The White Carnation
The Harvester Series: Book One
Susanne Matthews
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2015 by M.H. Susanne Matthews.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-9118-0
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9118-1
eISBN 10: 1-4405-9119-9
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9119-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Anna Yu; 123RF: cygnusx, pinkynoise
For the real Rob and Faye: friendship like ours outlasts time and place. Thank you for believing in me and supporting me. You're the best. I promised I'd make you famous one day!
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
More from This Author
Also Available
Chapter One
“Don’t do me any more favors! One of these days, Sloan, I’ll take one of these crappy assignments and turn it into a Pulitzer, just watch and see.”
Faye stormed out of the editor’s office, slamming the door behind her. The glass pane rattled in its frame. Her chestnut ponytail swished from side to side as she swiftly crossed the large room to her cubicle, the despised assignment sheet crumpled in the fisted hand at her side.
Not that this one will be the one. A frigging engagement party. What next? Advice to the lovelorn? Haven’t I paid for my damn sins yet?
She ignored the sly “I told you so” looks on the faces of her fellow reporters as she passed each desk. Journalism was a dog-eat-dog business, and even after a year, she was still the main item on the menu. She was an investigative reporter, not a frigging social columnist. Although she didn’t give a damn about Fifi or Fido and was sick to death of playing nice-nice with dog-show judges and patrons alike, she’d had a great idea for a story, one with teeth, and Sloan, that no-good, low-down snake, had given it to the competition.
Shafted again. Damn it.
Weren’t there any decent people left in the newspaper business? When she’d suggested looking into the extravagances she’d seen covering dog shows the last few months, Sloan had promised to consider it, and now, not two hours later, he’d just told her Tina Jackson would be looking into it.
That bitch has been gunning for my job from the minute she got here. Faye huffed out a frustrated breath. Abel Rogers, the newspaper’s top criminal investigative reporter, was scheduled to retire in three months. Faye had hoped to make it back into the Boston Examiner’s crime beat section with the dog show exposé. But from now on, instead of covering dog shows for Around Town, the local page, she’d be having tea with the upper crust as a second-string society columnist. La-de-da! And he considers this a step up? Bullshit. Half the time I won’t even have a byline. Plopping down on her chair, she flung the offending wad of paper onto her desk.
“Temper, temper,” Phil, one of the transplanted Brits who worked as an errand boy for the senior staff, said. “You could’ve broken the boss’s bloody window.”
“Too bad I didn’t,” she answered and turned her back on him.
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot, princess. I don’t agree with the way he’s treating you either. You’re better than this.” He stomped off after dropping two memos on her desk.
Faye reached for them—the first was about reallocating parking spaces. Crap. Can’t they leave anything alone? The second was about improper use of the photocopier. Some idiot must have been taking butt shots again.
Her cubicle, a poor replacement for the broom closet-sized office she’d had, was the one closest to the far wall. She stared at the chaos atop her credenza—the assorted bits and pieces of what had once been a thriving reporter’s career. In one corner stood a cut glass vase filled with year-old remnants of a dozen red roses, their black, wilted skeletons a constant reminder of her disgrace. Turning the partitions around to ensure a small measure of privacy hadn’t helped. Right now, she could feel Tina Jackson gloating right through the portable walls. It was her idea, her story, and now that fool who couldn’t write her way out of a paper bag and hadn’t had an original thought in a decade, was going to get the credit. What Faye wouldn’t give for the courage to tell Sloan to take his job and shove it.
Working at one of Boston’s largest newspapers as its top investigative reporter had been her dream, and she’d sacrificed too much to give up on it just yet. This was just a temporary setback. She’d find a story, investigate it on her own, and present him with a fait accompli. There had to be hundreds of juicy stories out there just waiting for her. If she could find the right one, she might freelance and sell it to the highest bidder.
Who am I kidding? I can barely make ends meet on my miserable paycheck and don’t have time for anything else—at least nothing worthy of a Pulitzer.
Maybe she should take some time off and go visit her mother. She hadn’t been home since her stepdad’s funeral six months ago. She was already depressed; going to Kennebunkport couldn’t make her feel any worse. She picked up the phone and was surprised by the sound indicating she had a message waiting. No one had bothered to call and leave her a message in months.
She punched in the necessary codes. The automated voice indicated the call had come in two days ago. Damn it. She’d gotten complacent dwelling in her misery, preferring the anonymity of self-isolation to listening to the commiserations of others. Was this one of them—someone devious enough to try to dig up more dirt for the rumor mill? After all, the story of her disgrace was old news now. They’d need fresh meat to revive it. Annoyed with herself, yet too curious to erase the message, she pressed the button to retrieve it.
“Hello, Faye. This is Lucy Green, Mary’s mother. I need to talk to you. Can you come by the apartment this afternoon? I wouldn’t bother you, but I can’t think of anyone else who could help me. My number is 617-635-8765.”
