A Crafty Killing

by London Lovett

  "There's nothing wrong at all," Ursula said in a syrupy tone. Also disconcerting and, if I was being honest, a little creepy. "Henry and I will get out of the way while you eat breakfast. Let's go, Henry." Ursula stood abruptly and shifted her oversized overalls so they hung more centered. She'd hardly touched the coffee cake.

  Henry wasn't as keen to leave his treat behind. He wrapped it up in a napkin. His gaze flitted my direction several times during the process, but he never made full contact. The glances were so fleeting, I could have missed them with a blink. Still, as short-lived as they were, I sensed he had something troubling to tell me. It wasn't like either of them to hide problems with the inn, but the way my two constant companions were acting this morning made me fear the worst. I spoke up before they left the kitchen.

  "You two would tell me if this inn was about to fall down into a pile of rubble and plaster, right?"

  Henry cast a serious scowl at his sister. He muttered something that I only loosely interpreted as 'we should say something'. Ursula shook her head in response. Out came the sickly sweet smile. The woman needed to work on her poker face.

  "Sunni, the inn is fine. One of the most sturdy built houses we've ever had the pleasure to work on." Her skinny elbow shot out and made contact with Henry's belly. "Isn't that right, Henry?"

  "Yes, that's right," Henry said as if the teacher had asked him a question and he wasn't sure how to answer.

  "Henry was just saying that yesterday," Ursula continued. Henry looked ready to scamper away and avoid any further conversation. "Ursula, he said, this is the most sturdy house we've ever worked on. Built as solid as a fortress. That's what he said. Right, Henry?"

  Poor Henry experienced another deer in headlights moment. "Uh, yeah, that's what I said all right." Taking care not to drop his coffee cake, he pulled at Ursula's arm. "Let's go. Sunni is late, and we don't want to make her more late. We've got work to do." Henry pulled his sister along like a kite on a windless day. They tromped away mumbling angrily to each other as they climbed the stairs to the top floor.

  I couldn't decipher what they were talking about, but the whole morning had left me with a cold knot in my stomach. The last time Ursula had acted so oddly, her Aunt Prudence showed up with an investment offer and subsequent partnership in the Cider Ridge Inn. I'd decided against the idea, and Aunt Prudence accepted my decline with grace. She seemed just as happy to move on with other business prospects. I was certain this morning's behavior had nothing to do with investors.

  "That was interesting," Edward drawled from behind.

  I spun back toward the kitchen. He was sitting on the hearth. "I'll say. You didn't—" I lifted my arms and waved my fingers. "You know, pull any ghost tricks?"

  "If I had, I assure you my ghost trick would be far more sophisticated than this." He mimicked my arm waving.

  I rolled my eyes. "Excuse me for questioning your level of ghostly antics." I hurried toward my bedroom. "Anyhow, I'm going to put this unsettling morning behind me. I'm late for work, and Parker hates it when I'm late on Monday." I raced into my room, grabbed my purse and sweater and headed back through the kitchen. Edward was right where I'd left him, already looking bored and irritated about spending the day alone in the house with two noisy carpenters.

  "Don't do anything," I warned him. "Something has those two inexplicably on edge, and it seems any little thing might send them packing and out the door."

  "Is that a promise?" he asked dryly.

  "Behave." I waved a finger at him before walking out.

  Chapter 3

  As if my morning hadn't started strangely enough, I entered the news office slightly breathless from sprinting, and Myrna hardly looked my direction. I stared at her, blinking in disbelief as she pretended to busy herself with filling a stapler. She was making quite a production out of it too. Myrna was a lot like Ursula in that she never missed an opportunity for a morning greeting and a quick session to fill me in on everything noteworthy.

  I stomped loudly over to my desk. Not that I really needed to announce my presence considering Myrna's desk was right across from the front door, and I'd burst in panting as if I'd just run a marathon. I yanked my chair out, making sure to scrape the floor loudly, then I sat with an unladylike plop, squeezing every last squeak out of my chair. I'd entered and landed at my desk with all the clamor of a herd of cows and, yet, my office mate was still hunched over her stapler, with a stern brow and look of concentration worthy of a doctor in the middle of brain surgery.

