Hot, Shot, and Bothered

by Nora McFarland

  Praise for Nora McFarland’s

  A Bad Day’s Work

  “Welcome to Nora McFarland and her unforgettable heroine, Lilly, who’s as lovably dysfunctional as any character you’ll ever read! She’s funny, smart, and honest, albeit occasionally tactless—in short, fully human. Packed full of adrenaline and attitude, A Bad Day’s Work is a roller-coaster ride of a mystery. Don’t miss it!”

  —Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author of Look Again

  “A wonderful debut novel! Action packed, with a heroine who’s sure to win your heart.”

  —Marcia Muller, New York Times bestselling author

  “McFarland, herself a former ‘shooter’ for a Bakersfield TV station, nails the newsroom as well as her feisty, funny accidental sleuth . . .”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “McFarland’ debut, the first in a planned series, is often both amusing and touching as Lilly discovers both the truth about the murder and enough about herself to change her life.”

  —Kirkus

  “Former Bakersfield camerawoman McFarland clearly knows her technical stuff. . . . McFarland has an appealingly flawed protagonist here, and fans of Julie Kramer’ Minneapolis TV reporter, Riley Spatz, will likely take to Lilly, too.”

  —Booklist

  “More than a compelling mystery—it’s a unique glimpse into the life of a small-town television news photographer. The story of Lilly Hawkins of Bakersfield, California, may be fiction, but the author’s fresh voice and careful attention to detail make the intrigue real. . . . The next installment of this excellent new series can’t come soon enough.”

  —BookPage

  “Readers don’t know what McFarland’s characters are going to do next, and that gives us a reason to keep turning the pages.”

  —Southern Literary Review

  “What makes this book a winner is the honest-to-goodness funniness offered by first-time author Nora McFarland. Hers is a refreshing kind of humor and it’s the key element that drives this fast-paced story about a feisty young TV photographer who solves the crime.”

  —Bakersfield Californian

  “A breath of fresh air to the world of lighthearted mysteries, Nora McFarland offers readers a charming new series. . . . Off the wall in the best way, McFarland never lets you see what is coming as one crazy antic swiftly follows another. The sequel to this excellent debut will be worth the wait.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  Also by Nora McFarland

  A Bad Day’s Work

  Touchstone

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Nora McFarland

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Touchstone trade paperback edition August 2011

  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Designed by Renata Di Biase

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McFarland, Nora.

  Hot, shot, and bothered / Nora McFarland.

  p. cm.

  “A Touchstone book.”

  1. Photojournalists—Fiction.

  2. Women photographers—Fiction.

  3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction.

  4. Wildfires—Fiction.

  5. California—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.C4395H68 2011

  813'.6—dc22 2011006865

  ISBN 978-1-4391-5556-1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7234-6 (ebook)

  For Molly and Lucy

  Although Lilly Hawkins’s hometown of Bakersfield, California, is a real place, the setting of Lake Elizabeth is completely fictional. Some residents of Southern California may recognize similarities to Lake Isabella near the Sequoia National Forest, but except for a shared proximity to Bakersfield, there is no connection. Mt. Terrill, Lake Elizabeth, their residents, and their way of life have been completely made up by me. The University of California’s White Mountain Research Station is a real facility, but it and its satellite stations are almost 150 miles northeast of Bakersfield. Please forgive my artistic license.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  ONE

  Thursday, 6:25 p.m.

  I saw the coroner’s van and stopped talking midsentence.

  We were parked on the side of the road just before the flatness of California’s Central Valley met the wall of mountains known as the Sierra Nevada. I was putting away equipment following my reporter’s live broadcast at the top of the six-o’clock news. I’d already worked a full day shooting video on the wildfire burning in the mountains and wanted to go home. Of course seeing the coroner’s van changed my priorities.

  I’m a TV news photographer—nicknamed a shooter in the industry—at KJAY in Bakersfield. I’m the only female shooter in town and one of only a handful of female chief photogs in the country. Aside from light administrative duties relating to the shooters, my title means I’m salaried and always on call. Nights, weekends, holidays—I’ve always got a camera just in case we need backup for the backup. That works for me because I’m a bit of a breaking-news junkie.

  At the time I saw the coroner’s van, my reporter was inside the live truck editing video. Leanore didn’t see what was coming down the road and consequently misjudged the reason for my abrupt silence.

  “I know you don’t like talking about your personal life,” she called through the open side doors of the truck. “But you and Rod are a great couple. I think it’s entirely possible he’d stay in Bakersfield to be with you.”

  A Sheriff’s Department cruiser followed the coroner’s van. Blasts of hot, dry air hit my face as each sped past.

