Teacup Novellas 02 - Strike the Match (8 page)

She knew her salary was way over the top, and she also knew he’d done it out of pity for her predicament. But she wasn’t stupid. If he was dumb enough to fork out that kind of money for a rookie reporter—WSN experience notwithstanding—then she would gladly take the money and run.

If I can just keep my mouth shut.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “I would like to get your feet wet, not just reporting, but in the production area as well. It’s a bit archaic at the moment. Though I’m hoping to upgrade next year.”

“Fine.” She studied the blue of his eyes, trying to decide if they were really that blue or perhaps contacts with some color added. Not that it mattered to her.

“And you never know. Some day you may find yourself in an even smaller town with an even smaller press, and you’ll need to know how to make it sing.”

Don’t roll your eyes. Make him think you’re falling for this line of bull.
She wondered why his hair was so heavily sprinkled with gray. Not that there was anything wrong with it.
It actually adds an air of class. Or something. He’s probably a lot younger than I first thought. Not all that much older than I am.
She wondered if he’d ever considered Grecian Formula or one of those gray-removing hair products. Then she realized she was glad he hadn’t. She liked the touches of gray.

Then she wondered why she’d wondered at all.

“And then we’ll get you involved in distribution and marketing at some point. Let you get out there and sell some ads. Give you get a taste of that as well.”

“Wonderful.”

He shot a look at her, narrowing his eyes.

“What?”

He continued to stare at her.

“Look, let’s just get on with it. I’m sure you have a whole list there on that desk somewhere, an entire agenda of assignments you want me to cover. Real hard copy stuff.”

He blinked, saying nothing.

She stood up, rearranging her scarf. “Surely there’s a school bake sale that needs immediate coverage? Or maybe a load of mums arriving at Elizabeth’s florist shop across the street? Maybe a flapjack eating contest in the works? Oh wait, let me guess. A new shipment of Hardy Boy books getting the spotlight at the library? Want me to scoot right over and interview Myrla?” She mimicked a runner’s arms moving back and forth, keeping pace. “Hey, time’s a wasting, boss! Chop chop! There’s a whole big world of news waiting out there, so let’s get this party started!”

He tilted his head at a forty-five degree angle as he tapped a black Bic pen on his desk blotter. “Are you done?”

“Hey, I haven’t even
started
.”

He shoved his chair back and stood up, bracing both hands on his desk. “Keri? Knock. It. Off.”

His tone caught her short.

“I am one breath away from kicking those cute little sarcastic dimples of yours out that door. How DARE you come in here, mocking my paper! I offered you a job out of the goodness of my heart, mostly because your Aunt Nita asked me to months ago. Long before I stumbled into you at that fire last week. And let’s not forget that hefty salary I stupidly offered to pay you. A salary which, I might add, I am seriously reconsidering at the moment. I’m real sorry you’ve had such a rough time and things aren’t going the way you’d planned. But you either button up that smart mouth of yours and quit copping such an attitude, or you can go crawling over to Chandlers and see if Clara needs help washing dishes.” He straightened, holding up his forefinger and thumb less than a quarter inch apart. “Because I am this close to wishing I’d never met you, Keri McMillan.”

She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes felt like saucers plastered on her face. “I—”

His eyes pierced hers, obliterating every thought from her mind.

Finally, Grant slowly sat back down in his chair. She quietly moved back to the chair she’d occupied, sliding back on the seat while wishing she could somehow disappear beneath it.
What have I done? How could I be so thoughtless? And when did I become so obnoxious?

“Now, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to tell you what
I
had in mind for your first assignment.”

She lowered her head while nodding, unable to look him in the eye.

“I would like for you to immerse yourself in the investigation of the Blankenship fire.”

She raised her head, searching his eyes.
Is he dishing it back at me? Is this some kind of joke?

“No one knows the situation better. No one knows this town like you do. No one understands the dynamics and the implications better. Can you be unbiased? No way. Is there anyone more motivated? Not a chance.”

She swallowed, a lump the size of Mt. Hood sticking in her throat. Emotion burned her eyes and she tried hard not to give in to the tears.

“I don’t know what to say. I—”

“A simple thank you would be really nice about now.”

She couldn’t believe he hadn’t made good on his threat to give her the boot. And now this? She took a deep breath and said the words, meaning them.

“Thank you.”

“Not so hard, was it? Okay, let’s get to work. Here’s what I want you to do.”

She sat in her car, her forehead resting against the steering wheel. The conversation with Grant played over and over in Keri’s mind. She vowed to offer him a serious apology. Soon. Okay, eventually. She hardly recognized that person who’d sat across his desk, hurling insults like some acerbic late-night comic. She cringed, promising herself to try harder. To cut him some slack.

But right now she had a job to do. He’d spelled it out: build a list of suspects.

He’d explained his background in investigative reporting. He’d offered tips and suggestions. She’d bit back some of the retorts that crossed her mind, trying hard to focus on the task at hand. At some point the realization hit her. If she could control her attitude and keep her mouth shut, she might actually
learn
something from Grant Dawson.

Whether she liked it or not.

She stepped out of her Jeep and made her way up the steps to the sheriff’s office. “Bud, can I have a minute?”

“Hi there, Keri. Come on in. My time is your time.”

