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

by Ophelia London

  I growled into the phone and hung up.

  It was after seven when I got to the office, and most everyone had already cleared out for the day. I opened my laptop and composed an email to Eric and Chip. This story was getting too big for me to tackle without a little more professional coaching.

  I'd hoped one of them would still be here, but since they weren't, I should at least let them know what I'd discovered so far and what I intended to do tonight. After all, I might need someone to pull me out if I got in too deep.

  After reading my message through a third time, double-checking my facts, I sent the email. A beep sounded from inside Eric's dark office. No one was in the bullpen to see me slip through his half-open door.

  Sitting on the desk was Eric's Blackberry, blinking with a new message. He had more than one cell and at least two tablets, but really, he shouldn't have left his work phone just lying out for any old snoopy-snoop to find.

  Doing my civic duty, I walked behind the desk and took his cell to hide in the top drawer. It was locked. The middle was locked, too. But the bottom drawer gave a bit, then opened—but only after I may or may not have wrenched it free, resulting in breaking two fingernails and chipping the wood around the lock.

  Huh. For someone making his employees go paper-free, there sure was a crapload of bulging files in there.

  I ran a finger across the top of the first folder, knowing very well that I should stow the phone and get the heck out of there. But the budding sleuth in me was suddenly so fed up with secrets and getting the run around from everybody.

  I respected Patrick enough to trust him for now, and only to a point.

  But Eric wasn't Patrick. I didn't have to trust him.

  I couldn't pass up the opportunity to do some innocent nosying—er, organizing—in the office of this man whom no one knew anything about. All of these were obviously Eric's files, and not the left-behinds of the previous occupant of this desk, because labels with "Porsche," "Apartments," "Layoffs," etc. were all written in the same tight print.

  A thick file caught my eye. It was labeled "Mac Gardner."

  I pulled it out and sat on the floor behind the desk, flipping through pages by the light coming through the office window. After the second page, I stopped skimming to read every word. My palms were sweating by the time I finished.

  But my brain, shocked and yes, mildly disappointed, could finally move some of those puzzle pieces around, even connect a few. I returned the file and scanned the labels at the tops of the other folders. My heart froze when I got to the one at the very back.

  Only when Eric's Blackberry beeped again, over an hour later, did I remove a few of the pages, return the folder to its place, then close the drawer, my hands shaking the whole time.

  Getting caught sneaking out of his office would be far worse than getting caught sneaking in. So I made sure I didn't walk directly in front of the frosty window on my way to peek my head out the door. Voices came from one of the back cubicles, but there was no one around. I was back at my desk two seconds later.

  I spread the documents across my desk and snapped a picture of each page with my cell. If I'd known for sure that I wouldn't be seen, I would have snuck the pages back to his office. As it was, I was lucky to get away with what I had.

  Hopefully, my luck would hold for just a little bit longer.

  The gusty wind had really picked up as I drove over Samoa Bridge. Like last night, the dark clouds hid any light from the moon and stars. Perfect. Instead of my previous hiding spot in the bushes down from the mill, I drove a quarter mile past and pulled into an alcove that opened to the beach.

  I got out and patted down my pockets. Cell phone: check. Digital camera: check. Mini tape recorder with five tapes: check. Pepper spray: dammit.

  Making sure I was completely hidden by the trees, I got a few yards down the hill, veering into the thick foliage when I heard a car. Small, dark, fast. Way down the road, as it whizzed under the only streetlight, I caught the color of the license plate. Yellow. New York State.

  I stood in place, thinking…

  There was nothing around for miles except old beach houses and the mill. Eric and his Porsche had also been out here the morning of the second protest. He'd said he happened to be on his way to a meeting, but there was nowhere to meet out here. The only reason people were on this road, unless they lived on the Samoa Peninsula, was to get to SPI.

  More puzzle pieces slid into place.

  As I continued picking through the bushes toward the mill, another set of headlights came my way. This car was bigger than the first. And had ski racks.

  My heart fluttered the same time my stomach dropped. Why was Patrick following Eric? Or wait. Was he meeting him?

