Headlines & Deadlines (An Avery Shaw Mystery Book 7)

by Amanda M. Lee

  I racked my brain. That couldn’t be true. Nope. He was right. Most women bug me. “I think we should try to talk to them,” I said. “You go first.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re their type,” I said. “I don’t have the right parts to turn them on.”

  “I think you’re afraid to talk to them.”

  “I think you’re a big baby and Fish was right about you wearing a diaper,” I snapped.

  “Fine,” Marvin said, squaring his shoulders. “I’d better get laid when this is over.”

  “Don’t you dare look to me for that.”

  “I don’t want you,” Marvin said. “I like being bossed around, not degraded. Besides, I value my life. If I ever touched you Eliot would kill me.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I would kill him first. “Go and schmooze them. I’m going to the bar and order a drink. If you start getting somewhere, motion for me to come over.”

  “What if they want to take me into a little room?”

  He was so cute. He actually thought that was a possibility. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said, watching as he shuffled across the room and greeted the women.

  I headed toward the bar, never moving my eyes from Marvin in case he got into trouble and needed a woman to save him. It wasn’t a matter of if. It was a matter of when.

  “What can I get you?”

  I forced my gaze from Marvin and focused on the woman behind the bar. She was tall, long red hair flowing past her shoulders, and she was dressed in a velvet tank top that pushed her assets to enviable heights. Despite the outfit, she looked relatively normal. “Can I get an iced tea?”

  The woman arched an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “I’m technically working,” I said, turning my full attention to the woman. “Actually … you might be able to help me.”

  “I don’t think you’re my type.”

  I made a face. “My name is Avery Shaw,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m a reporter for The Monitor.”

  “You can call me Willow.” The woman’s face was hard to read but she wasn’t immediately calling for my ouster, so I took that as a good sign.

  “How long have you worked here, Willow?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  She wasn’t going to make this easy. I didn’t blame her. “I need to know about the man who owns this bar.”

  “Graham?”

  Who? “Um … no. I’m talking about Adam Grisham.”

  “Adam doesn’t own the bar,” Willow clarified. “He owns the building. Graham Horton owns the bar. He rents the space from Adam.”

  Well, that was interesting. “Adam comes here frequently, though, doesn’t he?”

  Willow nodded. “He gives Graham a break on the rent for a … reserved room.”

  “The one that’s all alone in the hallway over there?” I asked, pointing.

  Willow nodded, her green eyes flooding with suspicion. “How do you know that?”

  “I was here Saturday night,” I said. “We got a … tip … that Adam comes here sometimes. I wanted to see whether it was true. I honestly wasn’t expecting him to be here Saturday night, though.”

  “Why?”

  Either the woman didn’t watch the news or she was doing a really good job of playing dumb. I wasn’t ruling out either scenario. “His wife’s body was found in a Warren parking lot Friday morning.”

  “Oh,” Willow said, knitting her eyebrows together. “Now that you mention it, I think I heard something about that. I mean, I heard about the woman being found in the parking lot. I didn’t know she was Adam’s wife, though. That’s a bummer.”

  Yeah, a bummer. “Don’t you think it’s odd that he came here the night after his wife was found murdered?”

  “I try to stay out of other people’s business,” Willow shrugged. “People grieve differently. Maybe he wanted someone to talk to.”

  “He has two adult children living under his roof.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to upset them any more than they already were,” Willow said. “Do you think Adam killed his wife?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I’m just trying to find answers, and this is one of the stops along the way.”

  “Let me guess: You want to know what kind of guy Adam is, right?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s a typical guy,” Willow said. “He feels emasculated at home so he comes here to feel powerful.”

  “Did he tell you he was emasculated at home?”

  “No. That’s a standard story here, though. Adam comes in a couple of times a week. He gets his rocks off and then he goes home. He’s a family man who exerts power here because he doesn’t have any under his own roof.”

  She was pretty smart. I’d often found bartenders to be some of the most intuitive souls around. Willow was living up to her profession’s reputation. “Were there ever any complaints about Adam’s … antics … while he was here?”

  “We rarely get complaints,” Willow said. “I would be lying if I said no one ever overstepped the boundaries of the game, but Adam wasn’t one of those guys.”

  “Did he ever mention his wife?”

  “No. I never saw a wedding ring either. That’s not uncommon, though. Most of the guys here are probably married, and none of them are wearing rings.”

  “Did Adam ever talk about his business dealings?” I asked. “Do you know whether he was in any financial trouble?”

  “Now that you mention it, Adam did have some weird business stuff going on,” Willow said, her mind clearly busy. “I know he owns a bunch of apartment complexes, but two weeks ago he started talking about some rental property he owned in Eastpointe and how he was having trouble with some tenants he evicted months ago.”

  I didn’t remember Duncan mentioning rental property other than the apartment complexes. Of course, counting on him to conduct due diligence on anything was always an iffy proposition.

  “Was it a house?” I asked.

  “That’s my understanding,” Willow said. “I asked him whether he planned to rent it out again because the place I’m staying now is a real hole. He said it was going to take a lot of work to get it back in shape and it wouldn’t be ready for months.”

