Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1)

by Ophelia London

  "I can't believe you got shot."

  "I didn't get shot," I corrected. "I got shot at."

  "What's the difference?"

  "No one was aiming at me."

  At least, I don't think so…

  As we drove toward home, Piper brought me up to speed on some of the recent changes to our neighborhood. The charming brick elementary school down the block had burned to the ground and was replaced by four mobile home units.

  "Dad thinks it's an eyesore and he's constantly writing to the city council about it. They keep blowing him off."

  "I know. Mom blogged about it yesterday."

  When the car swerved over the centerline, I clutched my seatbelt and gaped at Piper.

  "No. No, no, no. Mom's blogging again?"

  "We should be proud, she refrained for a whole nine days," I said, settling back in my seat. "She did promise she wouldn't use our personal lives as topics anymore."

  Piper gazed straight ahead; her eyes were narrow slits. "Yeah, she said that last time, and the next thing I know, people on the street are asking me how my menstrual cramps are this month, and have I ever tried soaking towels in hot vinegar then wrapping them around my extremities."

  "That's"—I nodded somberly—"sound advice."

  "She makes me want to throw myself off the North Jetty at high tide." Piper tapped her chin. "Hmm, what else is new? Oh. Katie Carlson's divorce is final."

  It was still strange to hear the married name of the girl who'd been my best friend from age eight to seventeen, the woman I hadn't spoken to in over a decade. "I heard. That's so sad. Any more kids?"

  "Just the two little boys, always in matching sweaters and beanies. Spoiled like crap, though. Whenever I run into them at the mall, it reminds me why shows like Supernanny were invented. Katie's a pill. It's like she thinks everyone in this town should treat her like the prom queen, even though her crown is ten years old. She asked about you the other day."

  "What did you tell her?" I said, feeling an oogie churn in my stomach.

  "She already knew you were coming." Piper paused for dramatic effect. "Mom's blog."

  "Crap," I muttered. "We need to confiscate her laptop."

  "Patrick's back, too. Arrived a couple weeks ago." She shifted into second gear, ready to pull up our steep driveway.

  The house looked exactly the same. Same "foxtail" pink color, same purposefully wild hedges under the front windows, same wall of blood red rhododendron bushes running from the front porch all the way down the driveway to the sidewalk. Same majestic, mist-covered redwoods as far as the eye could see.

  "Who's Patrick?" I asked.

  "You know, Patrick."

  "I have no idea who…" Someone behind the kitchen window pulled back the curtain an inch then let it go. Mom always fancied herself a spy.

  "Patrick," Piper repeated, setting the emergency brake. "From next door. Says he knows you. Or used to. And Mare, every time he comes for a visit, he's even more gor—"

  We both turned toward a squeal accompanied by happy seal clapping.

  "Ready for this?" my sister asked. "Because the sucking has just begun."

  Mom put on a good show, hugging me, stroking my hair, and "Oh, Maren!"-ing me while stroking and hugging. It was almost as if I really hadn't returned in shame…penniless, homeless, and single.

  "But how could you let someone shoot you?" she said, slapping my hand as we walked through the front door. "What will I tell the girls at the library?"

  "I wasn't actually…" I exhaled and shook my head. "Never mind."

  "Piper has your room now, you know," Mom continued.

  "I've been in that bedroom for ten years," Piper said. "It's not like you gave it to me while she was away at summer camp."

  Mom went on. "And her old room is my 'Creation Station,' and the guest room is your father's second office."

  "Wait a minute." I pulled us to a stop halfway down the hall. "If Piper's in my room, and Piper's old room is full of Mom's scanners and knitting and whatever, and Dad took over the guest room…where…"

  But I couldn't bear to finish. It was too humiliating. Would I be sleeping on a cot somewhere? Or maybe they'd just shove a pullout sofa next to the TV. And where would all my shoes go?

  Mom squeezed my hand. "You remember when Grandma Kathyleen got sick last year, and your father threatened to have her move in with us?"

  "Mom!" Piper swatted her hip. "Don't say that. She's dead now."

