Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  “Man, talk about burying the lede,” Nick said. “No wonder somebody killed the guy. He sounds like a giant ass-hat.”

  “No argument there.”

  “You loved newspapers. I never understood why you left.”

  “Money,” I said. “Ironic, right? The P.R. agency actually offered me a salary I could live on. They seemed to value my skills. And I was tired of fighting the same newsroom battles I’d been fighting for twelve years. To get the beats I wanted. To cover the stories I wanted. To keep the copy desk from screwing up my stories. All while making juuussst enough money to stay afloat.

  “At first, I didn’t mind an entry job that paid virtually nil. I was thrilled to be working for a big metro daily. I figured I’d get my foot in the door, show them what I could do, then renegotiate. Only it never worked out that way. Every year when review time rolled around, it was the same old song and dance. Circulation is down. The price of newsprint is up. All raises are capped at three percent—no exceptions. But I discovered there were exceptions. Plenty of them. And I learned from the newsroom vets that the time to haggle over salary is before they hire you. You have the most leverage before you commit.”

  “Like dating,” Nick said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Anyway, by the time they offered me a little more money to stay, I was already walking out the door.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what happened with me and the emus.”

  “What did happen with you and the emus?”

  “I got sick of living in the middle of nowhere, trying to launch a business with a guy who was stoned most of the time. I mean, the emus were cool, but they’re a lot of hard work. And I was doing all the heavy lifting. You know how you feel about cleaning toilets?”

  I nodded.

  “Same thing, but with feet and feathers,” he said. “I was spending ten, twelve hours a day shoveling emu crap. It got to the point where I was giving them names. That’s when I knew it was time to get out.”

  “You named them?”

  “Hey, emus are very good listeners,” Nick said. “And they all had very distinct personalities. Besides, I had no cable, crappy cell reception, and every time I got an iPod, it disappeared.”

  “Brandon?”

  “Him or the emus. In the beginning, I think he was trading my stuff for grass.”

  “In the beginning?” I asked.

  “Long story,” he said. “Anyway, look at the bright side.”

  “There’s a bright side?

  “At least with Annie and Peter, the ’rents are batting. 500.”

  I drank what was left of my coffee. No longer scalding hot, it was still comfortingly warm.

  “So how exactly was your boss killed, anyway?” Nick asked.

  “Stabbed in the back with a sterling silver letter opener.”

  “’Cause otherwise he’d come back as a werewolf?”

  “Because anything other than sterling was unacceptable,” I said. “Too bad I can’t say the same for his character.”

  “So who do you think did it?” he asked.

  “No idea. But I’d sure like to find out.”

  “Where’d it happen?” Nick asked.

  “In his office on Sunday afternoon.”

  “Who had a motive?”

  “Everybody.”

  Nick rolled his eyes.

  “Well, let’s see,” I said, beginning to tick them off on my fingers. “There was his pregnant girlfriend, who he had hired a few months ago. His grieving widow, who worked at the company and may have known about his pregnant girlfriend. His business partner, who he was pushing out of the agency—an agency that said partner’s father founded. And those are just the ones who have offices within fifty feet of the crime scene. No telling who else he’s screwed over in his business or personal life in the last six months.”

  “Wow. A regular How to Win Friends and Influence People.”

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  “So who do you think did it?” he asked.

  “No idea.”

  “If you had to choose right now,” Nick said, pointing his finger at me like a gun. “Gut instinct.”

  “I don’t know. My gut’s so messed up at this point, I don’t think we’re on speaking terms.”

  “Well, it wasn’t his girlfriend,” Nick said.

  “What makes you say that? Because if she’s a mistress, she has to be pretty?”

  “If she’s hot, she did it not.”

  “Thank you, Nicky Cochran.”

  “No, because she needs him alive. Think about it. Her best hope is if he marries her. Or gives her a big payoff. He can’t do either if he’s dead. And his wife sure as hell isn’t gonna.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “But what if he decided to do neither? She could have flown into a rage.”

