Alibis & Angels

by Olivia Matthews

  Shari braced her hips against the breakroom’s counter and sipped her coffee while she counted to ten. The wood-paneled cabinet felt cold and hard despite her thick violet sweater. “Have you been following me, Hal?”

  An irritated expression planted itself on Harold’s pale, thin features. He lowered his arms. “I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me Hal.”

  “And I’ve asked you to stop creeping around my beat.” Shari shrugged. “I guess neither of us is getting what we want. Yet.”

  She took another sip of coffee. The dark roast bit back as it traveled past her taste buds. Shari had had a mug of coffee at town hall and another during her lunch with Chris. That didn’t take into account the two mugs she’d had earlier in the morning. Maybe she should consider cutting back on the caffeine.

  “What’s going on at town hall?” Harold’s question reminded Shari of their most recent contention.

  “Do you mean you don’t know?” Shari tsked between sips of coffee. “If you’d been working your election beat, you probably would.”

  Harold left the doorway and approached Shari. “Since you and the sister were there for more than an hour, why don’t you just tell me?”

  The heels of Harold’s wingtips clapped against the faded linoleum flooring. Several yards from his target, Harold came to an abrupt stop. Had he finally noticed the vexation in Shari’s eyes?

  Shari swallowed another sip of java. She was battling her temper with deep breaths that drew in the scent of the strong, hot brew. “How’re your election articles going? Think any of them will be published before Election Day?”

  “What were you doing at town hall?”

  “Why were you following me?”

  “Are you and the sister investigating Opal Lorrie’s death?”

  “Stop calling her ‘the sister.’” Shari glared at him. “Her name is Sister Lou. And stop following me, eavesdropping on my conversations, and nosing around my beat.”

  Harold braced his legs and crossed his arms again. “Your beat is a lot more interesting than mine.”

  A movement in the doorway distracted Shari. Poppy Flowers, the education reporter, entered the breakroom. Her smile of greeting faded. Poppy seemed to sense the tension in the room. She turned and left without comment.

  Shari returned her attention to Harold. “How would you know whether your beat’s interesting?” She gave Harold a dismissive look as she straightened away from the cabinet. She walked toward him with long strides stiff with anger. “You haven’t spent any time on it.”

  “I don’t want to write about the election.” Harold jumped out of Shari’s way as she advanced on him. “It’s boring.”

  “It’s up to you to make it interesting and relevant to our readers—while sticking to the truth. Make them care about the issues on the ballot. After all, those issues only affect their very lives.” Shari took her sarcasm and brushed past the rookie on her way to the door.

  “Tell me about your investigation into Opal Lorrie’s murder.” Harold’s question flew after her as she strode toward the breakroom door. “The deputies said her death was an accident. Were they wrong?”

  Shari froze. She took two calming breaths. Neither one worked. She turned to walk back to Harold. “You’ve been asking the other reporters and the copy editors for information about my partnership with Sister Lou.” She stopped less than an arm’s length from the rookie reporter. “If you want to know about my work, come to me. Don’t slither around behind my back.”

  “I have come to you.” Harold took a cautious step back. “You won’t tell me anything.”

  “That’s because it’s my beat, so back off.” Shari’s cheeks were growing warm with temper.

  “Or what?” Harold’s smile was shaky. “You’ll go running to Diego?”

  Shari took a moment to indulge in her fantasy of punching Harold in the nose. She imagined the satisfying cracking sound it might make. Shari shook her head. She shouldn’t have thoughts like this, especially during the Lenten season.

  “I don’t have to go to Diego. I can handle you myself.” Shari turned and marched back to her cubicle.

  She strode right to her desk and braced her palms against its surface. Anger made her skin burn and her heart thunder in her ears. She struggled to control her breathing. Shari hadn’t felt this upset and out of control since her years in foster care. That was when she’d first learned to fight for herself, and to stand up for what she wanted, for what was hers.