Surprised, Faye jotted the name and number on a sticky note before hanging up.
Weird! What can I possibly do for Mary’s mom?
Mary had been her best friend—her BFF long before the term had become popular. They’d been inseparable in high school and at Boston College, but once Faye had gotten her shot at major crime stories and Mary had moved to New York, they’d drifted apart. They kept in touch, mostly through online chats and emails, with a few phone calls thrown in. She made a point of seeing Mary if she happened to be in the Big Apple, but it had been
a while. The last time she’d spoken to her had been about four months ago in January, when Mary had called to wish her a happy birthday. Mary hadn’t been feeling well and had cancelled her annual visit. Faye had celebrated alone with a pint of gourmet ice cream and a bottle of Irish whiskey. She’d never even called to see if her friend was feeling better—she’d started investigating the dog show, and when she was on a story, as Mary had often said, the world could blow up around her and Faye would never notice.
She frowned and bit her lower lip. Lucy Green sounded upset, and that compounded Faye’s guilt about not calling Mary or checking her messages sooner. Maybe there was something seriously wrong with her old friend. Faye liked Mrs. Green, even if the woman’s ideas and attitudes didn’t keep pace with the times. Mary was exactly the opposite. Modern, embracing every aspect of the twenty-first century, her outlook on life was qué sera, sera—what will be, will be. Her happy-go-lucky acceptance of whatever life threw at her had often irritated Faye, who was as emotional and explosive as they came. Where Mary made lemonade out of life’s lemons, Faye just scowled and ate the sour fruit.
She pulled open her desk drawer and dragged out the mini photo album she kept there, the book automatically falling open at the page she wished to avoid.
Typical! What else is going to go wrong today?
She stared down at the happy couple in the snapshot, letting regret wash through her a moment, and then turned the page. She flipped through the photos until she found the one she wanted … the picture of Mary and herself taken at the Empire State Building more than a year ago. On the heels of that trip to New York came the betrayal that had not only broken Faye’s heart but had also gotten her booted off the crime beat and relegated to the back pages of the local section, the middle of nowhere for an up-and-coming reporter.
She stood, leaned against the credenza, and dialed the number given, hanging up when the answering machine kicked in. Faye flattened the assignment sheet and checked the time. She had a few things to tie up, but if she left by one, she could be in Wellesley in plenty of time for the engagement tea and back to meet with Mrs. Green after four. She redialed, left a message, and gave her cell number in case that wasn’t convenient.
“Faye, are you going to need me today?”
She jumped and turned quickly as the deep voice startled her.
“Jimmy, you scared the daylights out of me.” She chuckled to take the sting out of her words. “How can a man walk softly in those bloody things?” She stared down at the combat boots he preferred.
He laughed. “What can I say? I tread carefully.”
Dressed in beige camo gear, he stood right in front of her, close enough to trap her between himself and the desk. His dark brown hair, disheveled as it always was, fell into his eyes. The scruff on his face was a little worse today than it had been, and while she knew some women considered his look sexy, she didn’t. He reminded her of a war correspondent who didn’t know when he’d get his next shower or meal. Tinted glasses all but obscured his eyes. His slightly sour body odor and cigarette-tainted breath filled her nostrils. She put her hand up to his chest and shoved lightly.
“A little room to breathe, please. What’s with the outfit? If I did need you, you’d have to go home and change. You look like Grizzly Adams in that getup.”
“Going to do a nature shoot later today.” He stepped back as requested and smiled down at her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to crowd you.”
“Well, you’d better stay upwind. If any of the animals get a whiff of you, they’ll run for cover. That gear’s in desperate need of washing.”
Jimmy’s face reddened, and he stared down at the fancy Japanese camera hanging around his neck. At his waist, he wore his military-style utility belt filled with lenses, film, and everything else his craft required. The man was a genius with a camera, but as eccentric as they came.
“It’s deer musk. It’s supposed to attract them,” he said defensively, and Faye wrinkled her nose.
“I find it repulsive. I guess that proves I’m not a deer.”
The young photographer had joined the staff of the Boston Examiner a little more than two years ago. He’d been her shadow for almost a year until the debacle that cost her a spot on the crime beat. Now, he joined her as often as he could, but there really wasn’t anything too exciting in the world of dog shows or debutantes. Faye pitied him because he reminded her of what it was like to be on the outside looking in. He was the odd man out, just as she was now.
Jimmy made her somewhat uncomfortable in close quarters; he was zealous about his work but far too serious and opinionated for some of the other reporters. After he’d spurned Tina’s advances, she’d been quite vocal in her opposition to working with him, but Sloan, to his credit, knew a good thing and refused to listen to her complaints. Tina had backed down, and she and Jimmy appeared to be enjoying an uneasy truce.
