BAD MEDICINE
A Lizzie Hart Mystery
Caroline Fardig
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
BAD MEDICINE Copyright © 2015 by Caroline Fardig
MY FUNNY VALENTINE excerpt Copyright © 2016 by Caroline Fardig
Cover image used under license from Shutterstock.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my thorough and insightful editing team: Karen Franklin, Lisa Hart-Gray, Lisa Cook, Deborah Nam-Krane, Zanna Mackenzie, and Aaron Deckard. Thanks to my hardworking publicists, Sarka-Jonae Miller of SJ Publicity and Gina McCalister of Mulberry Jean’s, and to my lovely assistant, Alyssa Morgan. I greatly appreciate my family, friends, readers, and fellow authors who continue to encourage me along my journey. And a special thank you to my husband and kiddos for their love and support, and for not complaining too much when I choose writing over doing the laundry.
CHAPTER ONE
“Good morning, everyone!” I exclaim cheerily, striding between the desks in the Liberty Chronicle office. “Did you know that as of today it’s been six whole months without a single murder in this town? If that’s not cause for celebration, then I don’t know what is!” I’m met with a few grunts and groans, none of my colleagues even bothering to look in my direction. I continue, undaunted, “Come on, you can do better than that! I brought donuts…”
I must have said the magic word, because nearly all of my co-workers pop up from their desks at the same time and make a beeline for the big pink bakery box I’m holding. I sail ahead of them into the break room, where I deposit the box on the counter and jump out of the way just in time.
“Hey, let the pregnant lady through,” says my best friend, Julia Simmons, her swelling baby belly bumping into our friend Hank’s swelling beer belly in the crush to get to the donuts.
“No cutsies, preggo,” Hank growls at her. Obviously, one should not try to get between Hank Abshire and his donuts.
She glares at him and thunks the back of his head with her palm, and he mutters something about women knowing their rightful place.
Nothing can dampen my mood this morning, even my two best work buds going at it over donuts. “Relax, you two. There’s plenty for everyone.”
Julia narrows her eyes at me and snips, “I take it you won’t be having one.”
I smile. Since my big fat break-up with my not-really boyfriend, Blake, I have been on a mission to make him so very sorry he let me go. I’ve worked my butt off (literally) exercising and dieting, and it has paid off. I’ve lost two dress sizes, and I have visible muscles now. Not like “bodybuilder” muscles, but more like “I no longer have a layer of fat covering my body” muscles. I am hot!
Trying to decide between a chocolate long john and a chocolate cake donut (pregnancy has turned Julia into a serious chocoholic), she wails, “I think all the weight you’ve lost has found its way to me.”
I pat her baby bump. “You’re growing a human being inside you, sweetie. You’re supposed to gain a few.”
“A few, not a few hundred,” sneers my work nemesis, Bethany McCool, coming up behind Julia. Bethany is hands down the meanest mean girl I’ve ever had to endure. She has thrown drinks on me, she totally ruined my first date with Blake, and she has generally made my life a living hell ever since she found out Blake dumped me. To put it mildly, I hate her.
Julia stifles a sob and hurries quickly out of the room.
I turn to Bethany. “You’re just jealous of her mommy boobs, A-cup.” Bethany is built like a dude and has a face to match.
Hank, also not one of Bethany’s biggest fans, chimes in, “Better go get back under your bridge, troll.” Evidently he can mess with Julia, but no one else can.
Bethany gives us both the finger, turns on her heel, and stomps out of the break room. Hank and I fist-bump each other. It’s not every day we get to tag-team torment Bethany.
Hank pours two cups of coffee and hands one of them to me. He asks, “Are you going out tonight to celebrate being able to keep your nose out of the shit for so long?”
I laugh. “Yes, I am. Melody, Kara, and Melinda are taking me to a new club.”
“You girls gonna ride your broomsticks there?”
