She laughed. “Billy’s not the public service type.”
“Does he know a James Billings? He’s—”
“A bigwig at Raymond Garfield,” Lucinda finished my sentence. “Of course we know him. This industry is a pretty small one.”
Hmmm. So maybe a small lead, but still nothing I could print. I sighed. I needed more details, and it was obvious she didn’t have them.
She pulled another cigarette from the pack.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I jumped to my feet before Lucinda could light up again. “It was so nice to meet you, Mrs. Eckersly, but I have to scoot back to my office.”
She nodded in dismissal, dropping the cigarette pack in her lap.
I hurried from the room, the sound of the Bic clicking making my steps faster. Letting myself out without bidding Doreen goodbye, I hoped her employer didn’t blow them both to kingdom come.
Back at my desk, I fired off a follow-up to the jewelry store story, quoting Aaron about the bail and the hearing and recapping the details of the accident. A quick phone call to the store’s manager got me a comment about the structural damage, which was irreparable. They were waiting for the insurance check to clear and hiring a contractor to raze the premises and build a new store.
“This one will have kevlar in the walls if they do such a thing.” She laughed.
“I understand the customer who was driving the truck had just bought a rather expensive piece,” I said, trying to remember if Lakshmi had been wearing a bracelet and failing. “Had you seen him in the store before?”
“Not that I remember,” she said.
“Was there anything unusual about the bracelet he bought?” I asked.
“It was big. And pretty. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” I said. “It goes with the job.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Not that I can think of.” I thanked her and hung up.
I sent the story to Bob just before four and wandered to the break room, hunting for a Diet Coke.
Halfway there, I heard a round of hearty laughter pouring from Parker’s office.
Sticking my head around the doorframe, I felt my face stretch into a grin when I saw Troy, spinning Parker’s seat back and forth and holding court with half the sports desk. He looked so happy it was positively infectious.
“So, what do you lead your story with?” Parker asked, gesturing to the computer and pushing a notebook across the desk at Troy. “You interviewed the coach. There’s one game left in the season. Give me your lead.”
I shot Parker a smile and mouthed a “thank you” when he glanced at me. He nodded and focused on Troy, who was studying his notes with a furrowed brow.
“I guess I’d say to start with the comment he made about focusing on pitching in the draft this year?”
“Yes and no.” Parker grinned. “Nice job picking out the most important thing. But you write the lead. You don’t start with his comment.”
Troy tilted his head to one side, and I could almost see the sponge soaking up every detail. “Why?”
“Clarke?” Parker turned toward me and I stepped through the door and waved at Troy. “Care to explain the whys and wherefores?”
“Your lead is supposed to catch your reader’s attention and summarize your most important point, and very rarely does someone say something that captures the most important part of a story more succinctly than you can write it,” I said. “My favorite prof in college had a saying in a frame over his desk: every journalist gets to lead a story with a quote twice in their career. Once when they’re too green to know any better, and again when the Pope says ‘fuck.’”
“Hear, hear! I’m totally framing that and putting it over my desk,” Spence said from the black metal chair in the corner. “And I’m giving Bob one for Christmas.”
“I always thought that’d be such a great story to write,” I said, leaning on the edge of the desk and cutting a glance at Troy. He probably heard worse before first period, if I remembered high school right. “Can you see it? ‘Vatican City, AP: ‘Fuck,’ the Pope said Friday. ‘Just fuck it all.’ Bishops were stunned speechless when his holiness erupted in a string of swearwords during morning mass. The Associated Press has learned the Pope was frustrated with level 15 of Angry Birds. In a statement released this afternoon, the Vatican apologized. ‘It was not intended to be said aloud,’ the press release reads.”
“Damn, Clarke, you missed your calling.” Parker grinned. “You ought to be writing for the Onion.”
“I’ll take that as praise.” I turned to Troy. “Have you had a good day?”
“The best!” He bounced in his seat. “Mr. Parker took me to the ballpark and then over to RAU to watch football practice. He even listened to me practice calling plays and gave me pointers, and he let me interview the baseball coach and took me to eat barbecue for lunch, and he said I could help with his column.”
The words spilled out so fast I could hardly keep up, and that was saying something. Taking Troy’s notes, I flipped through at least twenty pages.
“Jeez, kid, you don’t need shorthand lessons,” I said. “These are pretty detailed.”
“I want to make sure I don’t forget anything,” Troy said. “Thank you so much, Miss Clarke.”
“Did they win you over to the print side of the world?”
“I still want to be on TV,” he said. “But I never knew newspapers were so much fun. It wouldn’t be a bad place to start.”
“A backup plan is a good thing to have,” I said with a smile.
“All right, y’all,” Parker boomed, shooing everyone toward the door. “If Spence wants my column today, Troy and I have some work to do.”
“Have fun,” I told Troy, smiling when he gushed another thank you.
“Thanks again,” I told Parker as I slipped out the door. “I owe you one.”
“Nah. Setting me up with Mel is worth a few favors. Her sister had a girl. Cute little thing,” he said. “What were we looking for the other night, anyhow? You find anything on your lead?”
