Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery) (16 page)

“Would you like a smoke?” she asked in her gravelly half-whisper as if on cue, fishing the pack and a pink Bic lighter out of her flowing blue satin housedress.

I sucked in such a sharp breath that I dissolved into a coughing fit, trying to smile. I desperately wished I’d paid more attention in science class. How far would an explosion from a liter or two of oxygen be lethal? If we combusted, would I walk away in blackened Louboutins, or maybe just lose a hand?

“No, thank you,” I said.

“I know.” She flashed a tight grin, her wrinkled lips parting over nicotine-yellow teeth. “You youngsters think tobacco is bad for people. I’m seventy-nine, and I’ve smoked since I was fourteen. I like it and it makes my family a good living, so I’m not quitting. There’re lots of folks like me who won’t quit, either. No matter how much they want to charge in taxes. But you didn’t come here to listen to me prattle about that. What has my Billy done now?”

I tilted my head to one side and studied her before I answered, assessing quickly that this momma was no fool, and “her Billy” probably thought he got away with more than he actually did.

“I think you know way more about that than I do, Mrs. Eckersly.” I folded my hands in my lap, trying not to flinch as she flicked burning ashes directly over the oxygen tank. “More than William thinks you do, too, don’t you?”

“He doesn’t pay any more attention to me than he does those paintings out there,” she chuckled, and it sounded like rocks rattling in a box. “Too wrapped up in following his libido, not paying near enough attention to the things he should. This place has been Eckersly land since Jefferson’s day. But times are changing. The economy is different. And my son likes beautiful women who like him to buy them expensive things.”

“Does your son have a girlfriend?” I asked.

She took a long drag off her cigarette, staring at me as she blew the smoke out slowly. I stifled a cough.

“My son has a whore,” she said. “Not the kind that hangs out at bars looking for a good time, but an honest-to-God member of the oldest profession. She likes diamonds, and furs, and shoes like those ones you’re wearing. She’s young. She’s pretty. She’s got Billy acting like a fool. I’m glad you came by today, Miss Clarke, because I’m tired of talking at my son. I’ll be damned if he’s going to run this farm into the ground over a good piece of ass. So, how can I help you?”

I studied her determined gaze, wondering why she wanted to help me at all. I wasn’t asking, because she might think better of talking to me. I considered her words. Money. Prostitution. Lakshmi. Grayson. What if the farmer and the senator shared a call girl?

“You said William’s girlfriend is pretty,” I said, trying to keep the raw excitement out of my voice. “What does she look like?”

“Dark hair. Pretty face. Prettier than my daughter-in-law, sure, and Lord knows men aren’t always faithful, but this has become more than boyish fun. My grandsons will have their legacy.” She lost the last word in a coughing fit. Holding up one finger, she fumbled for her mask, taking several deep pulls before she put it down.

The steely determination in her rheumy eyes was jarring, and I found myself wondering for a second if I suspected the wrong Eckersly. But studying the frail frame that was swallowed in the dressing gown and watching her cough at the slightest excitement dismissed the thought. This woman didn’t overpower a twenty-something attorney who played ball three nights a week and just finished a triathlon.

But her son—depending on how dire his financial situation was—certainly might have. If Joyce was right and Eckersly had broken into Grayson’s place, what if he’d shot Amesworth like the deer in the photo? Joyce could go back to work and I would have the second story of the year. Third, too, counting Grayson’s call girl.

Charlie would have a hard time covering jealousy green with makeup.

Lucinda stared past me, at something I couldn’t see. “I love my son. I don’t want my family name dragged through the mud. But I cannot let him lose this farm. He won’t turn it over to me or hire an overseer no matter how much I beg him. He’s into some things he shouldn’t be. Besides the girl. I’m not sure about what or how, but he whispers a lot, on the phone. Maybe you can help me, too. If Billy’s done enough wrong to go to jail, I’ve got a power of attorney that turns the farm over to me.”

I studied her face, sadness and disappointment plain in every line.

“Is there anything else you can think of that might help me?” I asked. “Is your son active in politics?”

She laughed. “Billy’s not the public service type.”

“Does he know a James Billings? He’s—”

“A bigwig at Raymond Garfield,” Lucinda finished my sentence. “Of course we know him. This industry is a pretty small one.”