  “How many times was he stabbed?” Nick asked.

  “Just the once.”

  “Sounds too controlled for rage. Stabbed a bunch of times, maybe. But one cut that kills? Sounds almost too . . .” he hesitated. “Precise.”

  “From what I managed to learn from the cops, there wasn’t much blood, either,” I added. “I mean, there was some. He was stabbed, after all. But not nearly what you’d think. Definitely not slasher-flick time.”

  “So that leaves the wife, the partner, or one of your boss’s many admirers.”

  “Where’d you learn so much about homicide?” I asked, impressed.

  “Without cable at the ranch, we could only pull in one channel with a tabletop antenna,” Nick said. “And whoever did the programming was a Law & Order freak. It was on, like, two or three times a night. All three versions. Special Victims Unit. Criminal Intent. And Law & Order classic—frankly, my favorite of the trilogy. Maximum drama, minimum character backstory. I mean, who cares if Stabler’s marriage is on the rocks, or that Benson can’t maintain a relationship outside of work?”

  “OK, I think you got out of that desert just in time,” I said.

  “Amen,” he said. “So we rule out the girlfriend?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  And suddenly, like that, it was back. That tingling in the pit of my stomach that signaled I was onto something. Now if I could just figure out what it was trying to tell me.

  Chapter 15

  Later that morning as I was loading the dishwasher, the phone rang. I flinched.

  Billy Bob was now calling three or four times a day. He’d open with bits of newsroom gossip, commiserate about my “situation,” and ask me to call him. The lead crime reporter at the Sentinel phoned just as often, but he was a lot less friendly.

  And the credit card companies must have had me on speed dial. The reps would reference my joblessness, eagerly offering “assistance.” Then they’d probe to find out what I was doing to get work and when I planned to pay off my balances.

  I hated the sound of my own phone. And checking caller ID had become a reflex.

  I snuck a peek. Mom.

  Where’s a bill collector when you really need one?

  “Hey, Mom, how’s Paris?”

  “That’s a question you shouldn’t even have to ask,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t understand you. Those people ran that company for years without you. Do you really think they couldn’t spare you for two weeks?”

  “Seen any nice paintings?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject. Your poor sister is simply devastated.”

  That I believed.

  “Sorry, Ma.”

  No lie.

  “And it’s not like you get this kind of opportunity every day . . .” she started.

  Even my best interview skills were no match for her. I waited until she took a breath and cut in. It was like jumping in front of a verbal locomotive.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. You have no idea how sorry. If I had it to do all over again, I would have totally come. But I want to hear all about your trip.”

  Dead silence. For about ten seconds.

  “Are you joshing me,
Alexandra?”

  “No, Mom, I really mean it.”

  Unfortunately, I did. And I could feel another crying jag coming on. I seriously needed a good night’s sleep.

  “Are you all right? Is something wrong?” she said.

  “No, Mom, it’s just been a long week. But tell Annie I got her postcard. It’s beautiful, and it’s up on my fridge. So what have you guys been up to?”

  * * *

  No surprise, Paris was wonderful. But, according to my mother, it was less wonderful for my not being there. So there was that.

  Still, if I couldn’t catch a nap, I needed to get out of my head and out of the house. After Nick fed Lucy—and while Gabrielle was locked in the bathroom with her cell phone—I decided to take the pup on a quick tour of the neighborhood. I grabbed the leash and opened the front door.

  She sprang off the porch, rounded the corner of the house, and darted behind a big azalea bush. When I peeked over, she shot me a dirty look, and turned her back.

  I did an about-face. Who knew dogs had a sense of modesty?

  Presumably refreshed, Lucy came bounding out and raced around the lawn in wide circles. For a puppy, she was fast. No way I was taking her out of the yard without a leash. I snapped it on, and she trotted over to the daffodils that were blooming around the mailbox. I’d put an extra blanket of pine straw over them two weeks ago. It was the last normal, home improvement thing I’d done before my life blew up.