  Sister Lou was right. This wasn’t the time to stop fighting. She wanted to be an investigative reporter with the Telegraph. She wanted to make her home in Briar Coast. She wanted to continue her friendship with Sister Lou, and she wanted to be with Chris. Those things were all worth fighting for.

  Shari’s attention dropped to her telephone. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a backup plan.

  Chapter 20

  “It was kind of you to agree to meet with us on such short notice, Mr. Rodney.” Sister Lou followed Owen Rodney, the town’s former mayor, down the hallway to his office at the Rodney Real Estate Agency early Tuesday morning.

  Sister Lou rubbed her nose. The suite smelled moldy. The structure must be older than it looked.

  “Yes, thanks for your time.” Shari walked beside Sister Lou. The thick blue-gray carpet that ran the length of the wide hallway muffled the sound of her cranberry stilettos.

  “Of course. I always have time for the media.” Owen tossed a broad grin over his shoulder and split it between Sister Lou and Shari. It looked forced.

  The former mayor’s voice was confident and boisterous, bringing back Sister Lou’s memories of that voice on the last mayoral campaign trail.

  “We in the media appreciate your taking the time to give us an interview.” Shari’s response was dry.

  Owen didn’t seem to notice the reporter’s tone. His forced grin remained in place as he allowed Sister Lou and Shari to precede him into his office.

  Sister Lou’s first impression of the office rocked her back on her heels. Shari’s hand on the center of her back both steadied her and propelled her forward. Sister Lou was grateful for the former, not so much for the latter.

  Owen’s office looked like the eye of a storm. Everything felt like they were on top of her, pushing against her. And the air was pregnant with the stench of clutter. Binders and books were stacked on every flat surface. Papers, folders, and circulars spilled from all the drawers in Owen’s office.

  To get from the doorway to the gray cloth guest chairs, Sister Lou bravely followed the path formed by the directories and manuals piled across the dark blue Berber carpet. She tried not to think of what could be buried alive under the stacks. Sister Lou removed the folders from the far left chair, leaving the seat on the right—and its folders—for Shari to deal with.

  “Let me take those from you.” Owen hustled to Sister Lou and relieved her and Shari of the folders. He dropped them to the floor behind his desk before collapsing onto his gray faux leather executive chair. “So what questions do you have for me?”

  “Rumors have it that you’re running for mayor of Briar Coast again.” Shari hung her winter coat on the back of her guest chair and pulled her reporter’s notebook from her oversized green purse. “When will you make your official announcement?”

  Owen looked pleased by Shari’s question. He straightened on his chair and cleared his throat. “The people of Briar Coast deserve strong, capable leadership from an experienced political leader who knows the residents and this great town in which we live.”

  Sister Lou winced at Owen’s planned impromptu campaign speech. Her gaze was drawn to Owen’s desk. Her eyes widened in horror. How deep were his piles of papers? Somehow Sister Lou managed to tear her gaze from the disturbing sight. She forced herself to scan Owen’s office, even knowing she’d never be able to unsee the manmade disaster.

  Beside her, Shari transcribed their interview. The reporter’s pen moved quickly across her notebook. “Yes, but when will you a
nnounce that you’re running?”

  “I’m going to announce my candidacy and officially launch my campaign any day now, perhaps as soon as the first day of March.”

  Sister Lou frowned in bewilderment. This was the twentieth day of February. March first was more than a week away. “Why are you delaying your announcement for so long, Mr. Rodney?”

  Owen’s confused gaze moved from Shari to Sister Lou. “If you don’t mind my asking, Sister, why are you here? I thought this was a newspaper interview.”

  “I have my own questions,” Sister Lou answered in a gentle tone. “For example, when did you decide to run again? Was this a fairly recent decision?”

  “No.” Owen’s voice was noticeably cooler. “I’ve always known that I would run against the Outsider again.”

  Sister Lou was even more puzzled. “Then why are you delaying your announcement? Is it that, although you’re anxious to run again, potential donors aren’t as interested in your candidacy?”

  Owen angled his chin in an obstinate direction. “My supporters are very enthusiastic about my campaign. They know that I offer them a mature, experienced alternative to our current, struggling mayor.”