  "Awful woman," Mom said, not even in a discreet voice. "Anyway, when your father said she was going to live here, I insisted he add a wing to the back of the house for her. Don't you two look at me like that, I couldn't have her taking up space I needed for my projects, could I? We had a contractor come out to the house, and he showed us some plans, not a whole wing like I wanted, just a single room and bathroom."

  "It does have a separate entrance, Mare," Piper added.

  "You finished it anyway?" I asked. "Even though Grandma Kathyleen croaked?"

  Piper linked her arm through mine. "I painted the inside last weekend. All white, just like your apartment in the city. It's got huge windows, so you'll get sunlight all day. Ha-ha, if there ever is sunlight." Her eyes twinkled. So did Mom's.

  Wordlessly, they escorted me through the doorway at the end of the hall that used to lead to the backyard, but instead, we stepped into a bright white space, clean, and smelling of wood and fresh paint.

  The room was huge, way bigger than just a bedroom. It could easily have been a studio apartment in Manhattan. There was a bed and dresser in one corner. In another corner sat an empty bookshelf, a floor lamp, and the comfy purple armchair that used to be in my bedroom a hundred years ago. And the wall of windows. It was true, the sun wasn't shining today, but the pearly-gray sky was bright nonetheless, illuminating every corner of the room without a single light on.

  Wonder and a warm fullness enveloped my heart as I walked toward the windows, completely transfixed by the view of the stately redwoods shooting straight up to the sky, chronic fog clinging to their highest branches.

  Not until I knocked into it did I notice the desk situated directly in front of the center window. On it sat the ruler-sized sign I'd made when I was eight, my full name spelled out in glitter and macaroni noodles. Beside that sat a glass vase with a single white lily.

  I instantly choked up.

  "We left all the wood unfinished," Piper said, running her hand across the top of the dresser. "So we can paint or stain them anyway you want."

  "We want you to feel at home, sweetie," Mom said with a loving smile, tucking some hair behind my ear. "The best of both your worlds."

  I swallowed unexpected tears of gratitude. It was all so wonderful, how much my family was trying to make my homecoming a happy event. Maybe it would be different after all. Maybe my mother had kicked the drama and matured. "You guys did this for me?"

  "We're thrilled you're home," Mom said, leaning a hip against the dresser. "Just don't tell your father Mac isn't at the paper anymore. Don't tell him I'm blogging again, either." She tapped her lips. "Distract him if he asks about the dent in my car, and for heaven's sake, don't mention you got shot."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After a relaxing yet chatty family dinner, Piper shoved me into the shower then into a clean outfit. Instead of offering me suggestions of where we'd go, she drove us downtown. Not that it mattered where we went. I was grateful to be dragged out of the house before I could think too much about what had happened today. A night of reckless abandon would do me good.

  I crossed my legs under my short black dress, the only item of clothing that miraculously didn't need ironing after my cross-country trek from hell. We parked at the curb across from an edifice that encompassed the whole block. Wavy, electric blue lights ran from the brightly lit insignia and all the way across the length of the entire building.

  "You're not serious," I said, staring at the bar entrance, its door flanked by panels of more electric blue, flashier than the we
lcome sign in Vegas. "You're taking me to The Ritz? Isn't this the place we use to say was the front for a brothel?"

  "Salter's the owner now, he's a theater friend," Piper explained as she ran a hand down her blonde hair, then tucked the front behind an ear, making one purple stripe peek out just so. "He renovated a few years ago, but kept all the original floors and fixtures from the forties. Totally classy." She adjusted her red leather mini. "Well, classier than it was."

  The inside of the remodeled Ritz was art deco at its finest. A long, glossy and warn bar ran the length of the large room. Both stained glass and mirrors framed the space behind the hanging wine glasses and other stemware. Low ceilings with overhead lights covered in mismatched tiffany shades threw blues and greens and yellow beams around the otherwise dimly-lit room.

  Smooth jazz played from hidden speakers and there was a stage across from the bar where a three-piece band was setting up. Breaking the art deco ambiance, two billiards tables filled one far corner of the room, and a line of velvet couches filled the other. Tall, round tables made up the center space.

