by Stacy Finz
But mostly, it was the only place where he felt truly free. With its history of preservation and prosperity, Nugget held the promise of a second chance.
And God knew he needed one.
Chapter 2
At six in the morning Harlee’s internal alarm clock went off. She started to roll out of bed to hit the gym and suddenly realized: This is not my Marina District apartment. And that’s not my view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
And then it hit her in the gut, like a wallop from a 250-pound linebacker. She’d been fired from her dream job, stripped of her buildingaccess pass, marched out of the newsroom like a common criminal, and forced to live in her parents’ cabin in the woods.
Away from her friends, away from Nordstrom, away from everything she loved.
There had been twelve of them laid off in total. HR had called it a “work force reduction.”
As they’d been escorted out the door, the other newspaper reporters had stood at their desks, stomping their feet in a rhythmic tattoo of solidarity.
Unfortunately, they’d probably be canned in the next round of downsizing. The San Francisco Call, like most papers across the United States, was losing money faster than the presses churned out pages. Apparently only the terminally old cared about real news. The rest watched TMZ.
Six years earlier, straight out of SF State, she’d snagged a coveted internship at the paper. The other candidates had pedigrees from the country’s top J-schools and impressive freelance clips from big magazines and newspapers. She’d had only a few articles printed in the Golden Gate Xpress, her student newspaper. So instead of trying to dazzle the Call’s upper management with her portfolio, she’d memorized the bios of every senior editor on staff and spent her entire interview interviewing them. Naturally she’d landed the job.
After a year of nights, covering the police beat, homicides, fires, and protests, she began lobbying for a permanent position.
“Look, kid, you can’t write worth a shit,” Managing Editor Jerry Strean had told her after she’d cornered him by the coffee machine. “You get lost on your way to press conferences, and when I asked you to do that Libya piece you didn’t have the first goddamn clue who Muammar Gaddafi was. Give me one good reason I should hire you.”
“Because I can squeeze information out of a rutabaga.” She raised her chin as if daring him to contradict her. Harlee knew her shortcomings, but her one true gift was getting people to talk. For some reason, sources thought of her as priest, therapist, and the sympathetic girl-next-door all rolled into one, and spilled their deepest and darkest secrets. And when that didn’t work, she could find the key to the kingdom by searching Internet databases that most reporters didn’t even know existed.
“Didn’t I get the interview with Duckett after the legislative aide he was doing went missing?” Most editors had attention spans of two-year-olds, so she’d had to boil her twelve months’ worth of scoops into pithy sound bites. “Wasn’t I the only one able to track down the best friend of the kid who got mauled to death at the zoo by Tabatha the tiger? Oh, and who got the exclu with Tami Moore when her boat capsized and she survived six days on the open sea? Uh . . . That would be me.”
Jerry had rolled his eyes. “Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘You’ve got spunk?’” He handed her his empty coffee mug. “Make a fresh pot, would ya?”
As she watched him stroll back into his glass office, she’d shaken her head in bewilderment. Then she’d carefully measured out enough Yuban for twelve strong cups.
She’d waited a full forty-eight hours before approaching him again. This time she’d carefully cataloged a list of her accomplishments at the paper, barged into his office, and shoved the three pages of typewritten notes under his nose.
“Take your time looking it over,” she told him. “And feel free to ask around the newsroom about how I’m doing.”
She turned to leave, when Jerry called out, “Hey, Roberts, you misspelled Berkeley. Three E’s.”
Harlee could hear him laughing halfway down the hall. Four days later, after unearthing a scandal at the police department—feral cats had taken over the storage room, peeing on crucial evidence—Jerry had called her into his office. He told her to take a seat and then made her wait ten minutes while he creased the bill of his Giants cap until he got the perfect fold.
“You do have a knack for reporting, I’ll give you that.” He sailed the hat, Frisbee-style, across the room so that it landed smack dab on a hook, then leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. “So this is what I’m gonna do. I’m giving you six months to prove you can bring up the quality of your writing. If you can do that, I’ll make you a full-fledged reporter. In the meantime, learn how to use the goddamn spell-checker.”
