Death in the Park (Firefly Junction Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by London Lovett

  Nick sat down on the next stool. “How is it going at the inn? Has Ursula chewed Henry’s head clean off yet?”

  I swallowed a bite before a laugh. “Not yet. I think Henry’s head might be made of iron. Most of her harping just rolls off him. Although today, he got very defensive when she accused him of snorting his distaste at my color choice for the sitting room.”

  Emily was placing cooled tarts in a plastic storage container. “What color did you pick?”

  “Cupid Pink.”

  Nick wobbled his head side to side. “I might have snorted too.”

  “Wait until you see it finished. It’ll be spectacular. The strangest thing was that Henry insisted vehemently that he didn’t snort.”

  “May-ee it wa’ the gho’,” Nick muttered through a mouthful of tart.

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s what it was,” I said with a significant eye roll. “I guess I’m going to have to consult with the spirits about my color choices from now on.”

  Emily’s smile was pushing at the corners of her mouth. “You could always get Raine to perform a séance. Then you could ask them through her.”

  I surveyed her face for a second. “You’re actually serious about that.”

  Emily shrugged. “The rumors about that place have been swirling for decades.”

  “Great. So you and Lana talked me into moving in with a bunch of unruly ghosts who have, of all things, a critical eye when it comes to interior design.”

  Emily laughed. “Well, when you put it that way, it does sound rather far-fetched. She picked up one of her tarts and took a bite. “Hmm, these really are delicious.” She licked her lip. “You know—a séance would be a good excuse for a yummy dessert party.”

  I looked at Nick. “I believe my baby sister is trying to bribe me with sugary treats.” I picked up the last bite of my tart. “She knows me too well.”

  Chapter 4

  A lazy morning sun had just begun its journey across the sky as I put my jeep in third gear and drove along Edgewood Drive, the main road through downtown. The Cider Ridge Inn and the vast property it entailed was sandwiched between the base of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park and the western border of Firefly Junction. Firefly Junction was a picturesque town with double story saltbox shaped shops lining each side of the main street. Dormer windows jutted out from multicolored composite and shingle roofs, giving the town, with its mountain backdrop, a European vibe. The town was called a junction because if you traveled to the north on Butternut Crest, you’d eventually come to the town of Hickory Flats. And if you traveled to the south, along Crimson Grove and over the Colonial Bridge, you’d come to the Birch Highlands, a small town nestled in the foothills of the mountain range. A turn east off the Colonial Bridge brought you to Bear Road and the town of Smithville.

  The newspaper office was jammed between the pharmacy and the bank. Parking spots for the busy shopping area ran perpendicular to the sidewalk. I pulled my jeep into the last spot on the block. The jeep had been my first gift to myself as I started my new life. I was working constantly but because Brett was in school full-time, money was always tight. I was stuck driving a rickety old economy car that was so slow bicycles would pass me on the road. I couldn’t count how many times the crummy car had broken down, especially in bad weather. The first thing I did after Brett left was buy myself my dream car, or in my case, dream jeep. It was the perfect vehicle for the dirt roads around the inn, and since it was big enough for both dogs to have their own window, Newman and Redford heartily approved.

  I checked my face in the mirror. I was never a heavy makeup user, but I’d splashed on some mascara and lip gloss for my first day. I was overjoyed when my new boss relayed that semi-casual dress was fine as long as I wasn’t going to a press conference. I wasn’t totally sure what he’d meant by semi-casual, but I decided it probably meant my favorite faded sweatpants were out. I’d pulled on khaki pants, a blue blouse and my favorite sneakers. At my last job, we were required to dress and wear formal shoes. Hardly convenient when you were chasing down a good story.

  I pulled the strap of my laptop bag over my shoulder and climbed out of the jeep. I was feeling a little anxious about the new job, mostly because I didn’t know what to expect. I had never written articles for a small town. Something told me it was going to be very different. A week after I’d gotten the job, Mr. Seymour, the editor, had invited me for a lunch with the newspaper’s small newsroom staff. I was thankful to meet them ahead of time and had already formed somewhat of an opinion of them, I was sure they’d done the same about me. Fortunately, my sudden departure from the last newspaper didn’t concern Mr. Seymour. He seemed pleased to take on someone with outside experience.

