Ah, Bethany. She is completely oblivious to the fact that no one can stand her. Now, I’m not just being bitchy for no reason. Bethany is simply one of those unlikeable people. You know the type—she has no inner monologue, so everything that crosses her mind comes out her mouth, good or bad. Usually bad. She also thinks she’s skinny (which she is, but not in a good way) and gorgeous (which she isn’t—she looks like a bug-eyed horse) and that every other woman on the planet is fat and ugly, and she doesn’t mind telling you so every chance she gets. Bethany always comes up with an indirect way to veil one of her “I’m awesome, you suck” comments with a backhanded compliment. The worst one I’ve heard was what she said to Hank’s wife, Renee, a couple of years ago when she was pregnant. I remember Bethany staring down at Renee’s gaucho pants and saying, “Your gauchos are cute. I didn’t know they made them in full-figured sizes.” After a hormonal Renee ran away crying, I said to Bethany, “You know she’s pregnant, right?” Bethany gave me a puzzled look and said, “That explains why she got so fat so fast.”
Bethany’s most annoying quality (which she’s demonstrating right now) is that she has to be at the center of every conversation, whether you like it or not. It’s hard to get her to go away, no matter what you do. Hank is openly glaring at her, which is not working. Hank is the most laid-back guy I know, but he has less patience for Bethany than any of us, mostly because of the infamous gaucho incident. I’m mulling over a couple of scathing remarks that may or may not succeed in making her leave, but before I can decide which one to use, Julia (ever the diplomatic one of our group) actually gives in and brings her into the conversation.
She says, “Oh, Bethany, hi. We were discussing what we think is going on over there.”
“I thought I heard you say…murrrderrr,” Bethany breathes ominously. I forgot to mention that she’s also a drama queen.
The two minutes we’ve been talking to Bethany is two minutes too long for me, so, in a flash of genius, I interrupt, “Hey, Bethany, did you see that?” and nod in the direction of the salon.
She cranes her neck to try to see over the crowd. “See what? See what?”
This is too easy. “I saw Blake waving to you from over there and motioning for you to come talk to him.” I also forgot to mention that Bethany has a crush on Blake as well, every bit as consuming as mine.
She turns her full-on bug stare at me and squeaks, “Really? He wants me?” Then, trying to cover her glee, she continues nonchalantly, “Yeah, he’s been checking me out lately. I’ll go see what he wants. Later, guys.” Bethany dives into the crowd, pushing and shoving people aside as she goes.
I snicker. “That was so McUncool.”
“It was downright McAnnoying,” Hank says.
“McLoser-y,” I add.
“Mc—”
“You’re wicked,” Julia interrupts, glaring at us.
“Wicked awesome!” says Hank as he high-fives me. “Poor Blake. That dude is never gonna know what hit him.” He shakes his head, chuckling.
“Enough, you two. Back to our bet.” Julia thinks for a moment and then says, “I’m going to go with gunshot as the cause of death.”
“Nah, somebody would have heard that. Stabbing,” says Hank.
“You took mine,” I whine sullenly to Hank. “If I can’t have stabbing, then I say…blunt force trauma.”
“You watch too many cop shows. Speak-a the English,” he says.
“Smacked upside the head with something. You want a demonstration?” I retort.
Now that all of the emergency personnel are in the building, it’s a waiting game. Finally a couple of police officers come out and begin pushing the crowd back again, more forcefully this time. The walk-up door swings open, and I can see the coroner coming out backwards, his hands guiding a stretcher with a black bag on top—and the bag isn’t empty. No way! Julia was at least partially right, even though the jury is still out on whether or not it was murder. A chorus of gasps and exclamations fills the air as the coroner and an EMT roll the covered body to the coroner’s van.
Because the crowd is still refusing to cooperate, the police have decided to break out the bullhorn. “Please move back, or we will have to start using force,” one of the officers barks. The crowd pauses its chatter long enough to take one unison step back, then returns to gossiping.
