“Forgiven,” Harley stated with a wink.
Headed south out of Louisville on I-65, Harley glanced toward the passenger seat of her BMW and her Wednesday score. Annie never charged her what she would have charged other store patrons, and for that Harley was grateful. Sweat began to bead on her upper lip, and she rolled the window down slightly to catch a breeze on the unseasonably warm autumn day. Her air conditioning had gone out on her car a couple months before, so she had learned to drive only in the morning and on her way home, so as not to wilt in the heat of the black leather interior.
For a split second, her eyes rested on the dark piece of tape stuck to the back of the seat next to her. Her car had once belonged to a drug dealer who had stabbed someone in the passenger seat and left a couple slash marks in the leather. It had become her car after a crash involving a police chase landed the vehicle at a junkyard. The man who worked there sold it to her with a salvage title, and had his kid brother perform most of the work for next to nothing. The outside looked perfect, but the inside?
It got her from point A to point B, usually while turning a few heads in the process, so it was of no consequence.
Living in the city would have been preferable, but on her salary, that would have meant a tiny studio apartment. She was ahead of most young women her age because she didn’t have any student loan debt, which had enabled her to put forward a nice down payment for her home in the suburbs.
Pulling onto Wonder Lane, she paused her car for a young boy riding his bike down the middle of the road. Just past that, she came upon a woman hugging her little white dog to her chest like he was an infant. As she rounded the hill, a third person slowed her progress—this time a woman with a mass of auburn hair piled into a ponytail high on her head. When she didn’t move over quickly enough, Harley gave her horn a quick blare and directed her gaze momentarily toward that jogger, noting that her face was slightly red and she looked rather winded.
Exactly why I do my interval training in my own home, Harley thought. Don’t want anyone to witness me looking bedraggled like that!
Wonder Lane didn’t offer any bustling city life; no, it was a boring center-of-America street with families and children and pets running loose. At the end of the street, though, tucked into the cul-de-sac, was the crown jewel of Wonder Lane: a stately Victorian-style white home built in 1903. Adorned with a two-story pedimented front porch with Corinthian columns and double doors on both levels, it rose like a watch tower over the smaller and more ordinary homes on Wonder Lane. It once belonged to a doctor, who built it for his wife in a secluded spot where she could plant her garden and her rosebushes. His granddaughter sold it to Harley for a fraction of what it could have been worth.
Parking the car in front of the home, Harley glanced up at the windows of those double doors that looked like they belonged on a palace for an antebellum southern belle. The exterior of her home was perfection, just like her car and her clothing. Grabbing her handbag and the items she picked up at The Revolving Closet, she locked her BMW and headed up the walk.
Unlocking the door to her little mansion, she stepped through into the foyer, looking at the hardwood floor and the large mirror on the wall. Everything about her home spelled grace and sophistication. She hung her handbag on a coatrack peg and slid her heels off to hold them in her fingers.
Home, sweet home.
To the left of the foyer sat the dining room, with the same hardwood floor and a large solid cherry dining table with an antique vibe. Those areas were all that could be seen without advancing further into the house, and the staircase to the second floor sat to the right, where Harley had a door installed when she moved in. She wanted to separate the two areas of the house, she said.
Pushing open the door, she grabbed her slippers from the first step. She didn’t dare to walk up the stairs without something on her feet, since they were bare to the plywood and liable to give her splinters. Climbing up the stairs, Harley stopped at the first open door, which should have been a bedroom but served as her closet. The walls were vacant, with some of the beams exposed by rotting wood, and she had several metal clothing racks randomly placed throughout the room—her designer fashion collection hanging on them like prizes. A trail of shoes lined the wall, one next to the other like an army lining up for the catwalk.
She grabbed a couple hangers to add today’s finds to her collection, then stepped down the hall into the next room, which served as her bedroom. One twin-sized bed sat along the corner, with a pink bath rug directly under it to protect her from the plywood.
The bed and the dining room table were her only pieces of furniture in the house. When she decided to make the purchase, she had enough for the down payment and the minor repairs on the outside of the home. She barely had enough left over to make the foyer look presentable, but that was the extent of her funds. Until she could afford to make improvements, at least she could keep up appearances should someone stop by.
Sitting on the bed, she flipped on her tiny television that was sitting on the floor near the wall, settling on a reality vocal competition. She would probably have to eat ramen noodles again that evening, but she didn’t mind. One of her professors in college had given her advice that she took to heart: Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Well, she was living the life she wanted, on the outside anyway. With any luck, the inside bits would follow shortly.
C hapter Two
Mornings always came early, but that was part of the life, and Harley didn’t mind. In fact, she usually stayed at the station well after her hours were over, immersing herself in anything and everything imaginable. If she was going to earn the desk, she had to make herself indispensable. Since Mitch chastised her the day before about the sewer clip, she was especially interested in making a good impression.
Her Gucci python sandals seemed to be a good choice, so she paired them with a simple black shirt dress and a skinny red leather belt, topping it off with some red baubles around her neck. If the desk was given or taken away based on personal style, she had earned it ten times over. Unfortunately, Summer Davis was entrenched and seemed impervious to attempts to topple her from her throne.
