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

by Ophelia London

  He nodded, but it seemed neither the playwright nor the name rang a bell.

  "It's a social satire. A comedy. Bit of a romance, too."

  "Ahh. A love story. I get it." He nodded slowly as his gaze trailed from my eyes to my mouth. All my muscles clenched in alarm, and I quickly turned my attention to the stage. Eric exhaled a sigh as he sat back in his seat.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, playing the old "I'm chilly" card in case he got the idea that holding my hand would be even slightly appropriate.

  This was wrong. I could not be on a date with my boss. Or was it that I couldn't be on a date with Eric? Or anyone? Or all of it?

  I stared at the stage but only saw blurs. Wasn't it yesterday I'd wanted to count those cutie-patootie freckles on Eric's nose? Why was he mildly creeping me out now? I chewed my thumbnail impatiently, knowing Piper wouldn't be on for a few scenes. Her role was Cecily Cardew, Algernon's ward who lives at his house in the country. The scene on stage was still in London, the two actors doing the famous "Bunburying" bit—scheming ways to trick their respective love interests into thinking they were someone they weren't.

  The classic bait-and-switch, I thought. A timeless theme used as often today as back in Wilde's time. Though nothing pissed off a modern woman quite like the guy she liked lying to her face about who he was.

  Eric was laughing in all the right places. Okay, so he wasn't completely literarily inept. He leaned forward attentively, lights from the stage reflecting in his blue eyes.

  When Piper finally took the stage, the place went wild. I leaned over to Mom. "What's going on?"

  "The theater's sold out on a Thursday. Everyone here came to see her."

  "Really?" I'd heard Piper was successful—but that info came mostly from Piper herself. I hadn't realized she had such a huge following. There were three hundred seats in the theater, each patron hanging on her every word. She was like a…celebrity.

  "That's your sister?" Eric asked a few minutes into her scene. "She's so funny."

  I was about to remind him that she was only reciting lines and that Oscar Wilde was the hilarious one. But instead, I grinned at him through the darkness. "I know, right?"

  For the next hour, Piper floated across the stage in a flowing yellow dress, rocking a perfect British accent and hitting all those classic, humorous lines with perfect timing. Through her third curtain call, I remained on my feet, applauding and beaming with pride.

  "We'll just say a quick hello backstage," Mom said, taking Dad's hand. "See you at home."

  Eric stood on his toes, peering into the orchestra pit. "It's late," I said, "but do you mind if I run down and say hi. She comes out before changing from her costume."

  Eric's eyes grew wide. "We can meet her?"

  "She's my sister." I laughed. "We've already met."

  "Oh, yeah." He slid his hands in his pockets, charming me with one of his chuckles. "Sure, no problem, of course."

  "Eric." I took him by the arm. "I'll introduce you. She might even autograph your playbill."

  He laughed again, and we headed toward the stage door. I spotted Piper in the lobby outside the greenroom, holding court, about a dozen people surrounding her. When she saw me, she broke away.

  "Sistah!" she called.

  "Dah-ling!" I called back. "You were simply marvelous!" I hugged her and received two loud kisses on each cheek as my reward. "I've read that play five times," I said, taking her hands and swinging them between us, "but you brought out lines I never thought were comical. You killed!"

  "Stop, stop," she said, blushing through her heavy stage makeup. "I was just having fun—we have a great company. It's almost too easy." As I pulled her in for another hug, she whispered, "Thank you so much for being here, Mare. It means the world to me."

  Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, and I gave her an extra squeeze before we stepped apart.

  "So, where is he?" She peeked over my shoulder. "You brought him, right?"

  Eric hovered a few feet back. I motioned for him to join us.

  "Who's he, Mare?" Her voice was hushed, her big, made-up eyes confused. "I thought you were bringing—"

  I shushed her just in time to make the introductions. "This is my sister Piper. Piper, this is my umm, my boss at The Standard, Eric Brady."

  Piper had her hand outstretched to shake his, when she suddenly burst out laughing. "Eric Brady? You're kidding. That's your name? Like from Days of Our Lives?"

  Eric blinked. "Yes."

