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

by Ophelia London

  "Okay, but go home if you're not feeling well. Promise?"

  "Sure thing, boss!"

  After another big smile, Eric slid behind the wheel of a shiny black Porsche. While pressing an ice pack against my face, I watched him drive away. It wasn't until his car turned a corner into the mist that I caught sight of another car pulling out of the bushes to follow him. At that distance, I could've sworn it was an SUV with silver ski racks.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Did you drink a glass of water?"

  "Mom…" I whined into the phone, my voice reminiscent of when I was thirteen. "Yes, I did, and you better not blog about this."

  "Of course not, dear. Never."

  The clicking of her fingers on a keyboard came through my cell. I was already bracing myself that today's embarrassing events would go viral before the sun set. Well, at least there'd been no news cameras on the scene this time.

  I'd already changed out of my muddy clothes and into my emergency outfit, and made a mental note to stow at least three outfits in my trunk at all times.

  "I mean it, Maren," Mom continued. "Have a big glass of water right now and then another in twenty minutes. You should be tinkling all afternoon."

  "Mom—stop," I implored, grateful no one in the office could hear her side of the conversation.

  My mother had always been like this, convinced any ailment could be solved by drinking water. Headache: water. PMS: water. US budget deficit: water. It became a huge joke in our house, so whenever Mom complained about anything—politics, weather, if the cable went out—someone in our family would tell her to drink a jug of agua.

  "Your father's out tonight, so is your sister. Are you coming home?"

  I glanced at Aaron Sorenson's business card on my desk. "There're some things at work I want to finish up, so I probably won't be home 'til late. Don't wait up." Mom had no idea I'd gone out with Patrick Loomis last night. If she knew, she'd immediately call Mrs. Loomis, and they'd start planning the wedding.

  "Okay, well, don't forget to eat."

  "I won't," I said, smiling a little. Then we ended the call.

  I was about to phone Aaron when Kim came to my desk. "Yikes." She stared at my forehead, her eyes round. "It hasn't gone down much. Does it kill?"

  "Not really." I touched the bump lightly. "It looks worse than it feels."

  "Here." She passed me a compact mirror.

  "Ooph." I cringed. "A lot worse." The middle of my forehead looked like it had been used to kick a field goal. The three red pills from the EMT must've been potent stuff.

  "I want to set up an interview for this afternoon," I said to Kim. "Do you have any makeup?"

  "Sorry. I only carry gloss and nail polish." She bit her lip. "But there's a pharmacy a few blocks away, if you don't want to go home."

  Mom would freak out if she saw the swollen purple welt on the front of my skull.

  "Good idea. Thanks."

  After Kim left, I punched in Aaron Sorenson's number. It rang and rang then went to voicemail. He worked at a place called Consumer Advisory, and his title on the business card simply said Administrator. The office address was down by the waterfront, so I decided to take a chance that he'd be in later, or maybe someone he worked with could give me some kind of lead, because "kind of almost" getting shot and being clocked on the melon by a flyaway boot was not the story I wanted to tell.

  So far, though, it was all I had. And I was not about to let Mark Swanson beat me to the punch. So to speak.

  After transferring onto my computer a few comments and observations I'd jotted in my drenched yet impressively-resilient waterproof notebook, I pushed back my chair, feeling a teeny bit dizzy when I stood. Not a concussion. Probably only because I hadn't had lunch. Or hadn't drunk enough water…

  "Going to your interview?" Kim asked when I got to her desk. She'd hung my trench in front of a small space heater. It was completely dry, even the back where I'd been lying in puddles, and felt toasty warm when I pulled it on.

  "Pharmacy first," I said, "then I might grab a bite on the way to catch this witness who was at both protests."

  "Good luck!" She tossed her red hair and waved.

  It wasn't raining anymore but plenty humid, so I huddled my bag to my chest as I hustled toward the Taurus. I was about to get in, when a black sports car pulled up next to me.

  "How are you feeling?" Eric's eyes narrowed as he scanned my forehead, then he made a low whistle. "It's good you're going home. Take a few days off while you're at it. In fact, why don't you take the rest of the week."