I can just pick out a conversation between a man and woman near us in the crowd. The woman says, “She didn’t show up for dinner with a friend last night, and he came looking for her this morning. Found her dead in her apartment.”
The man replies, “I heard she was only twenty-one years old. How sad.”
“Did you hear that?” I ask Julia and Hank. “She didn’t show up for a dinner date yesterday—she could have been up there dead all night!” I shudder. Poor girl. Now that I know someone’s really dead, I kind of feel bad for betting on her misfortune. Worse than that, now I’m starting to strongly believe it truly could have been murder. Young women generally don’t drop dead in the middle of their apartments for no reason.
Two firemen appear in the doorway and make their way back to their truck, which is surrounded by gawkers. The driver leans on his terrible fire truck horn until people have to resort to plugging their ears, hurrying to get as far away as possible. Only the police vehicles are left now, and the crowd is beginning to thin. I guess everyone figures the gory part is over. However, none of my co-workers are budging, as we’re all hoping for a police announcement once they’re done searching the apartment.
Four policemen finally emerge through the door after fifteen more minutes. One of them addresses the crowd, “If everyone will PLEASE clear the area.”
Blake calls to him, “How about a statement, officer?”
“No statements will be given at this time. Everyone move along.”
In a flash of brilliance, I realize how I can get information without any help from the police. I get out my phone and ask Julia, “How about a mani-pedi for lunch?”
Julia studies her nails. “Eh, I don’t think I need one,” she replies, not grasping what I’m really asking. Suddenly, her eyes widen with realization. “Wait—yes! You’re a genius!”
I smile triumphantly as I choose Fascination from my contact list and wait for them to pick up. Hank is confused, asking Julia what the hell a mani-pedi is and what it has to do with murder while I’m making our appointments.
“Done!” I cheer.
Hank is still looking confused, so Julia asks, “Where’s the best place to hear gossip?”
I reply, “The salon.”
She continues, “And which salon is the best place to hear about this particular gossip?”
I reply, “The one that is located directly under the scene of the murder!”
“Hey, you said ‘murder’! Are you finally a believer?” Julia asks me.
“Unfortunately, yes. It pains me to say it, but I think you’re right.”
“You chicks think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?” Hank says, shaking his head.
“Twenty bucks says we’ll learn more in there in an hour than the police will learn all day,” Julia boasts.
Hank smiles. “I’d like to get in on that action.”
CHAPTER TWO
After all of the excitement is over, my co-workers and I head back to the office. As we’re all settling back into our desks, our managing editor, Sarah Rodgers, leans out of her office and announces, “Staff meeting in five minutes!”
Yippee. Staff meetings are so boring for me. Sarah only talks with the reporters and writers, either assigning them new stories or asking them for updates on their current pieces. I don’t know why I even need to be there—my job never changes. Read, correct, repeat. That’s it! It’s also difficult for me to be in such close proximity to Blake Morgan. I can’t even glance in his general direction because I don’t want anyone to think I’m staring and totally crushing on him, which I constantly am. People get bored and their gaze tends to wander around during these mee
tings, and if you’re doing anything odd, you can get busted right then and there, depending on who catches you. That’s how Paul the Picker got his name. One time, Paul got called out by Hank for picking his nose. Totally embarrassing. Hank dubbed him “Paul the Picker” and it stuck. Sometimes it’s like we’re back in high school.
A rumble of assorted grumbling can be heard as we all pull our chairs into a bunch around Sarah. She starts off with the usual—reporters bringing her up to speed on their ongoing assignments. She consults the notes on her clipboard and chooses Blake first, smiling at him and flipping her silky brunette curls over her shoulder. Hmm. Is no one immune to Blake’s charms?
“I’m just adding a few finishing touches to my article on the library renovation. Should be ready for print in an hour,” Blake says.
