"Can I see your ID and credentials?" the deputy asked. I gave him my driver's license and temporary press pass. "New York? You said you work for The Standard."
"I do. I moved here three days ago."
He eyed me, then my license again. "Okay. I'll scan these while you fill this out." He handed me a clipboard with some blank forms. "Take a seat."
I thanked him and walked to a row of blue plastic chairs along the wall. The questions weren't too difficult. "How do I know the inmate?" Inmate? That's kind of creepy. "What is our relationship?" Nothing too off the wall.
I returned the completed forms to the deputy. "How do you pronounce your name?" I asked as I eyed his badge, nerves making me chatty.
"Vuh-lair-guh," he enunciated.
"Italian?" I asked, noticing how he hadn't pronounced the double-L as "yuh," like in Spanish.
"Not even almost close." He smiled. "French-Canadian."
"Oh, ha-ha. That's so cool." I twirled the ends of my hair nervously, wishing I had a mute button.
Deputy Vallerga kept my license and badge and pointed me to a door in the corner. First, I had to pass through a metal detector and scanner like at airport security. Once through that door, my bag and trench were also taken. I felt bare naked without anything, but followed a new officer down a hallway.
Inconveniently, a scene from Silence of the Lambs popped into my head—Hannibal Lecter bound in a straitjacket, fastened with padlocks to a vertically-standing gurney while wearing a mask/helmet contraption over his mouth as added insurance to keep him from eating Jody Foster's face.
I had to concentrate on steady breathing and steady footsteps as I trailed behind the guard, knowing if I accidentally burst into hysterics, it wouldn't help Aaron or me. But if I saw even one straitjacket, nothing would stop me from hyperventilating.
The officer stopped in front of a door, checked the small computer tablet he was carrying, and then unlocked the door, holding it ajar for me.
I took a deep breath and walked in.
Aaron sat alone at a table. His hair was still combed, his clothes unsoiled, none the worse for wear. My shoulders lost some of their tension at seeing this. He looked up at me, not a single hint off recognition on his tired face. "Hi."
"Hi." I smiled, feeling so relieved that he wasn't sporting a state-issued orange jumpsuit or covered in prison tats. "How are you?"
He stood. "Fine. Sorry, I don't remember your name."
"Maren Colepepper. We met on Monday, and again this morning. I'm with The Standard."
"Of course." He scratched his sideburn. "How are you?" He pointed to my forehead.
"Oh, totally fine." I waved him off, wishing I'd stopped for makeup after all. Then my mind drifted to those thirty minutes with Patrick and decided skipping the pharmacy had been worth it. So what if people gaped at me like I'd gone ten rounds against Mayweather.
We sat on flimsy plastic chairs. "I was just at your office, and met Ellen and Matthew. They told me you'd been arrested. What happened?"
"I'll tell you exactly what happened. One minute, I'm talking to a security guard through the fence at the mill, and the next minute, a sheriff cruiser pulls up, someone points to me, and they make a beeline. I'm in handcuffs before I know what's happening. Ellen had just called, so I was actually talking to her."
"I know," I said, nodding. "That's what she told me."
He scratched his head. "Other than being arrested, the whole thing was pretty quick. They told me I was being taken in for trespassing. Okay, I get that, but it wasn't me or my people who jumped the fence like on Monday, caused the whole sawmill to shut down. That was some crazy radical."
"So then, why did they book only you?"
He shrugged. "I won't know until I see the judge."
"When will that be?"
"They said tomorrow."
"Did you call a lawyer?"
"They assigned me someone from Legal Aid."
I fixed him right in the eyes. "Are you sure that's what you want? We don't know what the full charges are yet. They could be grievous. Felony, even. Maximum penalty."
Yes, I was totally talking out of my butt, engrossed in my very own Law & Order moment.
I crossed my legs and pushed back my hair. This…I thought to myself…this was what it was all about. This was what real investigative journalism was. I was assigned to write about a dumb old protest, something other reporters considered a waste of time, and what had I stumbled onto? A shooting, a physical assault on my person, and a big ol' beautiful arrest.
