Cover Story (6 page)

“I’m sure you will.”

He smiled at me in an open and confident way and I remembered him saying he respected me the night before. There weren’t many people in the world whom I honestly liked—in my experience most were too busy looking out for themselves—but watching Simon across the table, smiling at me, I had a feeling he was one of life’s good guys. Someone who could be trusted. I smiled back then bit into my bagel.

As we ate, I did a mental review of the investigation. “By the way, who lives at number one? No one’s even mentioned them.”

He finished chewing his last bite. “Rafaella and Liz share that house. They’re fairly new and we hardly ever see them. I think Rafaella’s got a job in the government, I’m not sure. But they both work long hours—probably haven’t even met all the neighbors yet.”

“Okay.” I pulled out my notebook, jotted down the information then tossed it back in my bag. “Thanks for lunch, but I better get working on this article. I want to hand it in this afternoon.”

*

Back in my apartment, I went through three cups of coffee and a packet of M&M’s trying to think of an angle for the story. Fight it as I might, I really had no choice.

I wrote the story I knew I must.

Kevin printed the article, accompanied by several of Matias’ pictures, a few days later.

*

Gnomes Living in Fear

By Tobi Fletcher

The gnomicides of four bashful garden gnomes has shot fear through the tightly knit gnome community of Santa Fe’s Los Alamos Court. The crimes, which occurred over two nights last week, are the first such events to hit the street.

Shocking scenes greeted the surviving gnomes as they awoke last Monday to find two of their kin murdered in the front yard of one residence and another in front of a residence two doors down.

A fourth gnomicide was committed in the yard of a third house in the street.

The gnomes and their humans, who are fearful of further attacks, were left shaking their heads at the senseless acts of violence.

“
We can’t understand why anyone would want to do this,” said resident Dot Hanson. The children of the street were particularly distressed, and the perpetrators are asked to consider this distress before taking any further action.

Police investigations failed to provide a lead and residents have been left to postulate their own theories. Early reports of links between the crimes and the lewd behavior of several gnomes have since been discounted.

All gnomes in suburban Santa Fe are warned to be vigilant.

*

The day after the gnome story appeared, Kevin called me into his office. Not usually a good sign. There could have been complaints from people involved in the article or negative reader feedback. Or maybe I used his coffee cup the day before.

But he was beaming. “Tobi, this piece about the gnomes is gold, pure gold.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. “Excellent.”

He walked around his desk and leaned back onto it, arms folded. “We’ve had great reader feedback and it’s been picked up by the L.A. and New York papers. Good work.”

I smiled—this could work to my advantage. While he was happy with me, perhaps I should push for Sofia and me to work on the scandal in the senator’s office. I’d just submitted my latest story, so the timing was perfect. “Kevin, I’m glad you’re pleased with my work and—”

“I am. In fact, I’m so pleased that I want you to get back out there and write a follow-up.” He scrubbed a hand through his gray-flecked hair then looked down at his computer, as if that was the end of the matter.

I felt a touch dizzy. “A follow-up?” I squeaked out. “The story was barely big enough for one article.”

“Baloney. What are the gnomes doing today? Have they had any more trouble?” He waved a hand around, as if conjuring up ideas. “Maybe get the kids’ perspective—you’re the journalist, you’ll think of something.”

“I don’t think—”

He pointed a stubby finger at me. “The people want more about the gnomes and you’re going to give it to them. On the strength of a follow-up coming, I could sell the story on to all the national papers.”

I saw my career flash before my eyes—interviews with the tooth fairy; on the road with Mr. and Mrs. Claus; exposés on the treatment of elves in the North Pole. “Kevin, it’s not going to be that easy, I—”

“You’ve got twenty-four hours. Don’t waste any of them standing here arguing with me.” He moved back to his chair and began typing.

“Yes, sir.”

I dragged myself back to Sofia and sat on her desk. “He wants a follow-up on the gnomes.”

“Well, it was funny. And it can’t be worse than my story.” She turned her computer screen to face me. “I’m covering another boob enhancement technique involving vacuum cleaners.”

The pictures were graphic and plain icky and I shuddered. “I suppose that’s worse.”

Matias walked past and punched me on the arm. “Hey, gnome-girl, hear you landed a follow-up piece. Nice one.”

I scowled. “Matias, you do realize I dislike you?”

“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a gnome.” He winked and walked off.

I groaned, went back to my desk and called Simon.

Simon and I met at what was becoming “our” deli two hours later for lunch and ordered our usual bagels.

“I liked the story, Tobi,” he said as we took our seats.

A glimmer of warmth unfurled in my chest. “Thanks. What did the others think?”

“Mom says they loved it, though Valentina and Ethel were scandalized by the pictures of the ‘lewd positions
’
.” He laughed and leaned back. “Anna thought she was famous and tells everyone she meets that she’s from the gnome street.”

Our bagels arrived and I handed over my pickle garnish as I spoke. “Any more incidents?”

Pickle at his mouth, he waggled it like a Groucho Marx cigar. “Nope, we’re gnome-crime free. What are you going to write about this time?”

“I have no idea.” The glimmer of warmth morphed into a sinking weight that fell to my stomach. I put my bagel down. “It was stretching it to make an entire article the first time—especially without discovering the culprit. I was hoping you’d have some ideas.” I attempted an impersonation of Anna’s face when she’d wanted a second piece of cherry pie—toothy smile, pleading eyes and a touch of hero-worship for good measure.

I don’t think it was as successful for me because he laughed. “Nope, not unless you want some architectural advice on the houses.”

“I can’t see how that’d fit in.” I went back to my bagel.

He shrugged. “Then I’m empty, sorry.”

“What about the women sharing at number one? It’s a long shot, but I haven’t met them yet—they might have something new to offer.”

He swallowed his mouthful and nodded. “They’re really hard to catch, but it’s a start.”

We ate in silence.

Silence is an interesting thing. Growing up in a house with Grace and my mother, silence was rare. They were always talking to each other, or on the phone, or to themselves. Or to me. Then there were the background sounds of hairdryers, TV talk shows, wind chimes, and music. And that was a quiet day with Mom and mini-Mom.

I’m a no-noise kind of girl.

Grace thinks it’s because I’m an introvert and they’re both extroverts, but I think I developed the trait as a weapon. The only defense a child/teen could use against the non-stop noise pollution? Refuse to participate. Become aloof. It was useful in journalism as well. A well-timed silence can bring forth a range of confessions. So to me, silence was a tactic. Either in attack or defense.

Yet, this silence with Simon as we ate our bagels at the Green Chile Deli didn’t fit into either category. It was actually … comfortable.

Which made me uncomfortable. It was beyond my experience.

I polished off my bagel and rushed to fill the void. “So, Simon, tell me about your neighbors. What don’t I know?”

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.