Cover Story

by Rachel Bailey

He laughed—a low rumbling that reverberated through my body. “If you want gossip, you’ll need to go to Valentina. But how about you answer some questions instead of asking them?” He rested an arm along the back of his booth seat.

  “Um … like what?” Damn. Opening myself up to questions was a pathway to vulnerability that I usually avoided.

  “Let’s start with, are you the Tobi Fletcher, daughter of Tobias Fletcher, famous lawyer?” He quirked an eyebrow.

  My fists clenched on my lap. “Yes.”

  “And the granddaughter of Jack Spillaine?”

  The rest of me clenched as well. I hated this conversation—and I knew it by heart, I’d had it with enough people over the years. My parents and grandfather had so much media coverage about them that every once in a while a reference to Grace and me cropped up in articles. Some people picked up on it and made the connection. Now I wanted that damn silence back.

  “Yes.” Next he’d ask about my mother.

  “Daughter of Lillian Spillaine?”

  “Yes.” I was so tense it was hard to say the word.

  And now came crunch time. They always asked at this point if I knew any movie stars or what the latest gossip was with the paper, or a tactful phrasing of “What can you do for me?”

  He cocked his head to one side. “That must have been rough growing up.”

  Wait, that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. “What do you mean?”

  “The pressure of a high-achieving father and grandfather. As well as a certain level of fame.” He shrugged. “I just think that’d be rough on a teenager, that’s all.”

  I unclenched a little. “Um … I suppose you could say that.”

  “Though, maybe that’s why you’re such a strong person.” His gaze skimmed over me, and a thoughtful smile adorned his features.

  The combination of the compliment and his insight was too much. My heart raced and a strange quivering thing was going on in my stomach. Flustered? Dammit, I didn’t do flustered!

  I scrabbled for my bag, politely thanked him for lunch and left.

  *

  I returned to Los Alamos Court, notepad and pen at the ready. I began with a stroll down the street, checking out the gnome layout of the day. In front of Gerald and Ethel’s house, one gnome was lying on a cottonwood tree leaf and a group of five gnomes stood around him, looking on.

  In front of Simon and Dot’s house, the gnome who usually gripped the fishing rod now held a fresh flower. He appeared to be handing it to the fairy statue.

  “Yoohoo, Tobi!”

  I turned to see Jazlyn Brown—or whatever her name was—waving madly at me from two houses away.

  I waved back and walked over, hoping she had another way-out theory I could use. Or at least a pot of percolated coffee. She invited me in and put a pot on the stove. Little Cosmo detached himself from her leg and sat down to watch the television.

  Jazlyn—Joanna? Jessica?—eased her swollen body into a dining chair across from me. “I saw the article in the paper and I’ve been thinking.”

  “About what?” Hopefully she’d had more luck than me.

  She adjusted the cushions behind her back, then laced her fingers in a basket on the table, eyes alight. “What if, instead of property developers, it’s someone with a grudge against one of us in the street, but they’re not sure which house they live in, so they have to target all the houses?”

  “Possible, I suppose.” I wasn’t sure if I should tell her that, based on Davo’s surveillance, I thought it was someone who lived in Los Alamos Court. It might upset her and aren’t you supposed to avoid upsetting pregnant people? Maybe if I brought it up gently. “Jazlyn, could one of your neighbors be the smasher?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. Then her gaze came to rest on the window beside me. “Although that daft woman next door is spiteful enough.”

  “Beverley Sinclair?” I turned to look at her house through the window. I’d thought she was a touch bitter myself.

  “Mmm, her.” She stared a moment longer, then looked back at me and shrugged. “But she hasn’t got the nerve to do it. Her style is to sit home and whine, not do something positive about her life.”

  The coffee maker sputtered and steamed and Jazlyn got up to pour. I watched her go, wondering if it was more her style to smash garden ornaments. According to Davo, she had the temper for it. Did the Doggy Payback theory still have some life in it?

  “You’re an outsider, Tobi, what do you think?” She put the mugs down in front of us and sat down again, the television noise providing a sing-song backdrop.

