Death of A High Maintenance Blonde (Jubilant Falls Series Book 5) (12 page)

I was silent for a moment. “That’s a good one. She doesn’t know you’re Charisma Prentiss?”

She shook her head and smiled crookedly. She wasn’t the blonde beauty the world remembered traipsing through the mountains of Afghanistan or the ancient backstreets of the Middle East. She was permanently scarred, physically and emotionally. Her repaired face wasn’t the same one that graced television sets across this country. That was no doubt what allowed her to hide here in this little town. Something else was different about it—the supreme confidence she was known for, the arrogance and the willingness to risk all for a story was gone.

“No, she doesn’t—and I’m not ready for her, or anyone, to find out about it. The résumé I gave her was a fake. Everyone I listed there is a friend of mine, willing to hide my true identity. You spill the beans, and I won’t only be known as journalism’s most spectacular flame out, I’ll be known as a fake. One more condition—I need to know two weeks before your article comes out.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the day I’m giving my notice. Do you know what will happen when you expose who I really am?”

“I said I wouldn’t tell where you were. What do you think will happen?”

She covered her eyes with her hands. “Everyone will know the truth.”

“What truth? What do you mean?”

“That I—no, I’m not going into that right now. You don’t get that far inside my psyche, not yet.” She lifted her head and glared.

“Let’s talk about these stories you’re working on, the one you want me to help you with. What other crimes are we talking about?”

“I’m working on a couple stories about two cold case murders that happened several years apart. The first one happened maybe five, six years after the tornado—that’s the one I’m focused on right now. A young man was found dead in the creek—no identification, no fingerprints on file. He’d been stabbed. I met Addison out at this old farmhouse today. I hoped to talk to whoever owned the place and see if they lived there when the young man was found in the creek. Turns out it was Eve’s mother’s house and she may have inadvertently given us a couple leads on the deaths of Jimmy Lyle and the stabbing.”

“The time of the creek death would have put Eve out of college, maybe working her first job. Did she go to college locally?” I asked.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did she work here in Jubilant Falls?”
“No.”

“Then where?”

Charisma shrugged. “The story about her murder had a little bit about her professional career. When Eve died, she would have been working at a firm in Texas. We don’t know why she was back here, if she came to stay, and if we can connect her to the boy in the creek—or even to Jimmy Lyle. That’s what we need you to find out.”

I pressed my thumb against my chin thoughtfully. It would feel good to get my hands back into a story. I could tell my students I wasn’t just some old academic, I’d been back in the trenches. I’d have the opportunity to once more do what I loved—and it would be an opportunity to work with Charisma.

It would be like starting over.

“I’d love to help, however I can,” I said.

“Thank you so much.” Impulsively, Charisma reached over and laid her hand over mine, then blushed as she pulled it back into her lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” I said softly, reaching across the table. “Here—give it back.”

She pulled her hand from beneath the tabletop and tentatively laid it in mine. It was soft and she’d painted her fingernails. I wrapped both my hands around hers and looked in those big brown eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered, and, beneath the makeup she blushed, but she didn’t look away.

I drew her hand close to my lips and placed one small kiss on the back of her knuckles, drinking in the soft sensation and the heady lavender smell of her skin. It wasn’t enough—I wanted more. I pulled her hand nearer to kiss her palm, to hold her cool fingers against my face and savor a connection I hadn’t felt in years. Her sleeve slid back, exposing a myriad of jagged scars along her forearm. The scars, some large and irregular with feathered edges, some small and pockmarked, traveled up to her elbow like a snake.

“No! Stop!” Charisma gasped and jerked away, shattering the magic. With her other hand, she pushed the errant sleeve down around her wrist. She jumped up from the table and began clearing the dishes. “I’m sorry. I’ve just—I mean, since Jean Paul died, I—” she stammered.

I stood and reached for her shoulders.

“No, don’t!” she cried, pushing me away. She stopped in front of the sink, hanging her head, fighting for composure.

“Charisma, I—”

She didn’t turn around.