Not too shabby, Superstar Reporter.
I looked at Aaron, at his cotton sweater and pressed trousers and clean-ish shoes. He was no rabble-rouser. He was a citizen who'd exercised his rights under the Constitution but had been gagged for some mysterious—perhaps conspiratorial?—reason. Now, he needed a voice. I was that voice.
I could almost hear the theme song from Rocky in my head. Or was it Chariots of Fire? Or Footloose? Anyway, I was totally pumped.
"Aaron." I took a beat, trying not to grin—this was serious business, after all. "If you want, I can make some phone calls." To whom? I had no flippin' idea, but it sounded like something I should say. "I'd love to help you, and it just so happens, at this very moment, you are my one and only assignment. I'll devote every waking hour to figuring out what exactly is going on, and getting your out of here."
"I'd be grateful," he said. "Thank you."
"Tell me, then." I rested my elbows on the table and leaned forward. "What's your story?"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thirty minutes later, I scooched behind my steering wheel, kicked off my heels and scribbled down everything Aaron had told me. An hour after that, I zoomed to Consumer Advisory, and spent a half hour bringing Ellen and Matthew up to speed. The newspaper office was my next destination.
As I drove, I kept glancing at my battered and rain-stained notebook on the passenger seat, wondering if I had time to get my notes into my laptop before Eric saw that I'd used actual paper. From a lumber mill. From a tree. Oh! the horror…
Sierra Pacific Industries partnered with the "Sustainable Forestry Initiative." From what Aaron told me, this was a forest, pulp and paper certification program. It urged participants to practice a land stewardship ethic that combines the perpetual growing and harvesting of trees with the long-term protection of wildlife, plants, soil, and water quality. Simply put, the program provided the assurance that the wood and paper products we bought came from sustainable, well-managed forests.
Aaron Sorenson—along with his non-profit Consumer Advisory—seldom had any issues with SPI. The mill had always stayed way above code, practicing "sustaining yield" and keeping their ecosystems and forests contained and healthy.
Which was why Aaron had been so surprised when word got out that SPI was delivering a shipment of old-growth redwoods. Roof shingles, flooring, and artisan carvings made from great sequoias was fairly common. Hell, the deck at my parents' house was redwood. But old-growth forests, some trees over two thousand years old, had been protected by federal law for decades. Which meant anything built from old-growth trees brought in piles of more cash simply because of its rarity. And because it was illegal. Much like how extravagant, bored billionaires paid mucho dinero for an entrée of an endangered species instead of eating chicken. Poaching old-growth redwoods for their decorative burl was big, big business, but also felony grand theft.
I was no tree hugger, but listening to Aaron describe what an utter waste it was to vandalize those majestic forests—for the sheer novelty of having a different kind of armoire or wine rack—made me long to bear hug the closest redwood. Those trees were irreplaceable. Once gone, there was no regrowth. The land was wasted. And the fact that SPI might be sneaking around, shipping single trucks out in the middle of the night to loading docks bound for who knows where was highly suspect.
Maybe Buck, Felix, and Darbs weren't so baked after all.
I sat in the office parking lot with the heater o
n and transcribed my notes, then stashed my notebook under my seat. It was pretty late, and most everybody had left for the evening. Kim's desk lamp was off and her coat was gone. There were a few lights on in the editors' offices, and some guys huddled around Grouper's desk, probably following an exciting sports event online.
Hearing my chair squeak when I sat, Chip poked his head out. "How'd it go? Were you able to follow up with anyone from this morning?"
"I was." I felt a grin coming on. "Do you have a minute for me to run something by you?"
After getting an enthusiastic green light from my editor, I got to work. First stop—Google. What the devil was burl?
I didn't pull into the driveway until way after midnight, and was the kind of bone-tired that almost feels good. The lights were out next door and Patrick's 4Runner wasn't there. I tried not to think about where he might be at one a.m. on a Wednesday. Or with whom.