  "No, no," I said. "I feel fit as a fiddle. In fact, I'm following up with one of the people at the protest now."

  He frowned and walked around his car. "Are you sure?" He touched my elbow. "Don't be a hero."

  "The EMT gave me another clean bill of health." I laughed under my breath, feeling like a tongue-tied dweeb.

  "Okay." His pink lips arched into a grin.

  "What?" I asked, wanting to grin back. He looked adorable, a little boy with a secret.

  He's not adorable. He's your boss!

  "Nothing, nothing," Eric said, then chuckled and winked. "You're quite a lady, Maren Colepepper. I see us doing big things together. You take care." He pointed his keys at the Porsche, activating the alarm. Then he walked into the building.

  There was something about him I really liked. And something else I didn't quite get. Why had he been brought in two weeks ago? And by whom? Why had the paper suddenly needed a new editor in chief? And why the hell did he think it was okay to flirt with me?

  I shook my head at the string of questions and got in the car. Two blue melted ice packs sat on the passenger floor. Had that really been only three hours ago? As I coasted through the parking lot, worrying my lip over Eric, I didn't get far before all thoughts of my can't-be-adorable boss evaporated.

  Patrick leaned against his 4Runner as I drove straight at him. He lifted a hand for me to stop, and I rolled down the window, trying to squelch the excited tizzy in my stomach just seeing him caused.

  "Hey," he said. He wore a gray hooded sweater under a heavy black peacoat, jeans, and black leather gloves. For only a second did the fact that he donned a hood give me pause, because…yeah, he looked delicious.

  "Hi." I shifted the gear into park. "Are you stalking my building?"

  He chuckled and leaned down, placing a gloved hand on my open window. He had gel in his hair, maybe to keep it from going wild in today's weather. It made his hair almost brown, which did something to the shade of his eyes, which did something to the rhythm of my heart when I caught myself mirrored in them.

  "I'm not officially stalking you, I was just… What—" His eyebrows mashed together. He yanked off one of his gloves then reached a hand toward me, gingerly, as if he was about to sweep a wisp of my hair gently across my forehead. Oh, how jolly. Who would've thought a romantic parking lot tryst was in my cards today?

  I took a fun little second to fantasize about whether he was going to hop in my car or if he'd pull me into his. Either was fine by me. His was bigger, but mine had leather seats. I looked into his hazel eyes. So caring, concerned, even, umm, maybe a bit overly-concerned?

  Just as the second chorus of "Afternoon Delight" started running through my mind, Patrick pulled his hand away.

  "What the hell happened to you?"

  I lifted my fingers to where his had stopped. "Oh." Aw, nuts. That. I immediately sat back in my seat, trying to shroud my mutilated self, though he'd obviously seen all my mutilated glory. "Nothing. I got in the way of someone's shoe."

  Patrick's face went white, then red, his body taking on a Hulk-like transformation. "Someone kicked you?" His voice was a low hiss as he gripped my open window. "Maren, who did this to you? Give me a name. Now. All I need is a name."

  "No-no, that's not what I meant." I tried laughing to ease the tension. "I was on assignment this morning when a crowd got mildly out of control. My forehead's collateral damage. It was a complete accident. Ha-ha
. At least I wasn't shot again, right?"

  "Shot?" His low hiss was lower and hissier.

  "No, sorry. That's the other, um, accident I told you about—I'm totally fine." I ran a finger across my wound to show him it didn't hurt. "Although I'm sure I look Frankenstein-y."

  He didn't join in when I took another stab at laughing, but at least his pit bull expression had mellowed. "When did this happen?"

  "This morning."

  "Where?"

  "Sierra Pacific. I was covering another protest."

  His eyebrows crashed together again, and his lips peeled apart to speak. After a moment, they closed and he dropped his chin, kneading a fist into his forehead. "Did you see a doctor or get an X-ray?"

  "It's not serious. Once the swelling shrinks, I might actually show my face in public."