  I slapped the desk and startled her. She looked up accidentally, but it was too late for her to pull her gaze away.

  "Myrna, either that stapler has become the most important item in this office or something is up. I just went through the same odd, cold shoulder from Ursula and Henry." I reached up and lightly touched my chin, cheeks and forehead. "Is there something going on with my face? Did I sprout horns?" I double checked the top of my head. All seemed normal. "What's going on? Why won't anyone look me in the eye today? I'm seriously starting to get a complex."

  Myrna's long, fake lashes fluttered nervously. She made a pathetic attempt at returning her focus to her stapler. I slapped the desk again, but this time she was ready.

  Her bright red lips pursed and spread and pursed again. Just like Henry, she seemed poised to tell me something and then lost her courage. "Don't be silly, Sunni. Your face is fine, and those horns look fabulous." She laughed louder than necessary at her joke. She badly wanted to throw me off track but I wasn't having it.

  "Myrna, what's going on?" I glanced toward Parker's door and noticed for the first time that his office was dark. It was the first clue in a tower of clues that would soon lead me to the question I'd been asking all morning. What the heck was going on? "Where's Parker?"

  Myrna lifted her brows and paused for a second. "Parker? Why, he's in his office, of course."

  "The lights are off," I noted plainly.

  "Yes, yes, I suppose he hasn't turned them on yet. He's experiencing one of his headaches." She rolled her eyes, something she always did when discussing Parker's numerous and mostly imagined ailments. It was a reasonable enough explanation for my editor who was constantly suffering from some kind of malady. He normally saved headaches for the end of the week when deadlines neared and advertisers were still handing in copy.

  I hopped up from my desk, startling the normally unflappable office manager once again. "I think I'll just knock lightly then." Myrna's face turned dull white like plaster as I headed to the office door.

  "I wouldn't," she blurted as she jumped up. Her chair snapped back and hit the wall behind her desk. Her skin was still pale beneath the layers of foundation. "You should let him rest a few minutes." She'd forced herself into a much calmer tone. It was equally nervous. I truly was starting to think I'd landed in some alternate universe. Nothing was making sense this morning. All my reliably friendly and talkative friends were acting as if some massive terrible event was about to befall the world.

  Or maybe it was just my world. A surge of terror shot through me. Had something happened earlier this morning? Had I slept through some terrible news? The knot in my stomach churned to a wave of nausea. "Jackson," I whispered on the only breath I could manage. I stumbled back to my desk and grabbed my phone. I dialed his number but no answer. Myrna watched me with confusion and worry.

  "What is it, Sunni?" she asked shakily. "Has something happened to Jackson?"

  I lowered my phone. "That's what I want you to tell me." The tremble in my voice matched the shakiness in my hands. "What's happened?" I was close to tears. "Has something happened? Is Jackson hurt?"

  The blankly dumbfounded expression on her face assured me we were both far from having a logical conversation.

  Myrna shook her head weakly. "I don't know anything about it. I haven't heard anything about Jackson. Have you?" Her hand flew to her mouth. "He hasn't been shot, has he?"

  "I thought that's what you were going to tell me." The stress of the situation
and the prospect that something had happened to Jackson caused my voice to waver even more. I took a deep breath to steady myself. "Oh my gosh, Myrna, what on earth is going on? You're acting strangely, and Parker is sitting in his office with the lights off. He hasn't burst out once to bellow at me for being late."

  Myrna's shoulders relaxed. She glanced furtively toward the office. Still no signs of life from Parker. On her dancer's feet, she glided silently across the room to my desk. She hunched down and peered up at me as if she was about to reveal a big secret.

  "Newsom sold the paper," she hissed quietly. Her head snapped back toward the office. Then she faced me again. "That's all I know. Parker told me not to say a word. He's not entirely sure what's going on, but he looks gravely ill about it. And, this time, I really mean ill. The new owner is supposed to be here soon."

