Hot Off the Press (A Hailey Webb Mystery, Volume 1)

by Deany Ray

  Hot Off the Press

  by

  Deany Ray

  Copyright © 2021 Deany Ray

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real names, characters, places, events, and incidents is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise without prior consent from the author.

  www.deanyray.com

  Before You Start . . .

  Aww . . . thanks for getting my book. My mom says it’s super good and that she can tell I worked really hard on it. I hope you’ll like it as much as she did!

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  CONTENTS

  Before You Start…

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

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  Chapter One

  “So, that’s a large double-shot whole-milk caramel latte with whipped cream?”

  I nodded. “Extra whipped cream, please.”

  The girl at the drive-through pushed some buttons on the register and handed me the receipt. “That’s six seventy-five.”

  I felt only slightly guilty. Not so much about the sugar-bomb coffee but mostly because I was getting more broke with each passing day. I tried hard to push that thought away. Today I had decided to indulge myself in this sugary pleasure. Today was a big day.

  I drove the couple of feet to the pickup window and shook my head. Four months ago, a fancy coffee drink would have seemed like a splurge but not so much that I might be out of money later and counting crackers as a meal. Funny how things change.

  After taking the first sip of the heavenly coffee—because if I didn’t deserve it, who did?—I pulled onto the road. Traffic was light for a Monday morning in Palm Shores, California. The sun had risen, bright and cheerful, in the hazy blue sky. My sunglasses were nowhere near dark enough for how cheerful this morning was turning out to be. It was about seventy degrees at 7 a.m., which was a promising indicator of how the rest of the day would be. The uncharacteristically cold weekend had finally warmed up, leaving perfect temps to torture the nine-to-fivers stuck inside for the long workweek ahead. March in SoCal wasn’t usually as cold as this one had been, and I was ready for a warm day to chase the chill from my bones.

  Luckily for me, I didn’t have a job. The beaches beckoned me with the lure of leisurely hours soaking in the sun and taking in the salty breezes. I rolled up the windows of my faithful Jeep and blasted the AC so I wouldn’t lose myself to the siren call of the waves. I might not have had a job, but I was going to need one soon if I wanted to eat ever again. I knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my days sunbathing, but it had felt good lately to numb my thoughts on the endless strip of beach and forget about everything that happened.

  I’d spent the last four months living off my remaining savings, eating little except ramen noodles, and spending money on nothing but keeping myself alive. For a girl used to some indulgences—the occasional night out at a bar, French tips with pearl-gray polish, the latest indie films—it had been misery. Even the sweet tan I’d been working on couldn’t make living off nothing feel any better. Hopefully, today would change all of that.

  Sighing, I swerved in and out of the light morning traffic, checking my hair and makeup at every stoplight. I wanted everything to go perfectly. It wouldn’t be a great job, but it was the first interview I’d been offered the whole time I’d been looking—although “offered” was a very optimistic way to put it. That also applied to “looking.” In reality, an acquaintance from my old job had arranged this meeting, probably feeling sorry for me after the gossip made the rounds at work.

  I slid my prized dark-green Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot of the Palm Shores Gazette. I glanced at the squat structure with its ugly stucco walls and frowned. So this was it. It was tiny and unimposing, not like the building from my last job. That building had been an impressive tower, all steel bones wrapped in glass, that screamed “We mean business” to any passersby. This building didn’t scream anything at all. It merely sat there like a blob of an old man, grumpy and silent.

  This already felt like a demotion. My last job—formatting work for a publisher—was not my dream career, but I had always hoped it would lead to something else, that I was on my way. Now it had come to—this? What a sad state of affairs my life had turned into. I stepped out of my Jeep and stared the building down, crossing my arms over my chest. Well, I guess the only way this could get worse is if I somehow bomb the interview.

  Glancing down at my watch, I noted the time: still thirteen minutes until showtime. Early was even better than punctual, I supposed. Straightening my white button-down shirt, blazer, and dark-blue pencil skirt, I took one last sip of my super sugary latte, left the cup in my Jeep, and walked through the early-morning heat to the entrance of the Gazette. I checked my short, curly blonde hair in someone else’s side mirror on my way in, making sure the unexpected humid morning air wasn’t frizzing my curls.

  Wondering why I was so anxious, I chuckled at myself. I pursed my lips at the nervous idiot in the mirror. She looked a little pale under her tan, her fingers shaking as she fixed her curls for the millionth time.

  All these nerves! It was probably because this business of looking for a job was kind of new to me. I had managed fairly easily to secure the job at Griffingate Publishing House, where I’d had the privilege of working every day in the world of books. I’d been naive and stupid then, but somehow I had managed to land what I’d hoped would be the first step to my dream career. And from there would follow my dream boyfriend, my dream paycheck, my dream home, my dream wedding . . .

  Now all of it was gone.