  They're in on it together.

  I shut my eyes, trying desperately to slow the churning in my stomach, willing myself to trust him, even when logic and my own eyes told me not to.

  I'd just picked up the pace when I felt my phone vibrate. I fished it out, ready to turn the thing off completely, until I read the caller ID. Hot on the trail of the biggest lead of my career, the lead that just might blow the lid off the whole story, there was only one person whose call I wouldn't hesitate to accept.

  I stepped further back into the dark protection of the trees, waves crashing on the shore behind me, and held the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

  There was a brief pause. "Maren?"

  I held my breath, running the voice through my memory files, making sure it matched the name. "Joey?" I said tentatively.

  "Yeah. Um, hi."

  "Hi. How are you?" And shouldn't you be at your bachelorette party? The one I should be throwing for you on the night before your wedding?

  "Maren?" She pulled in a ragged inhale then exhaled it out. "Do you have a minute to talk?" Her voice wobbled, and my brain instantly switched into best-friend mode, forgetting all those weeks of silence.

  "Jo? What's wrong?"

  "Mare…" The sound of her breaking into sobs made my own eyes flood with tears.

  "Oh, honey," I soothed. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm listening."

  She wept into the phone, blubbering a string of words I didn't understand, though I got the gist. "Joey, honey." I sank onto a mossy stump. "I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."

  Her crying continued, and hot tears streamed down my cold cheeks. I wouldn't wish this pain on my worst enemy, let alone my very best friend in the world.

  "You were s-so right about Alan. I should've believed you at the beginning." Jo's sobs grew louder.

  I didn't care that I'd been right about that, but I did care about what he'd done to her. I didn't want Joey hurt or sad. I wanted Alan castrated.

  "Jo, everything'll be okay. We'll figure it out. We always figure it out."

  "Can you come home, Mare?" She sniveled. "Please? I need you to help me get through this—I need my best friend."

  Neither of us could talk now, not with all the sobbing and high-pitched howling going on. Any passerby wouldn't have thought twice hearing my wails, assuming I was a wounded animal on the beach.

  Because the wedding was off and she'd cancelled her honeymoon, I convinced Joey to fly out to Eureka for a visit, a change of scenery. After that, I guided her through the motions as she took two Tylenol PM with a glass of warm milk, then I sang her off-tuned Justin Timberlake as she tucked herself into bed. Right as she was about to drift off, she whispered that she loved me and she was sorry, again, then promised to call tomorrow.

  Exhausted yet oddly refreshed, I lowered my phone. It hit a pile of soggy leaves next to me where I'd been sitting on the cold, damp ground for the past hour. My legs quivered and ached as I stood. My head ached too from all the crying. But above that, relief and a lightness I'd been missing for weeks filled my heart.

  I was so emotionally spent that all I wanted was to crawl into a hot bubble bath. But my night was just beginning.

  After wiping my tears and stowing my phone, I yanked the black stocking cap over my ears and ninja'd
toward the mill.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Slipping through the hole in the fence was just as easy as last night. I was glad I hadn't told Patrick the exact way I'd snuck in before. I wouldn't have put it past him to patch the thing up or plant a lookout at the gate to nab me.

  The loading zone was empty, but saws and other machines buzzed from deeper inside the belly of the mill. Careful to stay behind buildings and in the shadows, I crept toward the sounds.

  It wasn't hard to spot Terry Replogle, or rather, it wasn't hard to hear him. His shouts were louder than the saws.

  He was waving and calling to a bearded guy at the head of a long conveyor belt. Split logs dropped onto the belt from somewhere over his head. It seemed his only job was to make sure they were lying straight as they continued down the belt toward a spinning saw blade.

  Terry yelled for the bearded guy to go faster, but I didn't see how he could. The belt was moving at such a high speed, he could barely get a handle on the logs as it was.

  "I know!" Terry called to someone too far away for me to see. "But we can't get to that until this part's done. It'll be another hour at least. I told you not to come here. Breathing down my neck won't make this go any faster."

  I crouched low and crawled on all fours, squatting behind the wheel of a dump truck. My digital camera didn't make a sound as I snapped picture after picture.