  Myrna was pouring out a lot of information, and I was just coming out of my fearful haze that something terrible had happened to Jackson. While the sale of the paper was huge news and potentially bad for my career and my newly appointed position of lead reporter (at the moment only reporter since Chase left the paper and suitable applicants had been few and far between) I was so relieved about Jackson not being hurt, the big announcement barely registered. It took me a second to come to my senses.

  I stared at Myrna to see if she was serious. She was definitely serious. "Newsom sold the Junction Times?" My throat was still dry from the last few minutes.

  "Yes," she whispered back and glanced over at Parker's office once more before spinning back to me. "That's all I know, but he's—well, he's in a bad mood. I'd avoid talking to him."

  "All right. For how long? I need my assignment."

  Our focus was yanked toward the office when something crashed into the wall. Some colorful language, muffled by the closed door, followed. Myrna turned back to me with a sweet smile. "Possibly until Christmas."

  Footsteps pounded the office floor. Myrna dashed back to her desk and scrunched down so as not to be seen behind her monitor. She also picked up her prop, the stapler, in case someone tried to start a conversation.

  I sat down so quickly the floor beneath my chair creaked. I decided to take Myrna's lead and duck down behind my monitor. It didn't help.

  The door flew open. "Taylor! In here now. You were late," he added before turning around and marching back to his desk. His footsteps sounded angrier with each landing.

  I grabbed my notepad and pen, shot Myrna a nervous look and hurried into his office.

  "Shut the door," he ordered before I'd even crossed the threshold.

  I slinked into the office, like a scared puppy, wary that he was in the worst mood I'd ever seen. I had worked on larger city papers, papers that were constantly being bought and sold, but I'd never seen such a negative reaction. Who on earth had bought the paper? Whoever it was, Parker Seymour was not happy about the change of ownership.

  Before I had a second to scamper to the chair in front of his desk, Myrna's voice chirped quietly through the speaker on his desk. "She's here." They were two simple words, but Parker pulled at his shirt collar to relieve the choking sound in his throat. I could only assume the she Myrna mentioned was the new owner. Was that why Parker was so upset? I was under no illusions. My boss and editor was a man staunchly stuck in the old ways of journalism where men ruled the roost and held the power. Parker had never considered me for lead reporter until the old owner, Jerrold Newsom, insisted on it. Parker had swallowed the notion calmly and with only slight damage to his male pride. He knew, after all, that my stories had increased ad revenue and circulation enough to save the paper from its imminent demise.

  Parker hit the button on the intercom and grumbled 'be right there'. "The new owner has arrived," he said sharply to me. "I assume Myrna told you everything even though I told her not to." He sounded indifferent to having his orders ignored. He really was in a twist with this new owner.

  "She mentioned it." I stood in the center of his office, halfway between the door and his desk waiting for him to continue. He had, after all, called me into his office.

  He waved his arm. "Well, don't just stand there. Go out and introduce yourself. But be warned, I think there are a great deal of changes coming to the Junction Times. Frankly, I don't think either of us is going to like them."

  With that rather deflating anti-pep talk, I turned to leave the office. I stopped at the door and smoothed my sweater and my hair. A woman owner just might be a good thing for my career. I put on a gracious smile and reached for the door. I could hear Myrna fawning over someone with compliments and excessive greetings.

  I opened the door. A stout woman in a floral print dress and fur lined coat was turned away from me. Myrna was handing her a cup of coffee for which the woman gave a hearty thanks just before complaining that the coffee mugs in a newspaper office needed to be bigger. Her voice and the thank you coupled with an instant critique were all too familiar.

  "It can't be," I whispered to myself. At least, I thought it was to myself until Mrs. Mortimer, also known as Aunt Prudence, turned around on her bright pink heels.