  Pushing that thought away, I glanced to my right. I nearly screamed as my gaze was met with a pair of very amused and very dazzling blue eyes. I staggered backward in my nude pumps, my heart jump-starting in my chest like I’d been running a marathon.

  I got a glimpse of a handsome face and a playful smile before I blushed and turned away.

  “If you’re finished taking up my mirror,” the man said as he opened the door of his truck, “I’d like to get out of my truck now.” He winked, a broad smile spreading across his face.

  I moved back, my body tense with embarrassment. I mumbled something like “Sorry” as he stepped out of his truck. He looked to be in his thirties and he was tall and well built, and I got a whiff of his citrusy, musky scent. His shirt was a little rumpled, and his hair looked a little messy, but he somehow made untidy into something sexy. My blush burned hotter as I turned away and started my hike toward the Gazette without a single word.

  Holy crap, I was acting like a teenager. I was a nervous wreck over an interview, and seeing a hot guy was turning me into a mumbling half-wit. Before I could do anything else to embarrass myself, I stepped into the ugly little building and took a deep breat
h.

  The Palm Shores Gazette was fairly well known in the city. I had checked out a few articles on local news, but mostly I read their entertainment section. The first issue of the paper about seventy years ago had contained four pages. Today, the Gazette published about forty pages every Sunday—on the economy, politics, sports, real estate, travel, leisure, and much more—along with classifieds. In addition to the big print version of the paper, there were articles posted online daily to update readers on the news. See? At least I’d done my homework for my interview.

  The newsroom was on the ground floor. The air conditioning had apparently been set to “icy,” making me shiver after the pleasant warmth of the air outside. I looked around, surprised at the disarray of the front office. Stacks of newspapers lined the floors, some of them ancient and yellowing. The surface of the fabric walls was nearly covered up in photos. This was the Palm Shores Gazette? I looked around, confused. I thought about the names I’d seen in the news stories. I imagined that important people came in from time to time, but this was not a place that look dressed for company—as if the staff was just too busy to care about such things.

  A tired-looking older woman at the front desk was wrapped in a Snuggie. Her hair, an obvious at-home dye job, was piled messily on top of her head. She looked at me like a librarian would stare down an unruly child. “May I help you, young lady?” she asked, her eyes running over my pencil skirt, blazer, and blouse.

  I suddenly felt incredibly uncomfortable. “Yes, please. I’m here to meet with . . .”

  A purring sound came from the desk, and the receptionist held up an impatient finger. She clicked a button on her headset. “Palm Shores Gazette. This is Sandra. How may I direct your call?” She paused. “Just a moment.” Sandra clicked a few buttons on the phone with her strawberry-red lacquered nails and turned back to me. She didn’t say anything, just blinked at me with her goopy, overly mascaraed eyelashes and waited.

  It took about thirty seconds for me to realize she’d turned her attention back to me, and I coughed to cover my hesitation. I was taking a breath, preparing to speak, when the phone rang again.

  “Palm Shores Gazette. This is Sandra. How may I direct your call?” she asked, looking like she wanted to roll her eyes at me.

  I blushed for the second time that day and waited for my turn to speak. After two more phone calls, I finally got my chance. “Jerry Gambill, please. I have a meeting with him in a minute.” My words ran together as I tried to get everything out before the phone could ring again.

  It purred just as I finished, and Sandra looked at me like she was already done with me. “Fourth office. Name’s on the door.” She waved me off to the left then immediately went back to her phone. “Palm Shores Gazette. This is Sandra. How may I direct your call?”

  Turning to the left, I found myself in a mess of a long hallway. Stacks of papers interrupted ugly stretches of old gray industrial carpeting. Half-height cubicles stood in imperfect grids, filled with the sound of typing and the low buzz of conversations. People ran here and there, their eyes locked on documents in their hands and not where they were walking. There didn’t seem to be a dress code here other than “Wear something warm.” I shivered a little in my blazer, wishing I’d brought a winter coat.

  Frowning at the super casual environment around me, I unbuttoned the top button of my blouse. I was far too dressed up for this interview. I took a deep breath, my heart fluttering in my chest, and continued on, trying not to look too lost. This was nothing like the offices at Griffingate. I squared my shoulders and forced myself to push the nervousness away. I mean, just because it was different didn’t mean it was bad. These people published weekly (with daily updates too), which must be the reason they all looked so rushed. I’d never been in a newsroom before, and the pace was fast and exciting. Perhaps this job wouldn’t be so bad. All I knew was that I needed a change and hoped this was it.

  The fourth office had a glass door etched with the words “Jerry Gambill, Editor in Chief.” I knocked on the wooden frame of the 1970s-looking antique of a door and waited.

  “Come in!” someone hollered from the other side. It was a smoker’s voice, the voice of a gruff-sounding older man.

