Act it Out (A Hailey Webb Mystery, Volume 2)

by Deany Ray

  “What a shocker that one was,” a photographer said, who was packing up supplies. “The owner of the restaurant that sent their dinner every night? That was some kind of twist.”

  “Well, I guess the girls have their heartthrob back,” an editor piped up. “Amery Fitzgerald is not a killer after all, but the guy is still a nut.”

  All around me was the sense of extra energy of a big news day. Info was being quickly gathered, analyzed, and arranged into quotes, sidebars, and headlines, all of which could change at any minute when new reports came in. More phones were buzzing than on a normal day. Footsteps were more rushed, and fingers were moving faster across reporters’ keyboards, all to tell the story I’d lived out the night before.

  As I settled at my desk, I thought about what a blur it all was. The cops had rushed in, secured the set, and slapped handcuffs on the wild-eyed Cocoa before loading her into a car. Naturally, they took Fitzgerald too; he still had crimes to answer for, although he seemed relieved people finally believed he had been framed for real.

  “I told you it wasn’t me!” he said over and over again as they led him away.

  Some EMTs had checked me for injuries, and I was cleared to go with the cops to the station. There, I described in detail how the long chain of events had left me terrified in a trailer with an almost naked movie star and a raging restaurant owner. By the time I was finished, a few extra cops had gathered at the door to listen, their eyes wide with disbelief.

  The sergeant shook his head when my statement was complete. “Now, I have seen some things in my time,” he said, “but this one takes the cake.” The nameplate on his desk identified him as Edward Hale.

  It was almost 4 a.m. by the time I got home at last and crashed on the couch, which, once again, remained in couch mode rather than folded out into a proper bed.

  All of which would have been a great excuse to stay home from work. I had, after all, provided the Gazette with some pretty awesome headlines; I’d done my part and more for today’s edition. The thing about it was I wanted to come in. An arrest in a juicy murder case was like the Super Bowl at the Palm Shores Gazette. So after a late breakfast, I decided to come in to soak up the buzz.

  Leaving my stuff on my desk, I headed to Jerry’s office to check in with the boss. He was, as usual, barking orders into the phone. “I want anything and everything you can get me about this restaurant lady. Talk to customers, employees. If someone saw her snap over spilled fish chowder, that’s the kind of quote I need.” He frowned. “Well, why aren’t you there right now? Go, go, go!”

  He slammed down the phone and looked up at me. His scowl turned to a smile. “Well, good afternoon there, Webb, and thank you for the headlines.” He studied me, concerned. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better, Jerry. Thank you. But it ended well at least.” I paused and took a deep breath. “Hey, look, about me working on the set . . . I had to do it, Jerry.” I knew he must have heard, and this was more explanation than apology. “I didn’t talk about it because it was personal. I had to get some answers for myself after that whole nightmare Fitzgerald put me through.”

  To my relief, Jerry smiled and leaned back in his chair. “You’re a smart one, Webb. You did the right thing there. If you had said what you were up to, I would have been on your case all day for details from the set.”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Any time you can solve a murder, Webb, I won’t question how you did it as long as the Gazette is the one who gets the scoop. If it takes hauling barbecue and crab legs on to a movie set, then more power to you. You do keep things exciting, I gotta say,” he told me with a wink. “As a newsman, I like that. I like that a lot.”

  I laughed. “Gee, thanks, Jerry.”

  But as for me, I was ready for a bit less excitement, thank you very much.

  Jerry’s phone rang, and he picked up—another victim on the line, which was my cue to go for coffee in the break room.

  Back at my cubicle, I sipped the rich, creamy coffee as I turned on my computer to see what tasks were on tap for the day. Hmm. One of the reporters needed research on kitchen renovation trends. Quartz countertops? Gold finishes on the fixtures? The reporter, Beth Healey, added a note for me: “Story will center on the kitchen as the most important room for the family to gather in, the heart of the modern home. In addition to design trends, look for stats on how much kitchen renovations can add to resale values.”

