Praise for the Headlines in High Heels Mysteries
Books in the Headlines in High Heels Mystery Series
Sign up for Club Hen House | Henery Press updates
Copyright
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
About the Author
In Case You Missed the 1st Book in the Series
In Case You Missed the 2nd Book in the Series
Don’t Miss the 3rd Book in the Series
Don’t Miss the 4th Book in the Series
Sign up for Club Hen House | Henery Press updates
PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY
MURDER ON A SILVER PLATTER
Praise for the Headlines in High Heels Mysteries
DEVIL IN THE DEADLINE (#4)
“Walker’s journalistic background fuels her snappy dialogue, thrill-of-the-chase plotting, and A-List fashion sense. Headlines in High Heels is a top-notch cozy mystery series readers will enjoy slipping into.”
– Julia Spencer-Fleming,
New York Times Bestselling Author of Through the Evil Days
“Nichelle proves herself to be a standout. She has the cynicism of jaded police officers but also the hope of a champion and advocate for justice. Of course, a healthy sense of humor always helps. Readers who enjoy the outstanding novels of Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Edna Buchanan will find themselves similarly entertained by this stellar series.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“When the answers are all revealed, they come together in a nice little package that is wrapped up neatly for the reader. Even so, it leaves questions for Nichelle, which, I am sure, will be carried into the next book in this series. Recommended.”
– Any Good Book
SMALL TOWN SPIN (#3)
“A riveting mystery with big ideas and wonderful characters. Small Town Spin is a treat not to be missed, a fantastic addition to the Headlines in High Heels series.”
—Duffy Brown,
Agatha-Nominated Author of the Consignment Shop Mysteries
“Nichelle Clarke jumps headlong into any situation with courage and tenacity, not giving up until she gets the answers she wants.”
—Maggie Barbieri,
Author of Once Upon a Lie and the Murder 101 Mystery Series
BURIED LEADS (#2)
“Mafia hotties, corrupt politicians, old flames and murder…all this in her incisive exposés and her aubergine Manolo Blahniks. A smart and sassy heroine.”
—Patricia Smiley,
Bestselling Author of Cool Cache
“Intrepid reporter Nichelle Clarke is back again, tracking down a killer, sniffing out political corruption, and juggling studmuffin boyfriends—all in impossibly high heels. Very smartly written and cleverly plotted, with a nifty surprise ending!”
—Laura Levine,
Author of the Jaine Austen Mystery Series
“This book has a great mystery, a ton of humor (I know I’ve already said that, but it was worth repeating) and really wonderful characters...I really hope there are more books in this series.”
— CriminalElement.com
FRONT PAGE FATALITY (#1)
“Nicey’s adventure kept me guessing. Goes down as smooth as hot chocolate with whipped cream.”
—Alice Loweecey,
Author of the Giulia Driscoll Mystery Series
“Front Page Fatality is delightful, with engaging characters, a crackling good mystery, and of course, high, high heels. LynDee Walker writes with wit and intelligence and the confidence of a newsroom insider. What fun!”
—Harley Jane Kozak,
Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Award-Winning Author
“Fast, funny, [and] action-packed.”
—The Virginian-Pilot
Books in the Headlines in High Heels Mystery Series
by LynDee Walker
Novels
FRONT PAGE FATALITY (#1)
BURIED LEADS (#2)
SMALL TOWN SPIN (#3)
DEVIL IN THE DEADLINE (#4)
COVER SHOT (#5)
LETHAL LIFESTYLES (#6)
(Fall 2016)
Novellas
DATELINE MEMPHIS
(in HEARTACHE MOTEL)
Sign up for Club Hen House | Henery Press updates
and we’ll deliver the latest on new books, sale books, and pre-order books, plus all the #chickenchatter from the Authors of Henery Press.
CLICK TO SIGN UP
(Note: we won’t share your email address and you can unsubscribe any time.)
Copyright
COVER SHOT
A Headlines in High Heels Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition
Kindle edition | November 2015
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2015 by LynDee Walker
Cover art by Stephanie Chontos
Author photograph by Sarah Dabney-Reardon
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-23-6
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Gabriel, who can always make me laugh.
Never stop smiling. I love you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every time I open a blank file, I wonder if I can really turn all that whitespace into another novel. But no book is a solo project, even though there’s only one name on the cover.
