IT'S JUST
A LITTLE CRUSH
A Lizzie Hart Mystery
Caroline Fardig
Excerpt from That Old Black Magic copyright © 2013 by 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.
IT’S JUST A LITTLE CRUSH Copyright © 2013 by Caroline Fardig
Smashwords Edition
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Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Karen Franklin for reading my first draft and very first attempt at writing, such as it was, and still encouraging me to follow my dream; Lisa Hart-Gray for editing the (almost) final draft; and Jennifer Vinson for lending her lovely eyes for the original print cover.
Special thanks to my husband, Matt Fardig, for proofreading after countless rewrites, for listening to me whine and stress over formatting, and especially for not being afraid to tell me, after reading some of my characters’ dialogue, “No man would ever say that in real life.”
This book is dedicated to my children, who are not allowed to read it until they’re older.
CHAPTER ONE
It’s time. 9:07 AM. Against my better judgment, I allow myself to steal a quick glance at the door. The sight of a shadow hovering outside throws my stomach into a spasm, clenching, twisting, and tossing my breakfast mercilessly, the wave of nausea leaving me a little light-headed. My heart is banging against my ribcage so hard it may just crack a rib. I should breathe. In, out, in, out. Great, that didn’t help. Now I think I may be hyperventilating. Maybe I should hold my breath. Ooh, now I’m dizzy. I nervously wipe a shaking hand across my forehead, and it comes back soaked with sweat. Gross. As the doorknob turns, a shot of pure adrenaline courses through my veins, causing random body parts to twitch and quiver uncontrollably. In short, I am a hot mess.
You’d think some earth-shattering event is going on or something. Well, it’s not. I’m not in the middle of diffusing a bomb or running from the mob, or anything cool like that. No, I’m just sitting here at my desk waiting for HIM to walk through the door. Know what’s really lame? I’m not even sure he knows I exist. I can count on one hand the number of conversations I’ve had with him, most of them monosyllabic on my part, because I can’t seem to form a complete sentence in his presence. You have to understand—I’m really not a loser. Really, I’m not.
The door swings open, and I inadvertently let a little giggle escape. What am I, back in junior high? This is getting embarrassing. Am I, Lizzie Hart, a grown woman of twenty-six years, seriously going to let a man I barely know get me this excited? Yes, yes I am. Before I can compose myself, a figure steps through the doorway, and there HE is…Blake Morgan. Right on time—well, so to speak. Why he is exactly seven minutes late every day, I don’t know. Maybe he just wants to make an entrance—and does he ever! Wait. Oh, it’s happening again. Why has the room suddenly screeched into slow motion as he struts his sexy self past me? Where is the fan that is breezily blowing his shiny brown hair, only to have it fall perfectly into place by the time he reaches his desk? And where is that pulsating music coming from? I glance around. Everyone else seems to be doing their normal work thing, oblivious to the shift in the space-time continuum that’s going on here. Am I to believe that I’m the only person in this office affected this way? As I hang my head in shame I realize that yes, yes I am.
It always takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust back into focus after my daily Blake-vision episode. A little too late, I notice some movement out of the corner of my eye and realize in horror that Blake himself is walking straight toward my desk. Get a grip, Lizzie! Oh, crap. Here comes the blushing. Every time I am the least bit embarrassed or caught off guard I turn ten kinds of red, and I’m powerless to stop it. Breathe, girl! It’s your only hope! Don’t panic—he’s probably only going to ask you a simple work question. Everyone knows he’s seeing someone, although no one seems to know who, so surely he can’t be thinking about me romantically or sizing me up in any way. Chill out! I scramble to appear busy and important as he walks…past my desk and starts talking to another co-worker about some game from last night. Oh. I really hoped he was going to stop by because he needed me.
Thoroughly disappointed, I turn back to my computer and begin scanning through my emails. I wonder what grammatically-challenged, boring news stories I’m going to get to proofread today. Don’t get me wrong—I love being the copy editor for the Liberty Chronicle, and without my co-workers’ poor sentence structure and numerous typos, I’d be out of a job. What I really have an issue with is the lack of actual news in our newspaper, not that it’s the reporters’ fault. Liberty is a tiny, mind-numbingly boring Midwestern town where nothing EVER happens. Ever. Front-page news around here is when someone’s cow has a calf. Seriously. That was last week’s headline.
Before I can settle on which journalistic gem to read first, I’m interrupted by my co-worker, Hannah Stewart, whom I can hear shouting into her phone from all the way across the room. Not being one to miss out on some office drama, I decide to listen in on her increasingly angry phone conversation. I look up, finding I’m not the only one.
“You’ve made it clear that you don’t care for me, Mr. Harper, but I just need a moment of your time.” Standing at her desk, Hannah has her phone receiver in a death grip and looks like she’s ready to crawl through the phone and crawl up the ass of the person on the other end. I notice that my best friend Julia Simmons and our sportswriter Hank Abshire are also eavesdropping on her call, a practice widely accepted because it’s impossible to control in this office. Having been built almost a century ago, the Chronicle’s office building was not designed with today’s need for workplace privacy in mind, and I don’t think anything’s been changed or renovated since. There are no cubicles or dividers of any kind between our desks, which leads to a great deal of everybody being up in everyone else’s business. Today is an excellent example.
