Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1)

by Ophelia London

  "Hey," a guy said to me. He was clean-cut and dressed in a long charcoal gray coat. "You media?"

  "Yes." I whipped out my badge. Maren Colepepper: Superstar Reporter. He didn't even glance at it.

  "Me too. Can you believe this?" He shook his head. "Same old crap."

  He looked about fifty, pleasant, if not irritated, and suspiciously tan for Eureka in March. I saw no reason I shouldn't pick his brain while I had him here.

  "Have you been to many of these?"

  "Too many. There's one every week if you know where to look." His lackluster tone echoed Chip's. "I have a feeling this one's about to break up, even less organized than usual." He stepped back to answer his cell.

  I walked closer to the group. Chip told me to talk to the protesters, so that was exactly what I was going to do…before my first story got in its VW van and headed for Starbucks.

  "Hi." I approached a girl in a drenched poncho, her hair tucked in a red knit cap. "Maren Colepepper, Standard." I paused, so totally enamored by the way that sounded. "Can you tell me what's going on here?"

  "We're disgusted," she said, then wiped her wet nose with the back of her hand. "This whole thing is, like, just so disgusting. And we're not gonna take it. No, we ain't gonna take it."

  Awesome. I found a Twisted Sister fan in the group.

  "Take what? What's the problem?"

  "That." She pointed through the fence, toward a twenty-foot high stack of cut logs. "That is our problem. Doesn't it, like, just make you sick? It's like…it's like…" She trailed off, at a loss for words. She grabbed a tall, bearded guy in an army-green rain slicker. "Hey, Buck. What did you say those are like?" She pointed to the logs.

  The Buck dude looked to me. "They're like corpses, man," he stated, then scratched his beard. It didn't appear particularly clean. "When I look at those, I don't see, like, unbuilt houses or bridges or boats. I only see corpses. Dead. Murdered."

  Yeesh.

  "Murdered," I echoed, tapping that into my tablet one-handed while balancing the umbrella. I made a mental note to snag one of those waterproof notebooks on the way back to the office. "What exactly are your grievances with Sierra Pacific? Is it clear-cutting or the rate of reforesting? Do they have a new policy?"

  "No, man, no." Buck bobbed his head up and down. "It's just all so…wrong…ya know?"

  "Ahh." I nodded sagely along with him, trying not to burst into giggles at his solemn expression. Or maybe I was getting a contact high off the pot smoke in his clothes. I kind of loathed myself for falling prey to stereotyping. But there it was. "Great, um, Buck," I said sincerely. "Thanks."

  Over Buck''s shoulder I spotted a man with papers fastened to a clipboard that people were stopping to sign. He seemed semi-official and wasn't smoking a doobie, so that seemed promising.

  "Hi there. Maren Colepepper, Standard. Are you in charge here? I'm hoping to talk to someone who can tell me what the problem is. Exactly."

  "Aaron Sorenson." We shook hands. "Thanks for coming out on a day like this." At least he'd spoken in a complete sentence and didn't reek of cannabis, thereby breaking my typecast of characters.

  "What is that you're having everyone sign?" I asked, trying to get a peek at the clipboard.

  "Last term, legislation didn't pass that would protect the forests south of Klamath. Logging used to be illegal there. It was protected, but now it's up for grabs."

  I typed this info into my tablet.

  "Sixteen square miles of that forest is home to two hundred species of wildlife. This is a petition for the House to bring the bill back to the table. They skipped over it so they could take their Christmas vacations on time." He handed off the clipboard to another person. "Despicable."

  "What do you hope to accomplish today?" I asked. "Are you going to hand out a list of demands…or…?

  "No." He turned and sniffed. "I'm not here about the bill or the petition. I came to talk to the foreman of the mill about another matter completely, something that I feel is much more grievous. But then word got out." He pointed his chin toward the crowd. "It's gotten a little"—he lifted a half-grin—"noisy."

  I made note of that, too. "So then, what—"

  "Hey!" Someone yelled from behind us. "Carissa handcuffed herself to the green chain! They're shutting it down!" Celebratory cheers erupted, but Aaron Sorenson swore under his breath, very unhappily. He handed me a business card and excused himself.