  "Well, wow, Eric Brady, it's a real, real honor to meet you. I'm a huge fan. How's evil Stefano and your twin sister, Sammy? Wait—" She placed both hands to his chest. "You're not still a priest, are you?" She glanced at me and tutted her tongue. "How very wicked of you two."

  My sister, the recovering soap opera junky, was joking, while Eric looked completely lost.

  "Piper." I giggled into my fist. "This isn't the real Eric Brady. He's a regular man with no ties to fictional Salem, or to Marlena being possessed by the devil."

  Piper's bottom lip jetted out. "Aw, really? Well…" She extended her hand to Eric. "It's nice to meet you. Anyway."

  "You were great out there," Eric said, shaking her hand vigorously enough to make her loose curls bob. "I've never seen this play, never heard of it, until your sister invited me. It's fantastic. I might've injured myself from laughing for two hours straight." He clutched his side like it hurt.

  The three of us chatted, being interrupted a few times by fans wanting to congratulate Piper. She was gracious and generous and always complimentary of the other cast members and director. It wasn't any wonder people around here loved working with her.

  Something past my shoulder caught Piper's eye. "Listen," she said, dropping her voice, "I've got a date and really want to wash off this cakey makeup before he sees me up close."

  I lifted my eyebrows. "You have a date tonight? It's almost midnight."

  She was undoing the long, thick braid in her hair. "This is how we theater folk are forced to live. We're vampires."

  "Ahh, so it's another thespian you're racing off to see. Which one?" I glimpsed over my shoulder, dubiously, rocking my own British accent. "Is it your ever-faithful Algy Moncrieff? Or are you stepping out with Jack Worthing?" I gasped and put a hand to my throat. "Don't tell me…Doctor Chasuble? The man must be twenty years your senior. Oh, dear Cecily, for shame!"

  "None of the above," Piper said with a laugh. "I'm Bunburying off with someone outside the troop. He's here for only a couple of days. Passing through." She sighed wistfully. "He's with the circus."

  "Um, seriously, sis?" I dropped my chin and fluttered my lashes in mock pity. "You're dating a circus freak?"

  "Not a freak," she insisted, then mirrored my grin. "Well, maybe he'll turn out to be kinda freaky. Guess I'll find out tonight."

  I took her arm. "Is he the strongman, then? Wait…a lion tamer."

  "Acrobat, smarty pants." She yanked a hunk of my hair. "His name's Sergio, and he's from Spain, okay? Stop laughing, Maren. He's sweet and probably really, ya know, bendy."

  I swatted her hand then glanced at Eric, who'd luckily wandered away to use his phone. "Call me tomorrow, and let me know how it goes."

  "I will. But first, what's the deal with you and Eric Brady? He's cute and has that whole baby face thing going, but are you seriously dating your boss?"

  "He asked me to show him around town tonight, so I invited him here. That's it."

  "If you say so."

  "Hey, earlier, you seemed surprised he was with me. Who'd you think I was bringing?"

  "Well." She combed her fingers through her wavy, now-unbraided hair. "I ran into Patrick. He said you guys went to dinner, so I assumed…"

  "Oh. Patrick." My chest went heavy and hollow, matching my tone. "Yeah."

  "Yeah."

  "Why do you sound sad?" I asked.

  "Why do you sound sad?"

  But we couldn't co-analyze properly, because Eric appeared. "Ready to go?" I beamed, furiously tryin
g to push thoughts of Patrick and all his swooniness out of my sad little head.

  "Thanks again for inviting me," Eric said, as we crossed the wet parking lot to my car. "It's been a perfect evening so far."

  So far? "Glad you liked the play."

  "Where to next?" He rubbed his hands together, preparing to take on a new caper.

  I hadn't planned on going home to sleep yet, but what I had in mind didn't include company.

  "I'm meeting with Aaron Sorenson pretty early tomorrow," I said, backing out of the parking space. "I have tons of research to do before then, gotta make sure I ask him all the right questions. This story might be over before it begins if I don't get a jump on it."

  "Research tonight? Really?" He was laying that puppy dog eyed, crestfallen, expression on me again. "Are you sure you have to?"

  This…coming from my boss? The one who just fired half the staff?

  "Yeah." I picked up speed when I reached the highway. "I really should. Plus, I'm too beat to do much of anything but sit and read."