“If you come to the paper after ten-thirty, we’re off deadline. I can introduce you to Addison then and we can get started.”

“I want to say I’m sorry.”

“Just go, Leland. Please.”

Wordlessly, I opened the door and went down the stairs. Once on the sidewalk, I looked up to her window. The curtains didn’t move; I couldn’t see her silhouette. What was she thinking? What would she do? Had one small kiss provoked her PTSD? Or had it been something else?

I shoved my hands into my pockets and walked back to my hotel room.

Chapter 18 Addison

I was home early enough to start helping with the evening milking, but that didn’t last long.

I was attaching an inflator to the last heifer’s udder when my cell phone rang. Duncan, seated on a milking stool at the heifer beside me, rolled his eyes as I pulled it from my jeans pocket.

“Hi, Graham,” I said.

“Hey, Addison,” he answered. “I’ve got news. Eve Dahlgren’s time of death came back from the coroner. It wasn’t Monday afternoon—it was Sunday night. The police are saying her Lincoln was moved to the park and left there.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope—and Earlene’s been released. She had an alibi for Sunday night. She and her dad were having dinner in Collitstown. Watt provided the receipt, which showed two meals: He had a New York strip and she had a spinach salad. The server remembered their order.”

“Yeah, with that hair, she’d be easy to pick out. But what about her fingerprints?”

“I talked to Chief G and he thinks Earlene’s prints may not be as recent as they first though. They’re back to square one.”

“No suspects, no leads?”

“That’s not exactly what he said, but I got that impression.”

While I waited for Graham to send me the story, I called Gary McGinnis at home. I had mixed feelings on Earlene’s release: glad she wasn’t going to be hung for a crime she didn’t commit, but dreading her return to work and the interference that would follow in the newsroom.

“So it’s an open and shut case, huh?” I teased when he picked up his phone. “You told me ‘Don’t waste your time, Penny.’ You said you had her fresh fingerprints in the car.”

“Don’t get too high on yourself,” McGinnis said. “It was the autopsy that got your boss released, not anything you’ve dug up. And yes, we still have the steering wheel, but we can’t explain why Earlene’s fingerprints are on it. She just happens to have an alibi for the night of the murder.”

“What about the knife? The one that was found in the sewer?”

“Techs can’t raise any usable fingerprints because the knife was found in a slight amount of standing water. But the blood type matches Eve’s. We’re sending it to the state crime lab for DNA, just to be sure.”

“You never know what else may come up. I met with Betty Dahlgren this afternoon. She let something slip: Eve may have had something to do with the creek murder.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

“You can’t be serious.”
“Charisma showed her the victim’s photo and Betty said something about Eve not liking him. She
knows
him, Gary. There’s a connection. I can feel it.”
“We can’t operate on feelings, Penny. We tried to notify Betty Dahlgren about Eve’s death, but I don’t think it sunk in—and that home health care aide was very protective. We were able to search the house and the barn, though. Wherever Eve Dahlgren was killed, it wasn’t at that house.”

“I also got the impression that Betty didn’t understand Eve was dead. But here’s something else weird: I met with Angela Perry today.” I filled him in on Angela’s account of Eve’s high school violence and manipulation. “She thinks Eve had something to do with the death of Jimmy Lyle, and from the way Betty Dahlgren reacted when I asked her, I’m starting to think there’s something there.”

“Penny, come on. He died in the tornado. Everybody knows that!”

“I’m not sure, Gary. I’ve always had a weird feeling about how he died, but I’ve never told anybody. Then Angela said something and I just felt—”

Gary interrupted me. “Do you know how impossible it would be to prove he was murdered? All these years later? I’ve got a homicide on my hands right now!”

“But you should have seen how agitated Betty got when I asked her about him!”

Gary sighed on the other end of the phone. “How reliable could all this be, Penny, coming from a dementia patient?”

“Maybe not at all, but it could be a starting point. What if Eve Dahlgren was a serial killer?”

“And what if I’m the Easter Bunny?”