  A retro-cool place like this in Manhattan would fill up every night.

  The guy behind the bar called out to Piper. She threw her arms in the air and shouted his name. Salter had dark hair and an even darker goatee. My sister leaned across the bar and kissed him on both cheeks. A few people perched on bar stools and a few more were scattered around at tables.

  Not until Piper waved me over to the bar did I realize I was still hovering at the door. I walked over, trying to figure out how to meld the New Yorker in me—the woman who was tough as nails and could handle anything—with the small town girl I was the last time I was here.

  "Maren, this is Salter, an old friend."

  "Hi!" I called to him, a lot louder and toothier than needed. "It's so great to be here. Isn't it great to be here?"

  "How's that?" Salter said, angling an ear toward me.

  "Nothing," Piper replied to him while eyeing me. "Get her a drink—nothing alcoholic, she's already loopy."

  Salter passed me what I suspected was a Diet Coke, but I couldn't tell from the odd flavor. "Mmm, yummy, thanks."

  "Salter's brother runs the box office at The Rep," Piper explained. "So he makes it to all the shows."

  "My condolences," I joked. Piper jabbed me in the ribs.

  "You're her sister from New York," Salter said, while running a rag across the bar. "Are you an actress, too? You're striking enough to be in soaps."

  I choked on my drink.

  "She went legit," Piper answered, overly-regretful. "Journalist."

  "Anything I've read? I get The New Yorker."

  I was ready to tell him about my dozens of articles from The Book, but something told me this granola, adorably-grungy, forty-something man had never read my hard-hitting pieces "Taming Winter Split Ends" or "The Perfect Coach (Bag) for the Perfect Coach."

  "Probably not," I said. "I'm at The Standard now."

  "With Eric Brady?" Salter asked, then snorted. "My condolences. I hear he's making a mess of that place."

  I shrugged and took another investigative sip of my soda.

  Piper had turned to talk to the guy on the other side of her. He wore an actual three-piece suit. Probably one of the only lawyers in Eureka. I leaned forward to get a look at his face, but the guy only had eyes for Piper. And why wouldn't he? She was stunning and radiant under the colorful lights over the bar, beams reflecting off her hair, emphasizing the playful purple streaks. She laughed at whatever the guy said, leaning back and tossing her mane over a shoulder.

  I played with the straw of my maybe-Diet Coke and watched them in the mirror behind the bar. It was like a scene out of a movie. Every movement she made was calculatingly alluring. When we'd been younger, people used to say Piper had the personality and Maren had the wits. Which translated to she was the pretty one, and I was the brainy one.

  That was never more blatantly true than right now, as I studied us in the mirror, side by side. We might have looked alike, both with long light hair, wide brown eyes, similar bone structure, but while Piper had all the right moves, I overanalyzed as usual.

  I slid off my stool, and whispered to her that I was going to the ladies' room. No other patrons were inside, so I leaned against the sink, finally feeling the first bone-draining rush of fatigue from my day. Methodically, I applied another layer of lipstick and fiddled with my hair, but I couldn't stay in there forever, even though the light casting from the tiffany shades made my face appear both brighter and softer. But even in New York, I'd never enjoyed the bar scene. I'd rather be at a park or museum or binge watching nineties WB on Netflix.

  When I came out, the lights had dimmed, setting the mood as the band tuned on stage. I didn't want to be a stick in the mud, but I'd had enough for one day, and it had been a very long week.

  As I neared the bar, I noticed an addition to the room. He sat alone at a table with nothing but an untouched, longneck beer across from him. Was he watching me?

  I glanced away then back to find his eyes still focused in my general direction. He was good looking—well, anyone would've been attractive in this "hey, let's hook up" lighting. In another time and place, I might have sauntered over and started in with the small talk. But the memory of bus grime and lumber mill mud rendered small talking with a maybe-cute guy impossible tonight.

  "Piper," I said. "Can we go soon? I'm seriously beat."

  "Yeah, yeah," she said turning halfway to me. "Dan, this is my sister, Maren. Mare, this is Dan. He works for the DA."