  This one could be fun. My mind went to my own small kitchen, which had no quartz or gold, but there were some pretty awesome upscale toys. Despite the underhandedness of my mother and best friend, I treasured my new stuff. The gifts could not have come at a more perfect time, after that scum Fitzgerald had made off with my stuff. While the loss at the ATM should be covered by the bank, I had little hope of ever seeing the beautiful new purchases stolen with the truck.

  Without much optimism, I had asked the sergeant about that hundred grand the thieving movie idol had promised in exchange for information clearing him. Hello! I, Hailey Webb, had delivered exactly that, and I had almost gotten strangled with Cocoa’s scarf while I cleared his stupid name.

  Sergeant Hale informed me, though, I would have to get in line for any money from Fitzgerald. It turned out his bank account was leaner than I thought.

  “He’s got a lot of money issues,” the sergeant said. “We’re still looking into exactly how he got into such arrears.”

  Oh, I thought I knew. Four words: Real estate, Singapore, and loon. Having already told the cops about the way he’d gotten Cocoa’s money, I explained about his dealings with Ferguson as well, making sure to mention Ferguson had enough problems with his loan buddies already. The officers said they would take care of the situation in a manner that wouldn’t tip them off.

  “Fitzgerald owes a lot of people,” the sergeant said. “The creditors will likely be ahead of you and your reward, plus there is no way Fitzgerald has a hundred grand to give. I’m telling it to you straight because you did one heck of a job bringing this Cocoa to our attention. All my guys were at a loss with this one. This one was a stumper.” Once more, he shook his head.

  Now at the office, I turned my mind back to my research, happy to think of backsplashes and design instead of fraud and murder. As I was researching cabinet colors, my phone buzzed with a text from Kat. Coming to your place with Thai food after work. No movie stars to feed tonight.

  I sent back a smile emoji. My best friend and some takeout would be a perfect way to usher in the weekend. I had called her that morning with an update—very brief—and I could imagine she was dying for the details.

  Also on the agenda for my weekend was girl time with my mother. No foreboding musical summons would be needed. This time, I’d call her. We’d shop, have a nice lunch out at some luxurious, yummy spot, and I would make some progress on my goal to be a better daughter.

  Periodically, throughout the afternoon, I wondered about Mike. His was one face I hadn’t seen in the blur of activity around me. Needless to say, I knew what he was up to: gathering follow-ups in the aftermath of the big arrest. I had not expected our star crime reporter to be hanging in the newsroom on a day like this, but I was disappointed. It felt kind of like our story, and I felt we should be celebrating its conclusion as a team.

  Later in the afternoon, when I felt a shadow looming over me, I knew exactly who it was. I’d learned to be somewhat prepared for Mike to come sneaking up on me as he was wont to do.

  As I turned around to smile, he surprised me by lifting me up from my seat and pulling me into a gigantic hug.

  “I can’t breathe,” I teased, although I didn’t want to ever let him go. I had technically been safe since that first guard showed up at Fitzgerald’s trailer, but Mike made me feel safe in a way no gun could ever do. I hugged him more tightly and breathed in his scent.

  “Tell me you’re okay,” he said. “I don’t even want to think what could have happened.”

  “I’m
fine. I really am. I’m exhausted, but I’m fine.”

  He let go of the embrace, but I still stood close to him, taking in the warmth from his body. One of his hands was in my hair, which gave me a little thrill.

  “When my cop source told me what happened, the first instinct I had was to drive straight to your place,” he said. “But I figured you needed sleep more than you needed me banging on your door.”

  The way he smiled at me made me blush, and my mind went to that kiss, which apparently was never to be spoken of again.

  “So, did you find out more this morning about this never-ending saga, a little something maybe to scoop the competition?” I asked him.

  “It’s going to be hard to top the stories in today’s edition.” He shook his head, amazed. “I mean, it was Cocoa. Nobody saw that coming.”