I glare at him. “No witch jokes. They’re my friends.” Melody, Kara, and Melinda are part of a Wiccan coven. We became close last year when Melody was framed for the murder of her boyfriend, Jesse, who was the brother of my ex-boyfriend, Lee. I knew Melody was innocent. The evidence pointed to someone inside her coven, so I wormed my way into the coven and did my own investigation. Of the three, I’m probably closest to Kara. We really bonded during the time we spent together trying to catch the killer and have continued our friendship even though we’re exact opposites.
Hank shrugs. “Whatever floats your boat,” he replies, snagging a powdery, jelly-oozing donut and examining it. “What do you think? Is this little guy a good candidate to have a close encounter with McUncool’s bony butt?” Hank has called Bethany “McUncool” for years. It’s one of his many “Hank-isms”, as I call them, the colorful zingers and one-liners he’s well-known for using.
I grin. “Are you going to do something naughty?”
He feigns surprise. “Me? Noooo. I figure I’ll be a nice co-worker and take McUncool a donut. And if she’s not at her desk, I’ll just leave it for her. Maybe in her chair.”
I giggle at the thought of a jelly donut smushed all over Bethany’s pants, but my mirth is short-lived. Blake Morgan, the town hunk and former love of my life stalks into the break room, fuming mad.
“Hart,” he barks. Ugh. He has gone back to using my last name. We are definitely over.
Looking at Blake and then back at me, Hank says, “Whoa. It’s about to get all Twilight up in this piece. I’m outta here.” He wanders off, muttering something about teenage angst in the workplace.
I sigh, steeling myself for a confrontation with Blake. Pretty much any time either of us speaks to the other, it starts a fight.
Blake demands, “What the hell did you do to my story on the Liberty Middle School spring festival?”
I knew he’d be pissed about that one. “I had to change a few things after proofing it. Because it sucked,” I state matter-of-factly. Blake is the head reporter, and I am the copy editor. We frequently come to blows over me having the gall to change his perfect writing.
His eyes harden. “You hacked it up!”
“You didn’t put any effort into it because you knew it wouldn’t be front-page news. You can do better.”
Blake takes a step closer. “That’s not for you to decide.”
Not to be outdone, I take a step closer as well. We’re nearly touching each other, and I can smell his expensive cologne and feel the warmth radiating from his body. Even though we’re not together anymore, it still makes my heart beat a little faster when I’m near him.
I lean up and whisper in his ear, “There are no small stories, only small writers.” Giving him an evil grin, I sashay out of the break room, wiggling my toned ass for emphasis.
Just as I get back to my desk, there’s a screech from the front of the office. I glance up in time to see Bethany jump out of her chair, contorting her body to try to assess the donut damage to her pants. Several of us let out snickers. Upon hearing us, Bethany zeroes in on me and clomps straight to my desk.
“You!” she scr
eams. “You put the donut in my chair!” She’s so mad she’s shaking.
Trying not to laugh, I reply, “I swear it wasn’t me. I wish it had been, but it wasn’t.”
“Ha. Like I’d believe anything you say, bitch,” she spits. “You better watch your back!”
Our managing editor, or more accurately, drill sergeant, Ed Sloane appears and shouts, “What are you two fighting about now?” Bethany and I have a bit of a reputation around the office for cat fighting, and Sloane has about had it with both of us.
Stabbing a finger at me, Bethany whines, “She put a donut in my chair, and I sat on it!”
I flick my eyes toward Hank, who is covering his smirking mouth and not fessing up to his crime. Not one to rat out my friends, I shake my head and defend myself calmly. “I didn’t do it this time.”
Sloane pinches his nose in frustration. “You two are going to have to find a way to get along. If you don’t, neither of you is going to like my solution. Am I CLEAR?”
Even though he scares the crap out of everyone else, Sloane (and his ranting) has never fazed me. Sarah, the managing editor before him, tried to kill me in my own house, so any boss who doesn’t try to kill me is a big softie in my book. I silently turn my attention to my computer, and Bethany, who I’m pretty sure I heard whimper, scurries back to her desk.
