A Good Kind of Trouble (A Trouble in Twin Rivers Novel Book 1) (4 page)

Her editor sighed and rubbed his temples as if trying to ease a headache. Lindsey saw this motion so often she was starting to think of it as his personal greeting to her. She rarely saw Sam do it when talking to other reporters.
 

“Well, talk to the police,” he said finally. “But take the rest of the day off.”

He stood and herded Lindsey and Ben toward the door.
 

“And take Mr. Gillespie upstairs to Ms. Petrie’s office so he can make arrangements for his fee,” Sam said.
 

Lindsey led Ben to the edge of the newsroom near the elevators.

“I’ll just get some things from my desk. Can you wait a minute?”

Ben nodded and his eyes roved over the newsroom. He looked a little overwhelmed.

She tried to imagine what it must look like to someone who wasn’t used to the barely controlled chaos of a busy news organization. The constant buzz of reporters on the phone, talking to each other, yelling at the copy desk, typing, printers, ringing phones—it was a comforting and familiar chaos. She was practically raised in a newsroom and the noise and clutter were as familiar as her childhood home. Some of her favorite memories were hanging out in the newsroom on election night, watching her dad and “helping” his reporters by getting them coffee or snacks.

Lindsey made her way toward her cubicle in the middle of the room. She checked her phone for messages but found none. She checked her email, but there was nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
 

As she waited for her computer to shut down, she glanced around the room, noticing for the first time that her colleagues were watching her. She supposed she didn’t look as put together as usual. The bruise on her temple would have defied any attempt to cover it up with makeup, so she hadn’t bothered. Ben had insisted she put a Band-Aid on the scrape, which was only partially covered by her hair. And despite trying to ignore the pain, she was walking with a slight limp, which had probably also caught her coworkers’ attention.
 

She noted a few smirks, a couple pairs of rolled eyes, and a lot of whispered conversations with sideways glances in her direction. Not one person made eye contact with her. Her latest mishap was just going to add to her drama-queen reputation. Her back stiffened and she hurriedly shoved a stack of manila envelopes into her bag.
 

“Psst, Lindsey,” a voice came over the low cubicle wall. Charlie Grove, the obits writer, rose slowly behind the divider. Lindsey saw the shock of grey hair, then his tan forehead on which his eyeglasses rested, and then his shaggy eyebrows, followed finally by his intense, dark eyes. “How ya doing?”

“I’m fine, thanks, Charlie,” she said with a sigh.
 

“Hey,” he said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. He stared intently, gave her a short nod, and his eyes narrowed. “I believe you.”
 

You believe in Big Foot
. But she smiled, grateful for his support.
 

“Thank you, Charlie,” she said.

Ben watched the hustle of the newsroom with awe. Three dozen people, at least, all talking at once. Phones rang, and were ignored until someone popped up and yelled, “Isn’t anyone going to get that?” A young woman at a desk near Ben sighed and picked up the receiver after multiple rings.
 

“Newsroom,” she said in a bored drawl.
 

It was certainly nothing like the staid law firm where he spent his working day. There, phones were answered in a hushed tone on the first or second ring, then transferred from secretary to paralegal, sometimes to him or one of the other attorneys, if they absolutely couldn’t avoid contact with the corporate client. The cubicles at Stanton & Lowe housed legal assistants and secretaries and they certainly didn’t lean over walls loudly telling bawdy jokes and ribbing each other.
 

Ben watched Sam leave his office at the edge of the newsroom and head for a gaggle of reporters leaning against some cubicle walls. As soon as the foursome saw Sam heading toward them, they scattered like flies. A slightly satisfied expression crossed the editor’s face. Then Sam headed Ben’s direction. Ben steeled himself for the tirade he could tell was always bubbling just below this guy’s surface.

“Look, I don’t know what happened today,” Sam said, without preamble. “But you have to understand that these things happen to Lindsey all the time. She’s like a hypochondriac, but instead of illnesses, she always thinks someone’s out to get her. What’s the word I’m looking for?”
 