  “I’ve got no idea, though it doesn’t really matter. What I need is a new angle for a follow-up article. I’ve already covered the gnome-crimes—I’m not sure what else I can write.” I prayed to the heavens for a sign—anything.

  At that moment, Deefer ambled through the back door and laid her English bulldog self down at my feet, panting a little from the effort. “How’s she doing with her pregnancy?”

  Jazlyn looked down at her fondly. “She seems to be coping with hers better than I am with mine, but that might be because she’s only got two months instead of nine.” She quirked a brow and shrugged.

  “Yes, but she’ll have lots of babies instead of one and that’s got to be a scary prospect.” It sure made me shudder.

  “True, but then, I’m the one who has to find homes for them all.” Her face brightened. “Hey, I don’t suppose …”

  That was a dangerous thought to leave hanging. “No, sorry, I live in an apartment.” Luckily. “But I’ll put the word out at the paper if you want.”

  “Thanks, that’d be great, though I should point out they’re hardly going to be winning beauty contests, being part bulldog and part silky terrier,” she said wryly. Obviously beauty meant a lot to her or she wouldn’t have called herself Jazlyn. Jacqueline? Josephine?

  I pulled myself together. “A strange combination.” Actually, so strange, maybe I could work it into the next article. I scratched Deefer’s head and she looked up, tongue sticking out with a peculiar upward curl at the tip. Well, it was better than anything else I had to go on.

  “Thanks for the coffee, I might just nip over the road to see Gerald and Ethel before I leave.” I stood and slung my bag over my shoulder.

  Jazlyn walked me to her door, a hand on the small of her back. “Any time, Tobi.”

  I walked straight across the road and could see Gerald watching me as I approached. Shame that Simon was sure he couldn’t walk, it was the perfect theory—and I could understand the motive of boredom. If I’d been in Gerald’s position, forced to do nothing but sit and watch my neighbors, I’d probably end up pulling my hair out strand by strand. Or worse, I’d phone my mother and sister.

  Remington yapped at my arrival and Ethel came and opened the door, a dustpan and brush in her hand. “Miss Fletcher, I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  I resisted a grimace. “I didn’t expect to be back on Los Alamos Court again, either.” I pointed to the dustpan. “Had an accident?”

  Ethel rolled her eyes. “Sometimes Gerald forgets he can’t walk. This time he smashed a pot plant as he stumbled.”

  Yep, Gerald as the culprit was out of play. “So, how do you get him around the house?”

  “A wheelchair. He can transfer himself into that using me for balance.” She led me over to the armchairs beside Gerald. “Have a seat and I’ll get us a nice pot of tea. Green or jasmine? They’re both organic.”

  “Um … surprise me?”

  “All right, dear. Oh, and I showed your article to Gerald, but I don’t know if he reads anymore. He sits with the paper on his lap in the morning, but,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “he’s fading, bless his heart, so who knows?” Ethel patted Gerald on the shoulder and walked out to the kitchen.

  I took out my notebook and pencil. “Gerald, I heard about your Remington sowing his wild oats with Deefer over the road. How do you feel about that?”

  Gerald
turned slightly to look me in the eye then turned back to search the streetscape.

  “Come on, Gerald, I know you take in more than you’re letting on.”

  A slow smile spread across his face but he kept his eyes on the street. “My granddaughter said she likes you.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. “I like her too. She’s not bad for a kid.”

  He didn’t move. “She’s lost a lot.”

  A surprising ball of emotion lodged in my throat. After all, she was adorable … as far as kids go. “I know.”

  “Are you going to leave her, too?” He looked over at me and held my gaze.

  I frowned. “Gerald, I’ve only met her a few times, she’s hardly going to be disappointed in not seeing me again.”

  Remington jumped down from Gerald’s lap where he’d been sleeping and ran to the hall to escort Ethel and her tray of tea and cookies. From his expectation, I surmised he was usually slipped a cookie or two.

  “Here you go, Miss Fletcher. Green tea.” Ethel handed me a cup.