  “Heather Stanley isn’t struggling.” Shari’s words were firm and abrupt. “In fact, she’s reduced the town’s deficit by almost a third of the red ink you left her. And she’s secured government funding for infrastructure improvements. Longtime residents have told me that the streets are in much better condition than they were when you were mayor.”

  Owen turned his now cold eyes on the well-informed reporter. “You weren’t here during my administration, were you?”

  “You know that I wasn’t.” Shari didn’t even blink in the face of Owen’s tangible temper. “But people who were here during your time in office have been willing to fill me in on how you lost to an outsider. Think about that. Exactly how bad would you have to be to lose a mayoral race to someone who’s brand spanking new not just to the town but to the entire state?”

  Anger flickered across Owen’s broad features. “It seems that they didn’t tell you that I’d inherited a lot of that debt. I needed to deal with it before I could fix the potholes.”

  Sister Lou heard the antagonism in Owen’s voice. His grudge against his former election opponent sounded as strong as ever. And he’d referred to Heather as the “Outsider.” Interesting. Sister Lou waited for Shari’s next move.

  The reporter was taking notes of Owen’s responses. “Mayor Stanley found a way to deal with both the debt and the potholes simultaneously.”

  Sister Lou watched the uncertainty flicker in Owen’s eyes. “I was here during your administration, Mr. Rodney. Mayor Stanley is much more effective in her management of Briar Coast. Does that cause you any concern for your campaign?”

  Shari lips twitched in a smile. “What’s your campaign slogan? I Want a Mulligan?”

  Sister Lou rubbed her mouth in an effort to cover her smile. Shari had used the gulfing terminology that referred to permitting an extra stroke after a poor shot.

  Owen leaned back on his chair and crossed his thick arms. He wore a teal cable sweater over a white collared shirt. “I’m surprised anyone lets you interview them. You have a very unpleasant attitude.”

  Shari shrugged, unconcerned. “I’m not here to make friends.”

  Owen grunted. “That’s obvious. Listen, I’m not afraid to go head-to-head with Heather Stanley and run against her record. She’s got plenty of weak spots.”

  “Name one.” Shari’s eyes glinted with challenge.

  The way the reporter defended and praised the mayor to her future election challenger wasn’t lost on Sister Lou. Perhaps Shari wasn’t as disapproving of Heather as she pretended to be.

  Owen counted off his examples, starting with his left index finger. “She’s underfunded our emergency services—”

  Shari interrupted him. “Isn’t that because the deficit left over from your administration doesn’t allow for increased funding?”

  Owen ignored Shari’s comment. He tapped the second finger on his left hand. “Her policies are punitive to the business community and are crippling Briar Coast’s job growth.”

  Shari nodded. “You may have a point there.”

  Owen’s smile was smug. “I’m not afraid of challenging Stanley’s record. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.”

  Sister Lou wasn’t convinced that Owen’s confidence was warranted. “Mayor Stanley’s job approval rating is very strong. People are much more confident of the town’s future now than they were under your administration. What makes you so confident that you’ll be elected this time?”

  Owen snorted. “After more than four years of Stanley’s policies, voters will welcome me back. You’ll see. Especially after our debate, they’ll see there’s no comparison. I’m a shoo-in.”

  “We’ve taken enough of your time.” Sister Lou had heard enough. She stood to leave. “Thank you again for meeting with us. We can show ourselves out.”

  “Thank you for the interview. It’s been quite illuminating.” Shari pushed herself from the real estate agent’s guest chair.

  Sister Lou led the way out of Owen’s office. Back in the parking lot behind the Rodney Real Estate Agency, she used her keyless entry to let her and Shari into her Corolla.

  Shari fastened her seat belt before turning to Sister Lou. “What do your Spidey Sleuth Senses tell you? Is the Sore Loser Heather’s stalker?”

  “I don’t think so.” Sister Lou put her car in gear and maneuvered out of the agency’s parking lot. “He doesn’t seem to fit our profile.”