Hmmm. So maybe a small lead, but still nothing I could print. I sighed. I needed more details, and it was obvious she didn’t have them.

She pulled another cigarette from the pack.

“Thank you, ma’am.” I jumped to my feet before Lucinda could light up again. “It was so nice to meet you, Mrs. Eckersly, but I have to scoot back to my office.”

She nodded in dismissal, dropping the cigarette pack in her lap.

I hurried from the room, the sound of the Bic clicking making my steps faster. Letting myself out without bidding Doreen goodbye, I hoped her employer didn’t blow them both to kingdom come.

Back at my desk, I fired off a follow-up to the jewelry store story, quoting Aaron about the bail and the hearing and recapping the details of the accident. A quick phone call to the store’s manager got me a comment about the structural damage, which was irreparable. They were waiting for the insurance check to clear and hiring a contractor to raze the premises and build a new store.

“This one will have kevlar in the walls if they do such a thing.” She laughed.

“I understand the customer who was driving the truck had just bought a rather expensive piece,” I said, trying to remember if Lakshmi had been wearing a bracelet and failing. “Had you seen him in the store before?”

“Not that I remember,” she said.

“Was there anything unusual about the bracelet he bought?” I asked.

“It was big. And pretty. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” I said. “It goes with the job.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Not that I can think of.” I thanked her and hung up.

I sent the story to Bob just before four and wandered to the break room, hunting for a Diet Coke.

Halfway there, I heard a round of hearty laughter pouring from Parker’s office.

Sticking my head around the doorframe, I felt my face stretch into a grin when I saw Troy, spinning Parker’s seat back and forth and holding court with half the sports desk. He looked so happy it was positively infectious.

“So, what do you lead your story with?” Parker asked, gesturing to the computer and pushing a notebook across the desk at Troy. “You interviewed the coach. There’s one game left in the season. Give me your lead.”

I shot Parker a smile and mouthed a “thank you” when he glanced at me. He nodded and focused on Troy, who was studying his notes with a furrowed brow.

“I guess I’d say to start with the comment he made about focusing on pitching in the draft this year?”

“Yes and no.” Parker grinned. “Nice job picking out the most important thing. But you write the lead. You don’t start with his comment.”

Troy tilted his head to one side, and I could almost see the sponge soaking up every detail. “Why?”

“Clarke?” Parker turned toward me and I stepped through the door and waved at Troy. “Care to explain the whys and wherefores?”

“Your lead is supposed to catch your reader’s attention and summarize your most important point, and very rarely does someone say something that captures the most important part of a story more succinctly than you can write it,” I said. “My favorite prof in college had a saying in a frame over his desk: every journalist gets to lead a story with a quote twice in their career. Once when they’re too green to know any better, and again when the Pope says ‘fuck.’” 

“Hear, hear! I’m totally framing that and putting it over my desk,” Spence said from the black metal chair in the corner. “And I’m giving Bob one for Christmas.”

“I always thought that’d be such a great story to write,” I said, leaning on the edge of the desk and cutting a glance at Troy. He probably heard worse before first period, if I remembered high school right. “Can you see it? ‘Vatican City, AP: ‘Fuck,’ the Pope said Friday. ‘Just fuck it all.’ Bishops were stunned speechless when his holiness erupted in a string of swearwords during morning mass. The Associated Press has learned the Pope was frustrated with level 15 of Angry Birds. In a statement released this afternoon, the Vatican apologized. ‘It was not intended to be said aloud,’ the press release reads.”

“Damn, Clarke, you missed your calling.” Parker grinned. “You ought to be writing for the Onion.”

“I’ll take that as praise.” I turned to Troy. “Have you had a good day?”

“The best!” He bounced in his seat. “Mr. Parker took me to the ballpark and then over to RAU to watch football practice. He even listened to me practice calling plays and gave me pointers, and he let me interview the baseball coach and took me to eat barbecue for lunch, and he said I could help with his column.”

The words spilled out so fast I could hardly keep up, and that was saying something. Taking Troy’s notes, I flipped through at least twenty pages.

“Jeez, kid, you don’t need shorthand lessons,” I said. “These are pretty detailed.”

“I want to make sure I don’t forget anything,” Troy said. “Thank you so much, Miss Clarke.”

“Did they win you over to the print side of the world?”

“I still want to be on TV,” he said. “But I never knew newspapers were so much fun. It wouldn’t be a bad place to start.”