“But I just wanted to ask you a few ques—” Hannah says loudly into the phone.
“About your cows, I just want to—” She gets cut off again, growling under her breath and pounding her fist on her desk in frustration, completely out of character for our sweet Hannah. This caller must have her torqued.
Julia and Hank are mimicking Hannah’s angry gestures behind her back. The two of them are my favorite co-workers. Julia and I have been best friends since high school, and we have always done everything together—well, up until about a month ago when she got married. I get that she needs to spend time with her new husband, but I am in some serious need of a girls’ night out right about now. Hank is our resident sports nut—a big, hulking former football player with a shaved head. He looks totally intimidating, but is really just a big old teddy bear. He has a hilarious one-liner for every situation (I call them Hank-isms) and has made it his mission in life to keep our office the liveliest one in town. Of course, I make a beeline for the two of them so I can join in the fun.
“Why won’t you answer anything I—” Hannah yells, grabbing a handful of her blond hai
r in frustration.
“I’ll see what?” she shrieks as she whirls around, eyes wide. Upon this outburst, Julia and Hank both double over with laughter, clutching their stomachs. Hannah puts her hand over the phone and shushes them furiously.
“Who’s she talking to?” I ask Julia, perching myself on the edge of her desk. She and Hank are still cackling, eyes streaming with tears. Julia holds up one finger while trying to quiet her laughing long enough to give me an answer.
“Aaarrggh!” growls Hannah as she slams the phone down not once, not twice, but three times before plopping down into her chair. “I am done with this assignment. I’m getting nowhere! Do you know what he just said to me?”
“That he wants you to be his cow queen?” says Julia between giggles.
“That he wants to take you for a roll in the hay?” chortles Hank.
“Who wants to take you for a roll in the hay?” I ask, smiling.
After giving us each a dirty look, Hannah replies, “That lunatic Samuel Harper! I asked him a simple question as to whether he was using any unfair practices with his kids’ cattle in order to win at the county fair next week, and he starts ranting at me, ‘Little lady, you are going to see the wrong end of a cattle prod if you don’t keep your nose where it belongs!’”
As Julia, Hank, and I burst out laughing, Paul Jackson, our legals and obits writer, (AKA “Paul the Picker”—don’t ask) rushes over to hover around Hannah. He snivels, “Yeah, that guy’s a nut bar! His comment sounds like a threat, Hannah. You’d better be careful.” Paul seems to have a thing for Hannah, even though she’s married and is about ten years older than him.
“Oh, he’s a harmless old fart. He’s always jawing at somebody about something,” chuckles Hank. “Dude just likes to hear himself talk.”
“Um, isn’t that old fart about your age, Hank?” I ask.
He ignores me.
Hannah continues, “Well, he just lost his chance at defending himself in my article! According to my source, he has been committing all kinds of no-nos with those cows. I mean, uh…in regard to their care and health.”
We all dissolve into giggles (except Paul, who is gazing dreamy-eyed at Hannah through his Coke-bottle glasses) at her unfortunate choice of words, and she storms off. Poor Paul. He wouldn’t have a chance with Hannah even if she were his age and single. And lonely and desperate. And nearsighted. She’s beautiful and intelligent, and he’s, um…well, he’s Paul. Ever heard of a chick magnet? Paul is what you might call a chick repellant. That said, I should probably quit judging Paul the Picker and his raging crush on Hannah—people in glass houses and all that.
I head back to my desk and continue wading through my daily flood of copy to proofread. I always choose Julia’s articles first. They are a great start for my workday because, unlike her fellow reporters, she has fabulously correct grammar and sentence structure. I rarely have to make changes to her copy, so her articles are always good for early mornings when I have brain-fog. Normally, Julia is in charge of the Community section of our paper, but sometimes when the reporters are backlogged (like they are now, trying to get our special County Fair edition ready for print) she gets to write some meatier stories, like the one before me now. I begin to sip my vanilla-caramel coffee as I read her article about the upcoming road construction that’s going to bottleneck the main entrance to town. Snore. Granted, it’s a more significant piece than covering the latest church fish fry, but still boring. (Sorry Julia!) It’s been a while since I’ve read a news article that’s actually newsworthy.
“Hey, Hart, got a minute?” Blake appears out of nowhere, startling me into simultaneously choking on my coffee and spilling it on my desk. Coughing and snatching at the nearest paper to cover up my mess, I feel my cheeks burning hotter and hotter as I realize what I have just done and who has just watched me do it. Blake gives me an odd look and continues, “I was wondering if you’d already proofed my article on the library renovation. I wanted to make a few changes.”
