Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5)

by LynDee Walker

  “Like Elizabeth?”

  He nodded.

  “Something I didn’t notice about her until my own wife pointed it out to me was that she never had many girlfriends. But she was first to volunteer to go play racquetball or grab a beer after work—with the guys. She was cool. Easy. She liked writing whatever pieces anyone offered, so she said, but what she really wanted was the society page. She started staying late when Herman did. He was moping and didn’t want to go home to a house full of kids and chaos and a beautiful wife he thought was ignoring him on purpose. Elizabeth was right there with a beer and a sympathetic ear. She listened to him. Laughed at his jokes. She was a beacon of no responsibility. And then the Berlin Wall came down, and Herman wanted to go handle it himself instead of letting the wire feed it to us.” Larry laughed at my furrowed brow.

  “Ah, the heydays. Fat newspapers and not a block in town that didn’t have a three-quarters or better sub rate. He barely had to wheedle the publisher. They put him on the next plane. Didn’t even blink when he asked if Elizabeth could go with him. He lied to Sophia and told her he was taking me. I’ve always resented him a little for that. She was a fine lady.”

  “Elizabeth wasn’t a photographer.”

  “I wasn’t going to sleep with him.”

  “Touché.”

  “They got drunk in the hotel bar and she asked him into her room. I’ll give you three guesses where they ended up, and the first two don’t count.” Larry shook his head. “But—so the story goes—the next morning Herman jumped up in a full-on, I’m-so-stupid-what-the-fuck-have-I-done-here panic. Elizabeth told him she’d forget all about it if he gave her the society page. So he did.”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets, leaning into the wind. “Burying that sort of secret is never as easy as people think.”

  Larry nodded. “Herman wasn’t an asshole. He was a good guy who did a stupid thing. The guilt put a canyon between him and Sophia. Both of them were miserable. She was scared out of her mind, just knew he was having an affair, and he was killing himself with scotch because he couldn’t stand lying to her. That’s where I came in.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  He sighed. “We were drunk. It was Christmas, and we still had parties where the paper paid for bartenders and the whole nine. It got late. Bob, Herman, their wives, me, and a couple other guys who are long gone now, were sitting around telling war stories. Bob made a crack about Herman always snapping up the plum assignments for himself, especially when they involved foreign travel. And Sophia turned to me and said, ‘How did you like Germany, Larry?’”

  Ah.

  “And I said, ‘I’ll tell you if I ever get to go.’”

  Ha.

  “You could’ve heard a flea fart.”

  I laughed in spite of the heavy feeling in my stomach. I knew how much Bob adored his wife. Still, so many years after her death.

  “Everything went to hell?” I asked.

  “It took Bob and Grace fourteen seconds to read what was going on. Herman just started bawling and saying he was lonely and he was so miserable and angry and it didn’t mean anything. Sophia stared at him for a minute before she threw her drink in his face. Italian, if you couldn’t tell by her name.”

  I nodded, and Larry kept talking. “Bob jumped up and called his hero a miserable bastard and took the women home. I was so sloshed, it was over by the time I figured out what had happened.”

  “But she still worked here?”

  “Herman left that spring. Sophia said she could forgive him, but she couldn’t stand him being in the same room with Elizabeth. So they moved. To San Francisco.”

  “And Bob got promoted.”

  “A no-brainer, after his piece on the Klan won the Pulitzer. He hated Elizabeth, though. Tried everything he could to get her out of the newsroom. Begged friends to offer her jobs in other cities. Right, wrong, or indifferent, he believed she destroyed his friendship with Herman, and he resented her for it.”

  “I see.” And I did. Larry’s scornful tone notwithstanding, I flat lacked ability to identify with Ms. Herrington: I’d run the Boston Marathon in stilettos before I’d go out drinking with a married man—and forget letting one into a hotel room. I have plenty of guy friends, but there’s a big, fat line between friendly and fire-playing, and hotel rooms sit on the warm side of it.

  I understood why Bob disliked this woman. Then again, I also got his disappointment in Kochanski. No wonder it was still a sore spot.

  One finger drummed against my thigh, my thoughts returning to Dr. Maynard. “I know she was here for a long time after that, though. Years later, she wrote a story I read this morning.”

  Larry nodded. “She knew how much Bob loathed her, and she kind of got off on it. Said she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of quitting.”

  Wow. “She could give Shelby a run for her money. And that takes a special kind of b—Um. Person.” I stopped walking, leaning against the chilly blocks of a nineteenth-century art deco wall and sighing. “So there’s no one in the newsroom who can tell me if she ever mentioned my guy.”

  Larry shrugged. “You could go ask her.”

  “Bob told me to find another source. After what you just said, I’m slightly afraid he might fire me for that.”

  He snorted. “I’d say never, but…He really did hate that woman. She finally managed to land a rich husband, which is why she wanted the society page in the first place.”

  I nodded, turning back toward the office. On one hand, I didn’t want to meet this awful woman Larry had described. And I didn’t want to even risk opening such a deep wound for Bob.

  On the other, I needed some kind of lead—any kind of lead—on Dr. Maynard.