I glance over at Hannah and notice her fidgeting. Judging from her phone call this morning, I assume she may be going to tell Sarah where she thinks Sarah can put the article about Samuel Harper. Sarah goes on talking to the other writers while Hannah looks like she may explode at any moment. This article must really be giving her fits. Normally, Hannah is easy-going and sweet. She’s our star reporter. Well, she was our star reporter until Blake Morgan came to town.
Blake was a hotshot investigative reporter in Chicago before he moved down here to oversee his rich grandfather’s estate after a stroke put him in a nursing home (the grandfather, not Blake). Blake’s grandfather owned practically every coal mine in this county at one time or another and either sold them for a fortune to larger mining corporations or kept the more profitable ones for his own mining empire. Keeping all of his grandfather’s business in order is probably a difficult job, but Blake seems very intelligent. He is also freakishly handsome and completely suave in every way—nothing like the men around here. I can’t imagine what Hannah thinks of him, horning in on her territory, except I’ve noticed that she doesn’t seem to go out of her way to be overly chummy with him.
Sarah finally gets around to talking with Hannah. “So, Hannah, how is the fair cattle article going?” There’s no way she’s oblivious to the fact that Hannah is pulling her hair out over this piece. Everyone knows about the trouble she’s been having with Harper, and it’s been going on for the better part of a week.
Hank interrupts, “Hey, Hannah, Samuel Harper came by this morning with a couple of letters for you.” He starts snickering. “F and U.”
The whole room bursts out laughing at this top-notch Hank-ism, except Hannah of course. She rolls her eyes at Hank and lets out a long sigh. She says, “I’m sorry, Sarah, but I think you’re either going to have to kill this article or give it to someone else. Samuel Harper won’t give me any information, and every time I try to talk to him, all he does is scream at me. I really think it is for my best interest that I pass on this one.”
“Hannah,” Sarah says smoothly, “you can do this. I think you need to see it through. Difficult situations build character!” She dismisses Hannah with a wave of her hand and turns her attention back to her clipboard. “Now, on to new assignments. Thanks to this morning’s excitement, we have a huge story on our hands. Paul, I will need the obit by tomorrow.” When there is no response, she looks up, scanning the room for Paul. “Paul?”
Blake says, “I overheard someone in the crowd say that he knew the deceased. They said he left the scene looking pretty distraught.”
Sarah asks the room, “Did anyone see Paul come back to the office?” Everyone is shaking their heads. It’s sad, but no one pays much attention to Paul. He’s kind of a loner, and he doesn’t really ever talk with anyone except Hannah. “Julia, you take over the obit for him. If he’s upset about what happened, he might not be able to detach himself enough to write it. Blake, I want you to be the one to knock out the story. I want a sensational, attention-grabbing headline story for tomorrow with whatever information you can scare up by the end of the day. Then, I want a full page, in-depth article for the weekend edition. Put your investigative reporter chops to work.”
Hannah is opening and closing her mouth, much like a fish. She’s way too nice to make a scene, yet she’s as angry as I’ve seen her. First, Sarah brushes aside Hannah’s request to be taken off the Harper piece, then she gives the story of the century to the new guy. I’d be furious, too!
Sarah concludes our meeting with, “I believe you all know how important this article is. If you come across any legitimate information pertaining to this story, please pass it on to Blake. This is officially an office-wide project.”
As we’re rolling our chairs back to our desks, Hank says to Julia and me, “You know, instead of the cops, maybe we should bring old Blake in on our little wager. Blake!”
Upon hearing his name, Blake approaches our group. “What’s up, Abshire? Are you three up to no good again?” he asks in that smooth way of his that gives me goose bumps.
“These two females bet me they can find out more information on this case in an hour at the beauty parlor than the police can find in a day,” Hank explains. He mispronounces “parlor”, making it rhyme with “dollar”. Little grammatical things like that really get under my skin, since I’m a copy editor and all. I’m not saying that I always use perfect grammar and sentence structure, but I at least try to speak correctly.
“You know, there’s another ‘r’ in that word, par-r-r-r-lor.”
My comment goes ignored.
