Alibis & Angels Read online

  “And I’d like a direct answer to my question.” Shari’s tone was dry. She took a deeper drink of her coffee. Was she wrong to want a fourth cup so soon?

  “All right. I’ll give you one.” Becca still sounded amused. She also sounded confident. “I’m hoping to convince you to at least come in for an interview with Today. Take a tour of our offices. Meet some of our staff. See what we can offer you. I’m sure you’ll be impressed.”

  Shari smothered a chuckle. That wouldn’t take much. She raised her eyes to see above her high cubicle partitions. The Telegraph’s walls and ceiling were stained with age and neglect. The space was cramped. The gray wall-to-wall carpeting was thin and worn. The stench of newsprint made her almost dizzy by the end of the day. The computer software was several versions behind and the photocopier was outdated. It didn’t even do color.

  Shari lowered her gaze to the mug in her hand. She’d bet the coffee tasted better on the other side, too. “Thanks, but like I said, I’m happy with the Telegraph.”

  “Are you sure? I believe you’d be impressed with our pay as well.”

  “The Today staff get paid to do this? That is impressive.”

  Becca’s laughter sounded forced. “The management team discussed the range we’d be able to offer you.”

  The managing editor named a salary that made Shari’s eyes stretch wide. Becca was killing her. Just killing her. Even with the wage increase the Telegraph staff had received at the beginning of the year, the salary Becca mentioned would have a significant positive impact on Shari’s lifestyle.

  Still Shari wasn’t interested in leaving Briar Coast. “You’re right. I’m impressed, but as I said, I’m happy here. There aren’t a lot of people who can say that.”

  “All right. Well, you can’t blame me for trying.” Becca gave a deep sigh. “I wish you the best, Sharelle. I hope Diego knows how lucky he is to have you.”

  “Thanks. Good luck to you as well.” Shari frowned as she cradled her telephone receiver.

  Becca had sounded very comfortable dropping Diego’s name. Did the two newspaper editors know each other? Shari supposed it wasn’t so strange that journalists in nearby markets would be acquainted with each other. After all, she was acquainted with Becca.

  But that’s because the other woman was trying to offer her a job.

  Shari turned her frown in the direction of Diego’s office. How was he acquainted with the Buffalo Today’s managing editor? Had their rival newspaper also offered Diego a job? If he chose to leave the Telegraph, it was his business and his right—and it would tick her off.

  She took another deep drink of her coffee, this time draining the mug. Shari’s days at the Telegraph may be numbered, though. If that rookie Harold got his hands on her beat, Shari would absolutely leave the Telegraph. Maybe she’d been hasty in turning down Becca’s offer.

  Chapter 7

  The Telegraph’s office was a blur to Heather as she marched past the flustered front entry receptionist and several stunned reporters Tuesday morning. The heels of her three-inch black pumps drove into the thin gray carpet as she wound past the copy editors’ desks, reporters’ cubicles, and conference rooms. Loose papers fluttered and fell in her wake. Heather gritted her teeth and clenched her fists when she realized Shari was on the telephone. She felt as though steam was rushing from her ears. She saw red as her mind spun in search of a new target for her temper. The answer came to her.

  Diego DeVarona.

  Heather set her course for the newspaper editor’s office, which was all the way in the back of the main floor.

  She stormed into Diego’s office and slammed that day’s Telegraph onto his walnut wood desk. The explosive act caused nearby papers to dive off the table’s surface and onto the floor.

  Diego looked up at her. His coffee brown eyes were expressionless. His voice was flat. “Something wrong?”

  Heather leaned over his desk and drilled her finger against the newspaper at the exact spot where the headline for the article on Opal Lorrie’s death was printed. “You had no right to run this article on Opal’s death.”

  “We’re a newspaper. We had every right. Opal Lorrie’s death is a terrible tragedy and I’m sorry for the town’s loss. But it’s also news.” Diego’s quiet, reasonable tone was like gasoline on Heather’s flaming temper.

