Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery)
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Praise for the Headlines in High Heels Mysteries
BURIED LEADS
“Mafia hotties, corrupt politicians, old flames and murder. Buried Leads propels the reader on a wild ride through Richmond, Virginia, as Clarke ducks bullets and unmasks criminals, all this in her incisive exposés and her aubergine Manolo Blahniks. A smart and sassy heroine.”
—Patricia Smiley, Bestselling Author of Cool Cache
“Intrepid reporter Nichelle Clarke is back again, tracking down a killer, sniffing out political corruption, and juggling studmuffin boyfriends—all in impossibly high heels. Very smartly written and cleverly plotted, with a nifty surprise ending!”
—Laura Levine, Author of the Jaine Austen Mystery Series
“A must read for any mystery fan. I loved Front Page Fatality, but Buried Leads may be my favorite in the series to date. If you’re a fan of mysteries or contemplating trying a new genre, I highly recommend Buried Leads. Five stars!”
– Literary, etc.
“It’s Walker’s real life experience as a working journalist that makes this enjoyable mystery stand out. The details of newsroom machinations are every bit as complicated as the tangled puzzle that her sleuth must solve.”
— New York Times Bestselling Author Lisa Brackmann
FRONT PAGE FATALITY
“Gives those designer shoes a workout! Nicey’s adventure kept me guessing. Goes down as smooth as hot chocolate with whipped cream.”
– Alice Loweecey,
Author of the Falcone and Driscoll Investigations
“Front Page Fatality is delightful, with engaging characters, a crackling good mystery, and of course, high, high heels. LynDee Walker writes with wit and intelligence and the confidence of a newsroom insider. What fun!”
– Harley Jane Kozak,
Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity-Award Winning Author of
Dating Dead Men and Keeper of the Moon
“I loved this book, Nichelle is such a strong character, able to stand up to herself no matter what. The interaction between Bob, her boss, and Nichelle is awesome and you can see how much they care for each other. My favorite part of the book was a fight scene, not going to ruin it for you, that you just have to read.”
– Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
“This is a joy to read: Nichelle is a likeable character who does put her nose into whatever seems curious to her…the book can be read in one sitting thanks to the easy and casual language the author has employed in writing the book. Highly recommended to the fans of cozy mysteries!”
– Mystery Tribune
“Fast, funny, [and] action-packed.”
— The Virginian-Pilot
“I loved Nichelle Clarke, a smart, competitive woman who can take care of herself...She made me think a little of one of my other favorite characters, V.I. Warshawski ... Five stars out of five.”
– Lynn Farris,
National Mystery Review Examiner at Examiner.com
Books in the Headlines in High Heels Mystery Series
by LynDee Walker
Novels
FRONT PAGE FATALITY (#1)
BURIED LEADS (#2)
SMALL TOWN SPIN (#3)
(coming April 2014)
Novellas
DATELINE MEMPHIS
(in HEARTACHE MOTEL)
(coming December 2013)
Praise for the Headlines in High Heels Mysteries
Books in the Headlines in High Heels Mystery Series
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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Reader’s Discussion Guide
About LynDee Walker
Henery Press Mystery Books
BURIED LEADS
A Headlines in High Heels Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition
Kindle edition | October 2013
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2013 by LynDee Walker
Cover design by Fayette Terlouw
Author photograph by Sarah Dabney-Reardon
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-938383-67-0
Printed in the United States of America
For Justin,
who has always been my hero.
Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t,
and for sharing this crazy ride with me.
I love you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There might only be one name on the cover, but it takes a lot of effort and help from so many people to create a novel. I am indebted to everyone who helped with this one.
The reporter in me has an obsessive need to research things (though this is fiction, and there are some things that yes, I fudged for pacing or to fit the story). I may never be able to thank Google enough, and my friend Jody Hynds, scientist extraordinaire, has my gratitude for making sure the science (if not always the time frames) in my forensics are correct.
Another general thanks to the city of Richmond. I love living here, I love writing about this place, and I am honored and humbled by the support I’ve gotten from the media and the business and cultural communities here. Major gratitude to Fountain Bookstore, The Library of Virginia, and Barnes and Noble for hosting events and helping me meet readers. Book people are wonderful people.
My wonderful beta readers, who are hard on me because they love me (and Nichelle): Ramsey Hootman, Gretchen Archer, Jennifer Walkup, Julie Hallberg, Becky Durfee, and Maer Wilson. Thank you for reading a much more imperfect version of this and helping make it stronger.