“She’s not paranoid. Someone is out to get her,” Ben said. “I was there. I saw it.”
 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, and cars follow her when she’s driving, and she gets threatening calls on her voicemail that later disappear, and people break into her home and don’t steal anything. Hang around long enough and you’ll get used to the drama.”
 

“I know what I saw,” Ben said, trying not to show the frustration building within him. How did Lindsey put up with this every day?
 

“I’m sure you do,” Sam said, sounding anything but sure. “Thanks for getting her out of that jam in court.”

He walked off, reporters ducking their heads as he approached. Ben shook his head. Why was this guy being such a jerk? It’s not like Lindsey staged her own mugging. How could he so easily dismiss Lindsey’s injuries and the fact that she could still be in danger?

Ben moved to allow a couple reporters by. They were deep in a half-whispered discussion and barely noticed him.
 

“Again?” one woman asked with a laugh. “What this time? Someone following her? Black helicopters?”

“I know, right?” the other woman said, giggling.
 

He watched them walk down the hallway, knowing whom they were talking about. He looked back to the crowded newsroom and saw Lindsey making her way towards him. She was limping and holding her leather satchel stuffed with files, with another half-dozen manila folders in her arms. She held her head up as she walked through the crowded newsroom, her colleagues either ignoring her or laughing at her.
 

A slow burning rage built in his stomach as he stepped forward.
 

“Let me take those for you,” he said. The urge to protect her surprised him because he knew, probably better than most, that she could take care of herself.

Lindsey handed him the folders, but kept her bag. Her face was flushed and her eyes averted.
 

“Thank you,” she said. “Legal is on the fourth floor. Elevators are this way.”
 

He followed her away from the noisy newsroom and toward the bank of elevators. She said nothing while they waited for the doors to open and wouldn’t look at him. Her back was straight and her chin up, but he knew she was only putting on a front. She knew what her coworkers were saying behind her back—hell, right in front of her face. They weren’t hiding their contempt and their jokes at her expense.
 

The fourth floor of the newspaper’s offices was nothing like the floor where the product was produced. Here, the thick carpet muffled footsteps and the phones rang softly and were answered on the first ring. The hallway that led to the legal department was decorated with framed front pages from history. Pearl Harbor, V-E Day, Kennedy’s assassination, the moon landing, and a variety of election night headlines.
 

Lara Petrie’s office was near the end of the corridor. A secretary greeted them when they opened the door. She picked up the phone and let the newspaper’s in-house counsel know she had visitors, then she waved them toward the door.

“You can go in,” she said.
 

Ben followed Lindsey through another oak door. Lara Petrie rose from her desk as they entered her impeccably appointed office. She was tall and slim, her dark hair cut into a stylish bob that flipped up above her shoulders. She wore a pair of slim black trousers and a light blue sweater set. A pearl necklace rested against the cashmere fabric.
 

Ben tried to control his expression, but knew he was failing miserably. From the corner of his eye he saw Lindsey put her hand to her mouth and cough, covering a laugh.
 

“Ms. Petrie, this is Ben Gillespie,” Lindsey said when she recovered from her coughing fit.
 

“Call me Lara, please,” the attorney said.
 

Even the wavering voice sounded spot-on. Ben stammered out a greeting that he hoped sounded socially acceptable.
 

“Thank you, Mr. Gillespie, for your help this morning,” Lara said. Her features were twisted into a smile, but her eyes were annoyed at having to do unexpected work. Ben knew that look. He saw it daily on his own secretary if he asked her to do anything beyond the bare minimum.
 

“Here is my card,” Lara continued, handing Ben her business card. “You can send the invoice to my office and we’ll take care of it. It was sure a good thing you were in the courtroom this morning.”
 

“Yes, thank you,” Ben said. He wanted out of this room, but at the same time, he couldn’t stop staring at this bad knock-off of the classic Fifties TV housewife. She looked just like the original, but instead of being friendly, this model was stiff, humorless and, well, rather scary. Like the evil doppelgänger of the sweet Laura Petrie.