  “I know he has to move on to a bigger TV market if he’s serious about his career,” she continued. “And I know he’s never lived in a small town before, but I think he really loves you, Lilly.”

  I watched the vehicles disappear into the canyon. Above the mountains, a mushroom cloud of smoke rose from the wildfire. I turned and looked in the opposite direction.

  We were fifteen miles from town. The dark green rows of an irrigated orchard popped against the pale brown earth. In the distance, the scorching summer heat created translucent waves
in the air, but there were no people or cars. I was the only one there to see the coroner’s van.

  I dropped the cable I’d carefully been coiling. A surge of adrenaline carried me into the live truck in one jump. My hand shook as I rushed to hit the buttons and switches necessary to shut down the truck.

  Leanore glanced up. She was editing video at a small built-in desk. Her auburn hair swayed in the blast from a portable fan. “Lilly, did you hear what I said?”

  I killed the generator. The fan and everything else died. “No.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Leanore Drucker is one of the few people I look forward to working with. Already a grandmother of three, she’d fashioned a second career for herself as our TV station’s historical reporter. Despite an almost thirty-year age difference between us, she was probably the closest thing I had to a friend. I didn’t say my next words lightly. “Get out.”

  She jerked in surprise. “What?”

  “Get out of the truck, now.”

  I jumped back out and ran to my camera and other equipment. I scooped up what I could and rushed it to the truck.

  Leanore retreated into the rear as twenty feet of coaxial cable flew at her. “Lilly, what’s going on?”

  “The coroner’s van just drove into the mountains headed for Lake Elizabeth.” My cell phone started ringing in the overstuffed pockets of my cargo pants. I ignored it. “I think someone’s dead up at the fire.”

  I hurried to retrieve the last of our equipment. Before running back, I glanced at the slowly sinking pole on top of our live truck. At the top of this mast was the microwave dish that sent a live signal back to KJAY. For safety reasons I couldn’t drive until it had completely collapsed.

  Leanore stepped out of my way as I leapt into the truck. She had her cell phone out. “Should I call Callum?”

  “He’s already calling us.” I stored my camera and then answered the still-ringing phone in my own pocket. “What?”

  “We lost your signal.” Callum was our station’s assignment manager and in charge of newsgathering. He’d been working in Bakersfield for more than twenty years and was famous for his depth of knowledge, unrelenting crankiness, and one long, hairy eyebrow that stretched across his forehead. “Was I somehow not clear? The producer wants a shot of the smoke over the mountains for the closing credits. You got two minutes to get your signal back up.”

  “Tell him to use something else. I have breaking news.” I took Leanore’s blazer off the back of her chair and forced it into her hands. “And then send someone for Leanore.”

  “What?” Callum and Leanore said at the same time, although Leanore with a great deal more alarm.

  “Someone needs to pick her up.” I strapped the chair to the wall and pushed the rest of the cable under the desk. “She’s at the base of the canyon.”

  “Lilly,” Leanore began. “I don’t—”

  “Get out.” I jumped into the driver’s seat up front.

  “But, Lilly—”

  “You have five seconds or you’re going to be stuck riding all the way up to Lake Elizabeth with me.” Leanore and her weekly feature stories on local history were great, but she was not a hard-news reporter. She’d only worked the wildfire that day because we were so shorthanded. “You really want to get stuck on breaking news with me for the rest of the night?”

  “But you can’t go all the way back up there. You’ll—”

  I pointed into the back. “And take the tape you were editing for the eleven. I might not be back by then.” The light turned green on the rack of equipment indicating the mast was down. I started the truck’s ignition and put it in drive.

  “Wait, wait. I’m getting out.” Leanore hit eject on the editor and then grabbed the tape.

  “Shut the door,” I yelled.

  She got out as quickly as her arthritis would allow and then slammed the side doors shut. I hit the gas.

  “Callum,” I yelled into the phone. “I only have a few seconds before I lose cell reception. Send someone for Leanore. She’s—”

  I slammed on the brakes. I wasn’t on the road yet and a giant cloud of dirt erupted around the truck. “Just a minute.” I dropped the phone and put the truck in park. I climbed into the rear, found what I was looking for, then opened the side door.

  Leanore ran up. “Lilly, what on earth—”

  “Here.” I threw her purse at her.

  “But you—”

  I slammed the door shut and then jumped back into the front seat.

  “I only have a few seconds.” I put the phone on speaker and then buckled my seat belt. “A Sheriff’s Department cruiser just went up the canyon going seventy.”

  “So?” Callum’s voice cut in and out, but his impatience came through loud and clear. “Every government agency in Southern California is up there working the fire.”

