Hot Off the Press (A Hailey Webb Mystery, Volume 1)

by Deany Ray

  Arriving at the office, I waved as I walked past Sandra. The receptionist responded with an unfriendly stare, as if she couldn’t spare the time for a simple smile while answering the phone.

  As I made my way past the cubicles, everybody seemed to have a comment or a question.

  “How are you feeling, Hailey?”

  “Did you just want to faint?”

  “Another one? I can’t believe that happened to you twice!”

  “Thank you for the revenue. We’ll be selling out. Ka-ching!”

  I threw my purse on my desk, assuring everybody I was fine. “I don’t want a repeat. Two is enough, I think.”

  Before I could get settled, Jerry called, asking to see me in his office.

  “Be right there,” I said.

  I walked in, and he shook his head. “Well, we have not been short of news since you came to join us. But if you keep finding bodies, Webb, you’ll stretch our finances thin. Therapy’s not cheap; I don’t think that’s in the budget.”

  I smiled. “No therapy needed, Jerry.”

  He turned serious. “How you doing, Webb? You had quite a night.”

  “I promise I’m good. I’ll get over it. Today’s another day!”

  “That’s the spirit.” He tilted his head, for just a moment looking more like a father than a boss. “A thing like that would really have to shake a person up. You sure there’s nothing you need?”

  “I’m actually surprised at how really fine I am.” Thank God I had good coffee at home.

  “Well, if you come upon some news, you know to go to Mike with whatever you find out.”

  “Absolutely,” I assured him as I headed to my desk. I was just sitting down when I saw a text from Kat, who was checking in to make sure I was okay. I started to text her back, but then I decided I’d rather call instead. A plan was forming in my mind.

  I assured her first that I was okay. Reassuring people I was fine would be my theme that day. “Kat, listen,” I continued, “I’d love for you to find out anything and everything Intern Boy has heard about this latest killing.” Not that he was high up, but he could be useful. “What does he do there anyway?”

  “I think he’s just getting coffee and setting up for meetings, stuff like that.” She giggled, as she often did when she spoke of a guy she liked. “I think he also prefers it if we called him Pete. He does have a name, you know. Pete Galligan. And, sure, I’ll be glad to ask him. Kat is on the case!”

  I broached another topic that had been on my mind. “Kat, exactly how old is this Pete? I mean, he’s nice and all, and he’s clearly into you, but—”

  “Making sure it’s legal?” Kat laughed.

  “Kinda.” I laughed with her.

  “No worries there, my friend. Pete is twenty-five, although he doesn’t look it.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Since Kat was twenty-nine, everything was cool, and clearly, she was smitten.

  “He's already told me they’re going to hold off for a while on setting a new date for the auction. They don’t want the bad press. One dead diver kind of gave them a sense of dark mystique; two bodies are just morbid.”

  “Especially up close.”

  “Oh, sorry. I don't see how you even slept.”

  I thanked her in advance for any info she could get, then I got back to work. As the morning went on, I wondered why I hadn’t seen Mike yet. Then I wondered why I wondered. That was so not important. I finalized the contract for the coffee beans and worked through lunch on some research, still full from the breakfast eggs.

  I leaned on the back of my chair and stretched when another task popped up on my computer. Mike was asking for my “assistance,” a task for which he'd blocked off the whole afternoon. No other information was included, which added to the intrigue. I instantly hit “accept.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  That afternoon, Mike showed up at my desk, startling me again. Apparently, that was his thing.

  “Stop doing that!” I grinned, and he smiled back at me. “So, what is this task?" I asked.

  “Grab your purse,” he told me with an air of mystery, “and let’s get out of here.”

  We walked out to his truck, and he pulled out of the lot, heading off to . . . well, I had no idea.

  “So, how are you doing, Hailey?” He shot me a wry grin. “You sure know how to party.”