Lindsey finally pulled him toward the door. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Petrie. We’ll let you get back to work.”

“Oh, and Miss Fox,” Lara Petrie called after them. “In the future, please let me know if you have been subpoenaed so I can make arrangements for outside counsel ahead of time.”

Lindsey stopped and whirled, her hands on her hips, a stubborn tilt to her chin. “I was not served with a subpoena. That lawyer lied.”
 

“The newspaper’s legal department needs to be kept informed,” Lara Petrie said. “Should you ever get a summons to court, I need to know.”

“If I had received a summons to court,” Lindsey said, her voice clipped, “I would have told Sam immediately. I know the procedures.”
 

“Hmm, well,” Lara said. “Thanks for coming by.”
 

Ben put an arm around Lindsey and steered her through the double doors and down the plush carpeted hallway to the elevators. Lindsey’s eyes stayed focused on the floor, her lips drawn tight. Their date had been a small slice of hell, but at least he’d gotten to see her smile and laugh a little. Now, seeing her again and watching her be ridiculed and injured, he longed to see a happier expression cross her face. The elevator doors closed, leaving them alone. He nudged Lindsey with his elbow.
 

“What the hell was that? I’m not sure if that’s not a trademark violation.”
 

To his great relief, Lindsey laughed out loud. “I know. And the weird thing is that Petrie is her married name. She chose to be Lara Petrie.”

“But does she have to dress the part, too?”
 

“There’s a Michael Jackson in Classifieds.”
 

“Can we go see him next?”

“He’s normal,” Lindsey said, sounding disappointed.

“That’s too bad,” Ben said. “You have an interesting job.”

Lindsey nodded. “Yes, some days more than others.”

Chapter Four

“What are you going to do now?” Ben asked.
 

Lindsey kept walking toward her car. Her editor might have sent her home, but she still had work to do—calls to make, interviews to set up, and a story to write on renovations to Twin City’s sewer plant.
 

“I guess I’ll go home and get Steve. I called Kath. I’ll stay there tonight.”
 

She’d stayed with her friends Kathleen and Dave Hogan far too many times in the last months, but one more night wouldn’t matter. Especially after the day she’d just had.
 

Ben kept pace with her, a persistent shadow at her side. “You’re going back to your house? Why don’t I follow you there? Just to make sure that messenger didn’t track you there.”

Why was he being so nice to her? He had ignored her calls after their date six months ago and now he was suddenly concerned for her safety? Well, she’d done just fine without his help and would continue to do so.

“No. I’m fine, really.”

He walked with her toward the employee parking lot, the opposite direction of his car.

“Why is your boss such an ass?”
 

Lindsey focused on her surroundings, not answering the question. How to explain Sam?
 

“He thinks I’m crazy,” she said finally.
 

“But you’re not crazy,” he said.
 

At least one person was sticking up for her. She had to admit, grudgingly, that it had been easier facing Sam with Ben at her side. “Thank you.”

“I mean, I don’t know about the other stuff—the break-in, the voicemails,” Ben continued. “But that guy on the bike wasn’t a random mugger.”

Lindsey’s face warmed as she realized that Ben must have talked to Sam about her previous troubles. He’d probably gotten an earful about her drama-queen reputation. Not the impression she’d wanted to make.
 

Like you made such a good impression last time?
 

“I appreciate that,” she said, trying to control her voice. “And thank you for your assistance earlier.”

She walked down a row of cars in the parking lot and saw her hatchback a few cars in. It was sitting at an odd angle.

“Oh, crap,” Lindsey said, her stomach sinking. The tires on the driver’s side were flat.

Ben kneeled next to the car to look at the damage.
 

“Slashed. Both of them.” He gave her a questioning look. “What the hell?”

Lindsey rubbed her sore shoulder. Why were these things happening to her? She’d done her best to investigate the string of unfortunate events, but had come up empty. At best, she was under a bad star or had been cursed by someone she cut off in traffic. At worst, well, someone didn’t like her reporting. But whoever it was hadn’t let on what story he was upset about. She let out a long sigh.