  His words were maddening. His calm was maddening. Everything about him was maddening. Had it always been that way with him?

  Heather drew a deep breath. Diego’s sandalwood scent filled her senses, temporarily confusing her. And that was maddening. Heather straightened, stepping back to clear her head.

  It was warm in Diego’s office. Or was that her temper? It had been on an incendiary course since she’d read the headline to the article about her finance and management director’s death. Heather unfastened the big silver buttons on her royal blue cashmere winter coat. Emotions swamped her as she remembered lending Opal her scarlet coat. That coat was still with her friend. Heather couldn’t imagine wearing it again.

  She jabbed her index finger toward the newspaper she’d left on Diego’s desk. “Shari Henson’s article makes a big deal about Opal driving my car and wearing my coat. She had no right to do that.”

  Diego gave her a confused look. “Shari didn’t make a big deal about those things. She just mentioned them. They’re interesting details.”

  “It’s no one else’s f—”

  “Those references to your loaning Opal your car and your clothes make you look human. You should thank Shari. The public needs to know the mayor has some humanity. People have wondered about that.”

  Heather inhaled a sharp breath at the attack. “That’s bull.”

  The newspaper editor was nonresponsive. Diego leaned back against his faded gray faux leather executive chair. He crossed his arms over his broad muscled chest, which was wrapped in a snow-white shirt. His black-and-red-striped tie brought to mind the franchise colors of the Houston Rockets professional basketball team. She and Diego were Texas transplants. That’s all they had in common. Wasn’t it?

  Heather scrutinized her opponent. Diego’s relaxed pose didn’t fool her. She found the intense scrutiny in his eyes and met it with a flare of fury. The newsman hadn’t changed much since they’d known each other in El Paso almost fourteen years ago. He was still as cunning as a fox and as sneaky as a snake.

  Heather stood akimbo. “Thank Shari Henson for writing that article? It’ll be a cold day in—”

  Diego raised his right hand, cutting off her colorful analogy. “I get the picture.”

  “I’m only in here ripping you a new one instead of her because she’s on the phone.”

  Diego shook his head with what Heather interpreted as a mocking smile. “Your image could use the warming up, Heather, especially if you’re going to run for reelection.”

  Heather’s muscles trembled. She hated that anonymous threats from an obvious coward made her react this way to the thought of remaining in office. How dare the spineless worm behind those notes have any power over her?

  She noticed the curiosity in Diego’s eyes. He knew something was wrong. The fact that he was able to read her so well even after they’d spent more than a decade apart made her even more furious. She angled her chin and took her self-disgust out on the editor. “Instead of wasting all that space chasing after a story that isn’t news, you’d do better using it to promote the town’s annual spring fund-raiser. Why don’t you do some good in the community? For once.”

  Instead of appearing offended, Diego looked even more concerned. “Why are you really so upset about the story on Opal’s death? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Heather swung her right hand toward her copy of the Telegraph, which was still prone on Diego’s desk. “Why should I tell you anything? It’ll only end up in your crappy paper.”

  “Not if you don’t want it to.”

  The concern in his eyes was her undoing. Heather was weakening. She wanted to share her fears, her suspicion
s—and her guilt. With him. She stiffened her resolve. “Am I supposed to trust a journalist?”

  “You can trust me, Heather. You know that. We were friends once.”

  Heather arched an eyebrow. “With our history, I’d either have to be desperate or a fool to trust you again.”

  Diego cocked his head, still appearing unfazed by even her strongest insults. “Opal was wearing your coat and driving your car. Are you afraid that her death wasn’t an accident? Do you think someone mistook her for you?”

  The blood drained from Heather’s head. Her ears buzzed. Her pulse picked up. If Diego could put those details together, would other people realize it, too? That’s what she’d been afraid of when she’d read Shari’s article. Had the meddling investigative reporter left her exposed and vulnerable?