  “Thank you.” The tea had a comforting scent—kind of seaweed-y. Dammit, was that me becoming a tea buff? I put the cup on the table. “I have a couple of questions about Remington, if you don’t mind.”

  Remington lifted his head hopefully at his name.

  “What do you want to ask?”

  “The situation with Deefer’s pregnancy—is this the first?”

  Ethel looked horrified. “Of course it’s the first. If we’d known that woman’s dog wasn’t spayed, we’d have been much more careful. It doesn’t do his reputation any good, you know.”

  “His reputation?” I looked down at Remington sitting primly on the carpet, the long silky hair above his eyes caught up in a sky-blue ribbon, his glossy coat groomed to perfection.

  “He’s a stud,” Ethel said.

  Oh. Right. A stud. Well, he did seem awfully pleased with himself.

  Ethel passed him a bone-shaped cookie from a plate on the tray. “His ancestry is impeccable and he’s much in demand to sire litters.”

  Apparently also very much in demand with a certain bulldog. “So you’re not excited about the new puppies?”

  Her eyes widened in shock. “Surely you can’t be serious? They’ll be mongrels.”

  Even though I wasn’t a dog person, I thought that was a little harsh. I finished my green tea and set down my cup. “Thanks for the chat and the tea, I’ve got to get back to the office and … ah … ahh,” dammit, “ahhh … fink.” My antihistamines must have worn off.

  Ethel was all concern. “That sounds terrible, dear, have you had it seen to?”

  Not again. “No, it was just a sneeze.”

  She brandished a shortbread cookie at me. “I raised five children through umpteen colds and flus, and that, my dear, was not a sneeze. You should see a doctor about it.”

  I stood, madly searching through my bag for the antihistamine packet, but couldn’t find it. I’d have to stop at my apartment or a drug store on the way to the office. I made my farewells and hastily retreated to the sidewalk, still searching my bag in the vain hope that I had a spare tablet hanging around from an old packet. I was so engrossed in my task, I failed to notice which house I was passing. It all happened so fast. From the shrubs on the right, a black shape flashed toward me. Needle-tipped claws dug into my ankles, then the shape streaked off again toward number five.

  I stifled a scream that was part surprise, part pain. That damn Attackcat had broken skin. I bent down and saw that he’d left five scratches, three parallel lines on one side of my ankle and two on the other. He’d also managed to ladder my stockings but, thankfully, he’d missed my trousers. Those claws would have ripped the cotton.

  “Damn you, Winston, I’ll … ah … ahh … fink.”

  Shaking my head, I rushed over to my car. I managed to get in, but before I could make a getaway, my cell rang. I glanced at the ID, groaned, then answered.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Tobi, dahlin’, I saw your little piece on the garden gnomes the other day. Very cute.”

  I gritted my teeth and made my voice even. “It wasn’t cute, it was a waste of newspaper space and a waste of my time.” Too late, I realized my mistake.

  “Well, sugah, if you felt that way, why didn’t you give me a call? What’s the use of having a mother on the board of the publishing company if she can’t pull a few strings every now and then? I’ll just call Kevin—that’s your editor, isn’t it?—and tell him to make better use of my baby’s talents. What would you like to write a little story about? I’m organizing a spectacular fashion show next month to raise money for sick children or something, I’ll tell him to have you cover that instead.”

  “Mother.” Was there any use telling her that a journalist would have written countless articles by then? No, probably not. “Mother,” I began more softly. “Please don’t call Kevin, everything at work is fine.”

  “If you’re sure …”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “I am. I … ah … ahh,” dammit, “ahhh … fink.”

  “Tobi, dahlin’, take an antihistamine, will you? You don’t want people seeing your sneezes—you know how unattractive they look.”

  “I will,” I said through a clenched jaw. “Mom, I have to go, I’ll call you later.”

  “Oh, if you must. Ta-ta.”

  I disconnected and beat the cell against my forehead several times.

  “That’s probably not good for the phone, let alone your head.”

  I whipped my head around to the source of the now familiar voice. Too wrapped up in the drama with my mother, I hadn’t noticed Simon’s car pull up on the street behind mine.