  “I know, and poor Victoria had nothing whatsoever to do with any of that stuff, and yet she had to die.” I sighed. “I think I know one movie I won’t see for sure, although it would be kind of fun to see that action scene I got to watch them film.” I paused. “Do you think the movie is cursed? It was bad for everyone: Victoria, Vicente, and Fitzgerald. Plus, it almost got me killed. What’s going to happen next? I’d be afraid they’d serve me poisoned popcorn if I went to see the movie.”

  Yes, I’d stay far away from the movie. I would probably keep up with Vicente, though, by following the news, hoping his career would not be one more casualty of the bad-luck film. That man had some talent. I didn’t think anyone could jump off a building with aplomb and just keep on running like he could, while looking extra fine in every single take.

  “By the way, I found out some things today to shed some light on Fitzgerald’s troubles.” Mike ran a hand through his hair.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “Cocoa could have been telling you the truth about Fitzgerald pocketing the money. That lavish lifestyle wasn’t funded by hefty movie checks alone. He took out a lot of loans, and, apparently, he was pretty bad about paying people back.”

  “Then I guess there’s no reward for me,” I said with a laugh. “Excuse me, please, while I go cancel my vacation to Hawaii.”

  Mike grinned. “Oh yeah. That hundred thousand. What a bunch of nonsense. I’m surprised you’re not more upset about it.”

  “Yeah, almost dying puts things into perspective,” I said.

  A mischievous twinkle glinted in his eye. “But you know, there is one part of the reward he can still fulfill if they let him out of jail.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “You remember?” His grin grew even bigger. “The prize was a hundred thousand dollars and a date with the man himself. I’d say you’re entitled to a date with a certain movie idol.”

  “Not in a million years!” I’d forgotten about that. “I prefer dates who don’t leap out at me with crowbars and drive off with my stuff. I think I will pass on the date from hell.”

  “Then how about some lunch with me? No crowbars will be involved, I promise. I’m getting pretty hungry, and you can tell me about last night.”

  “Then prepare yourself for some freaky stories.” I reached for my bag and grinned. “One of them involves a bare ass and a bedsheet.”

  “Well, that got my attention.” He held out his arm. “I’m already hooked.”

  From the Author

  Now, wasn’t that fun? Were you surprised when Hailey found out who the culprit was? To be honest, I was surprised too, lol. I usually plot my books chapter by chapter and I just let the story guide me to the next plot point. And towards the end, my story-gut (if you could call it that) led me to Cocoa.

  I also love a good movie star murder and I sure hope this story tickled your funny bone. I am working on the third book in the Hailey Webb mystery series and I plan to deliver you the story in May 2021.

  But if you miss a good laugh until then, don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. If you like your mysteries clean, with characters that feel like family, and an intriguing story that makes you want to figure out the whodunit . . . well, then we are very much alike.

  And that’s exactly what I had in mind writing my other series, the Charlie Cooper mysteries.

  Start your adventure with Jammed, the first book in the series, and meet Charlie Cooper, chocolate enthusiast and disaster magnet.

  Police department secretary Charlie Cooper gets a rare shot at excitement when the chief asks her to work undercover—though the assignment requires her to return to her hometown and eccentric family. What Charlie finds are a couple of dead bodies, slashed tires, and threatening notes. Throw in two fearless waitresses and a hot fry cook who is not what he seems, and you've got the perfect mix of a fast-paced and exciting mystery.

  Read all about it in Jammed, the first laugh-out-loud, action-packed, and stress-free Charlie Cooper novel. And don’t worry, I’ve added a touch of romance too. Wouldn’t be as exciting without it, don’t you think?

  Life is difficult. Reading should be a pleasure. So get started turning those pages with Jammed, the first book in the Charlie Cooper mystery series.

  Until the next adventure,

  Deany

  P.S. There are plenty of Charlie Cooper mystery books available right now to keep you binge-reading long into the night. If you want to keep up with the newest books as they are released (in either series), be sure to sign up for my email notifications. As a bonus, you’ll receive my cozy mystery novella A Sweet Chunk of Madness. Just click here!

