Time to start your new life, I thought, giving myself one more pep talk as I stepped up to the door.
Before I entered, a movement caught my attention. Someone was off to the side, no more than twenty feet away, watching me, or at least watching the entrance. It was a man, no coat, no umbrella, though he did have the hood of his black sweatshirt over his head, which did nothing to keep him dry. The image of him hanging out in the rain gave me a chill, reminding me of scenes from one of the movies I'd watched and re-watched on my road trip, that slasher film about the hook-wielding dude in fisherman's garb who hunted down all those college kids. Cheery thought, Maren.
On second glance, he might've been homeless, and I was about to dig for change in my purse when he produced a cell phone and snapped a picture of me. Then another.
"Hey!" I shifted my weight to cross the parking lot and demand his phone. But before I could even blink, there was only mist where he'd been standing. I moved to the edge of the awning, as far as I was willing to go, but he'd disappeared into the foggy morning.
Or…had he been there in the first place?
Stupid horror movie messing with my brain.
I inhaled, surprised when my lungs shook. Now was not the time to start questioning my sanity, so I cinched the ties of my trench coat and sucked in a deep breath, a calming one this time. Then I pulled open the door of The Standard.
An armed guard stood just inside the lobby. Who needed security in a town like this? I told him who I was, and he picked up a phone, spoke to someone, then let me through, pointing down the hall.
Mac Gardner had interviewed me twice over the phone, and we'd emailed back and forth about the job last week. He expected me at 7:30 on the dot. I passed by a few dark offices housing stacks of file boxes. I wondered if they'd been reducing staff, like most other broadsheet papers.
Piper's words came back to me. Though I was dying to be one, I'd still yet to be a proper investigative journalist. I was, however, born overly curious, and I suddenly questioned how I'd managed to land a job in the middle of a downsize.
I wasn't allowed to wonder for long, because around the next corner I arrived at the open bullpen. The room was smaller than I was used to, but it appeared similar to The New York Times space…just on a much smaller scale. There were clusters of desks with no dividers, laptops, coffee cups, people running around or standing around, everyone talking. Instant energy.
I let out a huge breath. It already felt like home.
Thanks to the Nevada pit stop, I wore what I hoped was an appropriate outfit for my first day as editorial reporter at a daily newspaper with a circulation of 12,000—white collar shirt, dark gray pencil skirt that hit my knees, tall black boots with a sensible heel, and khaki trench coat tightly belted to keep out the chill.
The managers' and editors' offices were around the perimeter of the bullpen. I scanned the names on the doors for Mac Gardner.
"Excuse me—sorry. You passed right by my desk. Can I help you?" A young woman with red hair and bright green eyes touched my sleeve. "I was behind the coat rack, so you didn't see me." She gestured at her short stature.
"I'm here to see Mac Gardner. It's my first day!" I flashed a semi-nervous, ta-da! kind of smile. "I'm Maren Colepepper."
"Oh. Hi. Ummm…" She sucked in her bottom lip to chew. When a guy rushed by, she grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. "Robby, she said she's new today, and is here to…to see Mac." She spoke the last few words slowly while staring ominously into the guy's eyes, like she was trying to convey a message telepathically.
Robby deciphered her mental memo and replied with, "What about—"
"That's what I'm saying," the redhead said. "What should I…?" She cocked her head, pointing infinitesimally toward the corner office.
"I don't know, take her to him."
My head swiveled back and forth like I was watching a tennis match. So cloak-and-dagger, these two. "I'm Maren," I said, stepping up to the guy and sticking out my hand for him to shake. "Nice to meet you, Robby."
He blinked at me, then at my hand. Then he shook it, a ghost of a confused yet polite smile on his face. "Hi. Sorry, it's a crazy morning. I'm Robby Porter, and you met Kim?" He gestured to the redhead.
"Not officially. It's nice to meet you." I took a beat and smiled. "Officially."
"I love your trench," Kim said. "Is it Burberry?"
"Thanks!" My grin widened. "And no. It's a knockoff from Canal Street."
"The one in New York?"