  The conversation lagged as we drove toward Eureka, mostly because I kept purposefully yawning and messing with the radio controls. By the time I pulled into the office parking lot, I'd been laying it on so thick that I really did feel like I could keel over asleep.

  "Welp, see you in the morning," I beamed as brightly as I could. Eric touched my shoulder and smiled hopefully, so I snatched my cell and frowned down at it, like I had the superhuman power to hear a nonexistent, silent message alert. After he got out of the car, I waited a few moments to make sure he'd gone before I climbed out to grab my tablet and waterproof notebook.

  As I moved to pop the trunk, Eric came out of nowhere, right beside me, his arms snaking around my waist. His sudden appearance and closeness made my breath catch and my back arch, angling the top half of my body away from him, subsequently pushing my lower half against his lower half. Taking my movements as a positive sign, the next thing I knew, he was kissing me.

  His lips were thin and his mouth too wet, but other than that, it wasn't disgusting in the slightest. No, not disgusting, just…awkward. Something inside wouldn't allow me to reciprocate the kiss in any way, plus, I wasn't enjoying it.

  By the time I'd counted to ten in my head, Eric pulled back. "It doesn't have to be goodnight," he whispered, giving me his Ferris Bueller smile.

  I exhaled a nervous titter, mind blank of a reply, wondering if I had remnants of his drool on my chin.

  "But…you need to work instead," he stated, correctly reading my silence. He stepped back and unlocked his arms from around me. "Are you going inside first?" He gestured toward the office. "I'll walk you."

  "No, no," I said, not sharing with him where I was going next. Another of my gut feelings I was learning to trust. "I think I'll head home after all. I'm exhausted."

  "Okay. Well then." He took my hand. Mine was freezing, and his was clammy, like we were two nervous kids and not hot-blooded adults who'd just kissed. I tried not to shiver or gag. "Until tomorrow." He strolled toward the building entrance, then turned and waved.

  I waved back, willing myself to wait until his back was turned before I wiped off my mouth with the back of my hand, then with the sleeve of my coat. Not until he was completely out of sight did I rummage through my purse for a piece of gum. Some of Mom's mega-strength breath mints were in the glove compartment. While I drove toward the Samoa Bridge, I dumped the whole thing in my mouth.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A hundred yards from the property line of Sierra Pacific, I pulled onto the gravely shoulder, hiding my car behind a thick patch of ferns. I popped the trunk, kicked off my pointed-toe boots, and slid into my trusty pink wellies. Still not dressed for spying, I peeled off my light-colored trench in favor of the thin, black mini cardigan I wore underneath. Then I fingered my hair into a bun to keep it out of the way.

  There were no streetlights along this stretch of highway, so I had no problem slinking undetected all the way up to the gate. As I got closer, I noticed a small section at the back of the mill was illuminated with floodlights. I needed to be extra sneaky to keep hidden.

  From what Aaron told me, SPI no longer fully operated on a 24/7 clock like in its heyday. Which must've been how secret shipments went undetected in the middle of the night.

  I skirted along the fence, making my way further into the mill. Unsure whether it was my good luck or their poor maintenance, I squatted down and squeeze through a small hole in the fence. My break-in felt way too easy, so I held stock-still, wondering if I'd activated a motion detector, braced for the clang of alarms. When nothing happened after a solid minute, I exhaled and crept toward the floodlights, where I hoped the freight area was.

  Sounds of machines, motors, saws, and voices filled the air before I actually saw anything. I snuck up to a parked bulldozer, crouched behind a mud-caked wheel, and leaned to the side, far enough to get an eyeful. Four workers in hard hats, steel-toe boots, heavy gloves, and sweatshirts were on the scene. One was doing most of the yelling, ordering, and pointing. I wondered if he was Terry Replogle, the night foreman Aaron told me about.

  This hunch was confirmed when someone hollered out to him. He yelled up to the guy operating a crane that carried a load of logs. From my limited crash course on the subject, they didn't look like pines or Douglas firs. First of all, these logs were taller than all get out, with massively thick trunks, and they were covered with that telltale red, crumbly bark.

