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

by Deany Ray

  “They hurt,” she answered dramatically, “and I can’t leave the house looking like this. What would people say?” Her brown eyes took the measure of my outfit, from the shreds of sweater to the ruined shoes. “Probably the same things they’re saying about you. What the hell happened to you, Hailey?”

  “New job,” I replied, so not in the mood for details—and besides, there was no time. “I just talked to my boss, and he needs me at the office. I’m going to have to book it, so, Mom, you take care.” I walked out the door before she had a chance to intercept me, and headed to the paper, where the longest day of my life would apparently go on.

  Chapter Five

  The drive back through the dark night to the Palm Shores Gazette was a dreary one. I frowned, rolling up the windows of my Jeep and turning on the heat against the chill. The lingering scent of dog just added to my stress. I would have preferred to have the windows open.

  Determined to get this thing over with, I booked it across town until one of the ever-present traffic jams made me hit my brakes. At this time of night, it had to be an accident that had brought things to a stop. Normally it would be about a thirty-minute drive, and of course, I’d been derailed by my mother’s whining.

  I huffed in exasperation at the lines of cars and trucks that clogged the road, creeping along slowly. It took me an hour and twelve minutes to get to the Gazette, and in that time, I got three annoyed texts from Jerry and seven calls from my mother. I didn’t know which of them was being more dramatic. I texted Jerry at a stoplight, telling him about the traffic and promising to get there as quickly as I could.

  Pulling into the parking lot at last, I knew that I must have looked like a totally different person than the one who had arrived that morning for the interview. My hair and makeup were mussed, my clothing torn and stained, and my shoes absolutely ruined. Still, I had no choice but to carry on, pulling off my shoes once I walked into the cluttered entrance of the Palm Shores Gazette. Although it felt like a week, it had only been a few hours since I’d last been in Jerry’s office. I still remembered how to get there, rushing past Sandra’s empty desk.

  I knocked on the door to his office then went in without waiting. “Sorry! Traffic,” I said, blushing as I noticed it wasn’t just Jerry in his trash heap of an office. There were two other men there, and one of them was Mike, the I-wish-I-didn’t-find-him-that-hot guy I met that day. If there was anyone in the world I didn’t want to see me in this state, it was him. Damn. This had just exploded once and for all Kat’s overly optimistic notion that the day could not possibly get any worse.

  Mike was the only one who had a smile for me. “Looks like you were reporting in a war zone,” he said with a chuckle. My heart lifted a little at the pity in his gaze, so different from the granite stares I was getting from the other two.

  “As I was saying,” Jerry said, apparently continuing a conversation from before, “the body was found at the marina a couple of hours ago, pierced through the chest with a fishing spear. Webb here was the one who found him.” He nodded toward me, his frown still in place.

  The other man looked alert, sitting close to the edge of his seat, as if he was prepared to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

  Jerry saw me looking. “Ron Daly,” he said by way of introduction. “He’ll help us get this thing online as soon we say go. I believe you’ve met Mike Hadfield. He’s our crime reporter.”

  So. That’s why Mike was there.

  “Looks like you got a major scoop your first day on the job,” Mike told me with a sparkle in his eye. “I heard about it from a couple of my sources, but the cops are always big on their ‘no comments’ when this kind of thing goes down. And here you are like a gift—an eyewitness from the scene. So far, no one else has got it, which means we’ll be first.”

  Jerry nodded. “We’ll get it up right away online then go with a fuller version in our next print edition.”

  Mike had his notebook open. “Start at the beginning, Hailey. Every little detail.”

  I launched into my tale, doing my best not to leave anything out, even though I knew it hadn’t been professional to take along my best friend and a zillion dogs. I spilled out everything that happened from the time we stepped into the marina until I dropped Kat off.

  Jerry asked for Kat’s contact information, and I gave it, sending her a quick text with a “sorry” and a warning that she might get a call.

  Tell them to send someone hot, Kat replied.

