Monday, March 28
9:00 a.m.
She flicked on the fluorescent overhead light, blinked against its stark contrast to the dark windowless room. Another Monday morning. Another kick-off-the-week staff meeting at the Ocean Point Weekly.
It’s not that she minded the meetings, she didn’t. In fact, she looked forward to them. Sitting at a table with other writers was always motivating, if not downright exhilarating. And, on any number of occasions, it even proved humbling. The talent present in this room each week was mind-blowing. A tribute, no doubt, to the instincts of their fearless leader, Sam Hughes.
Sam.
He’d been like a father figure from the moment she accepted his job offer, encouraging her efforts and believing in her ability no matter what the story. In turn, she’d learned more about writing from him in the past ten months than she had from all of her journalism professors combined. But, most of all, he demonstrated that her need to be a different kind of reporter—one who got the story without stepping on toes—was not only possible but appreciated. And for that she’d always be grateful.
“Morning, Elise.”
She glanced back at the doorway and grinned, dropping her notepad and pen in front of her usual seat at the large conference table. Tom Miller’s tall, athletic frame cruised into the room at his usual on-the-job pace, his cheerful smile a welcome start to everyone’s day.
Tom was one of those guys who seemed to buzz through life in a constant laid-back, happy-go-lucky state. But when it came to his job, he worked his tail off, earning the paper numerous awards for his sports coverage.
He pulled his ball cap off, tossed it on the table beside Elise, and ran a grooming hand through his thick black hair. “Any more burglaries over the weekend?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Elise smoothed a tiny wrinkle from her oyster-colored skirt and crossed her legs beneath the table. “The mobile computer lab over at the community college got hit last night.”
“Wow! You serious?”
She nodded. “Got it from the intern over at the police station. The thief walked away with two laptops.”
“Two laptops? Two whole laptops? That’s the M.O. of a professional burglar if I ever heard one.” Dean Waters strode into the room with his camera bag slung over his shoulder, half a bagel hanging from his mouth. “I mean, open your eyes, people. He makes off with some prissy little Christmas ornaments from Ocean Point Gifts two weeks ago, a handful of nothing-special watches from Merv’s last week, and two whole laptops this week? Wooo-eeee. This guy’s hit the big-time. Cha-ching, cha-ching.”
Dean Waters was known for his unsolicited opinions and colorful descriptions, peppering most of his conversations with a witty, if not biting, sarcasm. But knowing it and expecting it didn’t make it any less funny. Or any less needed.
The staff photographer had a way of pulling everyone out of their Monday morning fog prior to the start of the meeting. He was so adept at it, in fact, she wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn Sam put a little something extra in his paycheck each week—strictly for his atmospheric efforts, of course. Then again, with as many interruptions as Dean caused during the actual meeting itself, he may very well be paying Sam.
Regardless, Dean was a smart guy. And what he said about the burglaries made a lot of sense. If the guy was a professional, the entire computer lab would have been wiped out. Prescription drugs from Merv’s would have been missing. The Irish china everyone raved about at Ocean Point Gifts would have been gone. Not just two laptops, a few Christmas ornaments, and a handful of inexpensive watches.
She jotted a few notes on her pad of paper, thoughts and impressions to talk over with Mitch when he returned from Atlanta on Friday.
“Good morning, everyone.” Sam Hughes pulled out his chair at the head of the table and sat down, sliding four tiny white bags across the Formica-finished surface, each one stopping at the correct spot. “Where’s Karen?”
“Getting a manicure? Harassing her husband? Scaring small children? Kicking a puppy? Take your pick. One of them is bound to be right.” Dean unwrapped the top fold of his bag and reached inside, extracting a handful of chocolate donut holes. “But I’m good with that because one, she’s not here, two, my ears get a break, and three, I get her donuts.”
Sam kicked Dean’s foot under the table as the photographer reached for Karen’s small white bag. “Not so fast there, buddy. She’ll be here soon. And while you’re waiting, maybe you could work to contain some of those warm and fuzzy feelings you have for your colleague.”
