Read Online Death of A High Maintenance Blonde (Jubilant Falls Series Book 5) by Debra Gaskill - Free Book Online
Authors: Debra Gaskill
Ads: Link
daughter is innocent. Our family’s attorneys will provide a thorough and vigorous defense to see that Earlene Whitelaw is exonerated. She did not and could not commit this crime.’ How’s that?”
I read it back to him and he nodded.
“Off the record, what do you think happened?” I asked.
Whitelaw arched a bushy eyebrow. “I have no idea. I never liked Eve Dahlgren from the day I met her when Earlene was in high school. That girl was a problem, plain and simple, and I always had a feeling that she would get Earlene in trouble one day. I just knew it.”
Yes, but this time, Eve is the one’s that’s dead, I thought.
Chapter 9: Charisma
Everyone was gone for the day by the time I came out of the morgue. I sighed in relief as I walked back to my desk, holding old bound copies of newspapers in my arms. Studying the dead editions from long ago was going to pay off.
I felt like I could write a story that not only told about the victim and how he died, but also brought back memories of Jubilant Falls as it used to be. That might be the key to spurring someone’s memory that would bring about the one clue that solved this crime.
The voicemail light on my phone flashed on and off. Maybe it was the former fire chief, Hiram Warder returning my call and I could finish up the story on the drowned man for tomorrow’s paper. I punched in my code. The message began, a man’s voice with words I wasn’t ready to hear:
“Hi, this is Dr. Leland Huffinger of Fitzgerald University. I’m looking to get in touch with Charisma Prentiss. If she could give me a call, I’d sure appreciate it.”
He started to leave a number, but I pounced like Monsieur Le Chat and hit the phone’s delete button. I clutched at my chest and sank back into my chair, terrified.
The message was gone. I was safe.
I took a deep breath and unclenched my hands. It’s OK, I told myself. Erasing the message wasn’t wrong—you’re just not ready. If he calls again, just tell him you’re not the Charisma Prentiss he’s looking for. He’ll go away. He’ll go look someplace else. Then your secret will still be safe.
I exhaled, rocking back and forth as I tried to calm myself down. It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s OK.
Across the newsroom, the scanner crackled: “Engine 422, rescue 421, ladder 420, 735 East Second Street, two story building, the Jubilant Country Inn bed and breakfast. Flames are visible through the roof and second story. No entrapment—all the guests have been evacuated and accounted for.”
I grabbed the camera from my desk drawer and a notebook from beneath the old bound volumes. This is what I needed—breaking news would take my mind off that message. Second Street was two blocks from the J-G. I could get there on foot in five minutes or less.
This is how you ended up in the mess you’re in, by avoiding what scares you. I stopped in my tracks. The words rang like an accusatory shot through my mind.I slipped my camera’s strap around my neck defiantly.
So what? I fired back mentally. I’ve got a fire to cover.
I slipped out the back pressroom door and dashed through the employee parking lot toward the flashing lights and smoke that I could see two blocks away.
There were three fire trucks and two ambulances on scene by the time I stepped onto the inn’s wide front yard. I was breathing heavily and had a stitch in my side. Stopping to catch my breath, I snapped the lens cover off the camera and began taking pictures: A group of people huddled under a tree across the street, two firefighters holding a large hose as the water shot into a flame-filled second-story window, a woman, presumably the owner, pressing her hands to her face in horror as the blaze reflected in the lenses of her glasses.
I pulled out my notebook and began searching for the incident commander, the fireman in charge of the scene. This evening, it was Battalion Chief Jones.
“Looks like it was electrical in nature,” he began as I stepped
I read it back to him and he nodded.
“Off the record, what do you think happened?” I asked.
Whitelaw arched a bushy eyebrow. “I have no idea. I never liked Eve Dahlgren from the day I met her when Earlene was in high school. That girl was a problem, plain and simple, and I always had a feeling that she would get Earlene in trouble one day. I just knew it.”
Yes, but this time, Eve is the one’s that’s dead, I thought.
Chapter 9: Charisma
Everyone was gone for the day by the time I came out of the morgue. I sighed in relief as I walked back to my desk, holding old bound copies of newspapers in my arms. Studying the dead editions from long ago was going to pay off.
I felt like I could write a story that not only told about the victim and how he died, but also brought back memories of Jubilant Falls as it used to be. That might be the key to spurring someone’s memory that would bring about the one clue that solved this crime.
The voicemail light on my phone flashed on and off. Maybe it was the former fire chief, Hiram Warder returning my call and I could finish up the story on the drowned man for tomorrow’s paper. I punched in my code. The message began, a man’s voice with words I wasn’t ready to hear:
“Hi, this is Dr. Leland Huffinger of Fitzgerald University. I’m looking to get in touch with Charisma Prentiss. If she could give me a call, I’d sure appreciate it.”
He started to leave a number, but I pounced like Monsieur Le Chat and hit the phone’s delete button. I clutched at my chest and sank back into my chair, terrified.
The message was gone. I was safe.
I took a deep breath and unclenched my hands. It’s OK, I told myself. Erasing the message wasn’t wrong—you’re just not ready. If he calls again, just tell him you’re not the Charisma Prentiss he’s looking for. He’ll go away. He’ll go look someplace else. Then your secret will still be safe.
I exhaled, rocking back and forth as I tried to calm myself down. It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s OK.
Across the newsroom, the scanner crackled: “Engine 422, rescue 421, ladder 420, 735 East Second Street, two story building, the Jubilant Country Inn bed and breakfast. Flames are visible through the roof and second story. No entrapment—all the guests have been evacuated and accounted for.”
I grabbed the camera from my desk drawer and a notebook from beneath the old bound volumes. This is what I needed—breaking news would take my mind off that message. Second Street was two blocks from the J-G. I could get there on foot in five minutes or less.
This is how you ended up in the mess you’re in, by avoiding what scares you. I stopped in my tracks. The words rang like an accusatory shot through my mind.I slipped my camera’s strap around my neck defiantly.
So what? I fired back mentally. I’ve got a fire to cover.
I slipped out the back pressroom door and dashed through the employee parking lot toward the flashing lights and smoke that I could see two blocks away.
There were three fire trucks and two ambulances on scene by the time I stepped onto the inn’s wide front yard. I was breathing heavily and had a stitch in my side. Stopping to catch my breath, I snapped the lens cover off the camera and began taking pictures: A group of people huddled under a tree across the street, two firefighters holding a large hose as the water shot into a flame-filled second-story window, a woman, presumably the owner, pressing her hands to her face in horror as the blaze reflected in the lenses of her glasses.
I pulled out my notebook and began searching for the incident commander, the fireman in charge of the scene. This evening, it was Battalion Chief Jones.
“Looks like it was electrical in nature,” he began as I stepped
Similar Books