  Still looking down, he finally chuckled. "What about now? Are you going home?"

  Sheesh. Why did everyone think I was so helpless? It was only one little boot.

  "Nope, still on the clock. I'm on my way to grab something quick for lunch, maybe go through a drive-thru. Don't want to frighten any children or small animals."

  Patrick rocked back on his heels and laughed.

  Man, I loved his laugh, how his eyes brightened and got squinty lines that shot out like sunbeams. I loved the way he laughed at my jokes, even when they were lame.

  "After I eat," I continued, "I'm interviewing someone from this morning."

  "Who?"

  "One of the witnesses, not a protester or mill worker. I think he might have some answers." I sighed. "I could really use some right now. I'm pretty stuck."

  "Huh." He grunted while rubbing his chin. "Maybe you should cut your losses with this story and move on. Seems like you're behind the eight ball."

  I couldn't help snorting. "Feels like it, but I'm determined to get to the bottom of it. In the last three days, I have more questions than answers, and it's driving me crazy. Before I do anything, though, I'm stopping by the pharmacy for some heavy-duty concealer. See if I can cover-up this hunny." I gesture at my goose egg.

  "It's a war wound." He fingered a strand of my hair that had blown out the window. "You should be proud of it. Gives you character."

  "Just what I need." I rolled my eyes.

  "Instead of makeup—which you don't need—I'm taking you to lunch. Scoot over." When I didn't move, he opened my car door. "Scoot." When I still didn't move, he unclicked my safety belt and shoved me across the bench seat.

  "Ow." I complained. "My spleen."

  "It's your head that's hurt," he said as he slid into the driver's seat. "Feels like an oven in here. Why is the heater on high?"

  "It's cold outside." I slapped his hand. "I finally got it the temperature I like."

  "It's a waste of gas," he complained, buckling his seatbelt then adjusting all three mirrors.

  "Why are you in my car?" I asked, deadpan. "Yours is right there, and I bet it has all kinds of shiny knobs and buttons you can play with."

  "Fine." He shifted the Taurus into drive. "But no complaints out of you about our destination." A mischievous grin spread across his face.

  "Where are you taking me, Patrick?"

  His lips sealed shut, his eyes doing all the grinning.

  "I'm only on my lunch break."

  "I'll be finished with you in thirty minutes. Twenty if we work together and don't beat around the bush. Though I'd prefer a solid hour. I like to be thorough." He sent me a slow, half-grinning gaze, making my toes curl at the innuendo.

  "Uh, so what are you doing hanging around parking lots, anyway?" I asked, pulling my mind out of the gutter. "Don't you work for a living during the day?"

  Before answering, he messed with both side mirrors again. "I am working—was, I mean. I'm on a break, too." He turned to me with a full-dimpled smile, then reached out to run a finger under my chin. "Just hoping to see you. Now…here you are."

  My mind wiped blank of all pertinent questions, nothing else registering except the way he smiled at me and traced my jaw. My toes curled into tight little fists, wishing he'd just pull the car over, already.

  Some probing reporter I was turning out to be.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After Patrick drove a few miles, we ended up in front of Sequoia Park's zoo.

  I grinned out the window, practically pressing my nose to the glass as I recalled the countless hours I'd spent tooling around the zoo on summer afternoons as a kid. Not to mention, the park—over sixty acres of heaven. The upper park recreation area was two acres of magnificent redwood trees, picnic tables, a greenbelt for Frisbee or tag, rows of swings, and even three slides built into a cluster of redwoods, the highest one meant for thrill-seekers only.

  The middle park was all forest and hiking trails cutting through the thick trees and ferns. When I was little and not brave enough, I never went into those woods alone—not even on a dare—because, only a few feet in, the trees completely cut out the sunlight. It was dark and mossy and way too scary for a ten-year-old. As I got older, we played hide-and-seek in those middle woods, sometimes stumbling across the occasional high school couple taking advantage of the ferny privacy.