  She approached them slowly, staring. She bent and sniffed one. Ditto a second one. The third one she also licked. Then she cocked her head and sniffed the air.

  What a weird little dog.

  “You want to go for a walk? Lots of flowers for you to see.”

  She looked up at me and blinked. I swear those liquid brown eyes looked hopeful.

  I led her down the sidewalk. “OK,” I said softly, “this is where we live. Our yard. Now, we’re going to go past some other yards. But we have to be on our best behavior. No pooping or piddling. Flower sniffing is OK, though.”

  What was I, nuts? After umpteen calls, I couldn’t even make my insurance company understand I’d never canceled my coverage. Did I really think I could talk to a dog?

  But Lucy appeared to think this over. Then she trotted down the sidewalk.

  Two doors down, in front of Mr. and Mrs. Clancy’s giant pine, she stopped. Uh-oh, I thought. Now we’re in for it.

  Stock-still, she stared up, mesmerized. I followed her gaze to see what she saw. Branches, blowing in the light breeze, and fluffy white clouds in the sky. She was entranced.

  “Say, what have you got there?”

  I looked over and saw Mr. Clancy coming around the yard with a bag of mulch. “Oh, hi! This is Lucy. She’s visiting for a few weeks with my brother and his wife.”

  Somehow, I hadn’t yet made the transition between “his wife” to “my sister-in-law.”

  Maybe it was because of all the “honey,” “baby,” and “sugar” I heard on my way past the bathroom this morning.

  Not that I was eavesdropping.

  So was she talking about the boutique? Or was she chatting with Mr. Photo Strip? Then again, Gabby pretty much called everyone “sugar.”

  “Well, hello there, Miss Lucy,” Mr. Clancy said, setting down the bag.

  Hearing her name, Lucy turned, decided he was worth liking, and began wagging her tail vigorously.

  “Well, isn’t she a cutie,” he said. Lucy looked up demurely and allowed herself to be admired.

  He took off a gardening glove and scratched her behind one ear.

  “I thought I’d give her a quick walk around the block,” I explained.

  “Perfect day for it,” Mr. Clancy said, wiping his forehead with one sleeve. “The missus loves dogs. If you ever need someone to look after Miss Lucy here, you just let us know.”

  Two years I’ve lived in this neighborhood, and that was the longest conversation I’d ever had with either Clancy. Mostly, our relationship consisted of waving from the mailbox, waving from the car, or waving from the driveway after dragging the garbage out or the bins in. Never anything out of the ordinary. No screaming. No 7 A.M. leaf blowing. No loud parties. And—most important for me—no requests to borrow, watch, water, or collect anything.

  In short, perfect neighbors.

  Two houses down, Lucy spotted something across the street. She raced to the curb, pulling at the leash.

  “No, no, no! No street for little puppies. The street is bad. Cars are bad.”

  She looked at me like I’d lost my mind, then continued her assault on the curb.

  “Just what is over there that’s so fascinating?”

  I cautiously looked both ways and told her to heel. She kind of obeyed. Almost. The tension in the leash was so tight, she was practically dragging me across the street.

  Once on the other side, I gave her some slack and she went running pell-mell for a patch of daffodils at the corner of one driveway. When she got within a couple of feet, she suddenly stopped. She crouched, frozen in space and time. She shifted slightly to one side. Then the other. The crazy pup was stalking something.

  Then I saw it.

  “That’s a butterfly, you nutty little dog.”

  She inched closer, watching it intently. Unaware it had an audience, the butterfly danced from flower to flower. Lucy followed its every move with her eyes. Apparently, this was the puppy equivalent of March Madness.

  “Oh, hello again,” said a deep British voice behind me.

  Startled, I jumped. Of course, it was Ian Sterling. Why did I always run into this guy when me and mine were at our weirdest? Then again, my life was fresh out of normal at the moment.

  “Uh, hi,” I managed.

  “How’s the little dog this morning?” He cast a curious glance at my obviously crazy canine.