I shrugged. “I’m still working on it.” The fewer people who knew about my suspicions until they were more than suspicions, the better. Especially given what I’d heard from Trudy.
He cocked his head, leaning on the doorjamb. “You’re really not going to tell me? You don’t think I killed somebody else, do you?”
I laughed. “You’re never going to let that go, are you? I’m not entirely sure what it is that I’m into, and I don’t want to talk about it until I am.”
“Into? You playing Lois Lane again?”
“No.” I took a step backward.
“Liar.” Parker shook his head. “Does Bob know what you’re doing, at least?”
“Part of it. Really, I’m playing it safe.” I shoved the toy dog and Joey’s warning to a vault in the back of my brain.
“Uh-huh. I’m buying you a handgun for Christmas.”
“My shoes seem to work pretty well, thanks.”
“I have to get to work or I’m going to miss deadline.” He moved to close the door. “Stay out of trouble.”
I rounded the corner into the break room, and the empty syrup bottle in the garbage can inside the door caught my eye. I scowled. What I really wanted was more coffee, though the Coke had fewer calories. And in the grand scheme of things, the mystery of the disappearing syrup was less important than a dead man and a crooked politician.
I jammed quarters into the Coke machine a little too hard and gulped half the bottle on my way back to my desk.
My Blackberry binged the arrival of a text as I plopped into my chair.
“Miss you, baby girl.”
My mom. I snatched up the phone and dialed her number, checking my email as it rang. Nothing f
rom Bob yet.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she said when she picked up. “Are you busy?”
“I can squeeze you in,” I said. “I miss you, too. What’s going on there?”
“Have you ever seen that TV show Bridezillas?” She sighed. “Those broads have nothing on this woman I’m working for. My God, Nicey. It’s all I can do to refrain from slapping her about. Nothing and no one is ever right or good enough, and she’s such a little snot; she insisted that I meet her for coffee on Thursday, and hand to God, she snapped her fingers at that poor server no less than ten times in half an hour. She’s like that with everyone. The biggest part of the hours I’ve spent on this wedding so far have been running interference with other businesses for the bride, because she’s so hateful people don’t want to work for her.”
“Then why are you working for her?”
“Because her grandfather’s last name is on a few buildings downtown. Big ones. And I thought she was nice the first time she came in. I was wrong. It’s like peeling an onion. The closer it gets to her wedding, the more layers of nasty there are to her. But her stuff is almost done, and I’ll be rid of her soon. Thank God.”
I laughed. “If anyone can get a Bridezilla safely down the aisle, it’s you,” I said. “What kind of flowers will she have?”
My mom’s love of plants had led her to start a tiny flower shop when I was a kid, and it had grown into a thriving wedding-planning boutique.
That was irony for you: my mother, who held the deepest disdain for marriage of anyone I’d ever met, made a living helping people do, in her estimation, something foolish.
“I used lilies, white roses, and orchids when I made the test bouquet last week,” she said. “It came out lovely. It’s a waterfall style with a lace handkerchief that belonged to her grandmother around the base. At least, she said it was her grandmother’s. I’m beginning to think she escaped from some hell dimension.”
I laughed. “It sounds lovely. Hang in there. When’s the big day?”
“Next Friday,” she said. “Twelve more days, and one more box of antacids. I think I can, I think I can.”
I shook my head, waking the computer and smiling when I saw a thumbs up from Bob in my email. He also okay’d my request to cut out of the staff meeting early the next morning, so I could make it to the courthouse for the Eckersly hearing.
I glossed over my week, telling my mom about the jewelry store and relating the tale of Lucinda Eckersly, former grande dame of Powhatan County and current explosive hazard.
“It makes me smile to hear you so happy,” she said. “I sure do love you, kiddo. Any chance you’ll head this way anytime soon?”
“I love you, too,” I said, shutting my computer down and closing the lid. “I’ll be there for Christmas, which will be here before you know it. How many holiday weddings are there this year?”
“Three. And if you’re really coming, I won’t book any more.” Her voice brightened considerably.
“Put it on the calendar.” I smiled . “I’ll be there with bells on my Manolos.”
I hung up and shoved my computer and charger into my bag, my gurgling stomach reminding me that I hadn’t had time for lunch once again.
I ducked into the deli across the street. I ordered a turkey and smoked cheddar panini with tomato mustard on sourdough and carried it to a corner table when it was ready, crunching homemade potato chips that were perfectly seasoned with salt, pepper, garlic, and something else I could never place.
I watched Anderson Cooper as I ate, surprised to see a Virginia map flash up on the wall behind him a few minutes into his show.
It took the captions a minute to catch up.
“The new state tax, combined with a federal tax hike that has strong support in the house, would make the capital of the nation’s tobacco industry the most expensive place in America to buy cigarettes.”
I froze with a chip halfway to my mouth.
“They’ll reverse their operation in Virginia.” Kyle.
“No matter what they do with taxes.” Lucinda Eckersly.
“Fake the tax stamps.” Kyle.
“There are people in this who won’t give a damn if I say to leave you alone.” Joey.
What if Grayson wasn’t just selling his vote (or, his friends’ votes, as the case may be)? Could the dead lobbyist have been expendable because the senator had known the vote wasn’t going to go his way, seen his hooker money slipping away, and decided to sell something else? Like stamp designs?