  I smiled at him ruefully. “Today is good so far. Everyone I’ve met has seemed to have a pulse.” I sighed. “I don’t know why dead bodies seem to follow me around.”

  “Hopefully you’ll stop at two, or else it would be creepy.”

  “Super, super creepy. What’s also kind of creepy is when a strange man tells a woman to climb into his truck but won’t tell her where they’re going.”

  “Fair enough.” He grinned. “We’re going to pay a little visit to the girlfriend of victim number two.”

  My eyes shot right up. “Wait a minute . . . what?” This was interesting, I thought, as we picked up speed through town.

  “Well, I needed a new angle since Pearlrover isn’t talking. Not surprisingly, the guys in charge have shut down all communications with the likes of me. The other divers, Maugham and Parsons, are a little freaked—understandably. So there won’t be any info coming out of them.”

  “Yeah. I’d hate to be in their shoes. They’re probably thinking, which one is next.”

  “Scary time to be a diver. So, with those guys keeping a low profile, I thought maybe Craven’s girlfriend would know something I could use. She knew him and his habits, and she could have an idea if there was anybody who had a grudge against him.”

  “That’s pretty smart," I said, impressed. “It’s worth a try at least, but how do I fit in? Why me?”

  He winked. “You seem to like to be involved in this Pearlrover thing. I also thought a female would open up to you more quickly. You know, girl to girl. I don’t mean to offend anybody, it’s just the way it is.”

  “Slightly sexist, but okay,” I teased. “Is she expecting us?”

  He braked for a light. “I’ve always found it’s best to show up unannounced in these cases. Don’t give them any time to come up with excuses. Or to run.”

  I filed that note away.

  By then we had reached the outskirts of Palm Shores. I had never been to that part of town, which was dotted with tiny run-down houses and littered, weedy lawns.

  “Here we are.” Mike stopped in front of a wooden home with dirty peeling paint that must have once been white. “Joan Hickman is the name.” He frowned in confusion at a group of people milling on the lawn. Piles of stuff were spread out in the yard and arranged on tables. It looked like a yard sale, which would be a super-odd activity following a murder.

  “What’s going on here?” Mike asked, more to himself. I was wondering the same thing. We got out of the truck and moved into the action.

  A dark-haired woman in a purple jogging suit was talking forcefully to the other people on the lawn as they peppered her with questions. “Ten bucks! That one’s twenty,” she said to a young couple with a baby. “I don’t have patience for your haggling. Do not waste my time. If that’s too pricey for your cheap butts, take a hike.”

  The customer service at this place kind of stunk.

  Our “hostess” looked to be in her forties. Just like Craven was. Her mouth was set in a thin line that seemed somehow permanent, as if she had never smiled a day in all her life. This, I presumed, was Joan.

  “All this stuff to the right is already bought,” she said as we approached. “No haggling on the rest.”

  Mike stuck out his hand. “Mike Hadfield. From the Palm Shores Gazette. Glad to meet you. This is my assistant, Hailey Webb.” He pulled out his press credentials, and I did the same.

  The woman’s eyes grew even harder. Apparently to this Joan, the press was even worse than customers who asked for a quarter discount on a scratched-up plastic bowl. “I’ve no time for the likes of you,” she said. “Always out to make some mone
y off other people’s grief. Can’t you see I’m in mourning? You’re vultures. Every single one.”

  As she spoke, the “grieving” woman pocketed three quarters in exchange for what appeared to be men’s shirts.

  Very smoothly and discreetly, Mike slipped a hundred-dollar bill into her palm. “My sympathies,” he said.

  Okay, the guy was good.

  Stuffing the bill into her pocket, Joan looked around and called out to another woman. “I’ll be right back,” she told her. “Watch them like a hawk.” As if she’d set out crystal goblets instead of old stained shirts and ratty-looking towels. I noticed that most of the stuff for sale seemed to have belonged to a man: men’s clothes, fishing gear, an oversized pair of boots. Wow, she was really selling Craven’s stuff?