  EXCERPT FROM JAMMED

  JAMMED

  Chapter One

  What does it mean that the highlights of your workday are a cookie and the chance to slip out early? It means that your life is not exactly a hit. It means you might not be on the fast track to your ultimate dream job.

  I wrote the last line of my report on Burglaries: Resolved. Two more dreary tasks to go, then I’d be out of here. The end of one more week as a precinct secretary in an over-air-conditioned office of the Boston Police.

  Time to celebrate the weekend! I reached into my top drawer and unwrapped a cappuccino-cream-filled chocolate. I was giddy with the smell before it reached my mouth. I ate a second. Then a third. Whoa, Charlie, slow down. I looked into the drawer. Then—what the heck?—I ate a fourth. Shut the drawer, I told myself. I shut it very slowly, snatching two more wrapped candies before the drawer was back in place.

  And so it came to be that my mouth was filled with creamy bits of heaven when my desk phone rang. My hello sounded like “hallah”. Cool and elegant, that’s me.

  “Cooper,” my boss said. “Can you come into my office?”

  “Thure thing, thir.” I swallowed hard in case he had another question.

  I got up from my cubicle—and as I strolled through the department—I noticed that most people had gone home. I pictured them on white-stone balconies, sipping fine red wine with friends. Or maybe at a party, running to the dance floor when they heard the opening notes of the latest hit song. Mondays were made worse by all the office chatter about staying out too late and the busiest weekends ever.

  My weekend plans involved three things: ice cream, scrolling through the movie database, and the Laundromat. I’d have clean underwear at least.

  I’m not sure which was the most pitiful: my weekends or my job. Monday through Friday I answered phones, made appointments, and wrote up crime reports. I was the queen of crime statistics: locations of burglaries and batteries, age and gender of the suspects, etc. Sure, it was somewhat cool to work with the police. But nothing that would make you put down the remote if the camera panned in on my desk while you were checking out an episode of CSI: Miami.

  Others did the good stuff. They figured out the motives and found the hidden clues. I knew nothing of such things. But would you like to know the time of day most felonies are committed in a certain part of Winterport, just outside of Boston? Well then, I’m your girl.

  I told myself long ago I’d have a life by twenty-two. And now I swore I’d absolutely be anywhere but the
Boston PD by the time I got to thirty-five. I had six more years.

  I knocked lightly on the precinct captain’s door which was open by a crack.

  “Come on in,” he called.

  As I entered the room, Marcus Kingsley looked up from his desk and stared.

  “Hello.” I smiled and rocked up on my heels.

  He gave me a quizzical look.

  Okay, this was awkward. Didn’t his mother teach him it was rude to stare? “Sir? You asked to see me?”

  He leaned his head to one side and studied me a bit longer. Then he reached up to rub his chin. “There’s chocolate on your face.”

  Fabulous.

  I looked around for a box of tissues. Nope. So I just used my thumb.

  He leaned back in his chair and his massive shape seemed to fill up half the room. At six-foot-five, the captain’s athletic figure had worn off since he’d gone from chasing felons to a desk job in the precinct. He never raised his voice, even when things got tense. But I always felt nervous in his presence, as if any second I might do something wrong.

  “Cooper.” He nodded toward a chair beside his desk. He was not a man for small talk. “I have a proposal,” he said as I settled into the hard-backed chair. “As you probably are aware, we’ve had a little trouble coming up with answers on the drug case we’ve been working.”

  I nodded. It was a big-deal case.

  “But then flash back to last week. They got a break: Graywell and his guys.”

  Once again, I nodded. I’d met Jerry Graywell briefly, the chief detective on the case. He seemed full of himself but did his job well.

  The captain continued with his story. “They managed to intercept a drop off. At a warehouse out past town.” He frowned. “But we think that somehow the perps got wind that we were on their tail. Nobody showed to get the drugs, a whole truck full of crack. But we got the driver. So the operation wasn’t a total bust.”