  I stopped just short of the newspaper office and stared up at it. On the outside, the Junction Times was designed to blend in with the rest of the block. A tan stucco facade was accented with a rich forest green trim. The windows were tinted dark to block out the sunlight, but unlike the other shops along Edgewood Drive, the newspaper office didn’t have any succulent or show-stopping products to display in the front window, like the fondant cakes in the local bakery or the silk floral display at the florist shop. Local realtors and shop owners paid the newspaper to display advertising flyers in the front windows, so the glass was smeared with the remnants of old tape and ripped corners of past flyers.

  I took a breath and walked inside. Myrna Gomez, the office manager, and from what I could tell, the every other odd job staff member, swept out from behind her desk to greet me. Myrna had black hair that was naturally highlighted with one wide swath of white hair. That coupled with the bright red lipstick and heavy foundation makeup she was wearing reminded me of the Bride of Frankenstein. Raine had mentioned that she and Myrna went to school together. Raine complained that she was an incessant gossip and that she made no attempt to hide that she thought Raine’s psychic business was ridiculous. They were quite obviously not friends.

  Myrna was pushing a stick of gum in her mouth as she walked over to give me a welcome hug. “It’ll be so nice to have another woman around the office,” she chimed cheerily as she released me. She motioned to the office door. “Parker is in with Chase right now, so I’ll get you settled in your desk. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  Myrna slipped past me. “This is your desk.” I followed her to a desk that was unpleasantly close to the bathroom and water cooler. It had been cleared off, but the pitted and faded oak top showed that it had seen more than its share of news days. I swung my computer bag off my shoulder and lowered it down on the desk.

  “Your purse will be safe in the desk drawer,” she said, even though I hadn’t asked. “No one comes into the newsroom except staff, and since Richard Carlton moved to Arizona that just leaves you, me, Chase and Parker. And Parker rarely leaves his office.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “He’s always trying to avoid germs. A bit of a hypochondriac,” she whispered, giving weight to Raine’s assessment that Myrna liked to gossip. Myrna gnawed a bit on the gum and switched her voice back to full volume. “Put your things away and I’ll give you a quick tour. And by quick, I mean thirty seconds tops.” She laughed at her comment.

  Myrna stopped after just three steps and circled her arms around the room. “As you’ve probably already guessed this is the newsroom. The heart and soul of the paper,” she added with a wink.

  Just to lend credence to the tour, I surveyed the room. It was only slightly more cluttered and chaotic than other newsrooms I’d worked in. A maze of tables and bookshelves filled much of the floor. News articles and pictures from other periodicals were taped and push-pinned in haphazard fashion along the yellowed walls.

  Myrna was quite short, only five foot or so but she moved with the speed and grace of a six foot runway model. She pointed to Mr. Seymour’s office. “That’s the editor’s office, of course, and I’m sure you made note of the bathroom. My desk is here, near Mr. Seymour’s office.”
She turned back to me. “It’s not usually such a mess, but we’ve been working overtime since we were short one staff member.” Her bright red lips framed two rows of pearly white teeth as she smiled. “But I guess we’re back at full staff now. And another woman. Did I mention how thrilled I was to discover that Parker had hired a woman?”

  “You might have. And thank you. I’ll try and make our gender proud.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that.” We were right in front of the editor’s door so she leaned closer. It seemed another nugget of gossip was coming my way. “Parker was very impressed with some of your work. I heard him bragging all about you to Bucky Walters, the mailman.” Her long lashes fluttered toward the office door before turning back to me. She was close enough now that I could smell the spearmint gum on her breath. “Maybe this will put a fire under Chase. He drags his feet and his typing fingers toward every deadline.” She fanned and waved her own fingers in the air.