She ran around the desk and threw her arms around him. “You won’t regret this, Jerry. I swear.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get outta here. And, Roberts, you screw this up, you’re out on your ass.”
From then on, anytime a big story broke, Jerry would come out of his office, point at Harlee, and yell, “Legs, you’re on it.”
The first time it had happened, Harlee turned to her editor, appalled. “Uh . . . Hello? It’s the new millennium. He can’t talk to me like that.”
Her editor, a youngish guy with a Master’s degree in journalism from Columbia who had the smarts to know calling a female subordinate “Legs” held all kinds of legal implications—none of them good—stifled a laugh.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Harlee. All Jerry means is he wants you to go out and do the legwork so I can rewrite your copy into some semblance of English.”
“Oh . . . Okay. Then we’re all good.”
After her six-month probation period was up, Jerry gave her the job. On her last day of work, as the two doofus security guards paraded her past his office, Jerry had popped out, given her an awkward hug, and whispered in her ear, “You’ll do fine, Legs.”
Yesterday a peacock, today a feather duster, she reflected as she considered getting out of bed. Losing a career she’d loved, moving into a log cabin miles away from civilization, and leaving her friends behind, it was overwhelming. At least her parents had been supportive, lending her the cabin for as long as she needed to regroup and get her business off the ground.
It was only temporary, she kept telling herself. Just a free place to stay while she got DataDate up to speed. She’d started the small business while she was still at the Call to bring in extra money to help pay credit card bills. Now, she needed the income more than ever. She was broke—her checking account down to a thousand dollars. And cold, she mused as she stuck one foot outside the covers. She’d better order that firewood soon, or her minuscule severance package would go to paying heating bills.
She got out of bed and looked around the room, deciding she’d made the right choice by taking the master suite instead of her old bedroom. The cabin for the most part was pretty rustic, furnished with hand-me-down plaid couches and leather club chairs from her parents’ Piedmont house. But her mother hadn’t skimped in the master. A king-size sleigh bed, flanked by two nightstands, anchored the room. Mom had chosen Ralph Lauren toile bedding done in a hunting pattern, and a companion striped fabric for the window treatments. It was French Provençal meets mountain chic.
Her mother had always wanted to be a decorator, but had settled for owning a small bric-a-brac shop in a trendy part of Oakland not far from home. She sold everything from throw blankets to funky chandeliers. Harlee’s entire San Francisco apartment—a studio the size of a carport—had been furnished with items from her mother’s store. Before coming to Nugget, she’d packed up her belongings, stored the larger pieces in her parents’ garage, and broken her lease. Since her landlord could get twice the rent due to the city’s tech boom, there’d been no problem.
That’s how she’d wound up here.
Harlee stuck her feet into a pair of Ugg slippers and padded into the bathroom to take a nice hot shower. Instead she got ice. That�
�s what the water felt like as it sluiced down her back. No matter how much she twisted the dial to hot, the water stayed cold, making her suck in her breath and shudder. Before hypothermia set in, she turned off the faucet and stood there covered in soap suds, shampoo dripping into her eyes. Shivering, she slowly turned the water back on and ducked under the rain showerhead for as long as she could stand it. She did it over and over until she was convinced she’d been thoroughly rinsed. Each time she gasped from the shock of the frigid temperature and let out a shriek.
She got out of the shower, wrapped herself in a thick terry-cloth towel, and rubbed vigorously until she got feeling back in her arms and legs. Then she thought about who she’d kill first: her brother Brad for shutting off the propane or her dad for not reminding her to turn it back on.
She pulled on her clothes, including a turtleneck, cashmere sweater, and thermal socks, and cranked up the heater. But Harlee could still see her breath, so she crawled back under the covers. Punching in the numbers of her parents’ house, she let the phone ring until the answering machine came on. Then she hung up and tried Brad.