  “We have a profile?” Shari sounded skeptical.

  Sister Lou gave her friend a dry look before returning her attention to the street. She glimpsed an opportunity to merge her compact car into the first lane of traffic if she moved quickly. Sister Lou pressed on the gas pedal and spun the steering wheel, squeezing her car into the lane.

  A gasp from the passenger seat broke her concentration. She shot a quick glance at Shari before returning her attention to the road. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Shari spoke on a sigh. “I just wasn’t expecting that quick turn—although I should’ve been.”

  “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.” The silence was heavy and spoke volumes. “All right. I apologize. I won’t do that again.”

  Shari chuckled. “Yes, you will, but tell me about our suspect profile.”

  Sister Lou shrugged off her guilt and focused on the profile. She was somewhat disconcerted that she’d been able to create it so quickly and without conscious thought. “Heather’s stalker is well organized. He planned the letters and how to get them to Heather anonymously.”

  “You don’t think Owen’s capable of figuring out how to get the letters to Heather?” Shari sounded skeptical. “He worked in that office suite for five years.”

  Sister Lou slid Shari another look. Her tone was dry. “Does Owen’s office look like it belongs to a well-organized person?”

  “Good point.” Shari inclined her head. “The whole time we were in Owen’s office, I was waiting for the rest of his staff to dig themselves out from under his piles of paper. How do we know there aren’t people under there?”

  Sister Lou grinned. “Now that you mention it, I could see that happening.”

  “What else?”

  Sister Lou grew somber again. “The stalker doesn’t want to campaign against Heather. That’s why he’s trying to get her to leave Briar Coast before the election, but Owen says that he wants the opportunity to attack Heather’s record. And I believe him.”

  Shari heaved a sigh. “You’re right. I believe him, too.”

  “Although I think he’s fooling himself if he thinks he can win against Heather.”

  “She’ll eat him for breakfast.”

  “I thought you didn’t like our mayor.” Sister Lou tossed her friend a smile. “You sound almost proud of her.”

  Shari shrugged a shoulder. “Heather has her redeem
ing qualities, like her ability to make grown men cry.”

  * * *

  “Did you give up coffee for Lent after all?” Chris’s expression revealed a blend of curiosity, confusion, and concern.

  His question over lunch Tuesday afternoon surprised Shari. She gave him a baffled stare from the other side of the small blond wood table in the Briar Coast Café’s dining area. “No, why are you asking?”

  Chris paused with his spoon hovering just above his beef and vegetable soup. “You’ve been quiet and distant all week. I was hoping that it was just caffeine withdrawal and not . . . something else.”

  Shari played with her chicken and rice soup. Each sweep of the warm metal spoon through the bowl released a flavorful waft of vegetables, seasoned meat, and soup stock. “If I had to go without coffee for even a day, I wouldn’t be quiet and distant. I’d be catatonic.”

  Shari was serious, but Chris seemed amused. “Then what’s on your mind? Why have you been acting so strangely lately?”

  The muscles in Shari’s neck and back stiffened. “I’m not acting strangely. You’re imagining things.” She sensed Chris’s probing gaze, but couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes.

  “That’s the other thing that’s changed.” His tone was quiet but no less compelling. “You don’t seem to trust me anymore.”

  Shari’s gaze flew up to meet Chris’s. “What are you talking about?”

  “During the three months that we’ve been dating, you were starting to confide in me. Suddenly, for some unknown reason, you’ve stopped. What’s happened?”

  Shari lowered her eyes to scowl at her soup. “It’s nothing. I can handle it on my own.”

  “Handle what?” Chris reached across the table to cup his large, warm hand over hers. His palm was rough against her skin. “Come on, Shari, tell me what’s going on.”

  Shari sensed herself weakening under Chris’s touch and persuasive tone. She tightened her lips against her disintegrating resolve. She could take care of herself. She’d been doing so for years through every foster home she’d been bounced in and out of. This situation with the Telegraph wasn’t any different. “I can handle this. Really. I don’t need anyone’s help.”