“I…um…I’m finished with it but haven’t sent it off yet. You can make whatever changes you want, and I’ll proof it again when you’re finished,” I reply, impressed with myself for quickly overcoming my prior embarrassment. Check it out—I only stuttered once.
“That was easy. Thanks.”
“Anytime. I’m easy.” Oh, holy hell. Did I really just say what I thought I said? Yes, I must have, because Blake is smiling at me a little too widely as he returns to his desk, leaving me trying to refrain from melting into a large puddle of goo on the floor. His smile is completely disarming. It starts small, in just one corner of his incredibly kissable mouth. You could almost mistake it for a smirk until you notice that his lovely hazel eyes are sparkling and starting to crinkle up in the corners. Then his perfectly straight, pearly white teeth start peeking through, and finally when the slightest hint of a dimple begins to show it’s like the sun is focusing its full force just on you—painfully blinding and blisteringly hot. Um…I mean…not that I’ve been looking at him much or anything.
After a few deep breaths, I’m able to settle back down to read the rest of Julia’s article. Blah, blah, blah, road construction, blah, blah, blah. My next mind-numbing delight is Hank’s article about the change in the style of hat worn by the kids in the town’s youth baseball league. They call this news? The next one is even better. Hannah has written a piece on the new parking meters we just got around the town square. Doesn’t anything interesting ever happen in this town? I haven’t even been reading and correcting copy for an hour yet, and I already need a break. Just as I’m getting up to go to the breakroom to refill my coffee mug, I hear the sound of sirens in the distance. Our office is located on the main drag through town, right on the town square, so we hear emergency vehicles roaring past all the time. Normally, we don’t even pay any attention. Today, however, is different—the sirens are becoming louder and louder but not fading away down the street.
Julia hops up from her desk to peer out the front window. “Hey! There are three cop cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck parked outside. Something big is going on. Who’s up for gawking with me?” she offers.
No journalist can resist a scene, so everyone in the office jumps up at the same time and scrambles to be first out the door. We all rush out into the too-bright sunshine and hurry down the street in the direction of the sirens. Half the street is blocked off by emergency vehicles, and a crowd is beginning to form a couple of doors down from our Chronicle office. All of this commotion looks out of place on the picturesque Liberty town square.
Our town square is like the kind you see in the movies, all charming and Mayberry-ish. Its centerpiece is our courthouse, a majestic limestone and yellow brick building with towering columns on each side. An ornate clock tower rises from its roof, topped with an enormous American flag proudly waving. My grannie told me her parents remembered the courthouse being built, and she also said they remembered seeing someone hanged on the courthouse lawn once. (Nothing like old-timey justice to scare people straight.) The downtown square is lined by attached old buildings, all still sporting their original storefronts, most of which have been carefully restored and artfully repainted. These buildings accommodate all kinds of small businesses and restaurants, and the second and third floors house walk-up apartments. The quaint appearance of the square is marred today by flashing lights, a milling crowd, and a growing traffic jam.
The hubbub is centered around the entrance to a second floor walk-up above the hair salon that I frequent, Fascination Hair Designs. The police are trying unsuccessfully to get the crowd to disperse, so they have had to resort to blocking the sidewalk with crime scene tape. And, the gaggle of people from our office descending on the scene like a bunch of vultures is doing nothing to help the situation. In true investigative reporter fashion, Blake and Hannah quickly break away from our group and begin to mingle through the crowd. I can see Hannah talking to some of the onlookers, and Blake is making his way straight toward the police officers. S
illy boy—doesn’t he know Hannah will get a lot more information from the crowd than from the cops? Rule Number One in a small town: If you want some information, start gossiping. Sooner or later you’ll find someone else gossiping about the information you want.
Surveying the scene, Julia says to me, “Check it out. There’s no smoke, so the fact that the fire department got called means there’s a man down. Only one ambulance means it’s a single person who’s hurt or…otherwise. Three black and whites mean it’s not just another heart attack victim—something’s suspicious.” She cranes her neck and points down the street. “And here comes the coroner, so somebody’s dead. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but twenty bucks says it could be murder.”
I give her a disbelieving glance as Hank wanders over to stand beside us. “I’d like to get in on that action. Lizzie?”
“Murder? In this town? Doubt it.”
“Why not?” asks Julia.
“Because it’s Liberty. Nothing ever happens in Liberty. It’s like the safest place on earth,” I reply.
“I thought that was Disneyland,” Hank says.
“No, Disneyland is the happiest place on earth,” says Julia. “Come on, Lizzie, play along.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll participate in your make-believe bet, only let’s make it more interesting. Cause of death?”
Suddenly, one of our co-workers, Bethany McCool (or, as we call her behind her back, McUncool, a Hank-ism), appears out of nowhere and hijacks our conversation. Bethany is the Chronicle’s receptionist and resident office busybody.
“Hey, guys!” she exclaims, a little too loudly, her eyes bugging out of her head like they do. “It took me a while to find you. What, were you hiding from me?” She reminds me of a puppy, uncontrollably overexcited that her master has come home.
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