“Hey, how’s it going up there?” He sounded so goddamned chipper she wanted to reach through her cell phone and grab him by the throat.
“Just hunky-dory.” When she told him about her shower experience, he laughed so loud she promised to disown him. “How do I turn the gas back on and relight the pilot light?”
He told her where to find it and walked her through the process, but no matter how many times she tried, the darned thing wouldn’t light.
“You’ll probably have to call the Nugget Propane Company,” Brad told her. “They’ll get it going for you.”
She hung up, called information for the propane company’s number, and dialed. When no one picked up after the fourteenth ring, Harlee decided to hop in her car and drive there. When she arrived at the propane company there was a sign on the door: “Gone fishin’. Back on Nov. 12.” That was four days from now—too long to go without heat or a shower.
She banged her head against the door and considered getting in her Mini Cooper and driving down the mountain all the way back to San Francisco. Harlee Roberts, you are no quitter, she told herself and headed to the Bun Boy for breakfast instead. Her stomach growled from not having had any dinner—she’d spent the time cleaning and unpacking. The downtown frosty, with its weathered picnic tables and drive-through window, had been a regular attraction when her family came to visit. And if those fried egg sandwiches were as good as she remembered, they’d be worth one last splurge.
From here on in she planned to conserve her money, using every dime she made from DataDate to pay expenses and her outstanding bills. But the small business might never generate enough money. Not until she got another newspaper job could she take up her old lifestyle again. Eating at good restaurants. Shopping in nice stores.
While she waited for her food, Harlee took a good look around the square. Someone had fixed up the old Lumber Baron. Last time she’d seen it, the Victorian had been boarded up. Now, the stunning inn blew away all the other shops in the commercial district. Maybe it was her imagination, but the Ponderosa also looked like it had gotten a facelift. Downtown Nugget had never been what you would call chichi, but to her it had always had a certain je ne sais quoi. Perhaps because she’d had such good memories here as a kid.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a young woman staring at her. She obviously wanted to strike up a conversation. Harlee smiled but kept her distance. It’s not that she was unfriendly; she just didn’t feel up to socializing. Not while she was still mourning her lost life. Ever since she’d gotten laid off, she’d holed up, avoiding calls and emails.
“Would it be too personal to ask you where you get your hair done?”
“Uh . . . no . . . not at all,” Harlee said. “Daniel Salon in San Francisco.”
“It’s a really nice cut.” The woman stepped closer and started running her fingers through Harlee’s shoulder-length layers
Uh, forward much?
“They use a keratin straightening treatment?” she asked Harlee.
“Why? Is it that obvious?” Harlee tried to back away, but the woman had a large hunk of Harlee’s hair in her hands.
For years she’d been a slave to styling products, flat irons, and more recently, Brazilian blowouts. Brad had gotten the good hair in their family, while Harlee’s looked like Howard Stern’s. She’d also been bestowed with the dreaded unibrow. In high school, her mother had finally taken her to a place where for two hours a woman shaped, waxed, and tweezed Harlee’s brows into perfect arches. Now she paid regularly to keep them that way.
“Only to a professional,” the woman replied.
She was stuffed into a leopard print dress, wore plastic earrings the size of hula hoops, and had penciled a beauty mark above her lip. And if Harlee wasn’t mistaken, that teased thing on top of her head was a hairpiece. Either she was channeling Dolly Parton or she was getting ready to audition for What Not to Wear.
“You’re a stylist?” Harlee asked dubiously.
“Yep. I just moved here from Sacramento. I’m taking over my father’s barbershop.” She pointed across the square at an old-timey red, white, and blue pole and a sign that read, “Owen’s.”
Harlee looked at the barbershop then back at the woman. Note to self: Continue to go to San Francisco for haircuts.
“Well, congratulations. Nice meeting you.” She hoped that would end the conversation. Like pronto. The woman was odd and Harlee didn’t have the patience.