"It's where I'm from," I said automatically but then backtracked. "I mean, I'm from here, actually, Eureka, but I moved to New York ten years ago."
"And you came back?" Kim puckered her lips and exhaled a bemused sigh. "Wow."
We stood for a few silent moments. Neither of them seemed to know what to do next. "Anyway," I said, taking the lead. "Where is Mac's office? I don't want to report late on my first morning. Just point the way."
"Okay," Kim said after glancing once more at Robby, who shrugged and walked off. "It's over here." She led me toward the corner office she'd gestured to a minute ago. She stood in the doorway and cleared her throat. "Mr. Brady?"
Someone within corrected her.
"Sorry." She tittered softly. "Eric, I mean. There's someone here to see you. It's her first day, she said Mac hired her." Kim glanced at me, dropped her eyes, then slowly backed out of the office.
Who was in there? A redhead-eating ogre? And why did it feel like the eyes of everyone in the bullpen were boring into my back? I sucked in a quick breath and crossed the threshold.
It wasn't an ogre at all. Just an ordinary guy. Well, not that ordinary, actually. He was cute, in a boyish, curly-haired, Ferris Bueller kind of way. He sat at a huge desk, halfway hidden behind one open laptop computer, one desktop computer, and two additional screens.
"Hello there." He stood and moved to the front of the desk. There were bags under his eyes, and yet he lifted a pleasant smile. He wore a dark suit, but the shirt underneath was rumpled, and there was a spot on his tie.
Shiz, even cuter.
"Eric Brady," he said. "Managing editor. And you are?"
"Maren Colepepper. Sorry, I'm not sure what happened. Is Mac—"
"No longer at the paper?" He shook his head. "Regretfully, no. We had a change in staff only three days ago."
Hmm. So Piper's gossip was correct.
"Your personnel file must be lost in cyberspace. Please." Eric gestured to a chair, and I sat while he moved behind all his screens and pushed a button on the desk phone. "Kim, would you have HR email me Ms. Colepepper's sheets?" He focused his eyes on me, looking small behind all that desk, rather like he was playing "office" in his daddy's chair. "While we wait for that, tell me about yourself and your experience."
I hadn't expected to do the show-pony routine today. But I launched in, describing my first assignments at the student paper right here in Eureka, my editorials at NYU, and then my job writing for The Book. He seemed impressed, and I was more than relieved when he didn't ask why I'd left my last job.
If I could help it, I didn't want to mention that to anyone ever again.
After a few minutes, he glanced at one of the computer screens. "Ahh, okay, here you are." He started clicking his mouse, reading, I suspected, an electronic copy of my résumé. He nodded every once in a while, and I tried to push out of my mind that I was interviewing all over again—for a job I thought I already had, for a job I traveled three thousand miles for.
"I see." Eric typed for a few moments then leaned back in his chair, his eyes studying my face. They were sky blue and kind of twinkly. Something about his lingering gaze made me want to giggle and blush. "I lived in New York, too," he finally said. "You actually remind me of someone there. A friend. A good friend." He winked.
"Oh?" I asked, not only because that should've been interesting but because his steady stare and flirty smile were starting to fluster me. Before I could say more, Eric was on his feet, leading me by the elbow out o
f his office.
Damn, I blew it. I couldn't believe I blew it. Would Dad let me live at home even if I didn't have a job? Or would he turn all "tough love" and kick me to the streets? I didn't know how homeless people managed here. The town was so small. Where would I go when it rained? It rained a third of the year in Eureka! I'd never get dry!
"We'll put you here for now," Eric said, stopping at a desk a few feet outside his office door. "Kim emailed that we've got an extra laptop and tablet. IT will set up your email and security pass."
I was so stunned that I didn't know what to say.
"Chip Davis is the chief editorial editor," Eric added. "You'll get your assignments from him."
Though my heart still pounded from the leftover burst of panic, I nodded and grinned, doing my best not to reach out and hug the guy.
Eric scowled at his watch. "I wish I had more time, but I've got a meeting." He was about to walk away, but turned back and flashed that Ferris Bueller smile. "Welcome aboard, Maren Colepepper. I know you and I will get along just fine. I can already feel it."
