Free Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) by Cindy Sample Page B

the pride of Main Street when we finished.”
    And the pride of Hank McKay. I had to hand it to my ex-husband. The man knew how to renovate a building.
    His tone brightened. “As long as the building construction is in limbo, I’ll have lots of free time. I can spend it with you and the kids.”
    I glanced at my rooster clock hanging over the sink. I could almost visualize the cocky bird crowing at me to get my tush in gear. I told Hank that since summer break began the next day, the kids would enjoy hanging out with him. In the meantime, their mother had better things to do, like driving the kids to their last day of school and herself to work.
     
    Promptly at noon, I pulled my Prius into a parking space next to a fire-engine-red Mustang convertible I lusted after. Sporty convertibles, unfortunately, are not practical modes of transportation for soccer moms. They are also not a sensible choice for eighty-eight-year-old drivers who can barely see over the leather-wrapped steering wheel, but that didn’t stop my grandmother from purchasing her muscle car.
    Gran claimed it was a deal she couldn’t pass up. I’m sure the car salesman felt the same about his elderly customer––a sucker he couldn’t pass up.
    The museum was located in one of the many buildings comprising the El Dorado County fairgrounds and staffed by volunteers from the historical society, of which Gran held a long-time membership. I pulled open the heavy door and followed the scent of oatmeal cookies to the small research library where Gran chatted with several of the volunteers.
    Gran grabbed my wrist with a strong grip and dragged me over to meet her friends. “Here’s my granddaughter, our own little Nancy Drew.”
    She introduced me to the three white-haired women, all of whom bore a strong resemblance to Agatha Christie’s elderly sleuth, Miss Marple. One of the women went behind a desk and reached into her large handbag. I half expected her to yank out a set of knitting needles, but instead she slid a pair of heavy-duty reading glasses out of a Vera Bradley blue paisley case.
    “So, Virginia,” asked the petite woman, her pale blue eyes magnified a hundredfold behind the glasses, “I understand they found old George Clarkson in your backyard.”
    Gran nodded, the platinum curls of her Marilyn Monroe wig bobbing up and down. “That’s what Laurel’s honey said.”
    Three fluffy white heads spun around to gawk at me. “What Gran, that is Virginia, means is that my detective, well, he’s not actually mine, he belongs to the Sheriff’s Office, I mean…” I babbled on and their faces became even more confused. “Anyway, after the crime scene techs examined the mine shaft, they concluded the skeleton was likely to be George Clarkson. They ordered a DNA test, but it’s not a high priority.”
    The tallest of the women squinted at me. “Why do the cops think Virginia’s grandfather killed Clarkson?”
    Gran answered before I could. “They found a watch with my granpappy’s name engraved on it down in the mineshaft, Betty, and that’s all it took for them to decide he’s a murderer.”
    “That’s all they have?” Betty folded skinny arms over her flat chest. “Lazy asses. My great-aunt, Lulu Cook, the first female deputy sheriff of El Dorado County, wouldn’t put up with such nonsense. Trust me, with us researching it, I bet we can shred their so-called evidence into mincemeat.”
    The other women nodded vigorously and I smiled watching them. My very own History Detective team. At first, I worried the excitement might be too much for the women, but as the octogenarians zipped up and down the aisles pulling out books and manuscripts, I realized having a mystery to solve could be a gift.
    The women no longer seemed to care that Placerville’s version of Nancy Drew was onsite. Since my presence didn’t seem necessary, I decided to check out the displays. It had been ages since I’d visited the museum, and I’d forgotten some of