  “We need to delve into every facet of this guy’s life. Every single thing we can possibly dig up.” Jerry looked fervent, slamming his fist down onto his desk. “I want to know everything about him.” He turned to Mike. “First, write up the basics for the digital edition, and let’s get that baby up. Then I want you to reach out to every contact you have: police, nurses, everyone. Find the victim’s favorite haunts and ask around about him there. We’ll write as much as we can about this.”

  “Spear-ited Away,” Mike said, scratching his chin. “The Case of the Cursed Treasure.”

  Jerry nodded. “Not bad. I like having options with a headline.”

  “First to those favorite haunts.” Mike stood, chuckling good-naturedly. “I’m off to go flirt with waitresses on the company’s dime. I’ll get you the article in one hour.” He saluted Jerry then he winked at me. “Don’t let them forget about you, Hailey,” he whispered jokingly as he walked by. “You should ask for a little something for bringing this scoop to our doorstep, like a finder’s fee.” He laughed and then he was gone.

  Jerry shook his head. “I should make him write the comic section.”

  By then my stomach rumbled. I’d eaten the hot-dog dinner but suddenly, as the adrenaline of the day was starting to wear off, I was aching for some late-night takeout. And a hot bubble bath. And a massage. And a new pair of killer shoes.

  Daly left as well. “I will be on standby and wait to get Mike’s piece,” he said.

  Jerry frowned, his bushy eyebrows furrowing like two caterpillars moving together for a kiss. “And you, Webb, will be doing online research. Check out this guy’s social media, his websites, any blog, LinkedIn page, etcetera, whatever you can find. Then compile your findings and send them to me.”

  “I’m on it, Jerry,” I said, feeling nervous and excited at the same time. Now that I knew he wasn’t furious with me, my thoughts turned to the kind of danger I might have landed in. There were some shady characters involved who weren’t afraid to ram a spear into a chest when someone got in their way. “Is—is there any way my name can be left out of the story?”

  Jerry glanced up at me with his watery gray eyes. His yellowed mustache wiggled as he pursed his mouth. “We can refer to you as a source on the scene and we won’t print your name. Just be aware that other news outlets might, though. The PR department at the police station would have a basic story that they give us and others as well, and they might reveal who it was who found the body, although I doubt they’ll print your name. They’d probably say it was someone from the Gazette, at most.”

  “Oh, okay, I understand.” So much to learn in this new environment. “Thank you and good night.” I stood up from my chair, tired and feeling a million years old.

  He barely acknowledged me as I stood up and left with my tattered heels in one hand and what remained of my dignity in the other.

  It was really disappointing that I wasn’t going to get to actually be out there, doing any of the footwork. But then again, I wasn’t a reporter. I was frowning as I stepped back into the lobby. I pulled my ruined shoes back onto my feet, cursing as the heel broke off completely in my hand. I stumbled and nearly tumbled to the ground, thankful there was no one to watch. As I hobbled on uneven shoes out into the parking lot, my Jeep seemed impossibly far away.

  Because of course it did, it began to rain the second I walked out, a light drizzle turning into a torrential downpour in mere seconds. “Thank you, California skies,” I said sarcastically, glaring at the clouds. “You
hardly ever rain, but you had to pick today in case I hadn’t already had enough misery.” I kind of felt like crying as I climbed into my Jeep, soaking wet and shivering. Turning the heat up full blast, I took off my shoes and tossed them into the passenger seat, heading home as quickly as I could manage without risking a speeding ticket.

  It felt like an eternity before I pulled into my parking lot at my new apartment. The old lady that lived next door was in my spot again, so I parked in a guest spot, too tired to even think of calling the towing company.

  Tossing my shoes into the dumpster, I walked the last few steps to the building door, up to the third floor and, pulling out my key, I pushed open the door to my apartment. The lingering scent of fresh paint still hung in the air. The door opened into an airy living room, which was dominated by a huge picture window. With the rain, I didn’t have much of a view at the moment, but the lovely, sculptured trees and communal pool area was a pleasant scene.