  “That’s absurd.” Heather’s voice was breathy. Had Diego noticed? “Why would you even suggest that? Why would someone want to kill me?”

  Diego rose and circled his desk to stand an arm’s length from her. “Heather, if you’re in trouble, you should report your concerns to the deputies.”

  Heather stepped back, needing distance between them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And neither do you.”

  Diego turned back to his desk. He pulled one of his business cards from its cardholder and rescued his pen from beneath Heather’s newspaper. He wrote something on the back of the card before returning to Heather. He pressed his business card into her palm. His hand was large, firm, and warm against her skin. “This is my personal cell phone number. Take it in case you change your mind about needing help.”

  Heather withdrew her hand from his grasp and took another step back. “I don’t need your help.”

  Diego frowned. “Heather, don’t let your pride and ego get in the way and hurt you again. Do you remember El Paso?”

  Heather gave him a scathing look. “How could I forget when you’re a constant reminder?”

  She spun on her heels and marched out of Diego’s office. If only it was that easy to put the past behind her.

  * * *

  Shari’s dark thoughts must have conjured Harold. The rookie reporter walked uninvited into her cubicle minutes later.

  “How did you find out about the finance and management director’s death?” Harold stood just inside her cubicle, holding the Telegraph in his right hand.

  “Her name was Opal Lorrie.” Shari spoke over her shoulder.

  “How did you find out?”

  This time, Shari waited until she’d finished replying to the e-mail message on her computer screen before spinning her chair to face Harold. “It’s called working your beat. You should try it sometime.”

  “What do you mean?” Confusion clouded Harold’s small brown eyes.

  Shari gave Harold a considering look. The recent college graduate must subscribe to the philosophy that you dress for the job you want, not the one you have. Based on his appearance this morning, his goal must be to own the newspaper. His black dress pants, champagne linen shirt, and plum silk tie looked like they came from a high-end men’s clothing store. Were they gifts? No one at the Telegraph could afford such expensive clothes, not even after their pay increase.

  Shari crossed her arms and legs. She swung her right foot, shod in black boots with three-inch heels, a perfect match to her black pantsuit. “Didn’t they teach basic journalism at your school?”

  “Of course they did.” Even Harold’s perfect salon-styled hair seemed ruffled by her question.

  “Then you should be working your beat instead of taking up space in my cubicle.” Shari turned back to her computer.

  But Harold didn’t leave. “Does this story have anything to do with what you’re working on with Sister Lou?”

  Shari met Harold’s gaze over her shoulder. “What makes you think I’m working on a project with Sister Lou?”

  “Aren’t you?” His smile taunted her.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Come on. Just tell me. I could help you.” Harold’s wheedling made him even more annoying.

  “Could you work your own beat? Perry gave you the election issues before he left.” Shari referenced Diego’s predecessor, Perry O’Toole, the worst boss she’d ever had, which was really saying something. “You should be glad Diego didn’t take it away from you when he became editor-in-chief. I would’ve.”

  Harold frowned. “Why would you have taken away my beat?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re not working it.” Shari dripped sarcasm. “You should be thanking your lucky stars that you’re not doing general assignments like most rookies.”

  Harold uttered a short, sharp laugh. “General assignment? I’m too good of a reporter for general assignment. That would be a waste of my talents.”

  “You can’t just make a claim like that. You need to back it up, and so far, you haven’t.”

  “Who were you on the phone with earlier?”

  Shari may find words to express how appalled she was by the intrusiveness of Harold’s question. Eventually. But she wasn’t interested in expending that mental and physical energy at this time.

  Instead, she took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “Get out of my cubicle. Now.”

  Tension drained from Shari’s neck, shoulders, and back as Harold made his way out of her cubicle. She slumped deeper onto her cushioned chair. Harold wasn’t going to give up. With his prying, one day she’d wake up to find he’d become a member of Sister Lou’s amateur sleuth team, leaving her once again on the outside looking in. How long after that would it take them to realize she was a fraud?