  Then there was the lower park. The trail was steep and windy, and no one ever knew if a huge sequoia had blown over from last night's storm or earthquake, completely blocking the path. I'd been trapped more than once on my way to the bottom.

  Patrick put the car in park and was feeling for something in his pockets.

  "Really, Patrick?" I said. "Zoo food? I need serious recuperation."

  "First stop. Wait here." Keeping the engine running, he hopped out, dashed to the concessions stand, and returned a minute later, stowing whatever he'd bought inside his coat.

  "Second stop," he said, hanging a neat U-turn. A block away was a silver trailer where we parked again. "Two choices, chicken or beef?"

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  "Trust me."

  "One of each then. Are we getting out?" I grabbed the door handle, about to exit.

  "Just me," he said, already outside the car. "Be right back."

  True to his word, he was gone only minutes, returning with a white paper bag and two bottles of water. The car immediately filled with the scent of seasoned meat. "Hold these, please." After another U-turn, we were driving again.

  The park was around the block from the zoo. I assumed we were heading there to sit at one of the picnic tables carved from redwood stumps. But instead, Patrick took a right and drove under the sky-tall, rusty-red painted entrance gate.

  I squealed in delight. "Are you driving us down the trail? To the duck pond at the very bottom?"

  He could no longer hide his grin. "Maybe."

  "I used to love this place."

  "Me too."

  The car dipped and rolled over a high bump on the trail. I jetted up, held in place by my seatbelt. "Careful. This baby doesn't have four-wheel drive," I said, stroking the dashboard. "If my mother's Taurus gets stuck in the mud, she'll stab you with a knitting needle."

  "We won't get stuck. You've noticed how skilled I am with my hands."

  Thanks for the reminder.

  The speedometer showed two miles an hour as we drove down the steep grade, but inside the car, we were bouncing all over the place. The more I giggled and shrieked, the more Patrick sought out those enormous, protruding redwood tree roots—more impeding than any speed bump. By the time we made the last sharp turn at the bottom, I was breathless with laughter.

  "That…" I said, "was more thrilling than a roller coaster. The park should charge admission for driving this trail."

  "How about you pay me," he suggested.

  I would have…right then, but he grabbed the bag of food and headed to the duck pond.

  It was much chillier down at the bottom where the sun rarely pierced through the towering sequoias. The mossy green vegetation dripped with this morning's rain. I wrapped my trench tighter and joined Patrick at the moss-covered wood railing that surroun
ded the pond.

  Most of the ducks were camped out on the island in the middle of the water. When they saw us at the fence, a few took to paddling, assuming they were about to get part of our lunch. But if that mouth-watering smell in the car was any indication, there wouldn't be anything left to share.

  "Ahhh, they're, so cute," I cooed, leaning over the railing. "That one. He's got babies following him."

  "Her," Patrick said. "I'm guessing that's the mother."

  "Right." I laughed. "You really are a college grad."

  He smiled and shook his head.

  A male mallard with a bright green head hopped on the shore in front of the fence. This was the one place I knew of where park guests were not only allowed to feed the animals but encouraged.

  "I wish we had something for you, little guy," I said through the railings. He quacked back. "I know, I know, but Tex-Mex isn't conducive to your ducky digestive system."

  "Here." Patrick held out a slice of bread.

  "Where did you get this?"

  He pulled a second slice from inside his coat. "Break it into pieces before you throw it in," he directed, like I'd never fed the ducks before. "We only have one slice each, because I know you're on the clock." He tossed a chunk of bread to a colorful wood duck.

  "That one, there," I said, pointing to a muddy white duck swimming in a circle. "Watch this." I threw a piece so it landed right in its path. It scooped it up and quacked its gratitude.

  "Nice. That guy in the corner seems like a loner." He lobbed a piece toward a small duck with a black head and a white stripe on each cheekbone. "Here ya go, little buddy."

  We spent the next few minutes pointing out our aim—like Babe Ruth might've pointed his bat toward the grandstands—then treating only the most deserving aquatic birds to the most delicious scraps of stale bread money could buy. When we were done, we both leaned our elbows on the railing.