  My living room was sparsely furnished with a couch, a narrow desk, and a small flat-screen TV situated next to the doors that led out to the balcony. The walls were white, hung with massive photos of faraway places I’d always dreamed of visiting. I could use more furniture, and a few boxes were still hanging out in the corners, but the living room was the most put-together room in the apartment. My bedroom was completely empty. The kitchen looked like a wasteland, filled with even more unpacked boxes as well as everything I had yet to put in its place. My lack of furniture meant that my kitchen counter was crowded with all the knickknacks that would normally be sitting on a coffee table or arranged on nightstands.

  I’d been here for weeks, and I was still sleeping on the fold-out couch. It wasn’t really my fault; I’d been afraid to buy furniture without knowing where my next paycheck would be coming from.

  “Maybe now I can buy myself a mattress,” I said to the room, which seemed to echo my words back into the emptiness.

  First things first; I needed a hot shower—a very hot shower. I pulled off all my clothing and looked sadly at my blouse, which seemed beyond any help from a stain stick and a soaking in the washer, which couldn’t, after all, put the ripped pieces back together. Then I hopped into the shower. The bathroom was my favorite room in the apartment; unlike in most apartments, this bathroom had a little window to let the fresh air in and keep the room from getting too stuffy. I opened it just a touch, feeling the cool, rain-scented breeze slide in. Then I got under the stream of steaming water and stayed there until my whole body was wrinkled from the heat.

  Clean at last, I felt energized and happy despite the day I’d had. For the first time since the breakup, I felt like I had a purpose, something new to focus on and fill the massive void my life had become.

  After fluffing my wet curls and changing into my pj’s, I grabbed my laptop from my desk and took it to the kitchen. “What to eat, what to eat?” I asked the fridge. I opened the doors and winced; the inside of the refrigerator was even emptier than the rooms in the apartment.

  I got onto my neighbor’s open Wi-Fi and fired up the stove. Soon the whole apartment was filled with the nutty scent of melted butter as I fried up a grilled cheese. Between flips, I started Googling the dead treasure hunter. I was pretty good at grilled cheese, but that was the extent of my culinary knowledge. Sandwiches were easy, and lately I hadn’t had the funds to shell out on takeout.

  I poured myself a glass of red wine and sat down with my grilled cheese, poring over the information Google had pulled up for me. I’d put in enough hours to call it a day, but the shower had restored my energy, and I was curious about this man whose tragedy I had clumsily tripped into the middle of.

  Another grilled cheese later, I had learned . . . absolutely nothing.

  I glanced down at the writing on my little notepad: Derek O’Connell. Forty-four years old. Tanned. Dead.

  That was it. The guy was like a social-media ghost; he had no LinkedIn profile, no Facebook, no Twitter. I had no idea whether he was married or had any family. He didn’t show up on any of the dating sites. The mystery of Derek O’Connell grew; what kind of weirdo didn’t even have a Facebook page?

  I was staring at one of the few things I could find associated with him: an ancient Myspace page, which featured O’Connell holding a big fish, but held hardly any clues about his life. There were three other photos I’d managed to dig up. Each showed him holding up small objects he’d found while treasure hunting. The stories that went with them were brief and uninteresting, but I bookmarked them anyway so I could send the links to Jerry.

  Frowning, I ran my fingers across the keys but came up with nothing. There had to be more here. I was just missing something. I just had to find the magic term to type into the search box.

  Standing up, I stretched, glancing out of the kitchen window into the rainy darkness, where the whole world appeared to be silhouettes and swaying shadows. I pulled out my phone and looked up the original info that Jerry had sent over when Derek O’Connell, in my mind, was a living person I hoped would not rebuff me. Works for Pearlrover West.

  It was better than the nothing I currently had to work with, so I pulled up everything I could find on the company that had employed our victim. The official website was professional and sleekly designed. It was obvious from the expansive maps that they were a huge company with projects going on across the globe.

  “Pearlrover West, Marine Division,” I read out loud to myself. “This must be where Derek worked.”

