Heather had dismissed the first one as a sick prank. Now that the threats were multiplying, what should she think? Why didn’t they want her to run for a second term? How were these envelopes getting mixed in with her mail? Who was behind the threats?
Heather took a shaky breath. The scent of hazelnut reminded her of the still-warm mug of coffee faithfully waiting on her desk. She took another deep drink and a flare of anger and outrage incinerated her trepidation.
Who did this sniveling coward think he or she was? If this spineless troll didn’t want her to run for a second term, he could tell her to her face instead of hiding behind plain paper and laser printers.
Just as she had with the first threat, Heather crumbled the letter and slammed it into the black plastic wastebasket beneath her desk. She did the same with the envelope. The mail piece didn’t deserve the dignity of being recycled. Heather saw red. Her pulse raced. Her breath quickened. She’d long ago vowed not to be intimidated by anyone ever again. She wouldn’t allow anything—or anyone—to allow her to break that promise to herself, especially not this gutless vermin.
The knock on her open office door made her jump. Heather’s head jerked up and her gaze found her chief of staff, Arneeka Laguda, framed in her doorway.
Arneeka looked concerned by Heather’s reaction. “Do you need me to come back in ten minutes?”
“No, please come in.” Heather pulled her chair farther under her table and sat straighter. “I was deep in thought about something unrelated to our meeting.”
Arneeka strode into the office past the tall walnut wood bookcase against the wall. She sat on one of the three black cloth guest chairs in front of Heather’s desk. Her gold hijab, the veil traditionally worn by Muslim women, which covered their head and chest, complemented her olive complexion as well as her navy ankle-length skirt suit.
“The most critical event on your schedule for today is your budget meeting with the Board of Education.” Arneeka’s almond-shaped dark chocolate eyes pinned Heather to her chair. “Do you have everything you need for that meeting?”
Heather drew her manila folder on the Briar Coast Board of Education’s proposed budget from the black wire incline file on her desk. Stalling for time, she opened the folder and studied the first sheet of paper.
She’d discussed the data with her finance and management director, and had spent hours reviewing it on her own. Despite that, none of the information made sense this morning. Heather fisted her right hand. The two written threats she’d received had rattled her more than she’d wanted them to. Her hands itched with the need to pummel the spineless worm who’d sent them.
She closed the folder and met Arneeka’s gaze. “I’m going to ask Opal to attend that meeting in my place.”
Opal Lorrie, her administration’s director of finance and management, had developed the numbers and was keenly aware of the figures’ impact on the Board of Education as well as the town.
Surprise widened Arneeka’s eyes in her round face. “Is something wrong?”
Heather frowned, immediately defensive. “No. Why?”
Arneeka looked dubious. “It’s not like you to have someone attend a meeting in your stead.”
The younger woman had worked on Heather’s election campaign for a year. She’d been chief of staff for the past four years of Heather’s five-year term. During that time, Arneeka had come to know her very well.
Heather worked harder to appear relaxed and in control. She didn’t want anyone to know about the threats, not even members of her staff. She couldn’t afford to seem vulnerable. “I know it’s out of character for me, but as you noted, this is a critical meeting. Opal knows the numbers inside and out. She’ll do a better job with this meeting than I could.”
“Will you let Opal know or should I?”
Heather couldn’t read Arneeka’s expression. Did her chief of staff buy her reasoning? “I’ll call her.”
“All right.” Arneeka stood. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll get back to work.”
“You are working, Arneeka, and I appreciate your help.”
“Whatever I can do to be of assistance.” Arneeka’s full, red lips curved in a gentle smile, then she disappeared beyond Heather’s door.
Heather turned to stare at her computer monitor. That’s what she needed; someone to help her find the coward behind the threats she’d received. Someone who wasn’t in her administration. Someone who was discreet. Someone she could trust.
* * *
“How did you get that nun to help you with your news stories?” The male voice came from behind Shari Monday morning.