  "The shipment has to go out tonight. There's another boat waiting at the dock. Leaves after midnight."

  I didn't recognize this voice as one from last night, but everything was so distorted—a cacophony of sound. No wonder these mill workers were required to wear ear protection. If I hung out here much longer, I'd go deaf.

  "If you're even five minutes late…" The voice paused, meaningfully. "Well, don't be. You don't want me to have to make that phone call."

  "We'll be on time," Terry called back to him. "But tonight is the last. Tell that to your boss."

  The unseen voice chuckled. Something about it was familiar, but not the way it sounded now.

  Flat on my stomach, I inched under the truck, praying that no one was about to hop into it and drive away. If I managed to get a little closer, I'd be able to see who—

  I pressed myself as flat to the ground as possible.

  "Sure, yeah," Eric said, strolling into view, chucking sarcastically. "I'll be sure to tell my boss that." He wore his long, black overcoat and a baseball cap. With his hands in his pockets, he moved closer to the conveyor belt, inspecting the progress of the workers.

  My brain was slow because I should've expected him to be here. Of course. He'd have to see firsthand that the job was being done. I pulled my camera forward with shaky hands, not bothering to consult the viewfinder. I just pointed it in Eric's general direction and started hitting buttons.

  So, he really was behind the old-growth poaching. From what I'd pieced together from reading those files, it made sense. I mean, a man with zero experience doesn't suddenly become managing editor of a newspaper—Kim, Grouper, and Robby had said as much. Well, maybe he does if his father was a majority stockholder in it and four other Pacific Northwest papers—all in small towns like Eureka with major timber industry ties.

  No doubt, sweet old Mac Gardner had been muscled out, along with the other older, more experienced writers at The Standard. Those who were spared were too scared or green to take a stand, leaving Eric to do whatever he wanted, including using his leverage at the paper to blackmail a foreman at SPI.

  But the question was—why? And—I closed my eyes and swallowed—was Patrick involved? Then I recalled the other file I'd read. And the "why" started to make sense.

  "Clock is ticking," Eric called to Terry.

  A pair of expensive yet scuffed shoes suddenly appeared, not two feet from my nose in the dirt. Can he see me? All he has to do is look down. If he finds me—if they find me—will they strap me to that conveyor belt so I'll end up like the wife in Fargo?

  I held my breath, stilled my pounding heart. All I could think of was that I'd be in way worse trouble if Eric had his Blackberry with him, and had seen the email I'd sent with my plan to stake out the mill tonight.

  A thousand years later, his shoes turned a one-eighty and marched away from me.

  "Start loading the truck now. I'm not taking any chances on the shipment being delayed at the dock. The Coast Guard won't be patrolling from midnight to one. This is the only window. Do it now."

  Someone whistled—that kind you do by blowing through your fingers—and a few seconds later, the conveyor belt ground to a stop, and the spinning saw was stilled. Other machines and motors whirred in the distance, but the sudden silence felt eerie, dangerously quiet. The sound of blood whooshing behind my ears like tidal waves was louder than anything.

  I didn't move a muscle until I was sure everyone had left the area. Slithering around in the mud like a night crawler, I pulled myself from under the truck, but stayed in a crouch, taking time to catch my breath and figure out what the hell to do next.

  Checking out the loading area seemed logical, so I started creeping that way.

  Off in the distance was an impossibly tall crane. Between its towering claws hung an enormous tree—thick trunk, red bark. Bingo.

  While shrouded behind a roll of black tarp, I took more pictures, glad that I'd remembered to replace the memory card in my camera. To be on the safe side, I pulled out my cell and snapped pictures with that, too.

  As I drew nearer, I heard Terry and Eric. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but the tense, argumentative tones were crystal clear. I watched them while I hunkered down behind a row of trash cans. Mill workers climbed up tall scaffoldings, strapping the logs onto the truck. This was where they'd lost me last night, when I'd literally run into Patrick.

  That was not going to happen tonight. This time, I'd beat them to the docks.