  The marine division had its own page, filled with underwater photos of scuba divers exploring shipwreck sites. The work looked adventurous—and dangerous as well. I glanced through the pictures but didn’t see any photos of men resembling O’Connell. Not a single one looked like he could be our victim.

  Specializing in shipwrecks and treasures that have long been hidden in the ocean’s depths, the Pearlrover Marine Team supports the California Underwater Museum and the Palm Shores Nautical Museum through our team’s intrepid efforts to bring up pieces of the past from the seafloor.

  I frowned. “Probably only when you can’t make a profit from selling it.”

  My eyes started to itch from staring at the screen for so long, and I decided it might be time to send what I had to Jerry and call it a night. Then something caught my eye. Near the bottom of the screen was a place to click and learn more about “Investors.” Curious, I clicked on the word to find a rather plain page filled with the names of companies and individuals who had sponsored the marine endeavors. There were a lot of names, considering that pricey treasures were anything but guaranteed. I imagined that some dives turned out to be a bust, but what, after all, did I really know about that kind of thing?

  I looked a bit into the names, and I was just about to click out of the screen when I saw something that made me freeze.

  One of the names on the list was Connor Whitacre.

  My mouth went dry, and my heart was pounding in my ears. Connor was my ex-fiancé. My eyes narrowed as I stared at the name, waiting for the letters to rearrange themselves.

  I must have misread it, right? Connor would have told me if he’d invested in this company—or at least I think he would have. He told me about the other things he invested in; there’s no way he would have just forgotten to tell me about this one. Right?

  Ice ran through my veins. “It can’t be him. There’s no way.”

  Taking a deep breath, I looked again at the list of names and spent some time Googling some of them, hoping something would jump out at me. I was hoping to somehow make some sense of what I was seeing on my screen. Finally, I gave up. I gathered everything I’d gotten so far, emailed it to Jerry, and shut down my laptop. But even though the words were no longer in front of me, they were bored into my memory as I cleaned up the kitchen.

  All sorts of dark thoughts filled my head as I prepared for bed. I lay down, listening to the rain as it battered against the windows. Sleep stayed just out of reach as questions pushed in around the edges of the peaceful thoughts I t
ried to fill my mind with.

  Perhaps I hadn’t known the man I almost married as well as I thought.

  Chapter Six

  My alarm blared its usual horrendous, high-pitched wake-up call at six. I reached to turn it off, having no idea why I even set it so early. Perhaps because I’d grown accustomed to an early start at Griffingate.

  Groggy, I sat up and looked around, a little confused about where I was. The light slanted through the windows in the dim, gray glow of the predawn world. I blinked, and my eyes came to rest on the front door. I stared at it for a moment, trying to decide where I was.

  Right. I was sleeping in the living room until I could get a proper bed. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to take the king-sized bed that Connor and I had shared; I didn’t want any of the things we had bought together.

  Wishing I had been a little less emotional and more practical, I got up and stretched, feeling the aches in my lower back. I moved around a bit to try to work them out. I had a sore spot, it seemed, that corresponded to every spring on the lackluster couch. Every morning when I woke up on that metal abomination, I cursed the salesman who’d had the nerve to call it a sleeper sofa. I cursed the image of my ex stretched out in the spacious bed I should have taken when I left. Yes! I could have sold the thing and bought myself another bed if I’d let my head decide and not my broken heart.

  Then the memories of the night before came flooding back into my head. My thoughts wandered and ended up at the same dead end they had before. I couldn’t shake the memory of that body. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Connor was connected to the company the occupant of said body had been working at—until his chest had an unfortunate encounter with a spear.

  Another memory surfaced, and I winced. I’d also spilled the story of my humiliating breakup to my boss. At a job interview no less.

  Coffee. I needed coffee now. One of the few things I had made sure to grab from my old place was my coffee maker, along with the grinder and all of the coffee beans. I ground up some of the beans now, filling the whole house with the delectable aroma of coffee.