  By then, the mob was gathered along the chain-link fence. Sure enough, a woman in a baggy grey wool sweater and jeans was attached to one of the belts leading to the moving saws.

  I couldn't make out what she was chanting, but the security guard positioned a few feet from her appeared to be the target of her rage. I got as close as I could to the fence, trying to hear and see what the guard would do.

  My attention was yanked from Carissa when glass shattered on the ground somewhere within the middle of the mob. I heard two loud pops, like firecrackers, and then the protesters were scattering in every direction. The person directly in front of me flinched back, head whipping around like it had been the recipient of a solid punch. With all the yelling and mayhem, my brain couldn't properly note the face, but it did manage to register two things. First, the black hooded sweatshirt cinched tightly around his head. Second, the eyes. Dark brown, almost black, red and bloodshot. For a split second they focused on me, then rolled back, the small black hole between them ringed with blood. His hands reached out like he expected me to catch him before he slammed into me.

  The next thing I knew, the atmosphere around me changed as something whizzed past my cheek. Reflexively, I flinched away from the flying projectile, wobbling on unsteady heels.

  And then I was falling, muscles tensed, watching as the other body followed me down, about to pin me to the ground under its dead weight.

  From the recesses of my fading consciousness, I heard, "He's, got a gun!"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It felt like I was coming up for air after being underwater too long. When I inhaled a gasp, my lungs filling with air was the first thing I was physically aware of.

  Then the shouting.

  "Where'd they go?" "Who is it?" "Did anybody see?"

  Blinking away raindrops, I opened my eyes to see nothing but the gray, swirling sky.

  "Are you okay? Ms. Pepper?"

  "Colepepper," I corrected as I tried to sit up.

  "The police and paramedics are on the way. Stay still."

  "I'm not hurt," I insisted. "I slipped."

  "Oh. Good." Aaron Sorenson was crouched beside me, his face splashed with mud, his eyes tired and concerned. "You're sure?"

  Gingerly, I sat up and rubbed the back of my head, alarmed at first when I felt moisture. But when I whipped my hand around to examine the liquid, I exhaled.

  No, not blood. Maren Colepepper: Superstar Reporter was simply lazing in a mud puddle.

  "You blacked out," Aaron said. "After the shots, it got chaotic. I didn't see you here for a few minutes."

  "Shots?" I asked, remembering how I'd felt something whiz by. I touched my cheek but felt only unblemished skin and rain. Then it all came back in a rush. "The body." I sat ramrod straight, looking past my upturned toes. "The cops are coming?"

  "Body?"

  "Yes." I waved toward the empty, soggy space in front of me. "I…saw him. Or, I think it was a him. He got shot. His eyes…the blood."

  "Blood?"

  I pinched my eyes closed, trying to focus. When it was evident I wanted to stand, Aaron helped me to my feet. The back half of my body was soaked. Well, it wasn't a proper bath, but at least it was better than a hole in the head.

  "He…he tried to grab me." I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "He fell when I fell. I think. I don't know."

  "Are you sure you're okay?" Aaron asked, eyeing me cautiously. "There was a shooter, but no one was hit. Like I said, it was chaotic."

  "Someone was hit," I mumbled under my breath.

  "No one saw anything. Or no one's t
alking."

  "But I…" I turned in a slow circle. No body, no traces of blood anywhere. I felt dizzy. "The police are on the way?"

  "I called 9-1-1 five minutes ago. They'll want statements from us since most everyone is gone."

  "Yeah." I scanned the crowd. There were only a few people left, mill workers and security guards, but the likes of Buck, Carissa and the red knit cap chick had disappeared into the ferns.

  "Dammit, man," I muttered.

  "I know," Aaron said. "I'm sure you're in shock."

  "No, not that. I can't believe I missed it." I exhaled a dark laugh and slapped a hand to my forehead. "A shooting on my first day, and I'm unconscious for the whole thing."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Aaron and I talked to the police, but as expected, they didn't direct many questions my way. And no one (but me, evidently) knew anything about a hooded person getting shot between the eyes. After receiving the third "lady, you're crazy" look, I stopped asking.