  Couldn’t hurt to know where to look if I ended up with no other choice.

  “You don’t happen to know her married name, do you?”

  “Eason. He was a suit of some flavor.”

  Eason. As in, Mrs. Eason who was planning Maynard’s funeral?

  Jiminy. Choos.

  8.

  Society scoop

  Larry asked me thirty-seven times between the corner and the elevator what was the matter with me. I couldn’t say. Not even really because I didn’t want to share the lead, although that was part of it. Mostly, I couldn’t make my mouth work with my brain running on fast-forward.

  What the hell kind of woman was this? Could our old society editor be Richmond’s very own Black Widow? Maybe it was a good thing Bob’s friend had moved three thousand miles away. Not just for his marriage, but for his ability to keep breathing.

  I rushed to my desk and typed “Elizabeth Eason” into my search bar.

  More than three hundred hits. Clicking to the photos, I studied her nose. Larry was right about the shape, but I pulled an old staff photo from Elizabeth Herrington’s society column to compare anyway. It was her.

  I scrolled through images, mostly from our society pages. Fly on the wall to belle of the ball.

  Mrs. Eason and her husband—tall, with thick white hair and the distinguished look handsome men get as they age that’s so damned unfair—were in photos of every major gala given in Richmond in the nine-year period between when she married him and when he died. Another click took me to her name in Shelby’s story about the circumstances surrounding his death. She found the body. Not damning by itself, but worth looking into.

  Why the cops hadn’t looked at her harder topped my list of questions, but I didn’t dare call Aaron and ask about Maynard’s maybe-girlfriend. He’d freeze me out of the whole investigation if I wasn’t careful.

  Who else might know?

  I snatched up the phone and dialed my favorite prosecutor’s cell number. My friend DonnaJo answered on the second ring.

  “Tell me you’re writing about something interesting. I’m so tired of lo
oking at misdemeanor crap I’m going to claw my own eyes out,” she said in place of hello.

  Funny thing about working in law enforcement: while you dislike criminals, you kind of depend on them. Same goes for crime reporting. Murders are awful, but they’re a lot more intriguing than a bunch of kids who got caught with some weed behind the 7-Eleven.

  “I’ve got a homicide that’s stranger than average, if the way Aaron and Landers are clamming up about the investigation is any clue,” I said. “Vic used to be a bigshot doctor at RAU Medical Center. Taught oncology at the med school, too.”

  “Fantastic. Well, not for him. But you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed. I’m currently curious about his neighbors. He lived in that big steel and glass condo complex down at Rockett’s Landing, and the lady down the hall is planning his funeral. Her husband died under mysterious circumstances last Christmas.”

  “Trying to run down a lead no one else has, huh?”

  “Always. It keeps me employed. Which pays for my shoe habit. Leads equal shoes. Ones nobody else has are best, on both counts.”

  “I take it she wasn’t arrested in the husband’s death?”

  “Nope. What I’d like to know is why.”

  “And you don’t want to ask the people who, you know, make the arrests, because…?”

  “Aaron’s being weird about this one. I usually get decent access in a murder investigation, but this guy—nothing. Not even the basics that go in a press release.”

  “The police report is public information.” A note of curiosity entered DonnaJo’s perfect soprano.

  “They claim it’s not done. They have seven days to file it, but then everyone else will have whatever they don’t redact, and I don’t want to spend a week fighting with Aaron about it. I can find the information on my own. Staying ahead of Charlie has the bonus of keeping the publisher off Bob’s ass these days, which makes me happy.”

  “Gotcha. What’s the name?”

  “The dead husband or the widow?”

  “Either. Both. Whatever.”

  “Eason.”

  “Richard Eason, the coal tycoon?”

  “Found on a bike trail down by the river.”

  “Yep. That’s him.” I heard computer keys clicking. “I was supposed to be at the funeral, but I had court that day. My folks were friends with him. A long time ago. My mother hated his new wife.”

  Oh really, now? “How come?” I didn’t bother to try for casual. DonnaJo knew me too well.

  She laughed. “Social climber. My mom said she was a real bitch, too. Fake, only interested in what people could do for her. But my mom and Mrs. Eason—the first one—were tight, so her opinion could be jaded.”

  Maybe, but it fit with Larry’s story. I scrunched my nose. I hadn’t set eyes on Elizabeth Eason for more than ten minutes, and I didn’t like her.

  “How’d she end up with this guy? Did they say?”

  “His wife died, and he was torn up. Seriously devastated. They were that cute little couple who stays in love forever, you know?”

  I nodded, thinking about how much Bob still missed Grace.

  “He met this woman at some social event, had a couple of drinks, and was nice to her—says my mother—and she kind of attached herself to him and didn’t let go. Six months later, she stepped right into Mrs. Eason’s shoes.”

  “What did your dad say?”

  “That Mr. Eason told him she was great in the sack. Something about extraordinary jaw muscles. He didn’t tell me that, mind you. I heard him say it to my mom.”

  “I’m sure that was a fun conversation for her.”