Chapter 19 Charisma

The story on the dead man in the creek ran on Wednesday morning. I filled the story with what I hoped was an accurate portrayal of Jubilant Falls in the 1980s—a town still staggering to its feet years after a natural disaster when an unnamed body showed up in the creek.

I found details of his funeral, held a day after officials released the report on his death and attended only by the police and firefighters who were on the scene. Pat took a photo of his grave, marked only with a metal plate with the name “John Doe” and the date of his death and we ran the original photo of Marvin McGinnis and Hiram Warder lifting the body out of the creek.

I included Warder’s thoughts that two people had been involved with the death, as well as a comment from Gary McGinnis that anything was possible, but police investigation hadn’t specifically determined that.

I ended the article with Warder’s quote: “Someone here in Jubilant Falls killed that boy and they’ve been living with that secret for a long, long time.”

Maybe it would spark someone’s memory—or guilt. Addison and I agreed we couldn’t use Betty Dahlgren’s reaction to the victim’s photo, due to her dementia. Even if Betty’s reaction were credible (and it could very well
not
be), it wasn’t enough to do anything with. But if we got that one phone call, that could give law enforcement and us a starting point to finding out who killed the young man in the creek, maybe even enough information to go back to Betty and ask more questions just to gauge her reaction.

Addison and I edited the story in her office, with the door closed.

“I don’t think we’ve got any reason at all to look into Jimmy Lyle’s death,” Addison said. With a push of a computer button, she sent my story on to Dennis. “Gary McGinnis didn’t believe Angela Perry’s story or the gut feeling I’ve had for years.”

“Leland Huffinger wasn’t real sure about it either,” I said. “He thought it looked like you were trying to pin something else on the victim to make Earlene look good, or get her off.”

“I can understand why they both said that. On its face, it does look like that. Maybe I ought to just let it die.” Addison shrugged sadly, tapping a cigarette on her desktop. “When is Leland coming in?”

Yesterday, she questioned me about the wisdom of having a private investigator looking into Eve’s past, but I’d assured her it was one way for me to keep an eye on Leland and away from me. He was also an unknown: nobody could accuse anyone from the newspaper of trashing Eve if he did the research.

That was before we had dinner and I felt his kisses on my hand.

Today, I wasn’t sure how I’d respond when I saw him again. I didn’t like him seeing the scars on my arms but my overreaction wasn’t from my PTSD. That was someone prying my heart open for the first time in years.

I was addicted to my job, to the adrenaline thrill of it all—even this smaller, slower version of what I was doing today. I knew how challenging it could be to have a journalist in the family. Just like my mother, I thought that if I married another reporter, or as in my case of Jean Paul, a photojournalist, we could travel the world tag-teaming our stories: I got the byline, he got the photo credit.

But I wouldn’t let my personal story end like hers. I wasn’t going to end up like her, stuck at home with two screaming kids in Washington D.C.’s sprawling suburbs while Dad sat in the slot at Reuter’s copy desk, adjusting adverbs and inverting triangles all day long. Both of them gave up the chase of that perfect story for the fable of perfect family life—and both were miserable, with their marriage and with their lives. Their expectations of what marriage should be wouldn’t let them be the people they wanted to be.

Dad divorced my mother, retired from Reuters and found a new career in corporate communications — as well as Kate, a redhead ten years older than me, to shack up with. She kept him active playing tennis and god knows what else. They had a great view of Washington D.C. from their downtown condo and two over-groomed Shih Tzu puppies they treated like infants.

Mom returned to journalism after my brother graduated from college, but her years at home put her behind the earning curve. Now, she covers the city schools in Salisbury, Maryland to make the rent on her shabby apartment and copy edits deluded, self-published novelists at two dollars a page to fund her retirement.

My parents were why Jean Paul had to work so hard to win my heart and why I honestly told him I wasn’t ready for children.

The truth was, I wasn’t ready for our nomadic life to end.

I didn’t want to end up like my mother.

Maybe, if we hadn’t argued, if I’d said yes that night to his advances, I’d have a little one to remember him by.

Maybe, he’d still be alive.