After Sloane retreats to his office, Hank lets out a low chuckle and singsongs, “You got in trouble, you got in trouble.”
I singsong back, “You are an asshole, you are an asshole.”
***
“I had no idea this club was so awesome!” I squeal, as Melody, Kara, Melinda, and I walk into the main floor of Vibe, the newest club in the neighboring town of Ellsworth. It’s like we’ve stepped out of the boring Midwestern area where we live and have been transported to LA or somewhere that’s actually cool. The interior is a deep blue with curved black leather booths lining the walls. There’s a dance floor in the middle (full of dancing people, which you rarely see around here, unless it’s at a Senior Center dance) and a sleek glass and chrome bar to one side. The music is pulsating, and bright lights are blinking and spinning in time. There is a second level as well, which I’ve heard is more of a swanky lounge than a hopping dance club.
Melody smiles. “I thought you might like this place.” I feel kind of bad for Melody, since today is the six-month anniversary of her boyfriend Jesse’s death. (Around her, I have refrained from calling today a “celebration”.) However, in her usual sunny way, Melody has been able to deal with Jesse’s passing positively, even going so far as calling tonight a celebration of his life.
Seemingly unimpressed, Melinda sneers, “This place is a meat market.”
Kara says brightly, “Then maybe you’ll get lucky tonight.”
Melinda rolls her eyes good-naturedly at Kara and chuckles. Her former boyfriend, Brad, was pretending to be a part of the coven to meet girls, and we all knew it except Melinda. When she finally decided to drop her bitch act and play nice, we let her in on Brad’s little secret, and she dumped him. He deserved it. He was a real douche to her.
Deciding to dance first, the four of us head out to the dance floor to bust some moves. Melinda was right about this place being a meat market. Every one of us has had to shoo away our fair share of losers trying to grind up on us.
The music is great, but after a short time my ankle starts aching. I broke it last summer when my crazy boss Sarah threw me down my basement stairs, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t heal quite right. Granted, I’ve been putting some serious stress on it lately with all of my extra exercising, and as a result it doesn’t take much to make it hurt. I’ve started seeing a chiropractor for pain relief and have noticed a slight improvement. I’m probably pushing my luck tonight—dancing on a crowded dance floor in shoes that some might call stripper heels.
I shout at the girls, “I need to take a breather. Want a drink?”
They all nod, seeming relieved to get away from the gyrating crowd. We decide to check out the lounge upstairs, hoping it will be a place where we’ll be able to hear each other and chat. I’m not thrilled about having to haul myself up a flight of stairs, but as long as I can find a place to sit down, I should be fine.
Once we reach the second floor, we look around for a table. The lounge is the exact opposite of the lower level. Up here, everything is in shades of white and cream, beautifully lit and surprisingly quiet for being directly above a dance club. It is seriously über-chic in here.
Melinda spies a booth near the far corner of the room, and we snake our way through the tables to get to it. I notice that the clientele is mainly couples, and they all seem totally in love. How depressing. I think I’d rather be down in the meat market, in danger of being groped. I look at the floor, not wishing to be reminded of my oh-so-single status as we pass table after table of canoodling lovebirds. Suddenly, my ears perk up at the sound of a familiar voice, and my blood runs cold.
CHAPTER TWO
“It’s a very fast-paced job, being the lead investigative reporter. I’m responsible for bringing the latest breaking news to our readers, and I take my position very seriously,” says a low, sexy voice from the booth I’m approaching.
A stupid-sounding woman’s voice purrs, “Oh, wow. That is so fascinating.”
When I unwillingly glance up, I find Blake with some pretty brunette nearly on his lap, and they’re canoodling as well! He’s playing with her hair while she nuzzles his neck. Puke! I knew Blake was a total man-whore before we were together, but I never had to actually witness it.
I feel like this whole scene has screeched into slow motion—you know, so I can enjoy it longer. Kara, who is behind me, spots me staring at Blake and freezes. She lets out a loud gasp, causing Blake to notice us. To my chagrin, Melinda stops in front of me when Kara gasps. Stuck between them and the table behind me, I have nowhere to flee. Who knows what horrified expression is on my face right now, and even Blake seems taken aback for a moment.
