Read Online 08 - December Dread by Jess Lourey - Free Book Online
Authors: Jess Lourey
Tags: Fiction, Mystery, serial killer, Holidays, Minnesota, soft-boiled, online dating, candy cane, december, jess lourey, lourey, Battle Lake, Mira James, murder-by-month
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loud as a chainsaw. I swiped at it and glanced around, hoping no one would notice. It was like having a loud finger pointing at me, telling the world I was stinky. I shooed it again and sniffed my armpit. That’s what I was doing when Mr. Denny passed me my test.
“Good luck,” he said, his expression puzzled.
“Oh, I was just … thank you.” I desperately wanted to tell him that I did not in fact smell, and that I had showered and brushed my teeth this morning. Some things shake out worse in the explanation, though. Damn fly. I watched with satisfaction as it flew toward Gene like a drunken marble, but the happiness lasted only a moment. My mind careened back to Natalie, as it had a hundred times since I’d watched last night’s news. I remembered the sad, shy smile she’d had for me at my dad’s funeral, her black blazer stuffed with shoulder pads in the style we all wore that year, the momentary sense that I wasn’t alone that quickly disappeared under the permanence of the loss of a parent, no matter how shitty they were. The test suddenly felt like an outrageous waste of time. I normally loved a written challenge, but I just didn’t have it in me to care about abstract, multiple choice questions. I filled them in haphazardly and handed it back.
The rest of the class included a lecture accompanied by a short, profoundly cheesy film on PI ethics where the main actor wore a flasher’s trench coat and violated one ethic after another, with each one ending by turning to the camera and asking, “What would you do?” I’d probably not swipe her red silk underwear while snooping through her drawer for incriminating photographs, buddy, but that’s just me. The buffoonish tone of the film seemed in particularly poor taste after last night’s murder, and Mr. Denny appeared to realize it halfway through, shifting uncomfortably once or twice in his seat.
There was no talk of the seven secrets assignment, but I felt restless after class. I decided to follow Kent again. Sure as shootin’, he drove directly to the Kandi Mall, parked in front of Sears, and entered. He was acting very much like the owner of secret #4, a man who no longer had a job to go to but didn’t want to go home. I wasn’t sure how I’d find out for sure short of coming right out and asking him, and I didn’t feel like going into the mall.
I also didn’t want to go home and help my mom with a sewing project, or pie-making, or house-cleaning, or building her time machine that would take the whole world back to the 1950s with her. Figuring I might as well get some work done to pay Ron back, I pointed the car toward the offices of the Paynesville Reporter . The local newspaper had been around since the late 1800s, Ron had informed me, and was doing something right because its circulation kept growing at a time when newspapers in the rest of the country were going the way of the dodo bird.
The offices were unassuming, tucked near the two-screen movie theater in downtown Paynesville. The familiar scents of ink and paper washed over me as I entered, and under that, I caught a whiff of designer coffee or a vanilla air freshener. The layout was similar to the Battle Lake Recall . Visitors were tracked immediately to the front desk, where I imagined all business was done and ads sold. Metal filing cabinets ringed the front room. Down a hall, two doors opened across from one another—I guessed one was a bathroom and the other was the editor’s office—and the hallway ended in a spacious room filled with computers, a large table, and likely more filing cabinets out of sight.
“Something I can do for you?”
I didn’t recognize the older woman behind the counter, but she had nice smile lines. “Yes, I’m Mira James, here on behalf of the Battle Lake Recall . My editor said he’d call ahead so you’d be expecting me.”
“Ah yes. We weren’t sure when you’d be arriving, but you’re in luck. Jake’s here now, and he’s agreed to give
“Good luck,” he said, his expression puzzled.
“Oh, I was just … thank you.” I desperately wanted to tell him that I did not in fact smell, and that I had showered and brushed my teeth this morning. Some things shake out worse in the explanation, though. Damn fly. I watched with satisfaction as it flew toward Gene like a drunken marble, but the happiness lasted only a moment. My mind careened back to Natalie, as it had a hundred times since I’d watched last night’s news. I remembered the sad, shy smile she’d had for me at my dad’s funeral, her black blazer stuffed with shoulder pads in the style we all wore that year, the momentary sense that I wasn’t alone that quickly disappeared under the permanence of the loss of a parent, no matter how shitty they were. The test suddenly felt like an outrageous waste of time. I normally loved a written challenge, but I just didn’t have it in me to care about abstract, multiple choice questions. I filled them in haphazardly and handed it back.
The rest of the class included a lecture accompanied by a short, profoundly cheesy film on PI ethics where the main actor wore a flasher’s trench coat and violated one ethic after another, with each one ending by turning to the camera and asking, “What would you do?” I’d probably not swipe her red silk underwear while snooping through her drawer for incriminating photographs, buddy, but that’s just me. The buffoonish tone of the film seemed in particularly poor taste after last night’s murder, and Mr. Denny appeared to realize it halfway through, shifting uncomfortably once or twice in his seat.
There was no talk of the seven secrets assignment, but I felt restless after class. I decided to follow Kent again. Sure as shootin’, he drove directly to the Kandi Mall, parked in front of Sears, and entered. He was acting very much like the owner of secret #4, a man who no longer had a job to go to but didn’t want to go home. I wasn’t sure how I’d find out for sure short of coming right out and asking him, and I didn’t feel like going into the mall.
I also didn’t want to go home and help my mom with a sewing project, or pie-making, or house-cleaning, or building her time machine that would take the whole world back to the 1950s with her. Figuring I might as well get some work done to pay Ron back, I pointed the car toward the offices of the Paynesville Reporter . The local newspaper had been around since the late 1800s, Ron had informed me, and was doing something right because its circulation kept growing at a time when newspapers in the rest of the country were going the way of the dodo bird.
The offices were unassuming, tucked near the two-screen movie theater in downtown Paynesville. The familiar scents of ink and paper washed over me as I entered, and under that, I caught a whiff of designer coffee or a vanilla air freshener. The layout was similar to the Battle Lake Recall . Visitors were tracked immediately to the front desk, where I imagined all business was done and ads sold. Metal filing cabinets ringed the front room. Down a hall, two doors opened across from one another—I guessed one was a bathroom and the other was the editor’s office—and the hallway ended in a spacious room filled with computers, a large table, and likely more filing cabinets out of sight.
“Something I can do for you?”
I didn’t recognize the older woman behind the counter, but she had nice smile lines. “Yes, I’m Mira James, here on behalf of the Battle Lake Recall . My editor said he’d call ahead so you’d be expecting me.”
“Ah yes. We weren’t sure when you’d be arriving, but you’re in luck. Jake’s here now, and he’s agreed to give
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