And then last night, a kiss changed everything. Feeling Leland’s lips on the back of my fingers, then again on my palm transfixed me. The warmth of his lips, the feel of his cheek, his scratchy-soft beard… How long had it been since I’d touched a man—or let a man touch me? Certainly more in the last three days than I had in the last two years. Then the scars, my damned scars, had to show themselves and I was snapped back to the ugly reality of my life.

I reminded myself his primary objective was to tell my tale, exposing where I was and what I was doing. Romancing me was one way to bring down those walls—I couldn’t forget that. Keeping him here in the newsroom was a way to keep an eye on him and protect myself.

Addison repeated her question. “When is Leland coming in?”

“After deadline. I thought we could start him in the clip files or the morgue,” I said, coming out of my reverie. “I thought I’d start on the Bob Martz story today, too.”

“You need to talk to my father, Walt. He worked with Bob.” She slipped from behind her desk and opened her office door. I followed her back into the newsroom. “You can go over to see Dad pretty much any time. Just call first—and remind me to give you his phone number.”

The mood in the newsroom was subdued as we finished Wednesday’s edition. Graham had the story on Earlene’s release and you could smell the fear that she would come back in, furious about the photo Pat took and Addison chose to run. Every time Addison’s phone rang, conversation stopped until she picked up the phone and her smile told us it wasn’t Earlene. As deadline approached and she didn’t show up, everyone breathed a little easier. By the time Sam, the pressroom foreman, brought Addison’s still-damp copies up, it looked like we escaped.

Then Leland arrived, dressed casually in khaki pants, a Fitzgerald University polo shirt and athletic shoes. He held a Philadelphia Phillies ball cap in his hand. I sucked in my breath when I saw him. Was it fear—how could he have worn a shirt from his college? Or was it hormones? Sitting across from me, Graham Kinnon shot me an odd look. Was I that obvious?

Dennis stood up and walked his direction; I got to Leland first.

“Mr. Huffinger, good morning,” I said, extending my hand.

“Miss… Lemarnier,” he stumbled over my name as he took my hand in his.

“My editor, Addison McIntyre, wants to meet with you before you begin.” I shepherded him to the back of the newsroom and Addison’s office as Graham, Dennis, Pat and Marcus stared. I glared at them before closing the office door behind us.

Exhaling blue smoke, Addison flicked a cigarette out of her open window as we entered.

“Addison, this is Leland Huffinger, the investigator I told you about,” I said. “Mr. Huffinger, this is my editor Addison McIntyre.”

“Thanks for coming in. Charisma explained what we need you to do?”

Leland nodded. “You need someone not attached to the
Journal-Gazette
to research Eve Dahlgren’s past.”

“I need you to work as a freelancer, outside of the newsroom as much as possible. You can have access to our files, because we allow the public that access, but you need to make calls on your own phone. No one would probably check, but I just want to be sure. You can have access to the newsroom copier because we allow the general public to do that, too. I figured your background as a PI will get us places most reporters can’t go. That will be very helpful.”

He nodded slowly.

“I need the information as soon as I can get it,” Addison continued. “There’s been a change in the case: the time of Eve Dahlgren’s death has been revised and Earlene Whitelaw has been released as a result. We have a story coming out today on that. The police no longer have a suspect in the case and are pretty stumped. If we can get any new information, it could be very helpful. Charisma, if you can show him the files and the morgue, we can get started.”

“One more question,” Leland asked. “What about my rate? I get one hundred dollars an hour, including expenses.”
I stared at him. Who did he think he was, Sam Spade?

Addison nodded, not missing a beat. “I’m sure I can talk our former publisher into paying for anything that gets his daughter exonerated. Even though she’s been released, until someone is charged and convicted, she’s still got this whole thing hanging over her head.”

We all stood and I led him back out to the newsroom, to the back wall where a row of file cabinets where the clip files were stored dating back to the 1950s. Back when the J-G had an editorial assistant, part of the job was to painstakingly clip articles on people in the paper and file them for future references. Those articles were cross-referenced by another set of files on events: city council meetings, traffic accidents, business news, social events, and weather stories. The tornado had its own filing cabinet, of course. In the days before computers and the Internet, it made for quick efficient research.