For the moment, Shari ignored the interruption. Her fingers flew over her computer keyboard in her cubicle at the Telegraph’s office. She had plenty of experience tuning out meaningless background noise, starting with her years in the foster care system and then her work in previous newsrooms. She couldn’t risk breaking her train of thought as she added critical details to her story on Briar Coast’s upcoming budget battles. The background information came courtesy of Opal Lorrie, Briar Coast’s director of finance and management.
Of course she had to remain impartial. She had a responsibility to cover both sides of the conflict. But from where Shari sat, there were definite rights and wrongs. She hoped her readers would recognize that, too.
Shari saved her computer file before spinning her gray padded chair to face her uninvited visitor. She’d hoped that her surprise guest had grown bored and left. Sadly, her hopes had been in vain.
Harold “Don’t Call Me Hal” Beckett stood at the threshold of her cubicle. He was the newest reporter on the Telegraph’s staff. He also was the most irritating. Shari paused a moment to fantasize about erecting a force field that would prevent the rookie from entering her cubicle. Ever. Again.
“Why are you here, Hal?” Shari used the rookie’s hated nickname. She’d hate it, too. It was a creepy reminder of the crazy computer from the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” Harold sounded tense.
“Are you yelling at me or just trying to be heard above the newsroom noise?” Shari raised her voice as well, pitching it above the clacking keyboards, shouted conversations, and ringing telephones.
Harold glowered. “How did you and that nun start working on news stories together?”
Shari ignored his question. “Sister Lou’s not a nun. She’s a sister. Nuns are cloistered. She’s not.”
“Whatever.” Harold leaned back against her gray cubicle wall and crossed his arms. “How’ d you get the setup?”
The rookie looked like he was prepared to hang out in her cube for a while. That was when it occurred to Shari that she could work on her patience for Lent. She immediately dismissed the idea, though. Committing to that specific goal would be setting herself up for failure.
Shari scowled at the twentysomething recent graduate of the State University of New York at Buffalo. Not for the first time, Shari wondered how the Texan had ended up first in Buffalo and now in Briar Coast. She’d add that to her list of Questions About Hal, which included the source of his perpetual tan.
Harold was perhaps five-foot-nine or -ten, not counting the assist from the two-inch heels on his black wingtips. He was slim—almost thin, with narrow shoulders under a plain white cotton shirt. His long, thin legs were encased in skinny navy slacks. His matching suit jacket was probably still in his cubicle. His curly dark brown hair looked finger combed.
Shari jerked her chin toward his red power tie. “Is that silk?”
“Yes, it is.” Harold smoothed the material lovingly.
“Who wears silk in a newsroom on purpose? Aren’t you afraid the newsprint from the papers will stain it?”
Harold’s smug expression turned sour. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“No. Go away.” Shari spun her wheeled chair back to her computer. She reached for the white porcelain mug her boss, Diego, had given to her as a gift. The
mug had the question, CAN I QUOTE YOU? stenciled in black type across the side. It was her third coffee of the morning. The warm hazelnut scent comforted her.
“Why not? Are you afraid you’ll lose your cushy beat?” Harold’s taunt hit its intended mark.
Cushy? Shari’s hands shook with her rising temper. She carefully returned her mug to her tan modular desk. Shari relived the anguish she’d felt after her previous boss had fired her for pursuing her first murder investigation. She flashed back to her fear when she and Sister Lou had chased down a murder suspect less than three months ago.
Shari met Harold’s eyes over her shoulder. “What makes you think I have a cushy beat?”
“Come off it.” Harold rolled his light brown eyes. “It’s obvious from reading those reports that Sister Lou told you exactly what to write. You just put your byline on the stories. I wish that I had a sweet deal like that.”
Harold’s stupidity rendered Shari speechless—but not for long.
“Do you often speak when you don’t know what you’re talking about?” Shari knew the thoughts running through her head were inappropriate for the upcoming Lenten season. She had less than three days to clear them from her mind.