Fifteen years Summer had been at the desk, and her age was beginning to wear on her. She no longer had that youthful glow she’d possessed when she was hired, and attempts were being made to cover the wrinkles about her eyes and adjust the harshness of the lights in the studio. She wasn’t as svelte as she once was, either, and that didn’t escape Harley’s notice.
For her part, Harley avoided any weight gain like the plague. Some of the camera guys had a habit of bringing doughnuts into the break room, and she had witnessed Summer helping herself on more than one occasion. Her coworker wasn’t what Harley would call overweight by any stretch of the imagination, but that didn’t matter. Being in the public eye meant being subject to extra scrutiny.
Not long after she landed the reporting gig, Harley had been waiting on takeout at a local Chinese restaurant while some patrons were watching a weather report on one of the competitor stations.
“Looks like Millie needs to lay off the pizza,” a young woman commented with a sharp laugh.
“No doubt,” her companion agreed, all the while stuffing an eggroll into her mouth. “Look at the size of her booty. Yikes.”
Poor Millie was a perfectly average weight. Sure, her situation wasn’t assisted by the too-tight pants she was wearing, or the angle she had to maintain to point at the weather map, but she was significantly smaller than both those snippy women shoveling the orange chicken at their faces. Harley learned then and there that she never wanted to be judged in that way. Morning smoothies, meal replacement shakes at lunch, and ramen noodles for dinner were her usual meals after that point. She might indulge in some vegetables or lean meat during a date, and she allowed herself one slight splurge a week, but she wasn’t about to be judged for her booty.
Well, unless it was in a complimentary way, and if…
No, not
even then. Yuck.
Strolling into the studio, Harley slung her bag onto the floor next to her chair and settled before the desk to check her e-mail. She had been working on a couple public interest stories with the city and was waiting on some contacts to return to her with information, but so far no luck. What she did see, however, was an impassioned plea from a local resident forwarded from Mitch with the express wish that he would like to see her cover the story. Intrigued, she moved the arrow with her mouse to point it over the subject line. Need Help In Unfair Fight With City. Now that could be the ticket. She clicked twice.
Morning, Ms. Laine. Thought this would be right up your alley. Mitch
A little buzz of excitement went through Harley’s veins at the thought that this might be a great story, and she crossed the first two fingers of her left hand in anticipation.
Dear Channel Six… My name is Agnes Tuttle. Me and my husband have been fighting with the city about what we do on our own property. We want to tell you our story before they force us to…” Face palm. She should have known. “…before they force us to take our chicken coop out of the yard. Please call me ASAP.
So this was to be her punishment for yesterday’s little slip of the tongue—she would be running around town chasing chickens. Perfect.
“Mrs. Tuttle, I presume.” Harley stood a good two inches taller than the woman from a step below on her porch, partially aided by those Gucci heels.
“Yes, I’m Agnes Tuttle,” the slight woman responded, shoving her screen door a little wider.
“I’m Harley Laine from Channel Six Action News.”
“Oh, I recognized ya,” she blurted quickly. “You look smaller on TV.”
“Naturally, being in a relatively small box tends to make a person look…smaller, I suppose. I’m sorry, but I thought you were expecting us.”
“Uh-huh, they told us you was coming.”
Twisting her mouth slightly to the side, Harley bit her tongue. It seemed to her that, had her subject known the news reporters were coming, she might have taken care not to open the door in a faded blue t-shirt with Tweety Bird in the center, but she kept that thought properly locked deep within her brain.
Agnes ushered her inside, and she stepped timidly up into the house, glancing to make sure Kenny was behind her. The befuddled look on his face was not assisting matters, so Harley quickly assessed her surroundings. Brown and orange-speckled shag carpet that was permanently crushed in high-traffic areas covered the floor, assisted by two old worn-out forest green recliners and an off-white loveseat that looked like it was woven with brown and orange fibers right out of the carpet.
Harley fought the urge to shudder as one of two overweight, lazy Welsh Corgis was brushed off the loveseat by its owner. The other remained in the corner, taunting and perched like royalty atop a small red pillow.
“It’s okay, Tipsy won’t hurt ya none,” Agnes insisted.
I’m going to kill Mitch. Sending me on this fool’s errand to meet with a woman wearing a cartoon shirt and… Are those boxer shorts? Dear heavens, the woman’s wearing boxer shorts with the flap propped open and the whole bit.
“Hello, Tipsy,” Harley forced through her lips, settling herself gingerly next to the dog, who didn’t even bother to glance in her direction. “Mrs. Tuttle, will your husband be joining us today?”
“He’s at work.” Plopping onto a recliner and tossing off her flip flops, she stared at her houseguests. “Can I get y’all something? Tea, maybe?”
“Certainly not,” Harley instinctively reacted, immediately hearing Kenny’s throat being cleared. “I mean, we’re on the clock, Mrs. Tuttle, so we’ll just stick with the business at hand so we don’t waste your time. What can you tell me about the problem you’re having?”
“Her name is Mildred Prescott.”
Thank goodness I said no to the tea, because I would have just choked.
“Pardon me? I thought you had a problem with the city.”