  I floored it across the road and drove straight for the canyon. “They were following the coroner’s van.”

  He gasped. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. What about the scanners? Have you heard anything? Is there trouble at the fire line?”

  “No, but—”

  His voice cut off, followed by a noise from my cell phone telling me I’d lost the signal. “Crud.”

  I tried to catch up with the cruiser and the van, but the boxy live truck was too unwieldy for any sustained speed on the twisty canyon road. Even a regular KJAY news van, which was really just an old minivan covered in the station’s logo, would have been more nimble. Things weren’t helped by the increase in traffic coming down the mountain. Earlier in the day there had only been a trickle of cars heeding the voluntary evacuation, but now a steady stream of vehicles were packed to the roof with their owners’ belongings.

  I had the entire drive to question the swell in traffic, but it barely crossed my mind. My only real thought was catching the coroner’s van and being the first to break the story.

  Dominating coverage of the wildfire hadn’t been a problem when we’d been competing with other Bakersfield news outlets. Then earlier in the week, the winds had violently shifted and two firefighters with the US Forest Service were killed. Larger TV stations had begun making the almost three-hour drive from L.A. Their superior technology allowed them to go live and feed recorded video from almost anywhere in the mountains—something our less advanced equipment couldn’t do.

  But if there’d been another death, and I could break the story first, my little Bakersfield station would earn some much needed bragging rights and a huge morale boost.

  The air in the van became increasingly bitter the higher I drove. Soon I was forced to flip on my headlights. We were still at least forty-five minutes from sunset, but the dome of smoke over the mountains turned daylight into a continuous and dreary twilight.

  I caught up with the Sheriff’s Department cruiser just as the road crested and the view opened on Elizabeth Valley. This should have been a stunning vision of clear blue water, dazzling mountains, and sunny skies.

  Instead, Mt. Terrill rose into a black sky congested with the flashing lights of helicopters and planes. Below the mountain, the body of water known as Lake Elizabeth had been polluted with gray sludge from all the ash and soot.

  I reminded myself the view could have been worse. So far the fire had remained on the other side of the mountain. Most of the air traffic was either coming or going from dropping water and fire retardant there. Hopefully the hundreds of fire-suppression personnel working day and night would be able to contain it soon.

  My cell phone made the familiar sound letting me know I was back in range, then immediately started ringing. I hit the speaker button and set the phone in a cup holder. “I just cleared the canyon and I’m following the Sheriff’s Department cruiser. The coroner’s van must have gotten ahead.”

  “The death’s not fire-related.” Callum sounded as if his dog had died.

  I sounded only slightly less disappointed. “Oh, man. Are you sure?”

  “It’s an accide
ntal drowning.”

  “Damn!” Viewers care more about some deaths than others. It may not be polite to say it out loud, but in the middle of a deadly wildfire, an accidental drowning was a big, giant nothing.

  “But all I’ve got are rumors at this point,” Callum said. “Everyone’s working on the fire. Things are confused and no one is returning my calls.”

  “Then maybe you’re wrong.”

  “Not likely, but check it out. If it’s a drowning, pick up a VO/ SOT for the eleven.”

  VO refers to video that plays underneath an anchor or reporter talking. It’s also called B-roll and is really just background images. SOT is a sound bite or interview. Together, a VO/SOT makes a quick story, read live by the anchor and not edited into a package the way a longer, more important piece would be.

  “I already made the drive,” I said. “I might as well get something.”

  I hung up. The cruiser took the next exit for the Lake Road. This older boulevard made a full circle around the sixty miles of shoreline, but was a slower and more difficult way to travel than the highway.

  I tried to follow, but sawhorses blocked my way. An officer got out of a California Highway Patrol cruiser and came to the driver’s-side window. The CHP had jurisdiction over roads and interstates in California, as well as being the official state police. Despite that, they were probably best known from the 1970s television show CHiPs. This officer didn’t look like Erik Estrada, but he did have a mustache.

  “Are you keeping drivers off the Lake Road?” I asked.

  “I can’t comment on that, but the detective who just came through okayed you to follow him.” He gestured ahead. “They’re going to Search and Rescue headquarters at the southern end of the lake.”

  I wasn’t surprised I’d been cleared to go in. Blocking media access for a story like this would have been unusual. Drownings are typically held up by law enforcement as cautionary tales to prevent future tragedies.

  What did surprise me was the roadblock itself. “Do you have roadblocks at every entrance to the Lake Road?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But that’s a huge effort. Normally the Elizabeth PD only cordons off near where the victim drowned.” I had an idea and eagerly leaned out the window trying to look toward the lake. “Is it a hazmat situation? Has something toxic gotten in the water?”