It also made it easy for the general public too, so it wasn’t uncommon for someone to be rooting through the files, like Leland would be doing.

I lay my hand on top of the file marked PEOPLE: M-N-O.

“Here you go. If you’ve got any questions, ask Addison,” I said.

“You’re not going to be here?”

“I might, I might not. I’ve got other stories to do.”

“Oh.” He seemed disappointed.

I leaned in closer to him, close enough to take in the smell of hotel soap. “And if I have to leave at any time, you don’t ask anybody I work with about me,” I hissed. “Understand?”

Exasperation showed in Leland’s face.

“Don’t look at me that way. I can’t believe you asked for a hundred bucks an hour,” I whispered.

“What the hell did you expect me to do? Work for free? You’re the one who came up with this private dick story,” he hissed back.

“I need to get to work. I’ve got a couple phone calls to make.” I turned, leaving him at the filing cabinet.

For the next hour, I sat at my desk, tying up loose ends and making phone calls. There was a short feature on some of the summer mission programs the Golgotha College students were going on that was easy to bang out, since the college’s PR guy sent photos. A few more phone calls and I had an appointment with Walter Addison, and, later that afternoon, with Gary McGinnis.

I watched Leland work out of the corner of my eye. More than once, he went into Addison’s office with a handful of clips, and then returned to the filing cabinets, nodding.

Was he asking anything about me? I felt paranoia rise in the back of my throat. He never looked at me or tried to catch my eye. Once he asked Dennis where the men’s room was, but otherwise, he played by the rules I established. About lunchtime, Leland closed the file cabinet and gathered his stack of papers.

“Thanks, folks!” he called out as he left the newsroom.

I exhaled, apparently loud enough for Dennis to look up at me.

“You know him?” he asked.

“He’s a PI from Philadelphia,” I answered. “He’s doing some research.”

“On what?”

I shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure. Maybe it’s some family genealogy.”

Dennis looked at me like he didn’t believe me. I always was a lousy liar.

My cell phone danced across my desk, buzzing with an incoming text message. It was from Leland
: Lunch?

Not today
, I texted in reply.
Dinner tonight?

Sure
, he answered.
Gives me time to keep working. Maybe I will have info for you.

I slipped my phone into my purse and smiled. Looking up I caught Dennis gazing curiously at me from across the room. I blushed to the roots of my hair.

*****

Walter Addison lived in a huge old white Victorian house two doors down from the burned out hull of the Jubilant Country Inn. He was pulling weeds in the flower garden when I came up the walk. He stood up and pulled his dirty gloves off before shaking my hand.

He was a short, stocky, barrel-chested man with a head full of gray hair, still cut high and tight as if he was still patrolling the highways of Plummer County with the Ohio State Highway Patrol. I could see the family resemblance; my former editor would have called that “unfortunate.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “Penny said you’d be calling. She’s had good things to say about you. Before I forget, here’s the phone number for Bob’s widow. Penny said you’d want to talk to her.”

“Penny? That’s Addison’s first name?” I took the piece of paper from his arthritic hand.

Walt smiled. “You didn’t know that? That’s right—she goes by her maiden name at work. So you’re here to talk about Bob Martz, eh?” He pointed toward an ironwork table and chairs at the side of the house. He’d been expecting me. A pitcher of lemonade and two glasses full of ice sat on the table, next to a plate of sugar cookies, a softer side I hadn’t expected from this former state trooper.

I took a seat on one of the chairs and pulled my notebook from my purse.

“So tell me about the night Trooper Martz died.”

Walt Addison poured himself a tall lemonade and repeated the story that I’d read in the newspaper the day after Martz was shot: He’d stopped a car for a traffic violation and either the dispatcher wrote down the plate number wrong or the plate was somehow not in the system. When dispatch called to check up on him twenty minutes later and there was no response, he was the supervisor on duty who found Martz dead by the side of the road.