That wasn’t enough time.
Shari watched, incredulous, as Harold sauntered even farther into her cubicle.
He slouched onto her guest chair. “You don’t think that other people have figured out that all you’re doing is waiting for Sister Lou to give you a guaranteed front page article and all the information you’d need to write it? People aren’t stupid.”
“I can think of at least one person who is.” Shari considered the intruder in her cubicle.
Thanks to Perry O’Toole, the newspaper’s former managing editor, Harold had had an internship with The Briar Coast Telegraph throughout his six-year college career. Perry had given Harold a lot of leeway as an intern. He’d ignored Harold’s missed deadlines and reworked the worst of his articles. According to the reporters who’d been on staff at the time, Perry’s leniency toward Harold had hurt the Telegraph’s image and damaged the staff’s morale. Nevertheless, the former managing editor had given Harold a full-time job after the young man’s graduation. Perry probably thought his generosity would curry favor with Harold’s very wealthy and very well connected parents. It hadn’t.
Despite Harold’s comparatively charmed life, he never appeared satisfied. Take their exchange this morning as an example. Instead of covering his assigned beat—the upcoming election ballot issues—Harold was prowling around, looking for a way to pounce on Shari’s stories.
Not as long as there was breath in her body.
Resentment left a bitter taste in Shari’s mouth. “I helped Sister Lou and her nephew, Chris, with those murder investigations and brought those stories to the Telegraph. No one handed anything to me. And no one ever does my work. Can you say the same?”
Her words didn’t have an effect on Harold. Jealousy continued to mar his thin face. “I’ve been working here longer than you have. I was an intern each of the six years I was in college, but Diego didn’t care. He still gave you, an outsider, the prime stories.”
“Diego didn’t give me anything, Hal.” Quick, short breaths helped Shari keep her tone under control. Her cubicle’s familiar scents of hazelnut coffee and fresh newsprint from the day’s Telegraph and its chief competitor, Buffalo Today, were calming. “Now get out of my cube and work your own beat.”
Shari again turned her back on the rookie reporter—but he didn’t leave.
“My beat sucks.”
“Your beat’s what you make of it.” Shari had learned that as a cub reporter, covering community meetings and neighborhood events in Chicago. Everyone wanted the police beat or politics, but newbies had to earn those.
“The election is almost a year away.” Harold’s grousing was working Shari’s nerves.
Diego had assigned Harold to cover the candidates and ballot issues for the September primary and the November general election. Shari would have sold a limb to have had that assignment when she was fresh out of college.
Shari unclenched her teeth and faced the rookie again. “Neither the primary nor the general will come any faster in my cubicle, so leave. Now.”
Harold gave her another baleful glare before rising. Shari watched to make sure this time he left.
Newsroom gossips were obsessed with Harold’s Norman Rockwell–esque upbringing. He came from a politically well-connected family with deep roots in Texas. How did it feel to know you had a home? How did it feel to belong somewhere?
And if his family and home were in Texas, what was he doing in Briar Coast, New York? Granted Diego and Mayor Heather Stanley were transplanted Texans who’d made their home in Briar Coast. Nevertheless, Shari added this entry to her mental list of Questions About Hal.
Shari returned to her computer but struggled to get back into her story. Her exchange with Harold had been more unsettling than she’d realized. The rookie had made it clear that he was after her beat. Shari didn’t doubt that if Harold wanted to, he could take it from her. Media outlets salivated to have reporters with pedigrees like his. Shari couldn’t let her guard down.
Chapter 3
Heather looked up at the knock on her open door late Monday morning. Opal Lorrie, her director of finance and management, stood in the threshold. Heather rose and circled her desk to meet Opal halfway.
She felt a chill in her office—or was she imagining it? Either way, Heather believed another cup of coffee would help her once she and Opal were done with their briefing. “Thank you for taking the Board of Ed budget meeting for me. I hope I haven’t disrupted your day too much.”
