A
bby gathered up the papers containing the sliver of information she’d printed off the Internet last night. She stuffed them into the pocket of her well-worn leather briefcase, a graduation gift from Chris. At the time, she’d thought it a dull, boring gift, but now that she was a full-fledged tabloid reporter, she never went anywhere without it slung over her shoulder. In the kitchen, she scooped a handful of doggie treats from a canister that read
CHESTER’S DELIGHT
into a Ziploc bag. Never knowing when she’d need to keep Chester calm and quiet, she always carried a supply with her wherever she went. In a true emergency, she was known to whip out one of several stuffed dachshunds she kept safely stored away in her trunk. Chester loved the colored weenie dogs with the squeakers inside. His record for dismantling and dismembering one of the cuddly creatures was 38.2 seconds.
She grabbed Chester’s leash off its hook, checked her appearance in the mirror one last time, then whistled, her sign to Chester that they were about to leave. She’d been taking him to work with her since he was a puppy. One of the few benefits of working for Rag. Rag, too, was an avid animal lover; in her opinion, his only saving grace. He’d told her to use the dog to gain access to the stars who were active supporters of PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. With Rag, there was always an ulterior motive. So far, Chester’s biggest challenge on the job had been a pesky poodle belonging to Hollywood’s current star of the month, Lori Locks. Abby interviewed her after she’d won the People’s Choice Award for her role as a ditzy blonde in the comedic movie
Blondes Have More Dumb.
It was the perfect part for the collagen-filled, silicone-inflated twenty-three-year-old. Abby was sure it had been created exclusively for her. Personally, she thought the acting was atrocious. Abby joked to anyone who listened that Lori simply played herself.
Chester nudged her hand with his nose, startling her. “Okay, boy. Let’s not get in such a hurry. Rag is nowhere to be found this morning. We can take our time.” She fluffed him between the ears, then opened the front door. The big German shepherd shot out like a rocket, stopping next to the passenger door. Once he was inside, she strapped him securely in his seat belt, closing the door and locking it before sliding into the driver’s seat.
The ignition turned over on the first try, for which Abby was grateful. Last week, when she’d learned through a sometimes reliable source that George Mellow, an aging Hollywood hunk, was falling-down drunk at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, where his current sci-fi flick had premiered, she’d intended to break all speed limits to make front-page news. It hadn’t happened. Her MINI Cooper parked in its usual spot at the office was dead as a doornail when she’d tried to start it. Just her luck Mr. Not-So-Mellow’s face was splashed across the front page of
The Enquirer
the next day. Abby wasn’t so sure her car’s dead battery hadn’t involved a little sabotaging from her rival at
The Enquirer,
Jane Kane. Did anyone in Hollywood use their real names anymore? Jane Kane’s real name was Gertrude Marquett. Actually, if Abby had a name that silly, she would have resorted to using a pseudonym as well.
Speaking of names, Abby hadn’t found diddly-squat on the new owner of
The Informer
in her research. She had stayed up until the wee hours scouring the Internet for documents related to the transaction. She thought it more than odd the two other major tabloids made no mention of its sale. Also strange was the fact that Rag hadn’t sent her a dozen e-mails or called her ten times already. On a normal day, he’d have had her running all over Los Angeles searching for the latest scoop. Maybe he’d called in sick again. He did that quite often, especially on Mondays after he’d spent the weekend boozing and gambling in Vegas. Maybe one of his bookies had called in a marker, and old Rag was in seclusion. If so, it was fine by her. She hated the slimeball.
The Informer
functioned just fine without his input. Really, all they needed him for was his signature on their bimonthly paychecks. And that, too, was about to be history. She just prayed the new owner or owners had some scruples and a great deal of business ethics. Maybe with a professional at the helm,
The Informer
might have a fighting chance at becoming more than a laughingstock in the world of tabloid journalism.
Abby arrived at the offices, located in Hollywood on Santa Monica Boulevard. Driving through the usual throngs of tourists, monkeys playing cymbals, and stargazers, and any other oddity that Californians considered normal, Abby carefully steered the MINI Cooper toward the back of the office building. Parking in her usual space, she grabbed her briefcase before letting Chester out. He raced to the back door, waiting for her to catch up. Good old Chester, there wasn’t a more loyal and protective animal alive. At least none she’d ever owned. Occasionally she would pull a twenty-four-hour shift, with Chester remaining faithfully by her side. She felt guilty for keeping him cooped up but always made sure to reward him with a trip to the beach, where he would run until he collapsed from exhaustion. They were both due for a break. Maybe she would ask her mother and godmothers if they wanted to spend a day at the beach with her. It would give Chester and Coco a chance to play and get acquainted.