  I opened the door with what I hoped was a winning smile. “Jerry Gambill?” I asked, attempting to sound confident. “I’m Hailey Webb; we spoke on the phone.” I stepped inside and held out my hand, trying not to crinkle my nose at the office I’d just found myself in. There was a desk, several chairs, and a bookshelf in the room. Or at least, I think there was. Every single surface was covered. Books, papers, newspapers, and empty coffee cups littered every surface. The photos, certificates, and degrees hanging on the walls were all at odd angles. Not a single one of them hung straight on the wall, making the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Working in this office would have given me stomach ulcers. I scratched at my arms, trying not to look at just how gross and dusty this place was.

  Jerry Gambill himself didn’t inspire much confidence either. Standing about five feet tall, he looked like he should be starring in a diabetes commercial. He was heavyset and gray, his beard and mustache tinted yellow. He had watery gray eyes that looked like they had seen some things.

  I was glad to note that my hand didn’t wobble as I continued to hold it out, waiting for the man to shake it. After a long moment of sizing me up, he took my hand; his grip was firm and strong. “Good to meet you, Webb. Have a seat.” He gestured to the chairs across from him, both of which were filled with magazines and papers. After a second, I picked the chair with the least amount of junk and set the pile of papers on the floor by my feet. Then I hesitantly took a seat, hoping I wasn’t doing irreparable harm to my skirt sitting on this dirty chair. Perhaps I should have just sat on the papers, which were likely cleaner.

  I watched as Jerry sat down across from me. He didn’t seem to mind the small stack of papers on his own seat. I watched in horrified amusement as a single magazine slid out from underneath him to crash to the floor. He didn’t seem to notice.

  He pulled a seemingly random piece of paper out from under a stack on his desk and glanced at it. “Says here you went to the Los Angeles City College for your associate’s degree,” he said, squinting at the paper. He moved it closer to his face until it was nearly touching his nose. “Graduated more than eight years ago.”

  I swallowed, knitting my fingers together in my lap. “That’s right. It was in the field of graphic design. Top of my class.”

  Jerry set down the piece of paper and leaned back, propping his feet up on a pile of magazines next to his chair. “Then you went to Griffingate Publishing House and worked in desktop publishing. Been with them since you graduated.” His voice was bland, his eyes locked on me like a hawk.

  My fingers shook, so I tangled them together in a tighter ball. “Yes, sir.” I tried not to fidget under the watery gaze of my potential future boss as he studied me with a look of curiosity etched across his face.

  “Don’t call me sir, just Jerry.”

  “Jerry,” I repeated like a parrot.

  “And you worked on cookbooks?” he asked.

  “I formatted cookbooks, yes. That’s a specialty at Griffingate, but they publish a variety of nonfiction titles. I was proficient in all aspects of the job: graphics, proofreading, troubleshooting.” To be honest, I don’t think I’d ever prepared a dinner that involved more than boiling water or turning on the microwave. Luckily, I wasn’t the author of said books. I just needed to know the technicalities of putting the book together, no blending of spices or pie-making skills involved.

  Standing, Jerry produced a box of donuts from somewhere behind his desk. I could instantly feel drool pooling in my mouth as he took out a fresh-looking glazed donut and took a big bite. I noticed then that his pant legs were two inches too short, and he was wearing two different-colored socks.

  After a long pause, he started up again. “Why did you leave that job at Griffingate?” He pointed at me with his donut. �
��There’s not a single reason in the world someone like you should be here, begging for a scrap of a job from somebody like me. You do understand your skills would be wasted here.”

  I had a line ready for this; I’d expected this question.

  “I crave new experiences to broaden my worldview,” I said firmly, my eyes locked with his. I wouldn’t look away. It was a lie, but it was a good one. “I learned all that I could learn in my old position, and journalism has always seemed fascinating to me. This is a new challenge for me.”

  Jerry stopped chewing and studied me.

  “Bull,” he answered, his mouth turned up in a half smile. “You left your job for a reason, not to become an assistant for me for a ‘challenge.’ You won’t learn a damn thing and you won’t be fascinated.”

  Crap. Maybe I should have taken that acting class in school; then I would have known how to lie better. I glanced down at my hands. My fingers were balled up so tightly that my knuckles had turned white.

  “I know it’s strange,” I said, locking my eyes with his. “But it is a new challenge for me. One I’d be good at.” I didn’t want to talk about—to even think about—why I’d left my previous job. I was really hoping he’d take the hint and move on.

  “The pay here is . . .” He hesitated. “Well, it’s not a lot.”

  I nodded. “I’m aware, Jerry. Thank you.”

  Jerry shoved the rest of his donut in his mouth, chewing methodically as he stared me down. He steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “So, why did you leave? There’s nothing in your past that will jump up to bite me later if you come to work for me?”

  I could feel the pressure of the unsaid words building up behind my lips. I wanted to tell him. I didn’t care anymore if it cost me the job and I had to starve from that point on. Before I could stop myself, I blurted it all out. “The head of the department I worked in was my fiancé.” The words cut deep into my chest.