  Lawyer, I knew it, I thought as we shook hands. He was very polite about meeting me, and I was very polite about meeting him, but my heart wasn't in it.

  "Pipe, it's cool, I'll call for a taxi if you want to stay, but I might keel over dead if I don't get some sleep."

  "I'll take you."

  I turned and came face to face with the lone beer drinker. Hubba-hubba. It wasn't the lighting. The guy was blazing hot. Tall and with carved, Adonis-like facial features, yet slightly gruff. Nice, broad shoulders and dark blond hair—almost silvery under these lights.

  A tidal wave of youthful familiarity crashed over my head, photos of him flipping like a movie in my mind. I scrambled to remember how I knew him, but when a tiny notch formed between his eyes as he waited for my reply, I realized we'd never met. The pseudo-recognition was because the guy was a dead ringer for a grown-up version of that über-hottie from Dawson's Creek. The build, the hair, the sexy yet chronically impatient expression.

  "Do you want to ride home with me?" he said, not smiling but not not-smiling either.

  His ballsy invitation was kind of hot, but seriously, what was this dude's deal—this total stranger, Pacey-doppelgänger wanting to take me home with him before we'd had a conversation?

  What stunned me further was when Piper glanced over her shoulder, gave him the up-down and said, "Go for it, Mare. See ya."

  Huh, so my sister was all for me being whisked away by a potential serial killer gypsy wearing dark trousers, a white pinstriped shirt opened two buttons at the throat, underneath a dark blue jacket with a leather collar? What kind of wingman was she?

  "I'm ready now," the guy said. "So let's—"

  The New Yorker in me snapped awake.

  "No. No thank you," I retorted, loudly enough so he'd pick up my no-nonsense tone. I whirled around and marched toward the exit, but he stayed right on my heels. "Stop. What the hell are you doing?" I glared at him, feeling pluckier than the time I'd frightened away a mugger who tried to steal from me and Joey at Battery Park.

  The guy halted and blinked, confused by my aggression.

  "Do not follow me outside, or you'll be very sorry." Without another word, I pushed through the doors. I didn't have to walk more than half a block to find a taxi—as rare in Eureka as the temperature reaching eighty.

  As I was climbing in, I caught sight of a figure by the building across the street. It was too dark to make out many specific details, but
he was definitely male, definitely the same build as the hooded guy I'd seen earlier—twice, maybe—and he most definitely wore a black sweatshirt with the hood up.

  The nape of my neck tingled, what Joey used to call my "Spidey senses," so I hopped in the taxi and told the driver to step on it. My heart pounded as he peeled away from the curb. I stared out the back window and watched the hooded guy grow smaller as he stepped onto the street then disappear in a cloud of evening fog.

  Piper texted me a few minutes later. Buzzing with adrenaline and still pretty shaky, I told her I was in a cab going home. I did not tell her my suspicions, however: that I was pretty sure I was being tailed by a dead guy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning, I awoke from a restless night's sleep. The dark eyes of a hooded stranger had haunted my dreams, mixed with the excitement of a new challenge at work. I bounced around the house until it was time to zoom across town in Mom's Taurus.

  I arrived fifteen minutes early and sat in the car, twirling my keychain for a while. Once the rain started to pick up, I hastily pulled my hair into a messy bun, the humidity frightening me with the potential of a bad hair day.

  Despite the rain, fog rolled in and clung around the car. When I realized I couldn't see more than twenty feet in any direction, that same chill from last night hit my neck. Was someone watching me again? Someone I couldn't even see?

  When Kim pulled into the parking space next to me, I got out and followed her inside.

  Apparently the hazing from yesterday was over, because—instead of mentioning anything about my misadventures at Sierra Pacific—Chip gave me a crash course on writing press releases, and I spent most of the day happily pulling human interest stories from the LA Times, the Sacramento Bee, and the Santa Cruz Sentinel. He liked what I showed him and said I had a real "nose for news." I wondered if, like Grouper, Chip pictured himself as a character named "Scoop" in a film noir.