Dean waved his hand in the air before plunging it back into his own bag. “Nah. If I changed my attitude toward Miss Society she wouldn’t know what to do with herself, you know?” He plucked out three more donut holes and shoved them into his mouth, swallowing them in a single dramatic motion. “Oh, and Sam? You might want to leave the sarcasm thing to me . . . your effort was pathetic at best.”
She tried not to laugh, she really did. But Dean had a way of breaking through willpower like a wrecking ball. Hers always being the first to topple during a staff meeting.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Dean, thanks.” Sam opened the navy blue folder in front of him, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “Yesterday’s paper looked great, gang.”
Elise smiled at her boss, waited for the individual comments he always made.
The wait was short-lived. “Tom, your story on the tapping of Rick McMahan for an assistant coach slot at Jersey State was fantastic. I didn’t see anything about it in the Rob’s River paper.”
Tom nodded. “They haven’t made the formal announcement yet, that’s why. I got a tip and was able to confirm everything on my own.”
“Who’s going to replace him at St. T’s?” Dean asked as he turned his bag upside down, searching for another donut hole that didn’t exist.
The sports reporter rolled his eyes and scooted his unopened bag across the table. “Have these, I had breakfast before I got here.”
Dean grabbed the bag and opened it in one swift motion. “Thanks, man, I owe you one.”
Elise laughed.
“Got something to say, missy?”
She bit her lower lip and shook her head.
“Looks like you do. So out with it.”
She knew it wasn’t smart to engage Dean in battle. It always came back to haunt her in some form or another. But the material was simply too good to ignore. “I think you need to brush up on your math.”
Dean’s donut-filled hand stopped inches from his mouth, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. “My math?”
She nodded. “You said you owed Tom one. By my calculations,” she said and used the index finger of her right hand to tick off each finger on her left hand, three times, “I’d say you owe him about fifteen.”
Dean’s mouth twisted upward, his eyes glinting in the light. “Actually it’s sixteen.”
Sam laughed. Elise rested her head on the table, mumbling under her breath.
“You better keep your pretzel bag close, Elise.”
She turned her head slightly to the left and peeked out at Sam. “My pretzel bag, my water bottle, my computer, my purse . . .”
“That’s a start.” Dean popped the donut in his mouth and looked back at Tom. “You never answered about St. T’s.”
“They’re not thrilled, obviously, but they’ve got lots of time to replace McMahan so I don’t think they’re terribly worried. Besides, the guy’s done such a good job for them it’s hard to begrudge him an opportunity like this, you know?”
“Thanks, Tom.” Sam cleared his throat and turned over the top sheet in his pile. “Elise, I have to say your story on the little Morgan boy brought me to tears. That must have been difficult to write.”
She looked down quickly at her hands, willed her breathing to remain steady. “It was. But Travis has more courage in that six-year-old body than most adults do. And if there’s a chance to win this fight, Travis will be the one to do it.” She swallowed over the lump in her throat, felt the tremor in her hands. “Dean’s picture of him was amazing, wasn’t it? You could sense the courage in his little face.”
“You sure could.” Sam reached for Elise’s hand and gave it a quick pat. “You know I’m here when a story gets to you.”
“I know.”
His eyes lingered on her for a moment. “Did Mitch get off okay this weekend?”
“Yes, he did. He’ll be working with the high school kids all week, staying with Jonathan in the evenings. He’ll be back Friday afternoon.”
“The department paying him to do this?”
She looked at Dean, surprised by the question. “No. Mitch is using his own vacation time to help Jonathan run this law enforcement camp. Why do you ask?”
Dean shrugged, wadding up Tom’s empty donut bag and throwing it across the room toward the trash can. “I’m just surprised he’d go with these break-ins.”
“There were only two break-ins before he left and he’s in constant contact with the department despite his vacation status.”
“Whatever.” Dean balanced on the back legs of his chair and crossed his arms in front of him, the light shining off the face of his new black-strapped Timex. “How was your writing class Saturday? Are you the class pet already?”