  I followed her down a short hallway with three doors. She opened the first door, and the pungent odor of printer ink and fresh paper floated out. “Office supplies and the copier. And don’t pound on the copier if it stops working. Just come get me. The machine and I have an understanding.” She closed the door.

  “An understanding?” I asked.

  “Yes. It spits out the number of copies I want, and I don’t return it to the lease company for a newer, shinier model.”

  “Then I’ve been going about my copy machine relationships all wrong because I’m a pounder. I had no idea the threat of retirement worked. Now I know.”

  “Well, none of us want to be replaced by anything younger or prettier.” She pointed to a door. “Break room, but it’s really just a big closet with a table and chairs. I suggest the park or the bus stop. Anything but our pitiful break room. It is so ugly, I can’t even bring myself to open the door for fear that you will sweep up your laptop and run for the hills.” She continued to the last door.

  “No chance of that. My house is in the hills, and I need this job to keep it from falling down around my shoulders.”

  “That’s right. You live up in the haunted house near the mountains. My friends and I used to dare each other to walk up the front steps and knock on the door. No one lived there, but we still ran screaming as if being chased by ghouls.”

  Myrna pushed open the last door. “And this is where we hold staff meetings.” An old metal table sat amongst six mismatched rolling chairs. A shiny whiteboard with an impressive collection of colorful markers seemed to be the newspaper’s nod to fancy technology.

  “A whiteboard,” I said, holding back a grin. “I haven’t seen one of those since college.”

  “It was a chalkboard until very recently. But Jerold Newsom, the owner of the Junction Times decided to fork over the cash for the upgrade after the chalkboard became too greasy to write on.” She leaned closer again. I had to bend over for her not to be talking to my chest. “Just for your information, Chase is dating Rebecca Newsom, the daughter of the owner. That’s why he’s head reporter,” she whispered even softer. “Just wanted to let you know so you didn’t make any disparaging comments about the owner in front of Chase.”

  “Thanks. I will keep all comments and especially unflattering ones to myself.”

  Myrna straightened and clapped her hands together once. “I think you’ll be a wonderful addition to the staff, Sunni. And I love that name. It’s so—so sunny.”

  “Thank you, Myrna, for the warm welcome and the grand tour. Now I won’t worry about getting lost on my way to the copy machine.”

  Deep voices rolled down the short hallway. “Oh, the men are out of their meeting. I’m sure Parker wants to give you your assignment.” I followed her back out to the newsroom.

  Chase Evans, the lead reporter was just sitting at his desk. He hopped back up to shake my hand. “Good to have you on board.” Chase seemed to be in his late twenties. He was quite tall with striking features, hazel eyes and black hair. A tad too polished for my taste with his neatly pressed trousers and shiny loafers. His smile bordered on fake. “Seymour has just been telling me how impressed he is with your work.”

  “Thank you and I’m happy to be on board.”

  “Taylor,” Seymour yelled from his office doorway. “Get in here and we’ll get you started on your first assignment. I nodded to Chase and hurried around the tables to the editor’s office.

  The office was just a smaller, slightly less chaotic version of the newsroom. Parker Seymour, my new boss was a fifty something man with a thick moustache. During our interview he kept giving me a thumbs up gesture at my answers, which I actually found charming. I glanced at the picture on his desk. His wife was a few inches taller than him and had dyed yellow hair. Three kids, two boys and a girl, who looked less than thrilled to be standing for the picture in the middle of a sandy beach, stared into the camera.

  “Nice family,” I said as I sat on the metal folding chair across from his desk.

  “Thanks. Gina and I took them to Florida last year, but they are all in their teens, so they would have preferred to stay home and text friends or play video games.” He grunted. “What can you do?” He pulled a lozenge out of the candy dish on his desk. “Excuse me, I’m getting a scratchy throat. I went to a parade in Smithville last weekend and there were so many germs floating around.”

