Dying for a Dude (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 4) Read Online Free PDF

ignored it and shoved me into Hank’s arms. “If you don’t dance with Hank,” he said. “I’ll be forced to two-step with you.”
    Some choice––the rhinestone cowboy or my ex-husband. I reluctantly let Hank lead me onto the dance floor. Once we began moving, I gave myself over to the music. Even the realization that I danced with Hank didn’t remove the grin from my face.
    The song ended, and the dancers clapped and hooted. The musicians switched gears and slowed down the tempo. Couples moved closer together, and Hank attempted to do the same with me. I pushed him away and stomped off the floor. I’d had enough bonding for the night.
    Hank followed me, hot on my irritated heels. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to an abrupt stop.
    “Laurel, aren’t you ever going to forgive me for leaving you?” he pleaded.
    I stared at him for a few seconds before replying. “I have forgiven you, Hank, but I’ve moved on. You need to do the same.”
    Three years ago, Nadine Wells hired my husband to replace the shake shingles on her roof. It only took a few days before she replaced me. Then nine months ago, she replaced Hank with a prominent plastic surgeon in the area.
    Hank must have spent considerable time in personal reflection while he worked in southern California. Since his return, he’d seemed determined the four of us would become a family again. While I was pleased our kids could spend time with their father, I couldn’t seem to get across to him that I was no longer part of the equation.
    The shrill sound of a microphone penetrated my eardrums. The musicians departed and on the stage, Chad Langdon introduced Darius Spencer. The District Six Supervisor candidate wore a plaid shirt, pressed jeans and a cowboy hat so shiny it probably still bore the price tag––suitable attire for a politician in vote-getting mode. The small crowd applauded enthusiastically as he began a prepared speech. Hank’s attention zoomed to the stage, and I was grateful for the distraction.
    Spencer wasn’t the worst politico I’d ever heard, but he wasn’t particularly riveting. In the crowd, I spied three familiar faces—the attorney who’d been conversing with Brian earlier, Doug Blake, the owner of my favorite bookstore and Abe Cartwell of Antiques Galore. I hadn’t realized the two Main Street proprietors were fans of the candidate’s no-growth platform, but they appeared to be listening intently. I wondered if Spencer’s pro-growth opponent, Tricia Taylor, would also address the gathering.
    Growing bored, I prepared to depart when Doug asked Spencer about the Hangtown Hotel renovation. His inquiry piqued my curiosity, so I decided to stick around. My ex surprised me by interrupting with his own comment.
    “Yeah, Spencer,” said Hank, “how about telling these folks about your cost cutting measures on the hotel?”
    The candidate’s face turned the same color as the calico bandanna tied around his neck. “Hank, this is not an appropriate forum for that discussion.”
    People turned their heads to stare at Hank. Embarrassed, I sidled a few steps away.
    “What forum would you suggest I use to tell your constituents their candidate is willing to sacrifice their safety to help his campaign bottom line?”
    Spencer struggled to contain his anger as the crowd increased in size. I moved back to Hank’s side, grabbed his hand and tried to pull him away, but he dug in his scuffed boot heels. His stubborn nature hadn’t diminished since we’d split up.
    “Cat got your tongue?” Hank snickered. A few of the bystanders tittered at his comment. Spencer thrust back his shoulders and marched in our direction, people moving aside to let him through. His next remark, punctuated with repeated pokes to Hank’s chest, demonstrated there were no fluffy kitties interfering with his vocal prowess.
    “Hank McKay,” Darius Spencer yelled, “you’re fired!”

 
     
     
CHAPTER SIX
     
     
    During our fifteen years of marriage,