“A backup plan is a good thing to have,” I said with a smile.

“All right, y’all,” Parker boomed, shooing everyone toward the door. “If Spence wants my column today, Troy and I have some work to do.”

“Have fun,” I told Troy, smiling when he gushed another thank you.

“Thanks again,” I told Parker as I slipped out the door. “I owe you one.”

“Nah. Setting me up with Mel is worth a few favors. Her sister had a girl. Cute little thing,” he said. “What were we looking for the other night, anyhow? You find anything on your lead?”

I shrugged. “I’m still working on it.” The fewer people who knew about my suspicions until they were more than suspicions, the better. Especially given what I’d heard from Trudy.

He cocked his head, leaning on the doorjamb. “You’re really not going to tell me? You don’t think I killed somebody else, do you?”

I laughed. “You’re never going to let that go, are you? I’m not entirely sure what it is that I’m into, and I don’t want to talk about it until I am.”

“Into? You playing Lois Lane again?”

“No.” I took a step backward.

“Liar.” Parker shook his head. “Does Bob know what you’re doing, at least?”

“Part of it. Really, I’m playing it safe.” I shoved the toy dog and Joey’s warning to a vault in the back of my brain.

“Uh-huh. I’m buying you a handgun for Christmas.”

“My shoes seem to work pretty well, thanks.”

“I have to get to work or I’m going to miss deadline.” He moved to close the door. “Stay out of trouble.”

I rounded the corner into the break room, and the empty syrup bottle in the garbage can inside the door caught my eye. I scowled. What I really wanted was more coffee, though the Coke had fewer calories. And in the grand scheme of things, the mystery of the disappearing syrup was less important than a dead man and a crooked politician.

I jammed quarters into the Coke machine a little too hard and gulped half the bottle on my way back to my desk.

My Blackberry binged the arrival of a text as I plopped into my chair.

“Miss you, baby girl.”

My mom. I snatched up the phone and dialed her number, checking my email as it rang. Nothing from Bob yet.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said when she picked up. “Are you busy?”

“I can squeeze you in,” I said. “I miss you, too. What’s going on there?”

“Have you ever seen that TV show
Bridezillas
?” She sighed. “Those broads have nothing on this woman I’m working for. My God, Nicey. It’s all I can do to refrain from slapping her about. Nothing and no one is ever right or good enough, and she’s such a little snot; she insisted that I meet her for coffee on Thursday, and hand to God, she snapped her fingers at that poor server no less than ten times in half an hour. She’s like that with everyone. The biggest part of the hours I’ve spent on this wedding so far have been running interference with other businesses for the bride, because she’s so hateful people don’t want to work for her.”

“Then why are you working for her?”

“Because her grandfather’s last name is on a few buildings downtown. Big ones. And I thought she was nice the first time she came in. I was wrong. It’s like peeling an onion. The closer it gets to her wedding, the more layers of nasty there are to her. But her stuff is almost done, and I’ll be rid of her soon. Thank God.”

I laughed. “If anyone can get a Bridezilla safely down the aisle, it’s you,” I said. “What kind of flowers will she have?”

My mom’s love of plants had led her to start a tiny flower shop when I was a kid, and it had grown into a thriving wedding-planning boutique.

That was irony for you: my mother, who held the deepest disdain for marriage of anyone I’d ever met, made a living helping people do, in her estimation, something foolish.

“I used lilies, white roses, and orchids when I made the test bouquet last week,” she said. “It came out lovely. It’s a waterfall style with a lace handkerchief that belonged to her grandmother around the base. At least, she said it was her grandmother’s. I’m beginning to think she escaped from some hell dimension.”

I laughed. “It sounds lovely. Hang in there. When’s the big day?”

“Next Friday,” she said. “Twelve more days, and one more box of antacids. I think I can, I think I can.”

I shook my head, waking the computer and smiling when I saw a thumbs up from Bob in my email. He also okay’d my request to cut out of the staff meeting early the next morning, so I could make it to the courthouse for the Eckersly hearing.

I glossed over my week, telling my mom about the jewelry store and relating the tale of Lucinda Eckersly, former grande dame of Powhatan County and current explosive hazard.

“It makes me smile to hear you so happy,” she said. “I sure do love you, kiddo. Any chance you’ll head this way anytime soon?”