I'd been holding. “Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Don't worry. Everything will be fine. Trust your Auntie Liz."

Hmmpf. If Auntie Liz hadn't talked me into joining the Love Club I wouldn't be in this situation. I tried to calm myself by cooking dinner, an old family recipe called Pasta a la Ragu. I washed the dishes, made a batch of my special gold nugget fudge, then a batch of brownies. I figured it was better to work off my angst chewing on chocolate than chewing off my nails.

The doorbell rang while I was upstairs in the bathroom. I heard voices then the sound of Jenna's size tens pounding up the stairs. “There are two men from the sheriff's department downstairs. What's going on?” she whispered. “You're not dating both of them, are you?"

The anxiety in her cornflower blue eyes mirrored mine. I hadn't expected an official visit this soon. I pulled her close and attempted a reassuring smile. “No, I think they're investigating an accident. Nothing to fret over.” There was no point in worrying my daughter about my situation.

"Oh, okay.” She smiled suddenly. “Too bad. One of them is a real hunk."

Hunk? Despite her scholarly pursuits, Jenna wasn't totally oblivious to the opposite sex. It was probably one of the baby-faced deputies I noticed in front of Garrett's house today. I told her to tell the men I'd be down in a couple of minutes.

I changed from my sweats to a denim skirt and white blouse. I swiped gloss over my gnawed lower lip and slapped on extra blush. Murder suspects probably look pale and wan. Hopefully my rosy cheeks would proclaim my innocence.

My mind and heart raced as I trod down the stairs. Was it normal for the sheriff's department to appear on your doorstep without any warning? Did they consider me a suspect or was this a routine questioning? And despite the fact I heard the phrase repeatedly on TV, what the heck was a routine questioning?

Lost in thought I tripped down the two stairs leading into our sunken living room, landing with my legs spread out in a position I hadn't been in since my divorce. The muscular arm that lifted me up made me feel as light as a marshmallow. A familiar pair of Godiva brown eyes gazed back into mine.

"You?” It was the annoying guy from the soccer match today; the dad with the super-sized daughter.

His eyes registered recognition and he responded with a tight-lipped smile. “Oh yeah. The shoeless soccer mom. Small world isn't it?"

He held out his right hand. “Detective Hunter."

"Hello, Detective Hunk, I mean Detective Hunter.” I floundered as his large capable hand engulfed my much smaller one.

His face remained expressionless so he must have missed my faux pas. Evidently my daughter did not. Muffled laughter emanated from the stairs, followed by a growl originating from one of the mauve velour wing chairs in the corner of the living room. I turned and caught a fleeting glimpse of Jenna's shoes disappearing up the steps. I glanced at the wing chair. Who or what was growling?

The creature in the corner unfurled his gangly legs and introduced himself as Detective Bradford. Tall and bald, with a bulbous nose and bags under his eyes the size of dinner plates. The steel gray eyes that gazed at me were as sharp as my steak knives.