  “She said she was going to vomit and told him to shut up.”

  I laughed. DonnaJo’s mother was a card-carrying member of the DAR, a timeless beauty with the kind of genteel grace that seems bred into women from old-money southern families. I couldn’t imagine her having a conversation about anything racier than the cover of the Junior League’s Christmas cookbook.

  DonnaJo kept clicking keys. I stayed quiet for a second.

  “Nothing here. We never even got a file on his death,” she said finally. “What did the ME say?”

  “Heart attack.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “He was in great shape. He was a basketball player in his UVA days, and an Army vet, and he worked out four times a week for, like, ever. He was my dad’s running partner.”

  “Interesting.” My inner Lois Lane agreed.

  “I know stuff like that can happen to anyone, but that’s…weird.”

  “It is indeed.” I twisted the phone cord around my finger, thanking DonnaJo for her help.

  She sighed. “It doesn’t seem I had much to offer today, but you’re certainly welcome. Go see what you can find out. And Nichelle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep me posted.”

  I hung up and dialed Aaron. While I wasn’t letting any of my own leads slip, I needed to know what—if anything—he was saying about the investigation.

  “You ready to talk yet?” I asked when he barked a hello.

  “Talk in the general sense? Sure. I hear the new Denzel movie is fantastic.” His smirk practically dripped out of the phone.

  I rolled my eyes. “Noted. But I’m wondering if you’re inclined to give me any more on this murder victim. Name?”

  “No comment.”

  “Come on, Aaron.”

  Three beats of silence, followed by a sigh. “I really am sorry. I can’t release it yet.” Which meant asking him to confirm it was Maynard might just get me yelled at.

  “But…why?” The words popped out on autoplay, my brain whirling ahead to my story. Charlie wouldn’t run the name without confirmation. So I’d sit on it for another day or two.

  “I’m still trying to figure that out myself,” Aaron said. “Let me know if you dig up a reason, huh?”

  I dropped the phone back to its cradle, leaning back in the chair. “What a mess.”

  “What’s a mess?” The familiar tenor came from behind me, and I managed a half-smile for my favorite sports columnist.

  “The Middle East,” I said, sitting up and spinning the chair to face my friend Grant Parker.

  “True. Though I’m pretty sure it’s about seven thousand miles outside our coverage area,” Parker said, the arched brow over one bright emerald eye telling me I wasn’t fooling him. “I assumed you were lamenting a local mess. Need a sounding board?”

  Yes. But I didn’t want this getting around until I had a better handle on it.

  “I’ll holler when I do,” I promised. “I don’t have enough pieces of this puzzle yet. But thanks.”

  He nodded, leaning against the doorway to my cube and folding his arms across his chest.

  I blinked expectantly, but he stayed quiet.

  “You waiting for Mel?” I asked finally. It was five thirty, and Parker’s girlfriend was our city hall reporter. Her cube was next to mine.

  “Zoning meeting. Probably won’t be over until late.” A drop in his tone set off a warning bell in my head.

  “What’s up?”

  “Maybe I could use a sounding board of my own today.” Parker’s voice quivered and he pulled in a deep breath, closing his eyes.

  Something was shaking the unshakeable Grant Parker?

  I nodded and offered an apologetic smile. “I have a couple of things to wrap up, but if you want to hang out for a bit, we could grab a drink?”

  “I could use one.” He took a step backward. “Text me when you’re ready to go.”

  I back-burnered the nervous look in his normally supremely confident green eyes and opened a blank file, resting my fingers on the keys and debating how much I wanted to give away.

 
Richmond police are still searching for clues in the death of a man whose body was discovered in a condo overlooking the James River Tuesday afternoon.

  Detectives haven’t released the man’s name pending notification of next of kin, but they suspect foul play. Wednesday, a source with knowledge of the investigation said there was bruising around the victim’s neck.

  I recapped the scant details of the day before and finished with a plea for anyone with information to call Crimestoppers.

  Channel Four’s website told me Charlie had less than nothing. Her latest story, posted after one, sent my eyes rolling heavenward as I scanned the copy. “Pissed-off residents? Really?” Blah. Score one for the newspaper.

  Clicking open an email, I sent my story to Bob with a note that no one else had suspected cause of death.

  I thumbed through my notes to make sure there wasn’t a trial I’d forgotten, then scanned the day’s new police reports. Two fender benders, a drunk driver, and a domestic violence call. Nothing worthy of space in the middle of a murder investigation.

  I put my index finger on the top edge of the screen, pausing before I flipped it shut.

  I shouldn’t look.

  But Andrews probably would, and I had less than no desire to be blindsided this week.

  Tapping the monitor back to life, I punched in the address for River City 411, a blog written by wannabe reporter and former RPD dispatcher Alexa Reading, alias Girl Friday (or my personal pet name: Gigantic Pain in My Ass).

  She’d posted about the body in the condos at noon, well after everyone else in town had reported on it. Good. I clicked the post and found paraphrasing of my story and Charlie’s, plus a few thinly-veiled conspiracy hints, suggesting Charlie and I were in the PD’s back pocket.