Inside the building, she crept down a narrow hall leading to her office, which was situated directly across from Rag’s. Before she got involved in her next story, she stopped by Rag’s office. The door was closed as usual. She put her ear to the door to see if she could hear muted conversation, meaning he was chewing someone out on the phone, but she couldn’t hear a thing. She tapped on the door, waiting for his usual rude reply. Two more loud knocks and still nothing. Taking a chance, she twisted the doorknob, finding it unlocked. That was unusual. Rag always kept his office door locked when he was out of the building. She stepped inside and looked around, but there was no sign of her boss, and there was no sign that he’d been in earlier and left. There was no smell of burnt coffee emanating from the outdated Mr. Coffee machine, and all six of his televisions were turned off. The computer was black and silent. This couldn’t be good. Rag
never
turned off his computer. And everyone at the paper knew he was tuned to the E! Networks for all their infamous gossip twenty-four/seven. Something was very wrong.
Abby whirled around when she heard Chester growling in the doorway. Even her dog disliked Rag. “Shhh, it’s okay, boy. Come on, let’s get out of here. This place is suddenly giving me the creeps.” She closed the door, wondering if she was the only reporter in the office. Crossing the hall to her own office, she went inside and turned on her computer. She then turned on her TV to FOX News, dropped her briefcase on top of her desk, and opened the shutters to allow for a bit of light in the dank old building. Though her office space was somewhat on the shabby side, Abby had taken extra pains to make her work environment pleasing to her eye. She’d painted the once gunmetal gray walls a soft beige, replaced the old-fashioned metal blinds with plantation shutters, and added a variety of green plants. In a fit of something she couldn’t define, she’d brought her antique cherry desk, which had once belonged to her father, to the office at her own expense, placing it squarely in the center of the room. Plush green throw rugs she’d paid for herself hid the scarred wood floors. Framed pictures of the few covers she’d made hung in matching wood frames on the wall opposite her window. As the light from her single window reflected off them, the actors and actresses appeared pale and distorted, with sun slashing across them.
Abby was usually the first to arrive in the morning. Even though her job required late hours on the nights she had to hit the nightclubs, she still managed to get to the office no later than nine.
She filled Chester’s water bowl, hung his leash over the back of a chair before plopping down in her well-worn office chair. “Okay, Chester, you can relax now.” Religiously she went through this same routine. As soon as she told Chester he could relax, he left his post by her door and curled up in an old recliner she’d brought to the office when he was a pup. Dogs liked routine, and Chester was no exception.
Remembering the papers she’d stuck in her briefcase, she removed them, scanning their content once again. Other than discovering that
The Informer
had sold for an outrageous sum of money, she’d gained little from her Internet search. She still thought it odd, though, that the other papers hadn’t run with the news. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so odd, since they all hated Rag.
Where the hell is my boss? Maybe since he sold the paper, he’s flown the coop. Vegas most likely.
Abby guessed if that was the case, then it was only a matter of time before he went through every bit of the money he’d made from the sale. She doubted he’d even turned a profit. Rag made no bones about reminding the staff the paper was knee-deep in debt. She’d always assumed he was lying to keep them on their toes for fear of losing their jobs. Now she wasn’t so sure. Putting her boss’s financial woes aside for the moment, she read through her e-mail, answered those requiring an answer, then began her search of the latest celebrity haunts. In the past she’d gotten some great leads off the Web sites, but as usual, right when she thought she had a scoop, one of the other papers seemed to beat her to it.
An hour of searching and finding no new information on any of Hollywood’s current top ten stars, she leaned back in her chair and allowed her mind to stray to last night’s dinner with her mother and two of the three Gs, as she thought of them. Of course she couldn’t forget Chris. Even though she’d pretended otherwise, he’d pissed her off big-time when he’d arranged for a taxi to take her home. Or was it her idea? Profusely apologetic, he said he had forgotten an earlier engagement and couldn’t take her home.
Bullshit,
she thought. More than likely he’d received a text message from some bimbo on that high-tech cell phone he kept glancing at when he thought no one was watching. Meow! Why did she care? she asked herself. It was more than obvious Chris was a player. He hadn’t been voted one of LA’s top ten bachelors for nothing. Though she had an unwritten rule about how she received information, the unwritten rule being she would never ask Chris for an inside scoop, news was slow that day and she told herself she was truly desperate, so she decided to break her rule. Kind of. Sort of. Before she could change her mind, she punched in Chris’s personal cell phone number.
One ring, two, then three. She heard his voice mail. “Hey, this is Chris, you know what to do.”
“Yes, I know what to do. That has to be the lamest message ever to come out of Hollywood. I can cram this phone down your throat and hope you choke on it, that’s what I can do.” Abby pushed the
END
button. Chester’s ears perked up at Abby’s tone. “Never mind,” she said to the dog. “That wasn’t one of my better ideas. I’ll find a damn story, I always do.”
“Woof!” Having voiced his opinion, Chester went back to sleep.
“That’s right. Christopher Clay is a jerk. I don’t need him even though I’d cut off my left foot to get him.” Chester opened one eye and decided no comment was called for.