Always, big thanks to the wonderful team at Henery Press: Erin, Kendel, and Rachel for making this a better story, Art for connecting readers with Nichelle’s world, and Stephanie for putting a pretty face on my words.
My favorite computer experts, Elliott Cutright and Andy Hallberg, thanks for explaining things in terms my not-very-technical brain could understand and use.
Gretchen and Ris, what would I do without you girls? Thanks so much for holding my hand through another one. Hugs.<
br />
One of the best things about this “job” is the writer friends I’ve made: Wendy Tyson, Susan O’Brien, Barb Goffman, Craig Lancaster, Art Taylor, Mollie Cox Bryan, Ellery Adams, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Laura Levine, and Mary Burton—thank you for offering advice, listening, and just being your wonderful selves.
The other best thing? The amazing readers. Thank you to everyone who’s come to an event or sent me an email or online message—knowing that you connect with the stories and the characters keeps me writing on the harder days. And special thanks to the Mystery Minions, definitely the most fun street team in all of cyberspace.
Julie Hallberg…well. Just, thank you. For all the things. None of this would be here without you, doll.
My littles, who I love with the fire of ten thousand suns: thank you, monkeys, for understanding when mommy needs to play with her imaginary friends. You are the best children any mom could ever ask for.
My husband, my partner in adventure, and my very best friend: thank you for believing in me, and helping me find time and motivation to finish this one. I love having you in my corner, and I love our life together. Always.
1.
Slow news jinx
Number one rule of local news: if it bleeds, it leads.
Rule number two? Timing is everything. When nothing is bleeding, reporters pay attention to things they might ordinarily ignore.
Like, for instance, the Twitter message flashing in the corner of my screen late on a quiet October afternoon.
TIME GROWS SHORT. THEY WILL PAY.
I slumped back in the chair in my little ivory cubicle at the Richmond Telegraph, my eyes scanning the words again.
Sure, every crime reporter in America has picked up a few nutjobs—the internet just makes it easier for them to find us. My habit of sticking my nose into some of my more tangled stories makes me a bit of a troll magnet, too. But three messages in two weeks, all in the same harsh all-caps characters, all just ominous enough to be interesting—my eyebrows jumped to my hairline as I scrolled back to reread the first two.
Thirteen days before, at 3:47 in the afternoon: SECRETS=DEATH. THEY WILL TALK.
Five days later, at 4:19: LOVE>MONEY. THEY WILL HELP.
They who? Pay for what? Help with what? Asking questions is my job, which works out nicely for my borderline-nosy nature. My fingers inched toward the keyboard, and I jerked them away.
Journalism in the age of the Internet 101: never engage with a creeper. Whoever LCX12 was, he had the upper hand, because he knew exactly who I was. And where I worked.
Two good reasons to stuff my fingers in my pockets and go back to blowing off the messages.
But the lack of anything better to do combined with a surge of what-if-itis (What if someone gets hurt? What if I can help?) kept my attention on the screen.
I clicked to the profile.
No name, no tweets to show, no followers or following.
Strike one.
I studied the handle: LCX12.
Initials? Couldn’t be but so many last names beginning with X. I clicked over to the DMV site (my paid subscription to their records service often comes in handy) and logged in. Search parameter: twenty miles around Richmond, last name, first letter. Find.
Thirty-nine matches. More than I hoped for, especially since I had no clue if this goose trail went anywhere.
No one would be so stupid as to send stuff like that from an account with their initials on it, my inner Lois Lane whispered.
Then again, criminals usually aren’t the smartest people drawing breath.
I copied the names into a file and checked birthdates: nine in December and three on the twelfth of another month.
I made another list for those, clicking back to the messages.
A few minutes of staring at them later, I reached for the phone, my fingers clumsy as I tried to dial a once-familiar number.
Kyle Miller.
A ring trilled in my ear. Deep breath. My long-ago ex had grown up to be a Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives SuperCop. The kind who’d saved my life more than once. And he no longer wanted to be my ex. Which would be great, absent one super-sexy boyfriend-type guy.
Kyle had kept his distance for weeks—nursing some emotional wounds after his physical ones healed, I figured—but he’d help. I hoped.
Fifth ring.