Recovering quickly, he drawls, “Good evening, ladies.”
My friends are the best. They collectively glare at him, even Melody, who is the nicest person on earth. Melinda mutters, “Asshole,” under her breath. I can’t say a word.
Kara nods curtly. “Hello, Blake. Sorry we can’t stop to talk. Come on, girls.” She swiftly ushers us toward the empty booth.
I slide into the booth and collapse onto the table, my head thunking loudly against the tabletop. Instantly, I feel a few hands gently rubbing my back, and my friends begin telling me in soothing tones what a jackass Blake is. I’m a little catatonic at this point, but I feel the girls haul me up into a sitting position and shove a drink in my hand. I dutifully take a gulp, the cocktail searing my throat all the way down. Yikes. They must have ordered me a double.
Finally gathering myself enough to speak, I croak, “That was horrifying.”
“I know, you poor thing,” Kara says, patting my hand.
“We could go back downstairs,” says Melody.
I exclaim, “No! I don’t want to have to walk back past…that.”
Melinda shrugs. “I say you go find some hot guy and dry hump him right on top of Blake’s table.”
We all gape at her in shock, then collectively burst out laughing. There’s nothing like a little support from your girlfriends to make you feel better.
Wiping my eyes (laughing tears, not crying tears), I say, “I’m going to the restroom to fix my face. Thanks, girls.”
As I hop up from the table, my ankle makes its displeasure known by sending a shooting pain nearly up to my knee. I hobble into the restroom and look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m a little disheveled from dancing and wallowing in my self-pity, but other than that I look decent. I splash some cold water on my face and get out my makeup bag to do a little touch-up work. I drop my lipstick, and upon bending down to pick it up, another wave of pain engulfs my ankle, this time very intense.
“Ow! Son of a bitch!”
As I’m r
ubbing my aching ankle, a woman exits her stall. It’s my chiropractor, of all people, Dr. Lydia Thomas. I’ve only been to her twice, but I absolutely love her. She’s new in town and trying to build her business. I’m sure it won’t take her long once word gets around how caring and attentive she is to her patients. Through her easy demeanor, she got me to talk about my work and my personal life at my last appointment, which is something I normally wouldn’t do with a stranger.
I smile. “Hey, Dr. Thomas!”
Dr. Thomas’s brow furrows for a moment, then she breaks into a smile. “Lizzie Hart, right?”
“Yes. I’m impressed you remember.”
“How is the ankle? I saw you holding it just now.”
I shrug. “I think I’m not taking care of it as well as I should.”
She nicely admonishes, “Maybe it’s the heels.”
“They certainly aren’t helping.”
“Why don’t you come by my office tomorrow and we’ll see what we can do for you?”
How nice is that? “That would be great. Thanks.”
She quickly finishes washing her hands and heads toward the door. “See you tomorrow, Lizzie.”
See? That’s what I love about living in a small town. People take the time to get to know each other. And there aren’t many doctors around who would be kind enough to schedule appointments in the ladies’ room! I swipe some powder on my face and re-apply my lipstick. There. Not totally tragic.
On my way back to the table, I notice Dr. Thomas doing a little canoodling of her own with a nice-looking guy. Good for her. As I get closer, I get a better look at her guy and realize I know him. That’s Jason Harris. I went to high school with him…and his wife! Oh, snap. This is not good.
I wonder if Dr. Thomas knows Jason’s married. Not only that, he and his wife, Kim, have a new baby. I know this because Julia dragged me over to their house a couple of weeks ago to visit Kim and the baby. Julia has babies on the brain and has been reconnecting lately with old friends who have new babies. I found it excruciating to talk about diapers, breastfeeding, and whatever the hell “onesies” are, but Julia was happy, so I kept my mouth shut.
Bad Medicine Page 1
