Read Online Death of A High Maintenance Blonde (Jubilant Falls Series Book 5) by Debra Gaskill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Debra Gaskill
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up with my notebook in hand. “It began in the kitchen and spread up through the walls to the second floor and then into the roof. These old Victorians can burn quick.”
A few more questions and I had the basic details I needed: The time the first alarm came in, the age of the house, the number of units responding. The inn’s wide yard made the chance of the conflagration spreading to the adjoining historic district buildings small, so those residents hadn’t been evacuated from their homes.
With my pen, I pointed to the group of people beneath the tree. “Who are they?” I asked.
“Those are the guests who were staying at the bed and breakfast. There were smoke detectors, so everyone got out safely. The Red Cross will be putting them up for the rest of the night at a hotel, but I don’t know where they go after that,” Jones said. He pointed to the woman. “That’s the owner over there, Susan Jepson. I don’t know if she’ll talk to you or not.”
“Thanks.” I stepped over the web of fire hoses crisscrossing the ground and headed toward the guests.
“Charisma!”
I turned to see Gary McGinnis striding briskly across the blocked street toward me. His khaki jacket flared open as he walked, exposing his shoulder holster and the badge on his belt.
A tall, bearded man, one of the guests huddled beneath the tree, turned sharply my direction. Feeling the flow of the situation, the adrenaline of getting the story, I ignored it. I had an unusual name, after all.
“What’s up, chief?” I asked.
“I’m glad I caught you here. I didn’t even try to call you at the paper—I figured you’d be here,” he said. “We’ve got a homicide.”
“Shit,” I said. I gestured toward the fire scene. “I have to get this story right now. Can I get a couple interviews and then get back to you?”
The chief grimaced. “This is pretty high profile. You guys will want to have it first, before I send a release to the other media.”
‘Other media’ meant our competition, the television stations and newspapers in nearby Collitstown and sometimes, Cincinnati. I’d learned quickly that while in the past, I may have shared stories across different types of media—the new word was “platform”— here in Jubilant Falls, I was back to the old style of journalism where we competed head to head on every story with other out-of-town newspapers and television stations. It was a cardinal sin to have another news organization beat us on a story.
My insides quivered. I’d handled multiple stories at once before, but that had been a long time ago. What would Addison do or say? What if I couldn’t do it? What if I lost my job?
Behind me, spectators yelled as more flames exploded through the roof.
“Pull back! Pull back!” I heard Jones call through a bullhorn. Without thinking, I yanked my camera back up and started shooting again.
“I can’t leave here right now,” I said decisively. “This scene is too volatile and I don’t think I ought to leave.”
“Don’t worry—I understand. I’ll call Addison,” McGinnis said, resting his hand on his service revolver.
He turned and left; as he did, the tall bearded man stepped from the group of guests and extended his hand.
“Charisma Prentiss? I’m Dr. Leland Huffinger. I left a message on your phone earlier today.”
I stepped back as if his words were poison, seeing familiarity in his face: It was the man who had done a double take at my appearance at the corner earlier today.
“I’m not who you think I am. My name is Charisma Lemarnier,” I said. I flipped a page on my notebook, defensively firing questions at him as I began to write. “Are you a guest here at the Inn?”
“Yes I am.”
“When did you notice there was a fire?”
“The smoke detectors went off and the owner, Mrs. Jepson, came upstairs to make sure we evacuated with our belongings. I wanted to ask you about—”
“Did you happen to smell smoke? See any flames?”
“Um, no.
A few more questions and I had the basic details I needed: The time the first alarm came in, the age of the house, the number of units responding. The inn’s wide yard made the chance of the conflagration spreading to the adjoining historic district buildings small, so those residents hadn’t been evacuated from their homes.
With my pen, I pointed to the group of people beneath the tree. “Who are they?” I asked.
“Those are the guests who were staying at the bed and breakfast. There were smoke detectors, so everyone got out safely. The Red Cross will be putting them up for the rest of the night at a hotel, but I don’t know where they go after that,” Jones said. He pointed to the woman. “That’s the owner over there, Susan Jepson. I don’t know if she’ll talk to you or not.”
“Thanks.” I stepped over the web of fire hoses crisscrossing the ground and headed toward the guests.
“Charisma!”
I turned to see Gary McGinnis striding briskly across the blocked street toward me. His khaki jacket flared open as he walked, exposing his shoulder holster and the badge on his belt.
A tall, bearded man, one of the guests huddled beneath the tree, turned sharply my direction. Feeling the flow of the situation, the adrenaline of getting the story, I ignored it. I had an unusual name, after all.
“What’s up, chief?” I asked.
“I’m glad I caught you here. I didn’t even try to call you at the paper—I figured you’d be here,” he said. “We’ve got a homicide.”
“Shit,” I said. I gestured toward the fire scene. “I have to get this story right now. Can I get a couple interviews and then get back to you?”
The chief grimaced. “This is pretty high profile. You guys will want to have it first, before I send a release to the other media.”
‘Other media’ meant our competition, the television stations and newspapers in nearby Collitstown and sometimes, Cincinnati. I’d learned quickly that while in the past, I may have shared stories across different types of media—the new word was “platform”— here in Jubilant Falls, I was back to the old style of journalism where we competed head to head on every story with other out-of-town newspapers and television stations. It was a cardinal sin to have another news organization beat us on a story.
My insides quivered. I’d handled multiple stories at once before, but that had been a long time ago. What would Addison do or say? What if I couldn’t do it? What if I lost my job?
Behind me, spectators yelled as more flames exploded through the roof.
“Pull back! Pull back!” I heard Jones call through a bullhorn. Without thinking, I yanked my camera back up and started shooting again.
“I can’t leave here right now,” I said decisively. “This scene is too volatile and I don’t think I ought to leave.”
“Don’t worry—I understand. I’ll call Addison,” McGinnis said, resting his hand on his service revolver.
He turned and left; as he did, the tall bearded man stepped from the group of guests and extended his hand.
“Charisma Prentiss? I’m Dr. Leland Huffinger. I left a message on your phone earlier today.”
I stepped back as if his words were poison, seeing familiarity in his face: It was the man who had done a double take at my appearance at the corner earlier today.
“I’m not who you think I am. My name is Charisma Lemarnier,” I said. I flipped a page on my notebook, defensively firing questions at him as I began to write. “Are you a guest here at the Inn?”
“Yes I am.”
“When did you notice there was a fire?”
“The smoke detectors went off and the owner, Mrs. Jepson, came upstairs to make sure we evacuated with our belongings. I wanted to ask you about—”
“Did you happen to smell smoke? See any flames?”
“Um, no.
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