An hour later, I had a desk phone, a brand new white tablet, a temporary security badge, press credentials, and a parking spot for my future car, aka Mom's blue Taurus. Meeting with Chip Davis, my immediate supervisor, was the next order of business.
"So you've done…" Chip's scruffy, gray-bearded chin jutted out as he read the computer screen through bifocals. "Looks like your most recent experience was at a magazine." He removed his glasses and eyed me across his desk. "Is that what you're interested in? Op-Eds?"
"At NYU, I was the deputy managing editor for two years. At the beginning of my senior year, I advanced to Investigations. That interested me the most, by far. My career in editorials just kind of happened, but…"
"Ahh, you fancy yourself a sleuth?" He chuckled and steepled his fingers. "Didn't we all at one time?"
I smiled back. At least he hadn't laughed me out the door.
"Investigative gigs eventually come up. My advice is to always be ready. If you've got the chops, you'll get the chance." He grinned, good-naturedly. "In the meantime, browse the online archives and see what our paper's all about."
I nodded like a good worker bee. "Sounds great, Chip. No problem."
Later, as I was clicking through screens of past articles, I noticed a theme. Weather reports: rain. Sports recaps: rained out. Other local news like someone's granny was having a yard sale, and another's tabby cat was still at large, and the merchants of Arcata were in an uproar last Halloween because of the mess vandals left at the plaza.
I sank into my chair, wondering what I'd gotten myself into and halfway praying for a lovely little earthquake to report on, or maybe being super lucky and stumbling upon a nice homicide.
Mom always said to be careful what I wished for.
"Maren." Chip leaned halfway out his office and crooked a finger. "I've got something for you."
I scraped back my chair and grabbed my tablet.
"It's not much," he said before I'd even made it through the door, "but since Iona is on press releases, we might as well give you a chance, see how you do with writing about an event."
"Really?" I perked up. I didn't think I'd be assigned a story for weeks. "Thank you so much. I appreciate your confidence in me."
He chuckled and rubbed his jaw. "Don't thank me yet. It's covering a protest at the lumber yard."
"Beaver Lumber or Sierra Pacific Industries?"
"SPI."
I tapped info into my tablet.
"Protesters have been there since sunrise, not much action. Word on the street is they're going to list their grievances today." He slumped in his chair and exhaled, a bit jadedly. "Probably the same old song and dance: pollution, planet, children, puppies." He broke off to laugh, so I laughed along, politely.
Growing up on the North Coast, people usually fell into one of two sides, namely, pro-environment or radically pro-environment. Even when the two sides wanted the same thing, there was still civil unrest.
"Head over there, see if you can get any quotes," Chip suggested. "Nothing too cuckoo, though—don't want to give credence in case it's not a proper demonstration. Most of the time it's down-and-outers wanting a reason to gather and complain. We don't need another Occupy Eureka."
I was nodding and typing one-handed, while inner-laughing at Chip's conservative position, quite uncommon in this liberal neck of the woods.
"When do you want it?" I asked, already imagining the title of my article: "Superstar reporter breaks strike. Brings two sides together in successful negotiations."
"Whenever you get something written up." Chip tapped on his keyboard. "Like I said, I'm sure it's nothing."
"Okay!" I replied, way too eager for his apathetic attitude. "Oh, sorry. I don't have a car with me today. But I will tomorrow."
"Take a company vehicle," he said without looking up. "Kim's got the keys."
"Got it. Thanks again." I felt like saluting before I spun around on one boot heel. "I got an assignment," I whispered to Robby as he rushed by. "It's at Sierra Pacific—"
"He gave you the protest?" One corner of his mouth cocked into a smirk. "Good luck with that."
"Thanks!" I beamed, retrieving my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk.
"He's being sarcastic," Kim said, coming up from behind and swatting his arm. "Stop it, Robby. She's new, she doesn't know."
Robby chuckled and strolled off, while Kim and I walked to the coat rack by her desk.
"What are you talking about?" I asked, glancing outside at the rain. I pulled on my trench and flipped up the collar.