  The base of my spine tingled as a self-confirming smile broke out on my face. Aaron was right. Those were giant sequoias. There was no way my amateur eye could gauge whether they were old-growth or not, but the fact that it was the middle of the frickin' night and SPI was officially closed set my Spidey senses into overdrive.

  Without removing my gaze from the trees hovering in the air, I yanked out my cell and started taking pictures. Just snapshots at first, then I let the video roll, hoping I had enough memory space to capture what I needed. I made sure I got close-ups of the trees, the crane, the trucks, and then I focused on each and every face, particularly Terry Replogle's.

  After a while, Terry stepped away from the trucks and pulled out a phone. Dammit, I couldn't hear his conversation, but a small shed sat five yards away from him. If I timed it perfectly…

  I waited until the foreman's back was turned, then made a run for it, careful not to let my rubber-soled boots slap on the asphalt. Panting quietly, I pressed my back against the side of the shed.

  "Another twenty tons," Terry was saying. "Yeah, I understand that. I know, don't worry, you won't have to, it won't come to that. You said one more after tonight—then we're square." He listened for a while. "No, there's no need, I'm handling it, don't come out here." He mumbled under his breath, ended the call, then cursed like a sailor.

  A drop of sweat pooled under my hair and slid down my back, but I didn't move a muscle until I heard his voice by the crane. I bit my lip, wondering how soon before the truck was loaded and would be rolling out.

  Plan A was I would wait here to keep an eye on what was happening. Plan B was I would wait in my car so I'd be ready to follow the truck to the dock. Since I was pretty much pinned in place at the mo, I went with Plan A.

  I couldn't make out any more of what the workers were saying, but from what I gathered from Terry's one-sided conversation, it didn't sound like he was the one pulling the strings of this operation. Someone was making him do it. But who? And why?

  Blackmail—a classic motive and another layer to my story. My spine tingled again.

  After an hour of standing stiller than the Rockies in a windstorm, ankle-deep in a puddle, I started to go numb. My sweater and pencil skirt weren't doing jack to keep out the foggy chill. I regarded the pitch-black sky thankfully. At least it wasn't raining.

  When a new engine fired up, I craned my neck around the corner to take a peek. It was the truck all right, the one weighed down with contraband.

  Using the additional noise as cover, I quickl
y and quietly jogged back to the hole in the fence and slithered through. While I ran past the trees and bushes along the side of the road, I kept glancing over my shoulder, praying the logging truck wouldn't pull out before I got a chance to tail it.

  Just as I spied the back bumper of the Taurus sticking out from the shrubberies, I crashed headfirst into an obstacle that had not been in my path two seconds earlier.

  I lost my balance and the wind whooshed from my lungs. The impact should've sent me flailing backward, but something held me up.

  "What are you doing here?" a low, gruff voice hissed. The hulky "thing" keeping me upright was a man with a pair of huge, heavy hands gripping my shoulders like I was the size of a doll. It was too dark, and I was being held too closely to him to make out anything but the front of a broad chest in dark clothes.

  I whispered another prayer, yes, still hoping the logging truck wouldn't leave without me, but also hoping I wasn't about to gaze into the dead, black eyes of the man in the hood. Well, if it was him, at least I'd know he didn't have hook hands.

  Before the prayer could leave my mind, the space past his shoulder lit up from headlights. A car was coming our way. A truck! Shiz on a schnitzel.

  I grunted and struggled to free myself from the hands, but that made him grip me tighter. A second later, he was dragging me off the side of the road, sheltering us behind a tree, blocked from the oncoming headlights. I watched helplessly as my front-page story sped by.

  "Let go!" I exploded, pushing the guy away with all my strength. I gave myself one moment to consider I might have been dragged into the trees for something much more diabolical than to not be seen by a truck driver. "Take your hands off me, you…you…"

  "Calm down. Just shhhh…"

  Once my eyes adjusted a little to the darkness, I saw that the guy was holding a finger over his lips. My attacker was actually shushing me.

  "Step back," I warned, feeling inside the bottom of my purse. "I'm armed with pepper spray, or, I will be."

  "Shhh," he repeated, his voice harsher. "Wait." He took a step away, inspecting the empty road toward the mill. "Stay here, Maren."