My mind flooded with the scene from when we ran into Katie last night. The way she'd talked to him—a touch too intimately for my taste. She'd seemed surprised to see Patrick out, and said she'd thought he was supposed to be working, as if they'd made plans but he'd broken them. Then turned up with me.
Only three days in town, and I was already making enemies. Not that Katie Cunningham counted as a new enemy. Someone can't re-hate you for something you did ten years ago. Whatever that was. I still didn't know why she'd stopped speaking to me. And now Joey had cut me out.
Maybe there was something wrong with me. After all, I was the common denominator in both scenarios and couldn't finger-point forever.
I found Mom nestled in her Creation Station. We chatted for a few minutes, she took a picture of my forehead to post on her blog (I didn't bother putting up a fight), then she brought an ice pack to my room.
"What are you blogging about tonight?" I asked, as she sat on the side of my bed.
She ran her fingers lightly over my forehead. "I witnessed an accident in the parking lot at the grocery store."
"What happened?"
"Tragic, really. Three Girl Scouts were at a table by the entrance selling cookies." She tilted her head, sweeping the hair back from my temple. "A runaway shopping cart toppled their whole display. Just ruined it."
"Were any kids hurt?"
"No, but there was quite a big mess. I could barely get my shopping cart around it."
Such drama. "That is tragic." I closed my eyes. "But an equally important question is, were any cookies hurt?"
"Maren." She swatted my leg.
"What?" I cracked open an eye. "I said the cookies are as equally important as the kids. Not more important. I'm not pure evil."
Mom gave me another swat and left the room for me to crash out with the lights on.
After only a few hours of sleep, I was at work the next morning by six. A mild headache and an extra few sweeps of powder concealer was the only remaining physical evidence of yesterday's events.
The newsroom was already buzzing with activity. With a paper like The Standard, which put a lid on stories at eleven, went to press at noon, was printed at two, and distributed at three, if you wanted to get your piece in that day's edition, you had to get a very early start.
I sat at my desk for the first little while, reading emails and Yahoo! News, then glanced at Eric's office. The light was out, and the door was closed. He usually arrived before everyone, so why wasn't he here yet? Even mid-morning Grouper was at his desk.
I twirled a strand of hair around one finger as I continued to scan headlines. Even though Chip gave me the go-ahead last night to follow my lead about SPI, I was still anxious to run it by Eric. Something about him made me want his approval or permission. Or maybe I just wanted a chance to talk to him, to see what color tie he was wearing, count the freckles on his nose.
Stop it, Maren! I screamed inside my head. Nothing good will come of even semi-daydreaming about your boss. I brought up the notes I'd typed last night and concentrated on going over them again. When I resurfaced an hour later, Eric was still a no-show.
I opened my Outlook calendar and stared at all the empty squares, reminding myself that I didn't have much of a life in Eureka, even though I'd been on two kind-of dates. Even if Patrick had totally ditched on the last one, and he was probably on a date that same night with another woman, maybe yellow scarf Naomi. Or more likely, Katie.
I clicked my mouse angrily, skipping forward a few weeks.
My curser hovered over the first Friday of April. That was the date of the gala at The Book. The one night a year we all got together—no shoptalk, no competition. It was a magical evening of champagne, gourmet catering, music, compliments, and accolades. There was water cooler talk that I'd been in line for an award of merit this year.
It had been for the piece I'd written about our CEO and his family's generous charitable acts in the Dominican Republic. His private non-profit funded the building of schools, wells, and pretty much a brand new infrastructure. Sure, it had been a little self-praising to do a story about our own CEO, but it was a positive spin during a dip in the economy, and I'd been happy to be assigned something majorly important to the magazine.
When I'd wanted to do a follow-up about his similar philanthropies in Africa, I'd been shut down. My editor assigned me a puff piece about cellulite cream (I mean, everyone knows that stuff doesn't work!), but I couldn't let it go and, for whatever stubborn reason, I kept investigating on my own. That's when I'd found the paper trail that started it all.
Or ended it.
By simply recalling the memory, my hands started to shake, and my already sore head throbbed like mad. I pushed back from my desk and wandered over to reception, in need of a distraction.