“Yeah, and it’s all because of that Mildred Prescott. She lives across the street, and she’s all the time complaining ‘bout the noise and such. Been complaining ‘bout the smell, too. There ain’t no smell.”
Harley’s hesitance to breathe in was begging her to give a retort to that statement, but she lifted her hand to her face and pretended to be scratching her nose while she quickly inhaled.
“So, what you’re saying is that your neighbors believe your pets are a nuisance?” Harley prodded, trying to get some pertinent statements quickly recorded so she could hastily depart.
“No, they don’t have a problem with my pets. It’s the chickens.”
“And when you ask what the issue is with the chickens, what is the answer?”
“The noise and the smell, mostly.”
“Your neighbors don’t appreciate the fact that the chickens are loud and don’t smell very pleasant.”
“Seems now I told you that twice already.”
It would seem that someone wearing boxer shorts to appear on television should not appear quite so smug.
“Yes, of course you did. Might we go outside and get a look at the problem?” Harley rose and began to walk toward the door, and Kenny quickly shot her a look and brushed his hand across his leg. “What, Kenny, are we playing charades?”
“No biggie, you’re just covered in dog hair.”
Looking down, Harley gasped audibly and began feverishly brushing against her black shirt dress, which was sporting tiny tan colored wisps of hair that appeared to be multiplying at an alarming rate.
“Don’t just stand there, Kenny, help me!” Those lanky arms began pawing at her in a way that normally would have made her sock him in the eye, but she was frantic enough to allow him to smack at her hips and her backside in an attempt to swipe that hair away.
“Need some duct tape?” Agnes suggested. “It works wonders.”
“Duct tape on my clothing?” Harley huffed as Kenny finally stood erect and widened his eyes. “Is it off? Please tell me it’s off.”
“Mostly,” was Kenny’s short reply.
Mostly. This is an even bigger nightmare than I imagined.
Without another word, Harley stalked out the front door, straight onto the lawn, where she let out her breath quickly and angrily. The instant she began to suck it back in, though, she clamped her hand over her mouth. The stench was truly horrible.
Turning, she locked eyes on Agnes coming down the steps. “Where are the chickens?”
“Just behind the house.” She pointed towards the back of the yard, and Harley obligingly followed, even though her instincts were telling her to point those heels in the other direction.
“Kenny,” she whispered, facing the cameraman, “you remember what I said yesterday about the sewer?”
“Um, yeah.”
“I take it back. Every word.” Stepping carefully, she barely avoided a pile of dog waste. At least, she thought it was dog waste. She wasn’t entirely confident of that fact.
“We keep the chickens back here,” Agnes informed them, standing with her legs slightly apart so the little flap in her boxers was sure to slightly open. “See, they sure ain’t bothering no one.”
Um, they are assaulting my senses as we speak. Eww.
“How many chickens do you have, Mrs. Tuttle?”
“Thirty-seven,” she answered quickly. “’Twas thirty-eight, but one died last week. Bit by Tipsy.”
Oh, the agony.
Harley gazed at the chicken wire wrapped around four metal posts, with one makeshift wooden lean-to chicken coop in the center. The site was certainly not impressive in any way, shape, or form. “Thirty-seven is certainly a large number of chickens for such a small area, don’t you think?”
“Well, no, I don’t think so. They have plenty of space.”
“So, you’re going to have to do what about the chickens?” Harley glanced down at her shoes and brushed a stray dog hair off the bottom of her dress.
“If Mildred gets her way, then the c
ity will make me ‘clean it up.’”
“Clean it up, that’s all?”
“Who knows what ‘clean it up’ means?! For all I know, it means get rid of everything.”
“I see,” Harley muttered, glancing around at the disastrous mess. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Tuttle. I think I’ve got the information I need.”
“That’s it?” she complained. “You gonna go grill that Mildred?”
Fighting a chuckle, Harley stilled herself. “I will speak with Mildred, yes. I think I have enough to get started with the story.”
“Alright.” With a slight shrug, her “chicken victim” stepped toward the house, and Harley pondered the situation a moment. Thinking quickly, she turned to Kenny.
“We ready?” she asked, and Kenny nodded stoically. “In the game of life, what happens when a neighbor calls foul on the play? In this case, f-o-w-l. Agnes Tuttle believes her neighbors have no reason to complain, but do they have something to crow about? I’ll have the full story at the top of the hour.”
Allowing the camera to slide down a bit, Kenny gave her a questioning smile. “The top of the hour, huh?”
“He better give me the top of the hour. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Tuttle fertilizes her yard with chicken dung.”
“Oh, yikes, that’s sick.”
“Tell me about it. Come on, let’s go across the street and get to the bottom of this fiasco before I catch some sort of bird flu.” Daintily stepping out of the yard, Harley wiped the bottom of her shoes against the street pavement, cringing at the harsh treatment of her beautiful sandals. They made a staccato tapping sound as she marched to the other side of the road, continuing their tap-tap up the sidewalk in the center of an immaculately groomed lawn. Stepping up to the front porch, she rapped on the door twice.
A moment passed, and then a woman of about fifty with a brown pixie cut opened the door a couple inches.
Crowned (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 2) Page 2