  Joan led us into the living room, where we settled in on the thin, worn cushions of an old red couch. She did not waste time on small talk. “What do you want to know?” she asked, taking a seat across from us in a wobbly wooden chair.

  Without thinking, I launched into the first thing on my mind. “A garage sale? Really? Why a garage sale now?”

  She gave me a hard look. “Well, why do you think? Do you know any places that put on funerals for free?” She studied me with contempt. “You don’t look the type to worry about such a thing.”

  “Oh.” I looked down at the dirty carpet, speechless for a moment. This was a whole new kind of sad: selling her loved one’s stuff with him not dead twelve hours.

  And she didn’t stop there as she aimed her tirade at Craven. “All that idiot seemed to care about was his stupid boat. Did he leave me money? No! What did he really care that we were barely getting by?”

  Mike smiled at her kindly. “What did you know about his work?” he asked.

  She snorted. “Just that it was worthless. Do you people know what he named his boat? The Victory!” She shook her head. “How’s that for a name for a heap of a junk that never earned him any money? Did he give a rat’s ass about taking care of me? He certainly did not. Any money that he made he threw away on beer.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her close-cropped hair. “You know, my father tried to warn me. Five years ago, he told me that if I stuck with Forrest, I’d never have a thing.”

  As she seethed silently, I tried to nudge her to go on. “I imagine you had a hard time.” I was going for a soothing, sympathetic tone, which seemed to do the trick.

  “I try to do my part,” she said. “I’m on my feet all day ringing up other people’s groceries, hearing them complain about the price of beans, listening to a bunch of morons yammer on and on. Still, with no help from Forrest, it’s been hard to stretch my paychecks to pay the mortgage and the bills. Then the idiot had the nerve to up and die without one cent of insurance to help a woman out. Now, I have no idea if I can even keep the house."

  Well, no love lost between those two. It really made me wonder why she hadn’t left him long ago.

  “What will happen to the boat?” Mike asked.

  She shrugged. “That company bought the thing, so I suppose it’s theirs.”

  “Pearlrover?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” Joan said.

  I leaned a little closer. “How long had you and Forrest been together?”

  “Ten years with the man.” She sighed. “Ten years I won’t get back. We had no plans to marry. I’d done the ‘married’ thing before. Once was enough for me.”

  We learned they had lived in the house for seven years and they had no children. Craven’s parents were deceased, and he had no siblings. It seemed that both of our victims had enjoyed keeping to themselves with no family to speak of. Which was kind of inconvenient for us.

  Our hostess seemed distracted as she stared at the wall. “I was really, really hoping I’d come across some cash when I went through his stuff. These last two weeks he kept insisting he had some money due him. Big bucks, said the weasel. Any day, he said. Of course, I should have known it was just a lot of talk.”

  “What did he mean?” Mike asked, doing a great job of containing his excitement.

  “How should I know?” Joan barked. “He never told me a damn thing. All he said was someone would be forking over cash . . . because of something Forrest knew. I think that’s what he said. Naturally, I never found a cent, and I looked in every single place there was to look.” She glared at a footstool as if it were to blame. “I could have used some ‘mystery cash’ to make a dent in all these bills. Do you know how much they charge for electric and for water? Fools and thieves they are!”

  So Craven expected money from someone, based on what he knew about that someone. Right. Blackmail was my best guess. I exchanged a look with Mike.

  “Did Forrest mention any names?” Mike asked hopefully.

  “Not that I remember.”

  Rats. That would have been convenient.

  “Have you spoken with the police about all of this?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah. They were here this morning, and I told them what I am telling you. Who knows what that man got himself involved with?”

  I shifted in my seat. “I suspect it was work-related, given that he died at a Pearlrover auction—and that another diver died as well just this week,” I said.