I looked out the window.
It was getting dark outside.
Suddenly focused on something much more important, I wolfed down my sandwich and ran out the door, wondering how many years I could spend in prison for breaking into Ted Grayson’s house.
14.
Detective work
I spent the entire ten-minute drive home making a mental list of the reasons my plan was a) insane, b) unlikely to work, and c) very likely to get me arrested. The fact that Charlie would have a tickertape parade and crack a bottle of champagne with that story was my most compelling reason for going home and sinking into a hot bath, but my inner Lois screamed that Eckersly had, in fact, broken into Grayson’s study. Whatever he’d been looking for was likely still there, according to Joyce.
And according to the police and the campaign, the family had been in D.C. since the break-in.
My transmission squealed a protest when I threw the car into park in my driveway before it had stopped moving forward. I snagged the first-aid kit from under my seat, grabbed the latex gloves, and jumped out, unsure what to do next. Darcy yapped from the other side of the kitchen door, scratching at the wood when I didn’t go inside right away. I’d blocked the doggie door and left her inside with puppy mats on the floor, which she disliked, because I was afraid to have her outside without me after the warning I’d gotten.
The nice thing about the Fan was that tiny cottages like mine sat side-by-side with million-dollar antebellum homes like Grayson’s. It wasn’t a terribly long walk, and I’d skipped the gym that morning. I glanced down at my pink Jimmy Choos, the peep toes cute, but impractical.
I scurried into the house, letting Darcy out for just long enough to do her business and catching a glare when I called her inside.
“Sorry, girl. We’ll play later,” I said, stooping to scratch her ears.
I changed into black yoga pants and a black tee, slipping my feet into soft-soled leather flats and hurrying back outside before I could chicken out. Stuffing the gloves into my pocket, I turned toward the cracked old sidewalk and started walking.
The sun had officially disappeared, the chill that settled over the bricks of Monument Avenue with the late September evening air making me wish I’d grabbed a sweater. I shoved my hands into my pockets and ducked my head against the breeze, walking faster.
By the time I reached the drive alley that ran behind the Grayson home, I’d worked out a plan. Since the house faced a busy street, and the police had the front yard lit up like Rockefeller Center, I turned up the drive. Katherine Grayson seemed like the kind of detail-focused woman who’d have one of those stone plates with the family crest on it at the entrance to her driveway, even though it was behind the house.
I dug out my tiny pink flashlight, pointing it at each fence opening as I passed, and was beginning to wonder if I’d guessed wrong when the beam bounced off a polished marble plaque bearing the house number and the senator’s name. Bingo.
I knew as sure as I knew my shoe size (nine US, forty European) there was no one inside, but I was nervous. I stood there, warring with myself over the insanity of this idea. Breaking into the private home of a United States senator was very different than anything else I’d ever done in the name of research—even the things that had bent the law. I shushed the little voice that detailed what could happen
to me if I got caught.
Just when I’d resolved to go in, a crash came from my left and I jumped nearly out of my skin. Claws on pavement, then aluminum. A raccoon, probably. I gulped a steadying breath and stepped toward the house.
“Don’t do that, Miss Clarke.” The smooth voice was in front of me, and in the still darkness of the alley it carried easily. I scanned the fence line around Grayson’s house, but Joey was better than me at keeping hidden. To be fair, he’d had more practice.
He stepped out of the shadows at the foot of the drive, debonair as ever in a charcoal suit and wingtips that glinted even in the moonlight.
“Go home. Stay out of this. This guy is so much bigger than you know.”
I strode across the alley, arching an eyebrow when he laid a restraining hand on my arm.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked. “And cut the bullshit about trying to protect me, because I don’t buy it. You’re either protecting yourself, or your buddy Grayson, or the both of you.”
“I was in town and came by to check on you. Hoping you’d taken my advice. I had a bad feeling when you took off on foot, and I was right. Tell me something: when have I ever steered you wrong?” He let go of my arm, the place where his fingers had rested tingling in the cool air, and I stared into his brown eyes. He didn’t look like he was lying. His gaze was so intense I had to drop it after a minute when my stomach flipped like I’d gotten a side of jumping beans with my panini. Damn him and his gorgeous jawline. Why did he have to be a crook?
“It’s not that easy,” I began.
“Sure it is,” he said, his voice soft and deep at the same time. “I can’t recall ever having given you a personal reason to distrust me. I care about you. Maybe more than I’d like. Certainly more than is convenient with the sky falling around your boy here, and you refusing to listen to reason.”
His eyelids dropped a fraction of an inch and he reached for my arm again. I stepped backward.
“I can’t,” I whispered. “Kyle’s got an innocent man going up on a murder charge, and you know it as well as I do. I’m going to find out what the hell’s going on here. Grayson’s up to his Hermes necktie in hookers and bribes, and he may not have killed that lobbyist, but there’s something in that house that’s going to get me closer to figuring out who did. Someone else wanted it badly enough to break in, but I don’t think they got it. I’m going to find it. So unless you want to share what you know, get out of my way.”
Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery) Page 16