  Her smile opened widely. "Sunni, so great to see you!" She hurried over for a brief hug. Myrna looked baffled by the instant show of affection. Before I could explain, Prudence filled her in. "My niece and nephew are the contractors in charge of the Cider Ridge Inn restoration. I met Sunni a few months ago. Offered to invest in the inn—" Her bun slipped side to side as her head tilted. "She decided not to take me on as a partner." I was expecting a 'her loss' tongue cluck but she refrained. She lifted up her arms. "But it all worked out because I found something just as fun. I decided it was time I put that old college degree to work by running a newspaper."

  Myrna chimed in. "How wonderful. Is your degree in journalism?" It was a perfectly reasonable question, but Prudence found it funny. Her laugh was slightly off key and hard to listen to but it seemed genuine.

  "Those days we gals stuck to more conventional degrees like stenography and teaching. My degree was in home economics. But I'm sure I can transfer those skills into running a newspaper. After all, I know exactly what interests me in the paper." She patted a notebook she had sticking out of her patent leather handbag. "I've got all sorts of ideas for making this the best paper in the county." She looked around. "Now, where is that editor? I have much to discuss with Mr. Seymour."

  My feet were still stuck to the floor from shock. One thing was certain, I now knew exactly why Ursula and Henry had been so cagey this morning. They knew their aunt had purchased the paper, and they didn't want to be the ones to break the news. I was still on the fence about how I felt about the whole thing. I'd finally gained Mr. Newsom's respect and earned the position of lead reporter. Aside from the occasional negative feedback, Parker gave me mostly free reign over my assignments. I'd settled into my position, and for the first time in a long while, I was enjoying my job. Now, it seemed, things were going to be turned upside down again. Or maybe I was jumping to conclusions. Maybe Prudence was going to be a great new owner. Seeing her cute little notebook made it seem as if she planned to be a more hands on owner. No doubt that was not going to sit well with Parker. I didn't mind as long as she gave me the freedom to write my own stories.

  Parker finally found the courage to open his office door. "Mrs. Mortimer, nice to see you. Please come into my office."

  Prudence lifted her chin. "Nice to see you, Mr. Seymour. You may call me Prudence." She swept toward his office. "I need to talk to you about the various columns we're going to start in the paper. From now on the Junction Times is going to focus more on homey articles, recipes and feel good stories."

  Parker glanced at me before shutting the door to his office.

  I looked at Myrna. "Did I hear wrong or did she just say she was turning the Junction Times into a homey newspaper with recipes and heartwarming stories?"

  "You heard right." Myrna nodded as she stared in disbelief at the closed office door. "Although, I believe she used the phrase 'feel good'
instead of 'heartwarming'."

  I groaned a long, irritated sound as I trudged back to my desk. "I definitely chose the wrong degree."

  Chapter 4

  Myrna and I spent the next hour shooting questioning glances across the newsroom as Parker and Prudence talked behind closed doors. Occasionally, there would be a spurt of laughter, Prue's genuine, Parker's forced and slightly miserable, but for the most part, their conversation was quiet.

  I couldn't help but form a vision of the meeting taking place inside Parker's office. Parker was most likely sitting with what I called his baked clay face, where he hid the emotions he was truly feeling behind a solid mask of unmoving flesh. His mouth would be tight in a semi-grin and his eyes, unblinking, would be staring at Prudence Mortimer, all the while shooting invisible daggers her direction. I'd seen him wear the same face when confronted by Harvey Bell, an angry shop owner whose expensive one page advertisement somehow ended up being printed upside down. He tried to convince Harvey that the common (although, not terribly, if we were being honest) mistake would be great publicity, and his advertisement would get far more notice than if it had been printed right side up. There was some logic to his argument, however, Mr. Bell was still angry enough to threaten a lawsuit. Instead, they settled on two months of free ads.

  In my vision, Prudence Mortimer was wearing little spectacles and going point by point down her list of changes for the paper. Parker would be sinking down farther into his chair with each quaint suggestion. I would've loved to see his expression, the mask of clay broken, when she mentioned the notion of a recipe section. I wasn't entirely sure how much clout Parker would have, considering he was the editor and had years of experience, but after my brief interaction with Prue at the inn, something told me he wasn't going to have much say. Prudence was pretty solid in her opinions.