  * * *

  “As I’ve told you before, Ian, I’m firm on the no-tax-abatement policy.” Heather spoke into the hands-free earbuds attached to her cellular phone Tuesday evening. The traffic light turned green, permitting her to continue her drive home from her town hall office.

  Her debate with Briar Coast Town Council president Ian Greer—she refused to call it an argument—had begun on her office phone. She’d called him back on her cell phone once she’d attached her earbuds so that she could take their disagreement on the road. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, though. She and Ian had discussed this proposal at least twice before. Either the town council president enjoyed the sound of her voice or he was hard of hearing.

  “It’s only for three years, Heather.” Ian continued to use the timeline for his unpersuasive argument. “And it would allow us to attract new businesses to our town. I thought we’d all want that, especially in an election year.”

  “Do you have me on speaker phone, Ian?” Heather made the abrupt diversion in their conversation. “I hear a lot of road noise in the background.”

  “I’m driving while we’re talking. You don’t want me to drive with one hand, do you? That’s not safe.” The council president sounded offended.

  Heather ignored his question. “Is anyone else in the car with you?”

  “No, I’m alone.” Ian’s hesitation was telling. He clearly hadn’t given her an honest answer.

  Heather rolled her eyes. How many people were in the car with him as he debated the tax abatements? “I don’t care how long or short the contract term would be. I’m not giving companies that are new to our community a tax break. It wouldn’t be fair to increase our residents’ tax burden, regardless of the election cycle.”

  “Haven’t you noticed that young people are leaving Briar Coast in droves to find better-paying jobs?” Ian sounded snotty. “Don’t you want to attract new jobs to our community?”

  “They’d have to be exceptionally well-paying jobs for all of our residents.” Heather activated her garage door’s remote control opener and rolled forward into her garage. “We can’t expect the people of this town to accept an increased tax burden just to be able to offer businesses a tax cut. How would you justify that?”

  “We would justify it with new jobs.”

  “And what about the businesses that have always
paid their fair share of taxes?” Heather closed her garage door. “How is that fair to them?”

  “We would explain the benefits to the town—”

  “I’m not explaining anything,” Heather interrupted as she climbed from her car. She unlocked her side entrance to let herself into her little Cape Cod home. “Corporations should pay their fair share of taxes, Ian. That’s the bottom line.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Heather.”

  “If you and the other council members want to promote tax breaks for corporations, go ahead, but I’m not supporting this.” Heather dropped her briefcase and purse at the foot of her staircase on her way to her kitchen.

  Ian’s sigh was equal parts frustration and disappointment. “All right, Heather. You’ve made your position perfectly clear.”

  “I hope so, Ian. You and I have other things to discuss like increasing our education budget to bring our schools’ technology into the twenty-first century.”

  Heather froze at the entrance to her kitchen. In the center of her blond wood table lay a plain white envelope that hadn’t been there this morning.

  “We don’t have—”

  “Ian, I have to go.” Her gaze swept the room. Was the intruder still in her home?

  Heather disconnected the call without waiting for Ian’s response. She kicked off her shoes. Rushing to her butcher’s block, Heather grabbed the biggest knife in the collection. If the intruder was still in her home, he must have heard her come in.

  A stream of swearwords chanted in her head.

  She’d made a lot of noise between her phone call with Ian, and dropping her purse and briefcase beside the staircase.

  More swearwords.

  Heather’s heart pounded in her ears. She couldn’t catch her breath. With her cell phone in one hand, ready to call the sheriff’s office, and the butcher’s knife in the other, Heather did a swift and silent reconnaissance of the living room, dining room, and small powder room on her main floor.

  Nothing.

  She crept upstairs with as much stealth as possible to walk through the three bedrooms and two full baths. She even checked her half basement.