  There seemed to be an inordinate amount of sticky notes on his desk. He read each one until his eyes landed on one particular yellow note. “Ah yes, your assignment.” He pulled the sticky note off and showed it to me. “See, it says Taylor’s assignment. I hope it’s all right if I call you Taylor instead of Sunni. I tend to use last names around here. Except with Myrna. She won’t even answer me if I don’t call her by her first name.”

  “Taylor is fine. That’s what my last editor called me.”

  He tossed a folder toward me. “I need you to go to the address listed in the folder. Four women, who are part of a quilting bee or circle or whatever they call it, are sewing or quilting or whatever they call it—you get the point.”

  “Yes, I do. You want me to write a story about a quilting bee?” I tried to hide the profound disappointment in my tone, but it was impossible.

  “Nah, I wouldn’t send you out there just to cover that. They are putting together a quilt for a high school custodian. He retired recently, and the quilt is a gift from the town. It’s a good human interest story. People around here love that kind of stuff. You can put your own journalistic spin on it.”

  The assignment just kept getting worse. “A spin on a story about a custodian’s retirement?”

  “I have every confidence that you’ll do the paper proud. Now off you go. I’ve got calls to make.”

  I walked out with my first assignment in a folder that was empty, save for one mostly blank page with an address.

  Chapter 5

  I should have been far more depressed about my uninspiring first assignment, but the delightful group of quilters with their humorous anecdotes and amazingly tasty raisin muffins made it hard to do anything but smile. The four women Rita, Esther, Marylou and Susie each sat on one side of a square table with a marvelous quilt between them. I didn’t know much about quilting but they were happy to explain that they were sewing a traditional star flower quilt that consisted of rows of squares each decorated with a colorful fabric star created from triangles. The craftsmanship was impeccable, and even though the women were comically self-deprecating, it was obvious they were proud of their quilt. And rightly so.

  Marylou was the owner of the house, a craftsman style cutie from the early twentieth century. Marylou, with her gray pile of curls and permanent smile lines, had quickly become my favorite. She was a journalist’s dream interviewee because she had no filters and she loved to talk. She also reminded me of my Grandma Viv, who I adored.

  I spent a great deal of time taking pictures and enjoying the refreshments the women had set out on the antique walnut buffet sitting along the side wall of the dining room
, their quilting room.

  The women continued with their sewing as I positioned a chair near the table and opened up my laptop.

  “Oh, that’s how they do it now, huh?” Marylou piped up from her corner of the table. She was working on a star constructed of teal green calico and yellow and white gingham. “I guess pretty soon they’ll stop producing pen and paper altogether.”

  “Well, I’m all for saving trees,” Rita, an especially tiny woman, who, despite some twisted fingers from arthritis, stitched as quickly as an electric sewing machine, added in. Rita smiled up at me. “Shayla, my youngest granddaughter is very interested in the environment. She keeps me updated on all the things that are happening to save the planet.”

  “Good for her,” I noted. “But I think there will always be a need for pen and paper. I use the laptop because I can type much faster than I can handwrite. And to be perfectly honest, I can barely read my own writing sometimes.”

  “You should have been a doctor,” Esther, the woman who baked the luscious muffins, said cheerily. “I can’t read one word my doctor writes on those prescription pads.”

  Marylou put down the square she was working on with a slight huff. “Do you mean to tell me Dr. Harville is still using pen and paper?” She repositioned her bottom on the chair and picked up the quilt square. “Doctor Takini uses a computer for everything. Everything in her office is fancy and state of the art.”

  I had noticed right from the start that the women liked to one up each other.

  Susie, a tall, thin woman with narrow hunched shoulders was the quietest of the four, but occasionally, she had something to add. “Dr. Shore is so modern and new century, he rarely comes into the exam room. He sends in his nurse practitioner to do my physical.”

  The other women fell silent and stared at their friend, who seemed sure she’d impressed her friends with her ultra-modern doctor.

  “I wouldn’t call that modern, Sue,” Marylou said. “I’d call that lazy.” All of the women broke into laughter. Susie joined in too.