She was smart enough to realize the sudden change of subject was Dean’s attempt to lighten the mood he’d created with his line of questioning. Her gut was to change it back, try to figure out what motivated the questions in the first place, but she let it go. There was a time and a place for everything. The weekly staff meeting wasn’t that time or place. “Class was fine. My teacher, Hannah Daltry, is an amazingly gifted writer.”
“That she is. She’s in my critique group and she routinely blows the rest of us away with her submissions.” Sam shifted in his seat, tapped his pen on the tabletop. “As a matter of fact, we had a meeting yesterday afternoon and she mentioned your class. Said there was someone in there who was giving you a hard time. Is that true?”
Elise pulled her gaze off Dean and fixed it on her boss. “Jacob Brown is in my class. He made a comment, shot me a glare, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“You sure? Because if I can help in any way . . .”
The concern in his eyes was touching, it really was. But she needed to handle this situation on her own. “I’m fine, Sam, thanks.”
He held her gaze a beat longer then turned his attention back to the list of weekly assignments.
“Maybe he just thinks you’re hot.” Dean grasped his hands together, rested the back of his head inside them.
She cast a sideways glance at the photographer, her voice a bit raspy, unsteady. “The only heat Jacob Brown associates me with is the fires of hell. But nice try, Dean.”
As soon as the words left her lips, she knew she shouldn’t have said them. A comment like that put men in protector mode. And she was right.
Sam laid his paperwork down, Dean flexed his upper arms, and Tom leaned into her ear, his words hushed yet unmistakable. “Hey, if he crosses the line in any way, you let me know.”
She held up her hands, palms outward. “Guys, I was joking. I’m fine. Jacob is fine. We’re all fine. Please.”
“You sure?” Dean asked.
She looked slowly at each man, her mouth turned upward in what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“Cool, no spinach for me this week.”
Sam snickered. “Dean, you wouldn’t know a piece of spinach if it jumped on your plate with a name tag. And even if you did, you need a lot more than spinach to turn those sticks into muscles.”
Dean gasped as he tried to pull an imaginary knife from his chest with Tony Award–winning theatrics, but the ensuing laughter was cut short by a yell from the vicinity of the front office.
Debbie.
“Good grief, boss, when are you going to get that girl an intercom?” Dean inserted a finger into his ear, jiggling it quickly. “It’s either that or free hearing aids for the rest of us.”
It was hard not to laugh at the accuracy of Dean’s comments. Debbie McAuliffe was the perfect secretary for a newsroom—efficient, dependable, hardworking. But she also tended to get a bit excited about the story leads she fielded as a caller’s first point of contact, that enthusiasm playing itself out in a decibel that would make a dog howl.
“Elise! Elise!”
She shrugged a question at Sam, pushed back her chair at his nod. This better be good . . .
Debbie’s short sturdy frame rounded the corner into the conference room, her eyes wide, her breathing heavy. “There you are . . . I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Dean dropped the front legs of his chair to the ground. “Looking? I think you mean shrieking, don’t you?”
Debbie rolled her eyes at the photographer in her trademark look of dismissal, focused her attention squarely on Elise. “Mindy over at the station just called.”
Mindy Araya was the public relations intern at the Ocean Point Police Department. She’d been at the station for a little over three months and had taken a real shine to Elise. How much of that had to do with the fact Elise was the detective’s girlfriend was anyone’s guess. Probably a lot.
“Something wrong?” Elise shoved the chair under the table and grabbed her notebook.
“Yeah. A woman’s body was found at the community college this morning.”
Sam whistled under his breath. “Found by whom?”
“A couple of creative writing students.”
Elise stared at Sam, her mouth repeating Debbie’s words. “Creative writing students?”
Debbie blew a fast bubble from the wad of gum in her mouth, popping it with her teeth even faster. “Uh-huh. They showed up for class at eight o’clock and their teacher was lying dead on the classroom floor.”
Her heart began to pound, her hands moistening around the notepad. “Did Mindy mention a name?”
“Yup.” Debbie looked down at the pink sticky note on the tip of her right index finger. “It was a woman by the name of Daltry. Hannah Daltry.”