"Um, it's kind of a hazing." She rolled her eyes. "They give newbies a protest for their first story because there're so many sit-ins and people bungee-cording themselves to bulldozers, stuff like that. New reporters get really excited, thinking it'll turn into a spotted owl headline or like when that lady lived in a redwood stump so they wouldn't chop it down. It's never anything though. Chip sends you out in the rain to talk to them anyway." She handed me the keys to a car and an umbrella. "You'll need this if you plan on using your iPad outside. IT will kill you if it gets wet."
People didn't use umbrellas much here. Like Seattle, it simply rained too often. And because of the wind, trenches, hoods, and wellies worked better anyway. I'd known not to bother bringing an umbrella home, so on the day I'd left New York, I'd bequeathed mine to the woman who lived under my fire escape.
"Thanks, I didn't think of that," I said, wearing a smile I couldn't wash off, no matter what anyone said. I didn't bother commenting on the rest of her explanation. Sure, this would probably turn out to be nothing, but at least it was a story. On my first day, I was being given a chance. I would be outside with the people…struggling to make their voices heard.
"One more thing," Kim added. "You might want to invest in a waterproof notebook. They sell them at Picky Picky Picky. Just, um…" She glanced over her shoulder. "Just don't let Eric see it."
CHAPTER THREE
"Maren Colepepper: Environmental Beat," I rehearsed aloud as I walked across the wet parking lot toward a gray sedan, holding my purse tight to my side against the weather. While letting the car warm up, I fished out my cell, eager to share the news with the first person who popped in my head. My finger was about to touch the position one speed dial when it froze.
I couldn't call Joey. Not only would she not care, but she wouldn't bother picking up. Or if she did, it might be to threaten to get a restraining order against me.
"Hey," I said a moment later, after tapping another number. "Piper, it's me. You're probably in rehearsal, but I wanted to tell you I'm covering a real story today. Squee! Call me later."
To get to Sierra Pacific Industries—located on the Samoa Peninsula—one had to cross over a slice of Humboldt Bay via the Samoa Bridge. Only two miles long, the bridge had one exit. Turning right off the exit led to the Woodley Island marina and café. Turning left led to a spooky maritime museum and a road to some docks we
'd always heard were haunted by the ghosts of fishermen lost at sea. I'd never been down that road and hoped I'd never have a reason to.
A shiver pricked my palms and spine as I pictured that hooded figure in the rain outside my building. He would've made an excellent fisherman ghost, all lurky and creepy in the fog.
At the end of the bridge, I hung a right. The mill was three miles away now, and I was starting to get a nervous/excited flutter in my stomach. As I got closer, the two-lane highway narrowed where a few dozen battered cars and vans parked along both shoulders. My gut told me those belonged to the protesters.
Through the open car window, I flashed my temporary press credentials at the security guy on guard at SPI's gate. Wearily, he waved me in. I didn't see anyone standing around. No picket signs, no leaflets blowing in the wind. After parking, I tucked my iPad into my purse and opened the umbrella. Luckily, the downpour had lightened to a heavy wall of drizzle.
"Excuse me?" I said to the guard, feeling a bit sorry for him having to stand outside in the soggy weather. "Can you tell me where, I mean, I heard there are some…people here?"
So far, I was pretty tragic at the hardboiled reporter thing.
"Out that gate." He pointed. "Around the corner."
"Perfect." I smiled at him. "Thanks."
I was glad I'd worn boots and not the pointy-toed high heels I'd originally planned for my first day on the job. My feet would have been totally drenched. Plus, the terrain was all gravel and potholes filled with muddy rainwater.
It wasn't too far until I saw the group of about twenty people. I didn't know what I'd been expecting, maybe a podium with someone about to address the public. Maybe a leader standing atop a stack of crates, à la Norma Rae. But there wasn't a single megaphone, and not one person was walking around wearing a sandwich board while ringing a bell.
Everyone just milled about, most of them puffing on what I hoped were tobacco cigarettes. If not for the wet weather, I would've assumed I'd interrupted their smoking break.
Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1) Page 2