One of the best things about this transition to published author has been the wonderful authors I’ve gotten to know, and I’m so thankful to them all for their time, help, and encouragement. In particular, thanks to Laura Levine, Patricia Smiley, and Lisa Brackmann for the lovely promotional blurbs.
While I’m on that topic, let me thank y’all for the success of Front Page Fatality. I never imagined, even in my biggest fantasies, that it would get the kind of reception it did. Thanks so very much to all the folks who read it and loved it and took the time to say nice things about it. Laura Levine and Harley Jane Kozak, I am such a fan of your work, and the blurbs you sent still make me grin. Dru Ann Love, Jessica DeLuna, Lynn Farris, Bella McGuire, and all the other bloggers who loved Nichelle and shared that online, thank you for helping get the word out.
Then there’s my amazing editor, Kendel Flaum, who works so hard to make me look good. Thank
you for all the effort you pour into Nichelle’s stories, and for teaching me to be a better writer. You rock.
Our marketing guru, Art Molinares: thanks for all the hard work you put into selling my books and helping Nichelle reach new readers. And for introducing me to brisket tacos.
My fabulously talented cover artist, Fayette Terlouw, who made this cover just as amazing as the first one: thank you for putting such lovely faces on my stories.
My Hen House sisters at Henery Press: big chicken hugs to all of you! I am thrilled and honored to be part of such a talented group.
Ris, Terri, and Gretchen: the very best thing about Henery has been my new friends. Thank you all for being there, propping me up, and making me laugh. I love you girls.
Speaking of groups of faraway friends, I have to thank my Valentines: Kate, Courtney, Julz, Kristin, Meredith, Debra, Jo, Allison, Stephanie, Michelle, Caryn, Linda, Sherry, Jen, Kim, Jenny, Debbie, Susan, Angela, Lisa, Kym, Rebecca, Anne and Corby. I can’t imagine life without you girls! Thanks so much for your cheerleading, support, and rooftop-shouting.
I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention Jay Roecker here. Jay, thank you so much for all your support this year. I am privileged to call you my friend.
Last, but never ever least, a big thank you to my little monkeys for understanding when mommy needs time to write. The most awesome thing about this is watching you guys be as proud of me as I always am of you. I love you.
1.
A glimmer in the dirt
Dead people can have the worst timing.
After a ridiculously long day of deadlines, criminals, and cops who did not want to talk to me, I wanted a hot bath and my warm bed. Was that too much for a girl to ask? Apparently so, because there I was, traipsing around the woods looking for a half-eaten dead guy who got himself discovered at eleven o’clock. At night.
The glamorous life of a journalist.
Since the body recovery came over my police scanner while the TV stations were all seconds from their last broadcast of the day, though, I knew going out there would likely get me an exclusive for the morning. Which meant the bath and bed could wait.
Ducking under another branch, I grimaced as I jerked the heel of one aubergine Manolo out of the composted leaves and pillowy moss that blanketed the ground. Someday, I would to remember to put rain boots in the back of my little SUV. I didn’t often have to slog through the middle of nowhere chasing stories, but I wrecked a pair of shoes almost every time I did.
I picked my way closer to the investigators’ voices, reaching to the waistband of my khaki capris and turning down the volume on my police scanner.
Finally finding the scene, I tucked my pink flashlight into my pocket and scanned the faces inside the bright yellow tape. I didn’t see any cops or coroners I knew, so I flashed a smile at the uniformed Richmond police officer who stepped toward me, then handed him my press credentials.
“Nichelle Clarke, Richmond Telegraph. I spoke with Detective White on my way here,” I said, hoping the public information officer’s name would lend an air of authority. I left out the part where I hadn’t told the detective I was headed to the recovery site.
“Nothing I can tell you until the official report is complete.” He handed my press badge back without looking at it, the lines in his face evidence of a perpetual scowl.
I smiled at him again and leaned forward a little. “I’m sure there’s something you can tell me. Who discovered the body? Is there a reason to suspect foul play?”
His expression didn’t change. “Report will be available in the morning.” The radio handset clipped to his shoulder crackled to life. He stepped backward and turned away.
Thank you, Officer Charming.
I peered through the hundred-foot trees, wishing this part of the woods smelled more like woods and less like decay. I wasn’t entirely used to the forest scent after more than half a decade in Virginia, but I still loved it. It smelled green—dank and loamy, with a hint of pine. Texas had nothing like it. At least, not the part of Texas where I grew up. Fresh-cut St. Augustine grass, hay fields, and skunks: that’s what the great outdoors was supposed to smell like.