  Maybe I'd hit my head harder than I'd thought. Though…that had been after I'd seen it happen and way after I'd seen the same guy—maybe—in the office parking lot this morning.

  The too-tan, overcoat-wearing man I'd spoken to earlier was running around, talking to everyone while being followed by a camera crew. Aaaaaand, I'd also been scooped. Double-dammit. My first day on the job just might be my last.

  When I got back to the office, everyone was gathered around the TV watching overcoat guy reporting live from SPI. "A reporter from another periodical was also on the scene at the time," he was saying to the camera. "Though, as this anonymous, amateur cell phone footage reveals, she was obviously not up to the task…"

  My heart stopped dead in my chest when a new image filled the screen. Me, lying prostrate on the ground, eyes closed, protestors hopping over me, my skirt hiked up way too high for daytime television viewing. Yep, I was wearing purple striped underwear.

  Anonymous footage, my ass.

  "Holy shiz," I gasped.

  According to the banner at the bottom of the screen, the too-tan man's name was Mark Swanson, a reporter for the local NBC affiliate. I already hated him.

  "Dull morning?" Robby asked with his signature smirk.

  I lifted a toothy grin. "Funny."

  At least I wasn't fired. In fact, Chip got a huge kick out of it, though I failed to inform him that I'd seemed to be the only witness to a mysterious, hooded character getting taken down right in front of me.

  "Just write what you saw," Chip said. "But, uh, ya might want to leave out how you passed out in the mud."

  Before settling into work, I hauled tail to the ladies'' room and did my best to clean the remaining sludge off of my skirt and out of my hair. I supposed I was lucky it had rained at the mill, because Mother Nature had pretty much taken care of the mud, so now it was just a matter of drying off.

  A while after I'd emailed my first—and extremely anti-climactic—article to Chip, Kim appeared at my desk. "A few of us are going to the Marina Café for a late lunch. Wanna come?"

  I smiled, relieved that I wasn't the office joke or the hated new girl at work like Dolly Parton in 9 to 5. "Sounds great." I grabbed my purse and met her by the front door.

  "Robby's running down a lead, so he'll meet us there. Grouper's pulling the car around." She pointed out the window. Yep, it was raining. Kim wrapped her long, dark green trench coat around her body as preparation.

  "That's us," she said when a silver car pulled to a stop at the front of the entrance. We made a mad dash through the drizzle. I automatically headed toward the door of the backseat, but Kim pushed me to the front. We both got in, panting a little, but not too worse for wear.

  Grouper was behind the wheel. I'd noticed him that morning, just one of the thirty-something guys with their heads down in the bullpen.

  "I'm Maren," I said with a smile.

  "Grouper—sports beat." He revved the engine.

  "We're all impressed." Kim punched the back of his seat. "He likes to think he's one of those old time reporters from a black and white movie. No one says beat anymore." She hit his seat again. "Can we go? I'm starving."

  We chatted as we drove across the Samoa Bridge toward the restaurant, the same path I'd taken earlier. Grouper grew up in Fortuna, a tiny town even tinier than Eureka. He'd played football, blew out his knee senior year at the very game the college recruiters had been at. So he'd decided to live vicariously through the players he could never be. He was married, had a kid, seemed happy.

  "There's Robby," Kim said. "He's got a table by the window."

  I sat closest to the glass and had a perfect view out to the marina. It was small, maybe 200 boat slips, but even in the rain, jeez, there wasn't a better view of Eureka's beautiful coast and unique little skyline. This had always been one of my favorite spots in town. We used to come for special occasions as a family, or on fancy dates like prom and homecoming. I glanced across the table at Kim, who'd slid on a pair of reading glasses.

  It was funny to be sitting here on a regular Monday having a regular work lunch. Things sure changed when you grew up. The magical became commonplace.

  I ordered fish tacos, and we all started in on the piping hot sourdough loaf.

  "So Maren," Robby began. "What's your story?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked, buttering a piece of bread.

  "Where're you from?"

  "She's from here, Woodward," Kim said. "She's Maren Colepepper."

  Robby sat up straight, taken aback. Why would being reminded of my full name explain anything?