“Thanks. I’ve taken a temporary job at the paper working for Grant Dawson. He’s asked me to look into the Blankenship fire.”

“Well, now. Never figured you to be the sleuthing type, but more power to you. How can I help?”

Bud Tomlinson pointed to the extra chair in his office. She took a seat. “If I asked for names, who would you consider at the top of the list of possible suspects?”

He sat down behind his desk. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you? I like that. Well, of course any time there’s trouble in Waterford Bay, Zack Clayton is always at the top of the list.”

“Zack?” she said, scribbling his name on her notepad. “He’s still causing trouble?”

“Did he ever
stop
causing trouble?” He quirked a smile.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Mostly small stuff. Nothing major. Petty theft, shoplifting, vandalism—”

“Wasn’t he the one who inked the indoor pool at the high school a few years ago?”

“Seems our boy had a problem with the P.E. teacher. And vice versa.”

“Must have been quite a problem. Anything in his file involving arson?”

Bud smiled at her as he reached for the file already open on his desk. “You don’t miss much, do you? Let’s see here. Shoplifting, shoplifting, vandalism—he has a real fondness for liquid soap. Likes to put red dye in it and dump it in the town fountain.” He continued browsing the file, flipping page after page. “More shoplifting—mostly cigarettes, mind you. He’s also quite the graffiti artist. Doesn’t even try to hide his tracks anymore. Messed up some buildings, cars, other private property. We’ve lost count on those.

“But no arson. Wait . . . I take that back. Looks like a couple of minor incidents way back. He was only fourteen at the time, so it’s not on his official record. Juvenile stuff. Suspect in a fire at an abandoned barn down at the end of Forest Lane. No charges were pressed. But his name showed up on the list of suspects.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, another case that was never solved. A small row boat in flames found adrift off the shore. Traces of kerosene were found on some of the charred pieces of its hull. Someone saw his truck near the marina shortly before. He said. She said. No solid proof.”

“Let me guess. He was under age. No official record.”

“Atta girl.”

“Have you spoken to him since the Blankenship fire? Does he have an alibi?”

“Oh, Zack always has an alibi. But they’re all his friends. Liars, every one of ‘em. But we’re checking it out.”

“Bud, do you think Zack burned down that cabin?”

He leaned back, hooking his ankle over his other knee. “I don’t know. It’s still early in the investigation. We’ll see what turns up.”

“Anyone else under suspicion?”

“No. Least wise, no one to speak of. How about I give you a call if I hear anything?”

“Fair enough,” she said, standing. “Thanks for your time.”

Chapter 6

“Hey Dad. What brings you to town?” Grant clicked on SAVE to make sure he didn’t lose the article he’d almost finished.

“Oh . . .”

“Take a load off. Want something to drink?”

“No. Thanks.”

“You in town on an errand or just stopping by to say hello?”

Grant looked up from his desk when his father didn’t answer. He was used to his father’s peculiar ways, but almost did a double-take. Shep had a goofy grin on his face.

“Cornstarch.”

“Cornstarch?”

The grin settled back into a more Shep-like subtle smile. “Cornstarch. Plumb out.”

Grant chuckled at his dad’s quirky behavior. “What do you need cornstarch for?”

“Oh . . . I don’t know.”

Their eyes met. Shep blinked and looked away.

“Never know.”

“Never know what?”

“When you might need some.”
“Ah,” Grant followed. “True.”

“And tea.”

“Well, now. One can never have enough tea in the house.”

Shep nodded.

“Oh, that reminds me . . .” Grant stopped himself before saying anything more. He jotted himself a note on a orange Post-it:
Teacup.

“What’s that?” his father asked.

“Nothing. Just something I’ve been intending to look up online. Some research.”

“On tea?”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

His dad moseyed down the hall, his boots scraping on the hardwood floors. “Something else you need, Pop?”

“No.”

“Okay if I get back to work?”

Shep passed back by his door going the other direction. “Yep.”

“I’ll stop by tonight. My turn to win at chess.”

“We’ll see.”

Grant heard the door close with a click. He loved living near his father again after all these years. Shep Dawson never failed to bring a smile to his lips.

“Cornstarch?” He threw his head back laughing.
Yesterday it was pistachio nuts. The day before, vanilla wafers.

He wasn’t sure, but something was going on behind his father’s mysterious gray eyes. He’d bet his life on it.

Then another thought drifted through his mind. It came unbeckoned. Unwelcome. Was it possible his father was drifting into the netherlands of dementia? He shook off the thought, refusing to give it a landing strip in his mind or on his heart.

Keri put her Jeep in park at the rear of the burnt cabin. She needed some fresh air, time to think. She looked through the windshield at the skeletal structure, still in disbelief.

By now, she should have been helping her father finalize the paper work preparing for the transfer of ownership to the Blankenships. They should be tying up loose ends, putting the final touches on the cabin. She should be ordering a huge “welcome home” poinsettia to greet the new homeowners to their oceanside cabin.

Instead, she was staring at what was left of it. Next to nothing.

She noticed a pickup parked to the side of the lot, almost out of sight. Curious, she got out of her car and stepped under the yellow crime scene tape. Keri spotted a young man standing in what should have been the family room.