Faye smiled. “Well, good luck with Bambi. Maybe next time you can come with me, but you’ll have to reconsider your wardrobe.”
“I heard you got promoted to the society page.”
“I’d hardly call it a promotion … more like a lateral move.” She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled.
“I’ll have to dig through my wardrobe and find fancier duds to wear.” Leaning over her shoulder, he jerked his head toward the pad of paper where she’d jotted Lucy’s name and number. “Is that the name of the lucky bride? Sounds pretty normal for a high-society chick. Whose she marrying, some ‘the third’ dude?”
Faye laughed. “That’s just an old friend’s number. The happy couple have names suitable to their lofty backgrounds.” She turned, tore off the sticky note, and shoved it in her purse. “Since I won’t need you, feel free to accompany Tina to the dog show. Maybe some cute little Chihuahua will take a bite out of her. That would make an excellent picture.”
“Maybe I should spray a little ‘eau de steak’ on her to help the puppy along,” he said.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Probably not. The pup might catch something.”
Faye shook her head. “You’re bad. Have fun with your nature shoot. See you on Monday.” She grabbed her purse and waved as she headed out of the reporters’ room.
Stopping at the bathroom to touch up her makeup, she frowned as she took in the navy slacks, white shirt, and navy and white striped jacket she wore. Jimmy’s wardrobe wasn’t the only one that needed a facelift. This wasn’t exactly the designer outfit one usually wore to high-society teas, but hell, she’d be there to work, right? She stuck out her tongue at her reflection and headed out to her car. Too bad the tea wasn’t being dumped in the harbor. That would be a story worth reporting.
• • •
After more than four hours of hobnobbing with the rich and not-so-famous, Faye was hot, tired, and exasperated. The engagement tea had been even worse than she’d imagined. Clowns—they’d had clowns—and she hated clowns. You never knew who was behind that pasty white makeup. What kind of adults used a kiddy theme for their engagement party? Alright, so the groom’s family was in the home party décor business. What difference did that make? There had to be hundreds of themes more suitable to the occasion.
Imagine that snooty little bitch thinking she was the help—it might be the society page, but press was press. Thank God she wasn’t one of them anymore. Sure, the money, clothes, and bling were nice—although Faye wasn’t penniless, she did have to pinch the ones she had—but at least she had a valid reason for getting out of bed each day. Hopefully, Abigail and Reginald would be happy, but she wouldn’t count on it. If ever there was a marriage arranged in the boardroom, that was it. Imagining that couple on their wedding night as they completed the merger made her laugh out loud in the car. Miss Ice Cube wouldn’t possibly warm up enough for Mr. Icicle to penetrate in the first place … clowns or no clowns.
She slapped the steering wheel in frustration. The drive from Wellesley to Beacon Hill seemed interminable, and more than once, Faye cursed inept drivers wh
o didn’t know the least little bit about driving or where they were going. She hated being late, and thanks to overlong speeches and bad traffic, she would be.
“Tourists,” she grumbled when a sudden exit off the highway almost caused an accident. “Too bad GPS doesn’t come with idiot-proofing.” When she eventually got off the I-90 and onto the side streets, she spotted a parking space on Marlborough only half a block from Mary’s family home, a neighborhood she remembered fondly from her youth. Well, at least the parking fairy’s on my side.
Glancing at the heavy gray clouds on the horizon, she cursed. It would rain soon, and she’d forgotten her umbrella in her desk. This jacket needed to be dry-cleaned, and she’d already blown this month’s budget for that. Grabbing the white carnation with the rainbow ribbon that her secret admirer had left on the windshield this morning, she got out of the car. That flower was the only bright spot in her otherwise dismal day. As always, there’d been no card. The individual flowers, their stems tucked in micro-vases that held the precious water they needed, arrived on a more or less regular basis. This was the fourth—no, the fifth one. Sloan had joked about the first one.
“Maybe O’Malley learned you hate roses.”
Jerk!
She was convinced her secret admirer was sweet and maybe a little shy. For a while, she’d thought Jimmy might have been leaving the flowers for her, but he’d been out of town on assignment the last two times. At least Mr. Mysterious wasn’t some crazed stalker sending her death threats. It was good to know someone still admired her, and if the only romance in her life was a carnation four or five times a year, so be it. Her crushed heart wouldn’t be in any danger that way. She usually took the flowers home, but this time, she’d give it to Lucy Green. Why not? The woman deserved a bright spot in her day, too.
The neighborhood hadn’t changed much. Did someone ensure that the geraniums in the window boxes looked exactly the same from year to year? Was a gardener paid to fluff the petals just so? The geraniums she’d hung on her tiny balcony had more than one dead bloom that needed removing. These? Not one.
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