Blake raises his eyebrows, looking from Julia to me. “They did, huh?”
“We thought we might change up our wager a bit to include you, since you’re working on the story anyway. What do you say we give them their hour at the beauty parlor and we give you, say, twenty-four hours to gather your info? Whoever ends up with the most dirt wins. You in, Blake?” Hank did it again. I guess he didn’t give a flying crap about my pronunciation lesson.
Blake appears to mull this offer over. Eyeing us, he says slowly, “Only if these ladies give up all their information and sources when I win.”
“When you win?” says Julia. “Uh-uh. Your investigative skills don’t hold a candle to our gossiping skills, right Lizzie?” She shakes her head so emphatically that her red hair whips me in the face.
“Ouch! Huh?” Damn it! I was so busy checking out Blake’s deep hazel eyes that I think I missed part of the conversation. I’ll just agree with whatever Julia says—that ought to be safe. “Yes. What she said.”
“Listen up for the rules. Write down everything you find out and return it to me in a sealed envelope. Girls, yours is due after you get back from getting all prettied up. Blake, yours is due tomorrow morning at eleven. Deal?”
Julia, Blake, and I agree. A little friendly competition with Blake will be exciting! If he wins, I’ll get to spend a little time with him going over our findings from the salon. If we win, he might decide he finds me interesting, and with any luck, irresistible. Best of all, I have a great excuse, at least until tomorrow, to start a conversation with him. Who knows—I might even get up the nerve to get my flirt on!
As I turn to head back to my desk, Blake catches my arm. A chill of excitement runs through me at his touch. I’ve already had more contact with him this morning than my poor little heart can handle, and my inner schoolgirl is threatening to show as I stifle back a giggle at the fact that he is touching me.
“Hey, Hart,” he says, crossing his arms, “what was up with you siccing McCool on me earlier?” I think his mouth is twitching a bit at the corner, but his expression is serious.
Uh-oh. Busted! I hope my little stunt didn’t make him angry. Better to play dumb. “Bethany?” I ask innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I manage to say all this not only with a straight face, but also without blushing. I may get the hang of talking to Blake like a normal person after all!
Blake’s eyes begin to sparkle a bit as he studies me. “Well played, Hart. I’ll have to remember that trick.” He flashes me a smile as he walks away. I float back to my desk, high from my encounter with Blake, not exp
ecting to be able to concentrate on work for at least the rest of the day.
***
At noon, Julia and I jump up from our desks at the same time, excited about our mani-pedi/gossip reconnaissance mission. We hurry down to the salon and find that the scene outside is as deserted as it was crowded this morning. We have to step around the crime tape to reach the front door of Fascination. Inside, the place is packed. Seems that we aren’t the only ones working the gossip angle.
The salon is loud and buzzing with nattering women. Julia and I are shown to the pedicure chairs, and we happily plunge our feet into the tubs. I always love the feeling when you first put your feet into the bubbling water. Relaxation begins to wash over me, and I really start feeling good when I sit back against the massaging chair. Aah, heaven. We’re here on a mission, though, so I grudgingly snap my mind back to reality.
I turn to Julia. “What’s the plan?”
“Eavesdrop, eavesdrop, eavesdrop! Then, grill whoever gives us our mani-pedis.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
We both sit quietly, concentrating on trying to pick out a single conversation over the general din of the shop. After a few minutes, Julia frowns at me and asks, “Can you hear anything over the jets?”
“No, not really. You think we can turn them off?”
“I’ll do it.” Julia very clumsily stands up, splashing water on me as she struggles to get her footing, awkwardly bending over to flip the switches on the front of our spa chairs.
“Thanks, Grace,” I snark as she flops most ungracefully back into her chair.
She glares at me. “Shush. Get to eavesdropping.”
We sit quietly again, hoping to overhear some pertinent gossip. Even without the jets on, the shop is too loud to properly eavesdrop. All I can get are snips of conversations:
It's Just a Little Crush Page 2