Opal shook her head, causing her bone-straight brown tresses to swing behind her slim shoulders. Her hair was a shade or two lighter than Heather’s chestnut brown. A smile softened her peaches-and-cream expression even as her large brown eyes remained serious. “I should be thanking you. You’ve given me a good excuse to skip two meetings that I don’t need to attend. I’ve asked Penelope to sit in on the third one for me.” Opal referred to her direct report, Penelope del Castillo, the town’s finance manager.
The nagging regret that had been plaguing Heather for most of the morning disappeared. “I’m glad I could help, even if it was unintentional.” She checked her wristwatch. It was almost nine a.m. The meeting was scheduled for ten. “You’re much more familiar with the numbers. You’ll do a better presentation of the proposed budget than I could and you’ll have better answers to any questions they may have.” Especially since the latest threat she’d received that morning still had her rattled.
“I’m comfortable with the information, but I wasn’t expecting to go to this meeting.” Opal gave Heather a sheepish smile. “I don’t think my gray parka will set the right tone and I don’t have my car with me.”
Heather eyed the other woman critically. Opal was slim and stood about five-foot-eight or -nine inches tall in her black flats. She’d accessorized a heavy brown knit sweater and brown slacks with chunky gold earrings and a matching necklace.
“You look great.” Heather crossed to her black metal coatrack in the corner of her office beside the bookcase. She freed her scarlet wool winter coat from one of the hooks, then returned to Opal. “But you’re right about your parka. Borrow my coat.”
“Are you serious?” Opal’s brown eyes sparkled. “I love your coat.”
“So do I.” Heather smiled, offering her coat to Opal. The garment was wonderfully heavy in Heather’s arms, reminding her of how warm and cozy the coat was even on the coldest winter day that upstate New York could offer. “Try it on.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” Opal shrugged into Heather’s coat. “Oh, so warm. What do you think?”
“It’s a little long since I’m taller than you, but other than that, it’s a good fit.”
Opal’s eyes twinkled with mischief as she pointedly dropped her gaze to Heather’s three-inch pumps. “You know, I think I
need more professional-looking shoes.”
Heather propped her fists on her hips. “Stop while you’re ahead.”
Opal chuckled. “Can’t blame a woman for trying. I love your clothes, especially your shoes.”
“Thanks. Well, that part’s settled.” Heather circled her desk and pulled open her right bottom drawer. She retrieved her purse and dug out a set of keys. The metal was cool to her touch. She offered the keys to Opal. “Take my car.”
Opal’s brown eyes widened. She repeated her previous question. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious.”
“Thank you.” Opal accepted Heather’s keys. “My fiancé brought me to work. My car’s in the shop.”
“It’s not a problem.” Heather remained standing behind her desk. “I trust you. Besides, you’re doing me a favor. We really need the Board of Ed to understand the figures and impacts that we’re facing. Unless they can come up with a better cost-saving plan, we need them to support our austere proposal.”
Opal wrapped her fingers around the car keys and met Heather’s gaze. “I know these preliminary budget meetings are important, especially since our opponents will use these numbers against us in the election.”
The muscles in Heather’s neck and shoulders tightened. Her gaze dropped to her wastebasket. The metallic taste of fear coated her tongue. “I haven’t decided whether I’m going to run for reelection.”
Opal laughed. “Everyone knows that you’re going to run again. You love this town as much as I do, and I was born and raised here. You just moved here seven years ago.”
Outsider. The word played on a loop in Heather’s mind, growing louder. “Does it bother you that I was elected mayor even though I’m not from Briar Coast?”
“Of course not.” Opal seemed surprised. “I worked on your campaign. I saw up close and personally that you love this town and the people who live here.”
“I do.” Heather’s voice was low. She allowed herself to drop onto her chair.
Alibis & Angels Page 2