Skunk was preferable to rotting human, though. Mercifully, the remains had already been zipped into a rubber bag and loaded into the back of the coroner’s van, but the lingering stench of decomposing flesh snatched the woodsy fragrance right out of the air. It wasn’t the first time I’d smelled a dead body, but the faintly sweet, acrid smell didn’t get less putrid with repeated exposure.
The scene was quiet for a body recovery, just as I’d hoped. Not another reporter in sight.
But maybe witnesses? Off to my left, I spotted a pair of teenagers. A boy, in purposely-worn jeans and a navy shirt, sat on the trunk of a police cruiser, his arms around a petite girl in short-shorts and a lavender silk tank top.
They looked like they’d seen a ghost. Or a half-eaten corpse.
I hurried toward them, sure Officer Charming had called their parents. If I wanted to talk to them, it was now or never. I stood by the back end of the squad car for a long moment, but the kids could’ve been rehearsing for a living art show, they were so indifferent.
I tried clearing my throat in an obvious manner, and when that didn’t work, I offered a greeting followed with an apology. Still nothing.
I touched the boy’s shoulder, and he flinched away like it had shocked him.
“I’m sorry.” I pulled my fingers back. “I’m Nichelle. What’s your name?”
His eyes were brown, and looked clouded when he focused them on me.
“Jack,” he said. “I’m Jack. And this is Tina. We were just looking for a place where we could sit under the trees and look at the stars.”
Sure you were. The leaves eclipse the view of the stars out here, Romeo. Aloud, I said, “I’m sorry. Definitely a different kind of night.”
“That was a person,” Jack said, his muddy eyes fixed on something behind my right shoulder, his fidgeting fingers strumming imaginary chords across Tina’s shoulders. “Wasn’t it? It didn’t look like there was a whole person there, but there was enough. I know I saw a hand. And a shoe. But part of it was buried. And …” He pulled in a hitching breath and closed his eyes. “It looked like something ate the face.”
The hairs on my forearm pricked up. People don’t turn up half-buried in the woods when they die of natural causes. And scavenging animals help dump sites get discovered. An exclusive on a murder victim was definitely worth postponing my bedtime.
“Do you feel like telling me what happened?”
“We were just walking along through the trees,” he said. The girl whimpered, and Jack stroked her hair absently as he talked, his eyes still far away. “There’s not a path out here, and I was looking at the ground, trying to make sure we didn’t trip over anything. First, there was the smell. I thought there was a dead animal around somewhere. I told Tina to cover her nose and tried to walk faster, but then I saw a shoe.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow.
“What kind of shoe?” I asked.
“Armani. It was on the sole. There was a hand, and part of someone’s face.” The choked voice was high and came from Tina, muffled by Jack’s t-shirt. “I saw a face. A person’s face. But it wasn’t all there—” a sob cut off her words and her fingers curled into fists around the cotton tee.
Armani. So our dead guy probably wasn’t destitute.
“And you didn’t move anything before the police got here?” I asked. I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but I’d been wrong before.
“Move anything?” Jack looked confused for a split second, then his expression twisted into one of horror. “Like, touch it? God, no.”
I thanked them and turned back toward the crime scene tape, shoving my right hand into my pocket in search of th
e pink flashlight my closest girlfriend, Jenna, had given me as part of an “investigative reporter essentials” kit she’d made for my birthday. It had latex gloves, big sunglasses, and a little magnifying glass, too. This was the first night I’d had occasion to use any of it, and I made a mental note to tell her.
The little white flags poking out of the dirt told me the police had already swept the area for evidence and footprints. I wanted a firsthand look at the depth of the makeshift grave, so I ducked under the tape, glancing over one shoulder. Officer Charming was talking to the coroner, his back to me. Not that it mattered—there’s no law preventing reporters (or anyone else) from entering a crime scene. It’s not a great idea if the forensics crews are still working, though. I’d had fingerprints taken, DNA typed—I’d even lost a gorgeous pair of silver Louboutins because I’d once accidentally stepped in blood at a murder scene. Plus, doing it too much can get a reporter on the PD’s “no calls” list, the professional equivalent of a time-out.
Though I could tell forensics had likely come and gone, I walked softly, watching for objects on the ground. I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I just wanted to get the story right.
The grave was about three feet wide. I guessed my leg would fit to about mid-shin, though I didn’t actually put my foot down to see, because—well, ew. So about a foot and a half deep. Not a very careful hole. Which meant the person who dug it didn’t give a damn about the deceased or was in a hurry. Or both.