  After taking one last look, accounting for everyone, I bolted toward the fence, my wellies splashing through puddles. Halfway through the hole, my pocket got tangled in a cut wire. I ripped the stitches apart, yanking myself free. My lungs and legs burned as I sprinted up the hill, glancing toward the trees whenever one moved, wondering if anyone was watching or waiting or about to spring out. With my luck, it wouldn't be Patrick this time.

  But luck was still on my side, and five minutes later I was in my car. Panting and shaking with adrenaline, I screeched onto the highway, but had to swerve and slam on my brakes when a car pulled out in front of me.

  My headlights weren't on, and the other car zoomed away, oblivious.

  Heart hammering against my ribs, I white-knuckled the steering wheel and idled in the middle of the road, letting the Porsche get a ways down the highway. Eric did not need to know he was about to be tailed.

  The Sierra Pacific Docks were five miles away, straight down the old highway, the sand dunes and crashing waves of the Pacific to my right. I cruised past it once, then hung a U-turn and parked across the street behind the bowling alley.

  The docks were quieter than the mill, with much less activity. There probably wasn't meant to be any kind of maritime shipping going on at night.

  The front gate was unlocked, but I didn't use that entrance. Instead, I found a sagging fence by the water and squeezed between two poles. I spotted the Porsche parked crooked between two warehouses. I didn't see Eric, though, and I edged along the side of the building, keeping low, one hand clutching the camera in my pocket.

  The night air was heavy and sharp with the briny scent of the sea. Being this close to the docks, where oil, dead seaweed, and sea life mingled, I never got used to the strong, fishy smell. I tried not to gag as I tiptoed forward, nearing voices and the sound of machines.

  Low, narrow spotlights shone on a boat anchored at the end of the wooden dock. Terry was there, so was Eric, standing back to oversee the action like he'd done at the mill.

  I felt the urge to sneak up behind him and thwap the back of his head for being such a turd. But I controlled my
self and pulled out my camera to document this stage of the game.

  Before I could take a single picture, a hand clamped over my mouth, and I was nearly pulled off my feet.

  Déjà frickin' vu.

  Of course it could be only one person, but that didn't stop me from wresting as hard as I could. I even tried to bite the hand muzzling me. But it was no use—the arms were iron bars, crushing my chest and face. If any more air squeezed from my lungs, I'd have no fight or oxygen left.

  He hauled me around a corner and kicked open the warehouse door. Yeah, I'd seen too many versions of this slasher movie. The inside was hollow and dark, just enough light from the windows to note that the room was long and pretty empty…with a door at the other end. My way out.

  I'd never be one of those helpless chicks from Halloween or Scream, so without wasting a second, I cocked my knee and threw back the hardest kick I could, aimed at the leg behind me. I expected to hear the satisfying crunch of bones shattering and then a shriek of bloody pain as I heroically broke free.

  But the only sound was the mutter of an angry curse word, followed by my name, equally muttered and angry, as I was spun around by the shoulders. "You promised you were staying home tonight."

  "Let me go, Patrick." I wiggled, trying to shake his hands off. "They'll get away. Don't you see them out mmm—"

  His hand slapped over my mouth. Seriously, dammit. Well, at least he wasn't verbally shushing me, which was nice for a change.

  He moved his face down to mine, hazel eyes dark and wide. "Listen to me very carefully." His rushed words were barely a whisper. "You have no idea what's going on—you cannot be here."

  What did he expect me to do? I was there, and couldn't very well beam myself away like in Star Trek.

  Falsely assuming my compliance, he loosened his grip over my mouth. So I bit him. Hard.

  He yanked his hand back, shaking it in pain, swearing some more. Like last night, he wore all black, including the hood over his head. "Why the hell did you do that?"

  "Because you're trying to stop me!" I paced backward. "I know Eric's blackmailing a foreman at SPI. And that guy at the protest I told you about…Aaron Sorenson? Eric had him arrested, all the charges are false, because he knew Aaron was about to expose the whole thing. I found the proof at the office just a few hours ago, it's all in my car, and now Eric's just standing out there like—"