  “The welfare of my phone is the lowest of my priorities at the moment.” But I dropped it back into my bag anyway.

  “Want to tell me about it?” He leaned an elbow against the roof of the car and ducked his head a little to peer down at me.

  “Not really … ah … ahh …” Oh, no, not in front of Simon again, please. “Ahhh … fink.”

  I opened my eyes and chanced a look up at him. He was clearly amused.

  “Why are you laughing at me?”

  “I’m not laughing at you.” But the grin didn’t recede. “Why can’t you let go enough to sneeze properly?”

  “I don’t want to.” I put the key in the ignition.

  “You know, they feel great. You should let yourself have one. They’re one pure second of letting loose.” His voice became almost imperceptibly huskier. “Don’t you think you’d like that?”

  I narrowed eyes that were already starting to puff up from my allergies. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “I wouldn’t dare to.” His voice had changed back to the amused tone, which was just as annoying. “Why do you hate sneezing?”

  “If you’d grown up with a pollen allergy, you’d hate springs full of sneezing, too.”

  “If you say so.” He was smiling and the warmth in his eyes told me he was teasing, but I resented being challenged by a virtual stranger on my personality flaws, just the same.

  I started my car and he moved away.

  “I’m sorry I can’t stay and engage in this stimulating banter, but I have to go back to work and write an article about your goddamn gnomes.” I drove away.

  After stopping at the Walgreens for more tablets, I went back to work and wrote the article. Kevin printed it in the next day’s issue.

  *

  Puppy Love—The Silent Victims of Santa Fe’s Gnomicides

  By Tobi Fletcher

  Canine lovebirds, Deefer Brown and Remington Philips, have expressed anxiety about the imminent arrival of their litter on the Santa Fe street where a number of infamous gnomicides have occurred.

  They fear that anyone depraved enough to harm innocent garden gnomes may pose a threat to their own offspring, which are due in a matter of weeks.

  Remington, a prize-winning Australian Silky Terrier, is particularly concerned the anxiety will cause problems with the pregnancy of
his lover, Deefer, an English Bulldog. Her needs must be paramount at this special time in her life, he’d like to remind us.

  The dogs, and their humans, draw comfort from the fact that no further incidents have been reported. However, all are wary of letting their guard down.

  “I’m keeping a very close eye on Deefer,” her human, Jazlyn Brown, said yesterday.

  The concerns are the latest in a string of obstacles this canine Romeo and Juliet have faced, including objections from both human families to their union.

  Well wishes for Deefer and Remington and their puppies can be forwarded care of this paper.

  *

  I sat at my desk the next day, with Sofia perched on the corner, trying to work out how to get our senator’s office contact to, well, contact us.

  I tapped a pencil against my teeth. “I say we go into the senator’s office and ask questions about something else, anything else—we could tell them we’re doing a feature on office décor of senators—and say something in a code that only our contact will understand that will prompt her to call back.”

  “In code?” Sofia rolled her eyes. “You’re whacked.” She picked up a pad of my sticky notes, peeled off the top one and stuck it on her finger.

  “I’ll work something out.” I snatched the sticky notes back.

  “No, it’s too risky.” She waved her finger around, complete with its blank, flapping sticky note. “It would probably frighten her by bringing it too close to home.”

  “What’s your idea then?” I made a grab for her finger but she was too quick for me.

  “I don’t have one yet, but I’m working on it.”

  A dark head appeared over the partition and Matias gave me a wink. “Hey, how’s it going, Gnome Girl?”

  I tried to feign a regal indifference but he didn’t seem to pick up on it. “You’re not funny.”

  “Make gnome mistake, Fletcher,” he said doing his best serious journalist face, “I’m taking this seriously.”

  “Honestly, have you just spent your morning sitting around thinking up puns to annoy me?”

  “Nope. I spent my morning hanging with my gnomies.” He let out a shout of laughter and disappeared.

  Sofia had her hand over her mouth but I could tell she was laughing. I swung around to face her, scoring my stray sticky note in the same move.