  I filed the tidbit away to research later and reached into my pocket to pull out the sketch, unfolding it so Willow could take a look. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Willow took the sheet of paper so she could study it under brighter illumination. “I know him,” she said after a moment. “He’s been in here a couple of times. I don’t know his name, though. Why are you looking for him?”

  I didn’t see any sense in lying. “He was seen walking away from the parking lot where Julia Grisham’s body was dumped the night it happened,” I said. “No one knows who he is. Can you think of anyone here who would know his identity?”

  “I only ever saw him talking to one person,” Willow said.

  “Who?”

  “Master Adam.”

  I knew it!

  “WELCOME home, Trouble,” Eliot said, collecting my heavy winter coat from me as I stomped my feet on the laundry room rug to dislodge the snow.

  After leaving The Black Hole and returning to the office, I pulled Fish into a private room so I could reveal what we’d discovered. I didn’t want prying ears gossiping out of turn. He instructed me to follow up on the rental property the next day but to leave any mention of the BDSM club and Grisham’s extra-curricular habits out of the story until we had more to go on. I filed my story and left Marvin to regale the pool of male reporters with overblown stories of his interaction with the two women at the bar. Apparently they were warm for his form. I didn’t bother ruining his fantasy.

  The smell of something heavenly cooking on the stove caught my attention, and I found steak stir-fry on the burner when I followed Eliot into the kitchen. On the domestic front, he puts me to shame. He’s happy with his cooking duties, though, and I’m happy letting him play ch
ef.

  “That smells amazing,” I said.

  “You’re right on time.” Eliot dropped a kiss on my cold forehead. “I was worried you were going to be late.”

  “I had to watch Fish read my story before I could go,” I said.

  “I heard about the dueling news conferences today. I’m assuming you were at Jake’s.”

  “Is that your way of asking whether I was hounding Tad without telling you about it?”

  “No,” Eliot said, tweaking my nose. “If you were around Ludington I would’ve gotten a call to bail you out of jail.”

  “Nice,” I said, sliding into a chair at the table and studying Eliot. He appeared to be in a good mood. That was going to change pretty quickly.

  “What are you debating telling me?” Eliot asked, a spatula in his hand and a hard look on his face.

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “I know you,” Eliot said. “You want to tell me something, but you can’t figure out whether you should do it before or after dinner. Tell me now.”

  “I … you’re going to be mad.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Eliot said. “Tell me anyway.”

  “Well … um … I was at The Black Hole today and I found out from a bartender named Willow that Adam Grisham owns a rental house in Eastpointe,” I said, opting to get it all out before giving him time to explode. “I need you to use your computer to find out where the house is so I can go there tomorrow. Oh, and you’re very handsome and I love that you cook.”

  Eliot ran his tongue over his teeth as he stared at me. His eyes, which were often lit with amusement and warmth, were devoid of both now. “Did you go alone?”

  “Marvin and I went together.”

  “Did anyone … approach you?”

  “Marvin tried to pick up two women and I talked to the bartender on my own,” I said. “We were there less than an hour and no one else talked to me. The bartender did recognize the sketch as a guy who had several meetings with Grisham at the bar.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you going to yell?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Eliot said. “Go on.”

  “I also found out Grisham owns the building, not the bar,” I said. “Oh, and Cara ambushed me in the parking lot at the sheriff’s department and used witchcraft to get me to agree to a spa day with her when my schedule settles down.”

  “That’s a lot of information,” Eliot said.

  “Are you going to yell?”

  “No,” he said, turning back to the stove. “You told me the truth. I would’ve preferred you called me before you went to The Black Hole, but you didn’t go alone and you were careful.”

  “That’s it? No stomping? No pouting?”

  “That’s it,” Eliot said. “Do you want me to yell at you?”

  “Not particularly,” I said. “I’m not used to the kinder, gentler Eliot, though. I like him … but I was fond of the yeller, too.”

  “I’ll yell at you later if that’s the game you want to play,” Eliot said. “What do you think about Grisham and this guy from the sketch?”

  “I think the easy answer is that Grisham hired him to kill his wife,” I said. “I’m still missing the hows and the whys, though. Willow did say that Adam was a guy who was emasculated at home so he had to exert power at the bar. She said he never told her that but she’s good at reading people.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “In a way it makes sense,” I said.

  “What are you going to do tomorrow?”

  “I want to check out this rental property,” I replied. “Willow wanted to rent it but Adam told her it wouldn’t be ready because it needed work.”

  “Do you think he’s hiding something there?”

  “I think it’s a possibility,” I said. “Does that mean you’re going to find out where it is for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. You’re like the world’s best boyfriend tonight. I might have to reward you with something special.”

  Eliot arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Like what?”

  “A kiss?’

  “You’re going to have to do better than that,” he said. “I’m sure I can come up with a list.”

  I made a face. “You’re going to give me a to-do list?”

  “I promise you’ll enjoy it,” Eliot said. “For now, though, we’re going to eat dinner and then you’re going to tell me all about your fabulous spa date with Cara. I can’t wait to hear how this happened.”