“Tell you the truth, it’s been a little slow,” Weird Dolly said, clearly unable to take a hint. “But I’m building a rep and hoping to attract clients from Sierraville and Quincy.”
“Well, good luck with that.” Thankfully, Harlee’s food order was up.
There was no indoor seating at the Bun Boy and even though it was a tad too cold to eat outside, she didn’t want to smell up her car with fried food. She walked over to one of the picnic tables and sat on a bench, hoping that the woman wouldn’t follow. No such luck. Dolly carried her own tray over and camped out on the seat next to Harlee.
Fine, she’d just have to eat with company. Harlee bit into her egg sandwich and hash browns and chased it with a swig of coffee. The combination of grease and caffeine made her moan with pleasure.
“So good, right?” the woman said, taking a sip of the Bun Boy’s famous hot chocolate. “At least you can afford the calories. Me, not so much.”
“You look great,” Harlee lied. Although the woman did have one of those to-die-for curvy bodies. If she just wore clothes that fit her and ditched the hairpiece, Harlee thought she’d be quite attractive.
“I’m Darla.” Harlee nearly choked. Dolly. Darla. Close enough.
“Harlee.” She went to shake her hand, thought better of it, and pulled a wad of napkins from the dispenser in the center of the table to clean up first.
“You just passing through?” Darla asked.
“No. My folks own a cabin up on Grizzly Peak. I’m moving in for the winter.”
“No kidding? Are you rich or something?”
Harlee laughed, because the absurdity of it was hilarious. She couldn’t even afford to pay her own rent. “No. I own a home business.”
“What kind?”
For some inexplicable reason Darla was starting to grow on Har - lee. Maybe because she reminded her a little bit of herself, sans the hairpiece, of course. The woman was fantastically noisy.
“I’m a cyber sleuth,” Harlee said. “I investigate the prospective mates people meet on dating sites.”
The idea for the business had been born out of a how-to piece she’d written for the Call on navigating the complications of online dating services and vetting potential life partners. Instead of following tips in the article, readers had sent Harlee money, begging her to run background checks on their supposed dream matches.
Given her work at the paper it was easy to run the inquiries duri
ng her downtime. She used the same battery of databases she relied on for her stories, including the obvious ones—county records, court filings, and the registrar of voters—to find out everything from a prospect’s true date of birth to his or her political party. If something came up that wasn’t traceable in the public domain, she sicced her older brother Brad on it in exchange for free babysitting. Brad was a cop with a stay-at-home wife, a two-year-old, and a mortgage. He’d do just about anything for free babysitting.
Darla’s brown eyes grew wide. “Seriously? That’s an actual business?”
“Yeah, it’s an actual business.” Harlee pulled her coat tighter to ward off the cold. “You’d be surprised how much people lie. Especially men. I’m not just talking posting ten-year-old pictures of themselves.” They lied about their weight, about their age, their career, their sexual orientation, and sometimes they even lied about where they lived—like the man who failed to mention that his Folsom residence was actually a state prison.
“Do you have a special license to do it, like a private investigator’s license?” Darla wanted to know.
“Nope. Not necessary.” To shield herself from lawsuits, Harlee required that her clients sign a waiver that a lawyer friend had drafted, releasing her from liability.
“How do people find out about you?”
“Word of mouth.” Harlee finished her sandwich and tossed the wrapper in a nearby wastebasket. “I also have a website.”
“Wow.” Darla acted like Harlee was doing something groundbreaking, which for the first time since she’d been “downsized,” gave her a boost.
“What about you?” Harlee asked. “Why’d you decide to cut hair in Nugget, besides the fact that your dad owns the barbershop?”
“To tell you the truth, I wanted to stay in Sacramento,” Darla said. “I’d finished a two-year internship at one of the most prestigious salons in town. But renting a chair there would’ve been astronomical. I haven’t built up much of a client list yet. Plus, my dad wants to go part-time so he can start easing into retirement. I thought I’d fill in on his days off.”