  “Enjoying a nature walk,” I said brightly. “And right now, she’s doing a little butterfly watching.” Hell, give me a walking stick and a solid pair of brogues, and I could be a character straight out of an Agatha Christie novel.

  “Fancy that, she really is. How charming.”

  Is “charming” British for “odd”? I wondered.

  Wearing a spotless white oxford-cloth shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms, Sterling looked more like a polo-playing aristocrat than the owner of a decrepit B&B. Up close, he smelled like a blend of exotic spices and sawdust. And when he pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes, my stomach actually did a little flip.

  Oh, please, I chided myself.

  Lucy’s butterfly fluttered off, and she flopped dejectedly on the grass.

  “Lost a friend, eh?” he said, scratching her head. Her tail began to wag slowly.

  “I’ve got some biscuits that might cheer you up,” he said, as the wagging tail gained speed.

  Lucy may not know “heel,” but “biscuit” she gets.

  “And some tea for you, if you’ve got time,” he added, looking up at me. I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d struck me with a shovel. Really.

  “That would be nice, thanks.” Wow. My first sentence that hadn’t begun with “uh.” Trip would be so proud.

  Then it hit me. Having tea at Ian’s home would necessitate actually entering Ian’s home. I’d been in there—for all of three minutes—a little more than two years ago. And I was none too eager to repeat the experience.

  Before I’d made an offer on my own little house, the real estate agent, salivating at the prospect of selling something hideously expensive to my supermodel sister, talked Annie and me into a “quick look-see” of the Victorian across the street.

  To this day, we refer to it as “the time we ran screaming from the ogre’s castle.”

  In broad daylight, the interior had been pitch black. What we could see was covered in dust and cobwebs, with some kind of matted shag carpet that looked like dead grass. Annie never got more than three steps inside the front door, her hand clamped firmly over her mouth. I ven
tured farther and got to see the back walls coated in pea-green slime.

  “On the bright side, no rats or roaches,” Annie said later.

  “Yeah, even they have standards,” I’d replied.

  So, cute as Ian was, I really didn’t want to go back to that house. Ever.

  As we approached, I noticed that the place looked different than I remembered. It had been painted a faint golden color that seemed to catch the light and almost glow. The gingerbread trim was dazzling white. The lawn, which had been pretty scraggly, was a short, thick carpet of green. Even the sidewalk gleamed.

  “Wow.”

  “Looks a bit better, eh?”

  “It looks fantastic. How did you get all of this done so fast? This is amazing.”

  “Money,” he replied. He smiled, and I swear those gray-blue eyes twinkled. My heart was doing that flippy, fluttery thing again.

  “Seriously, there isn’t anything you can’t get done quickly if you throw enough dosh at the problem,” he added. “And at this rate, we should be printing the stuff in the basement. Come on in, and I’ll show you the rest. But I warn you, it’s moving a lot more slowly inside.”

  My stomach lurched. Would it be rude to take my tea on the porch? I really didn’t want to revisit the pea-green slime palace.

  What sane person would buy this place? I asked myself. Who says he’s sane? was the reply.

  “So the painters finished the outside yesterday. And I’ve hired a master gardener and his crew to tackle the initial yard work and draw up a plan for flowers, plantings, and trees. We’re also putting in a kitchen herb garden, and we’ll have a gazebo out back.”

  We? Oh well, it figures. You don’t buy an old B&B to renovate and run by yourself. So not only have I allowed myself to be lured back to the ogre’s castle, but if I’m lucky I’ll get to meet Mrs. Ogre. And have tea. Great. Just great.

  I gave myself a mental slap. The man was trying to be neighborly. In spite of the fact that when we’d first met I was—literally—a drooling idiot. And my life has been rolling rapidly downhill ever since. My online dating profile, if I had one, might as well read: “Broke murder suspect, cleans toilets for a living, seeks worldly sophisticate for court appearances, jailhouse romance. Turn-ons should include: rubber gloves and industrial cleaning solvents. Experience with nail files in cakes a plus. Must love dogs.”