  “I think I’m going soft,” I admitted.

  “Don’t worry,” Eliot said. “You’ll always be my little meanie. Let’s eat. I’m starving, and you need fuel to act as my slave tonight.”

  I scowled. “All this power is going to your head.”

  “I’m really starting to enjoy it,” Eliot agreed.

  Fourteen

  By the time I left Eliot the next morning I was running late. His enthusiastic bossiness was getting out of control. Of course, it also benefited me, so there was no way I was going to complain.

  Instead of feigning ignorance about his promise to get me the address of Grisham’s rental property, he had it waiting on the kitchen table next to my coffee and freshly-cooked omelet when I finally rolled out of bed. I expected him to attempt to talk me out of visiting the house but he merely dropped a kiss on top of my head and asked me to text him if I got into trouble.

  His relationship training was starting to pay off.

  I parked in front of the small Eastpointe ranch house, narrowing my eyes as I studied its faded yellow façade. The driveway was clear of snow, but the front walk wasn’t. The mailbox was a metal container by the front door, so mail was either being delivered to a post office box or non-existent.

  The house looked empty. I climbed out of my car, intent on looking through the windows to make certain, when a woman approached me from the nearby sidewalk.

  Eastpointe’s proximity to Detroit has been cause for concern for years. The community used to be known as East Detroit, and the school district still bears that moniker, but in an effort to distance themselves from Detroit (and try to reinforce ties with the affluent Grosse Pointe communities) residents voted to change the city name in 1992. Unfortunately for them, crime doesn’t respect borders or new names, and Eastpointe could never be confused with one of the richer Grosse Pointe enclaves.

  The woman moving toward me was dressed in a bathrobe, moon boots and terry cloth shorts. Her graying brown hair was messily rolled in plastic curlers – something I thought had died with the advent of the new millennium – and she had a cigarette hanging from her mouth and a glare on her face. She represented what Eastpointe struggled hard to move away from, but failed. I was happy to see her. I can spot a talker from two hundred feet and thirty-year-old fashion away.

  “Hi!”

  The woman was taken aback by my bright greeting. She slowed her approach and eyed me with overt distaste. “We ain’t looking for any Avon in this neighborhood, so you can turn yourself around if that’s what you’re doing here.”

  Avon? Is that still a thing? “I’m not selling anything,” I replied, keeping my voice friendly. “I’m looking for information.”

  “We ain’t giving any of that out either.”

  We’ll see about that. “My name is Avery Shaw.”

  “That’s a stupid name,” the woman said, taking a long drag on her cigarette and blowing it in my face.

  “I’m a reporter with The Monitor,” I said, not missing a beat.

  The woman’s hunched stance straightened at the words – as I knew it would – and the new look she shot me was one of curiosity. “You with the newspaper?”

  “I am,” I said. “I’m looking for information on Adam Grisham. Do you know who that is?”

  “He’s the guy offering a crap ton of money for information on his wife’s murder,” the woman replied. “I seen him on TV last night.”

  You can’t beat the southern end of the county for eloquence,
but I figured her for a local crime watcher. She obviously had to be studying the street with eagle eyes to catch me before I could approach the house. This was going to work out to my benefit. “Did you know he owned this house?”

  The woman coughed, her face lighting with surprise. Ah, there it was. Now she was hooked.

  “Really? Is the husband a suspect? Did he kill her there? Can I get the reward if I finger him?” She fired the questions one right after the other, her cigarette all but forgotten.

  “I have no idea who killed her,” I answered. “I’m merely trying to find background information about Mr. Grisham. I’m sure if you help lead us to her killer you’ll be eligible for the reward.” Yes, I’m lying. If things work out I won’t ever see her again, though, so I’m fine with it.

  “Don’t know anything about him,” the woman said. “My name is Sandra, by the way. Sandra Wolfe. Can I get my name in the paper?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “That depends on whether you can help me or not.” Sandra probably knew the business of everyone living on this street. If she couldn’t help me, she was bound to know someone who could.

  “I might know someone who knows the owner of that house,” Sandra said. “I want my name in the paper to tell you, though.”

  “Deal.”

  “Follow me,” Sandra said, gesturing toward the house next to Grisham’s rental property. “This is where Tina York lives. She don’t know as much as me, but she’s got something that will definitely help you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A key to the garage of that house,” Sandra said, pointing toward Grisham’s rental property with a triumphant grin, one that lacked a tooth – or two.

  Well, my day was looking up.

  “I DON’T know what I’m looking at,” I said, peering inside the open box in the garage. “What is this and why should I call the cops to arrest Adam Grisham right now?”

  After another stiff introduction – which was followed by a stiff drink for Tina York – the woman used the spare key that Adam Grisham gave her months before to open the garage. Tina said Grisham wanted her to show prospective renters the house when he wasn’t able to spare the time. Two months earlier he changed the locks on the main house but forgot to change the one on the garage “You’re clearly a prude, hon,” Tina said, rolling her eyes until they landed on Sandra. “You want to tell her what that stuff is?”