"So, Rob's mad at me," Kim said before I'd even said hello. She peeked over her shoulder toward his desk, a little forlornly. "I cooked him dinner at my place last night, and when my ex showed up out of the blue, he totally stormed out." She paused, her lips in a pout. "He hasn't said a word to me all morning. Is it my fault if people just pop in like that? I didn't invite Dave over, he just showed up. I can't help that, can I?"
"Umm." I nodded, trying to fix my expression to show her I empathized. Girl Power! and all that. But before I could say one word, she was on her feet.
"You know what, you're so right, Maren." She pointed at me. "Robby's being a total ass. I told him Dave and I broke up months ago, and sometimes he just comes over to hang out. That's all, I swear. Nothing ever happens." Her eyes grew wide, begging me to believe her.
I nodded again.
"He's the one who doesn't trust me." She spun toward his desk.
Totally oblivious, Robby was leaning back in his chair, talking on the phone. Poor guy, he had no idea what was brewing inside this tiny redhead.
"I should tell him that, don't you think?" Kim said, asking no one. "Yeah, totally—once and for all." Her eyes were glassy and red, yet they shined with feminine determination.
Robby barely got the chance to hang up the phone before Kim was up in his grill, her high voice snapping hurt feelings and accusations and probably a wee bit of TMI.
"Kimberly," he said in a low, intimate tone, fighting to get a word in edgewise. Not until Kim stopped to breathe, gnawing on her trembling bottom lip, did white-faced Robby take her wrist and pull her out the back door.
The bullpen was stunned into silence for a good ten seconds, everyone glancing at one another with raised eyebrows. It was such greatness. This group probably wasn't used to Kim's kind of behavior. When eyes started turning to me for an explanation, I shrugged and returned to my desk. Nope, no drama here, folks.
Exactly twenty-two minutes later, Kim and Robby came through the back door. His hand rested on her hip, steering her through the room. She looked flushed and starry-eyed, while he appeared self-conscious and a bit drained—mentally and physically. Neither said a word to each other or anyone else as they returned to their desks.
I smiled down at my keyboard. Crisis averted.
Just before lu
nch, Eric finally showed, crumpled like usual, but cheerful as he greeted everyone he passed. When he got to my desk, he stopped. "And how are you this morning?" he asked, pulling off his overcoat.
"Fine. Good," I said with a big, yet absolutely non-flirtatious smile. "How are you?"
"Couldn't be better, Maren." He lifted his chin, surveying the room, then he nodded at me and turned to his office.
"Eric," I called, pushing back from my desk. "Do you have a minute?" I felt everyone's eyes on me and instantly regretted not taking the more subtle approach of humanly walking over to him instead of hollering across the room.
Eric didn't notice how the bullpen had been rendered silent by a female outburst for the second time today. "You know I always have time for you," he said. "Come on in."
I grabbed my tablet in case I needed to refer to specific facts.
He was at his desk unloading his laptop and other gadgets when I took the seat across from him. "What's up?"
"Well." I cleared my throat. "I followed up on that lead, you know, from yesterday."
Eric displayed a furrowed, bemused brow. "The what from yesterday? You'll have to remind me."
"Oh." My lungs deflated. He'd already forgotten the last conversation we had? Forgotten how he'd knelt in a mud puddle until I'd come to. "I was covering a protest yesterday at Sierra Pacific, and then…" I hooked a thumb at my forehead.
"Oh!" He shook his head, this time like he was sweeping away cobwebs. "I'm sorry. Of course." He placed his elbows on the desk and leaned toward me, all concern now. "How are you?"
Gah, I was sick of that question. "Completely fine, thanks. But I wanted to talk to you about what I found out. It's actually pretty interesting." I cocked my head toward the office next door. "Chip said it was okay for me to continue investigating, but…" I trailed off, feeling the need to smile. "I guess I wanted to run it by you, too."
"Ya did, huh? You'll forgive me if I'm flattered." Eric laced his fingers across his chest, and grinned that cute, boyish grin. "So? Tell me what you found."
Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1) Page 10