Voicemail.
Dammit.
“Kyle, it’s Nichelle.” I forced brightness into my voice. “I have a…situation here I could use your help with. Can you give me a call back when you have a second?” I tapped my pen on the desk. “Business. That’s all. This is weird.”
I hung up, unsure what was stranger—the vaguely threatening DMs or me being nervous about talking to Kyle. Kyle, who’d taught me to drive a stick, taken me to prom, and taken my virginity two months later.
Lacking help from my favorite ATF agent, I dialed my favorite police detective.
“I thought you’d forgotten about me,” Aaron White said when he picked up his cell.
“Slow news week.” I leaned back in my chair. “A nice seat in a courtroom, going home at dark—it’s been lovely. What’ve you been doing with yourself?”
“Working. I’m still buried in cases you’re not writing about anymore, when I’m not fielding reporters’ phone calls. The joy of budget cuts.”
“Preaching to the choir, Detective,” I said. Days at the courthouse covering trials are easier than ones spent poring over fresh crime scenes, but work is work. “I have something that might be interesting enough to talk about here, though. Wondering if I can pick your brain when you have a few minutes.”
“I’m tired of looking at this file.” Aaron’s voice held thinly disguised curiosity. “Want to grab a drink?”
“Perfect. Meet you at Capital Ale in twenty?”
My scanner bleeped just as an ear-splitting pop of static issued from something in Aaron’s office. I set the phone down and turned the scanner up.
“Remains discovered.” Shit.
I picked up the phone.
“Rain check?”
“Slow news week. You jinxed us,” Aaron growled. “That’s a condo complex on the river. See you there.”
“Sorry. I’ll buy you a beer after.”
“Two.”
“Deal.”
I clicked off the call and slung my bag over my shoulder, the messages taking a backseat to the first possibly newsworthy corpse we’d had in over two weeks.
So much for quiet.
2.
Homicide and haute couture
Every car in the parking lot without a Richmond Police Department insignia sported a European one, the October splendor of the James River’s tree line stretching beneath the high-rise’s walls of windows.
Views (and cars) like that come with hefty price tags.
I pulled out my BlackBerry and texted my editor: Save me a few inches. Got a corpse in the condos at Rockett’s Landing. Dead rich people get news space even when nothing sinister is afoot.
Almost instant reply: Will do, but I can’t hold the front. It’s expensive. Tick tock, kid.
I checked the clock. Forty-five minutes until they’d shoot page one.
Plenty of time. I hoped. I kicked open the door of my little red SUV and put one scarlet Louboutin on the concrete, nodding to Dan Kessler from WRVA. He didn’t respond, but since he didn’t have eyes for much of anything but his makeup mirror, I wasn’t offended.
I strolled toward the uniformed sentry at the head of the round driveway.
“No ma’am, I cannot tell you when we’ll have our mess picked up,” the officer, who couldn’t have been more than a week out of the academy with his fresh face and starched shirt, explained to a tall, thi
n woman with gorgeous blonde hair that could’ve been dyed to match the dog tucked under her left arm.
“I have guests coming at seven.” She waved a hand toward the coroner’s van. “This will make them uncomfortable, to say the least.”
I hung two steps behind her and clicked out a pen. The sunlight glinted off her Chanel sunglasses, making me reach for my Kate Spade ones.
The cop shot me a pleading look over her shoulder and I shrugged. Then his eyes skipped over the press credentials hanging from my neck and rolled skyward. I could almost hear the “frying pan, fire” in his head.
Turns out, a pissed-off socialite is even less appealing to your average cop than a reporter. After twelve more seconds of grilling from her, he straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat, trying for an air of authority his round, friendly face wasn’t suited to.
“We can’t rush a murder investigation for a dinner party,” he said. “We apologize for any inconvenience our presence may cause. You may go up to your apartment anytime.”
Murder investigation? Hot damn. I clicked out my pen and pretended to doodle.
Ms. Social Network opened her mouth to reply and he stepped past her, giving me a guarded look and a grudging, “Can I help you?”
“Nichelle Clarke, Richmond Telegraph.” I stuck my hand out and opened my mouth to ask if Aaron had arrived yet when Ms. Social Network stepped in front of me, her eyes still on the cop.
Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) Page 1