  "Oh." He nodded at me. "Got it."

  I opened my mouth to say something, but Kim broke in. "It's kind of weird, you know? We just had cutbacks and this major reorganization, and then you show up."

  "Cutbacks," I repeated. "Recently?"

  The three of them nodded in unison.

  "The recession?" I asked. "Online readers? Twitter?"

  "All of the above," Grouper confirmed.

  "The four of us, we're some of the only semi-young employees left at the paper." Kim took a bite of salad the server brought each of us. "Everyone else is way old. A few days ago, they got rid of everyone middle-aged."

  I set down my fork. "Why?"

  Grouper reached for the salt. "It's because the suits know the old birds will be retiring soon," he explained. "It's happening all over. And since they pay us crap, we don't affect their bottom line as much. We're probably safe for a while."

  "A while," Kim and Robby said together, then clinked glasses.

  "They want us to go totally paper free," Kim added. "Did Eric tell you that?"

  I shook my head. Something about that didn't feel kosher.

  "I mean, seriously." She chuckled darkly. "This is a community that depends on the timber industry, and they want us to go paperless? Completely stop supporting the local economy?" She looked around the table at us. "It's absurd, right? Am I the only one who doesn't see the logic in that?"

  "That doesn't make sense," I agreed. "Maybe he's just trying to be…you know…green."

  "That's what we thought at first," Robby said. "This town is too damn stuck in nineteen seventy-six."

  "Robby!" Kim said, emotion in her voice. "Your father and grandfather both worked for the Louisiana Pacific paper mill, and now they're going to lose the only daily rag in town as a customer." She turned to the rest of us. "It'll kill those old guys."

  None of us said anything for a minute then Robby addressed me. "You knew Mac really well, right?"

  "No," I answered, surprised by this assumption. "We only spoke on the phone a couple of times for my interview. But he was good friends with my dad when they worked together. I guess you already knew that."

  The three of them nodded.

  "Mac's a total doll. Major sweetheart," Kim said with a chuckle, shifting toward Robby. "For a newspaper man." When Robby nudged her, she giggled. "Anyway, they just let him go. After running the paper for twenty years, the owners cut him loose."

  "Wh
y?" I asked, sounding like a broken record. But one of the first things they taught in Journalism 101 was to ask questions, be curious. If I was serious about becoming a legit investigative reporter, I'd better stay ultra-nosy and not make the same rookie mistakes I'd made at SPI.

  "We didn't even know he was gone until after it happened," Robby said. "They told us he took the paper as far as he could."

  "I call BS on that," Grouper interjected. "Mac retooled my whole division two years ago. He has a perfect sense for running a daily."

  "So then," I asked, "who is Eric Brady?"

  "Someone the owner brought in," Robby muttered in disgust. "But it's like he's never run a paper before. He has no idea what he's doing. I don't think he gives The Standard much thought, actually."

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  "Let's Google him," I said, picking up my cell, feeling all brilliant and reporterly.

  "Don't bother." Robby scoffed. "I did that the day he got here. We all did. There's nothing."

  "Not even a LinkedIn or Facebook account," Kim added. "It's like he's off the grid. Doesn't exist."

  "Where did he come from?"

  Kim leaned her elbows on the table. "That's the other weird part. No one knows."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Even hours after lunch, I couldn't get our conversation out of my head. Who was Eric Brady and why was Mac gone without a word? And why the heck would a newspaper smack dab in the middle of the Redwood Coast go paperless?

  Not to mention how my imagination was messing with me. I mean, dead bodies couldn't just stand up from the mud and walk away, could they?

  After staring at my screen until my eyes crossed, I texted Piper to come pick me up, then hung out at Kim's desk until my sister arrived, windshield wipers slapping away the downpour.

  "How'd it go covering your first big story?" she asked after I slid inside the warm car. "Was it as exciting as—Mare, what happened to your clothes?"

  "Mud," I said, running a finger along the once-conservative front slit of my skirt that now reached high, high upper thigh. "You didn't watch the news today, I take it?" In as few embarrassing sentences as possible, I gave her the 4-1-1 about SPI, leaving out the tiny detail of the missing body.