CHAPTER ONE

Avenelle Rossi Duprey

A copy of the sheriff’s log glared from my inbox. It belonged on Peterson’s homicide desk, and I knew it. I bit my lower lip, scouring the Monday morning bustle in the Marin County Journal newsroom.

The new courier’s backside wiggled away.

Next time I’d detain her long enough for redirection. Meanwhile, who would care if I took a tiny peek? Looking left and right, I snatched the page out.

The victim—a woman shot and bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Brutal! I felt my forehead pucker. Words blurred before I blinked to focus, adjusting the distance between the page and my eyes until the date at the top cleared.

Yesterday.

Easter.

Déjà vu bells clanged in my brain, competing with phones ringing, computer keys tapping, and the ever-present buzz of conversation. I squeezed my eyes tight to block out the clamor, twisting the ruby ring circling the fourth finger of my right hand.

Why did this story sound familiar?

The nagging awareness stuck in my head like mental Velcro. That must mean something. I needed to dig deeper. Would Jarvis allow me to write this up? I could do a homicide report.

At this century-old newspaper, most of us wore at least two visors anyway. For the past ten years, I covered society news and obituaries. Even with these two jobs, I barely eked out a living in high-rent Marin County. If not for the trust fund my grandfather generously provided, I’d never make enough for extras, as Mama often reminded me. You’d think she’d be glad when I claimed her chosen profession as my own. Or at least be relieved that I made an honest effort to support myself.

Mike Peterson handled crime stories. Where was Mike? Dare I assume his absence preordained this story for me?

The page rustled like dead leaves when I fingered it. How could this innocuous sheet of paper convey such gruesome news? At the very least the ink should be red.

Murder on Easter. My innards roiled. If murders should ever happen, they certainly shouldn’t happen on the day of resurrection. Parading to church in a new bonnet, spring dress and patent leather pumps, or stuffing her face with honey-baked ham at her mother’s table—perfect Easter activities. Not the time for a savage attack on a forty-year-old woman in her own home. In that upscale neighborhood, the latest security systems should have guaranteed her safety.

I pushed my glasses up on my nose and rocked my swivel chair. Recollection of a certain other Easter murder hovered over my head, like a ghostly Easter egg waiting to be discovered.

The coroner identified the victim as Rachel Marie Watson.

Not a name I recalled. Quick calculation informed me she would have been six years ahead of me in school. My gaze raked the ceiling. I tapped my pencil on the desk. Why couldn’t I remember?

Perhaps a dose of caffeine would stimulate my mind. I gulped the robust office brew.

Rachel’s coworkers at St. Anne’s Academy, where she taught first grade, called the neighbors to check on her when she failed to appear at school and couldn’t be reached.

I visualized a class of bratty, overindulged Marin County first graders waiting for a teacher who never showed—rubber bands and spit wads whizzing overhead, screaming, fighting, hair pulling—out of control and dangerous. A shiver zigzagged down my spine.

Memo to self: file this image for future reference. Might need to conjure it up on the rare occasions my biological clock ticked loudly enough for relatives to notice.

Daniel Jarvis, pesky city editor, waddled toward me. “Where’s Peterson?” He dipped his head at the unmanned desk. When I shrugged, he leaned toward me, stoop-shouldered as a vulture. “Nellie-Belle! That’s a homicide report.”

Again with the dumb nickname. Boss or not, I wanted to slug him. My words strained through gritted teeth. “My parents specifically selected my name with journalism in mind. It looks great on a byline. ” I heard the attitude smothering my rebuke and forced my rigid jaw to relax.

Jarvis struck a pose, hands on chubby hips. “Peterson’s the homicide reporter.”

Mike got to be called by name. Why not me? I’d settle for the last name in a flash rather than the complete Avenelle Rossi Duprey on my birth certificate, although the hairs on my neck prickled at the notion of extending the slightest level of camaraderie to Daniel Jarvis.

“That report doesn’t belong in your box.” He wiggled his fingers in a gimme gesture.

I held onto the paper. “Notify the courier.”

He grunted before surveying the room. Searching for the award-winning Mike Peterson, no doubt. Mike didn’t materialize, so Jarvis waggled his finger at me. “You are the obituary writer.”

All of a sudden, I wanted this assignment more than I wanted to breathe. I straightened in my chair. “I can write a homicide report.”

His complexion reddened. “Not this story, princess. This one’s important.” His clutching fingers strained toward the paper again.

I struggled to control my annoyance, but it slipped out anyway. Holding the page well out of reach, I whined in a spoiled-child voice. “Give me a chance. I can do it. I’ll ask Peterson to check it when I finish.”

A big fat lie. I’d commit hari-kari with a rusty knife before I’d ask that uppity Peterson for help.

Jarvis bent closer, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “It’s the Watson homicide, right?”

My hand trembled, but I managed to keep disgust out of my tone. “I found it in my inbox.”

His pig eyes narrowed. “You’re a good writer, for a kid. You never did a homicide story before, but it’s possible you could write the story as well as Peterson. Thing is, you gotta get right on breaking news. As in now. This minute. Do you catch the urgency in my voice?”

Jarvis planted one nail-chewed hand on the corner of my desk and inclined his corpulent body toward me as if clueless he’d made my insides churn. One instant, I hated him for making me beg. The next, I chastised myself for letting his obnoxious razzing get to me. My mother’s voice bounced off the walls of my brain—a Rossi doesn’t show anger. I worried my ruby ring in circles, willing away the feeling.

His horrendous, multi-colored, Jerry Garcia tie flopped on my desk. An odious cloud of cheap aftershave mixed with putrid breath puffed toward me. “No procrastinating. Got that? This dame’s demise is front page. She moved here a few years ago and lived alone in that fancy-schmancy neighborhood. Senseless murder like this, readers will want all the juicy details.” Eagerness sparkled in his dung-brown eyes.

Next he’d be rubbing his hands.

I stifled the urge to scream.

“Gonna be a big story. Might even go national. Remember, news has to be fresh or—”

“It’s not news.” I finished his sentence on a sigh.

Everyone knew Jarvis’s canned slogan. Fortunately, he didn’t notice the sarcastic head-bob that accompanied my mimicry. With a jovial wink, he tapped the face of his watch with one nubby fingernail as if the two of us had just shared a titillating secret.

Gross.

Jarvis was dead right about one thing, although I hated to admit it. A good homicide piece could make national news.

Sensational murders attract readers like a corpse draws maggots.