  For the first time, I saw a flash of sadness cross her face. Perhaps she was thinking that a bad man coming home made for a less lonely life than no man at all. Well, she and I could have a talk about the wisdom of not settling for men who didn’t know our worth. I had learned a thing or two about that. But now was not the time. Silently, I looked past her explosive anger to the pain clouding up her eyes—and I wished the woman well.

  Mike stood up to leave, and I did the same. “Thank you for your time,” he said, and I gave her a weak smile.

  “Mind if we look around?” Mike asked as we stepped out in the yard.

  “Whatever. Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. “Prices are as marked, and I stand firm on that.”

  As Mike went on ahead, I turned to Joan and I touched her shoulder gently. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  For just a second, I glimpsed the softer side of her. She looked me in the eye. “Thank you for that kindness,” she said in a whisper, and something passed between us. Then it was over just like that, when someone held a beer mug up to show his wife or girlfriend.

  “You break that thing, you buy it,” Joan yelled across the yard. “I’m not made of money here!”

  I joined Mike in the yard, where we looked through rusty tools, old clothes, and some oddball kinds of things we could not identify. Mike pulled out a notebook from his pocket and began making notes.

  “You think there could be a clue in all this junk?” I asked.

  “Nah. Most likely not, although you never know, so have yourself a look. What I want to do is get down what she told us while it’s still fresh in my mind. Sometimes if you take notes while the person is talking, it kind of breaks a spell. I didn’t want to chance it that she’d clam up if I pulled out my pen and pad.”

  I picked up a purple t-shirt that looked to be the perfect size for a sleeping shirt. It felt kind of soft. Then again, I couldn’t imagine buying something from a person who was murdered and whom I found murdered. A chill ran down my spine at the memory of the previous night.

  “Are you putting any of this in your next story?” I asked. “Is there anything you can use?” Lest Joan think we were dawdling, I rifled through some old sheets that smelled of smoke.

  “Nothing we can go to press with yet,” he said, “but this gives me some direction: things I can look into, some questions for the cops.” He pocketed his notebook. “This is a tricky situation. I always want to be the first to publish a new story or a development. And yet the cops have reasons, sometimes good ones too, for keeping certain bits of info out of the public eye. It has to do with not tipping off the bad guy they might be onto. And while I love a splashy headline as much as the next guy does, I won’t stand in the way of good old law and order.”

  “Plu
s, I imagine pissing off the cops would be a bad idea.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “I need to be on good terms with them.”

  “Are you?” I asked.

  Mike grinned. “Most of the time.”

  He continued with his browsing, looking for some clue among the junk. I pulled my phone from my jeans pocket. I’d put my cell on silent when I left the Gazette. Now I stared at it in my hand. Five missed calls from my mom. Great.

  Then it hit me. I knew what that was about. Of course. How could I have forgotten about it? My mother threw the auction last night and I didn’t even think to call her and tell her what happened? I cringed. I was a bad daughter, and I was never going to hear the end of this.

  Scrolling through my phone, I somehow failed to notice that I’d stepped up on a skateboard.

  “Watch out,” Mike called from a table filled with magazines and plastic cups and other odds and ends.

  “Wha—"

  But it was too late. With one foot on the moving skateboard, I picked up speed and fell onto a table, spilling its contents to the ground. People all around me stepped back in alarm. Noticing the look of horror on their faces, I followed their gazes. There was a crossbow at one of the tables and somehow, I launched the arrow.

  All of us watched, terrified, as it whizzed across the yard.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The arrow flew way too close to some of the onlookers, who ducked and gasped and scattered. Then it found its landing place: the side mirror of Mike’s truck, which cracked into a million pieces.

  Absolutely perfect. Real smooth move by me. Guess this meant I was going to find a third body. Smashed mirror, bad luck and all. This was unbelievable.

  I looked over at Mike. He was standing and staring at his truck, mouth open.

  “Mike,” I started. No answer. “Mike!”

  He turned to me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I told him in a quiet voice. I got up and dusted myself off.