Yeah, right,
she thought. What she really needed, no, what she really
wanted
him for didn’t have a thing to do with writing a story for
The Informer.
Nope, not a thing. Her needs where Mr. Chris Clay was concerned had nothing to do with work.
If only the feeling were mutual.
Abby knew she’d never be more to Chris than his annoying stepsister.
T
hough Chris knew that the missing ten million dollars was in an account in the Bank of Bermuda in the Cayman Islands, now he was up against a stone wall. Neither he nor his private investigator ever imagined a hurricane would impede their investigation.
According to the latest news on The Weather Channel, tropical storm Deborah had been upgraded to hurricane status. What were the odds of that happening? Eighty-mile-an-hour winds were being reported, with waves as high as ten feet battering the smaller barrier islands. Forecasters were predicting a minimum of ten inches of rain. All flights coming in and out of Owen Roberts International Airport were canceled. Areas of Grand Cayman were already reporting a loss of power.
Any thoughts of flying to the island to investigate further were dead in the water—so to speak—at least temporarily. Chris called a friend of a friend who knew the hacker to see if he’d learned anything new via the Internet. Nothing. They were right back where they had started. He regretted involving himself in the whole transaction, but it’d always been hard for him to say no to anything that concerned Toots. She was the only mother he’d ever known. Toots had always treated him fairly, kindly, and, most important of all, she’d shown him unconditional love. That alone was reason enough to help her when she’d asked. Chris couldn’t wait to get his hands on the bastard who had screwed her over. Ripping off old ladies was as low as whale shit, lower actually. It didn’t matter that this particular old lady was a multimillionaire. As usual, Typhoon Toots was trying to save the day, something she did quite often, though this time it’d bounced back, biting her in the ass.
Chris finished his cup of coffee, placing the delicate china cup in the dishwasher next to three others from a matching set of sixteen. There were two bowls on the bottom rack, each with a ring of pale green mint-chocolate-chip ice cream hardened around the edges. Two spoons and a single solitary butter knife comprised a week’s worth of dishes. He debated if he should run the dishwasher now or wait another week. Who was he kidding? He could wait an entire month before running the damned thing. It wasn’t as though he had dinner parties and friends over to use the dishes in the first place. A sad testament to his life as one of LA’s top ten bachelors. Lately, single life had lost its glow more than he really cared to admit. He had no desire to endure another evening with another wannabe star. Chris yearned for a relationship with a real woman, not the plumped-up, dyed-haired, bronzed space cadets he usually escorted for an evening of seen and be seen. When his thoughts headed down this path, he knew exactly where they were leading. Straight to dear little Abby. He’d made her angry last night at dinner, but it couldn’t be helped. Unknown to her, Toots had sent him a text message asking him to come to her bungalow to discuss the sale of the paper. He’d seen her watching him out of the corner of her eye, saw the smart-ass look she’d cast his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. It is what it is, he thought before filling the dishwasher’s compartment with detergent and turning the knob to the wash cycle. There! He felt like he’d just accomplished a major feat.
With nothing more on his immediate agenda, Chris was about to take a long, hot shower when he heard his cell phone buzzing. He didn’t want to answer, but given Toots’s current situation, he wasn’t about to let his voice mail pick up.
“Chris Clay,” he said, using his most professional tone on the slim chance it was the bank calling.
“I don’t believe you’ve ever used the word
hello
in your life.”
Abby.
“We both know that’s not true.” Chris leaned against the kitchen counter, grinning from ear to ear, his heart pumping furiously. Damn, he felt light-headed.
“Well, I, for one, have never heard you say hello. So there.”
“Maybe in your off-hours, you can stop by to instruct me on proper telephone etiquette, then I could instruct you on a few ways to use that mouth of yours.”
Did I actually just say what I think I did? Yes, you stupid idiot, you did!
“What did you just say?” He heard the surprise in her voice.
“Nothing. I talk to myself sometimes. So, have you seen your mother today? I really enjoyed meeting your godmothers last night. I can see why you’re so crazy about them.”
Well, that should go down as the most titillating dialogue of the day.
“Wait until you meet Ida, you might have a change of heart. I love her to death, even though she’s…different from the others.”
“You know what they say,” Chris stated. “Variety is the spice of life.”
Shit! Shit! Shit!
“Not for everyone,” Abby shot back.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Chris asked. He really enjoyed sparring with Abby on the rare occasions when they spoke on the phone. He loved her quick wit and her
smart-assness,
if there was such a word.
“Stop it! You always do this to me when I call you. Then you have the nerve to ask why I never come over to visit you. You know exactly what I’m talking about, too,” Abby snapped.
“You’re a poor sport, Abigail Simpson.”
“Takes one to know one. I didn’t say you could call me Abigail, either. My father is the only man who’s ever had the privilege. Just so you know,” Abby snapped again.
“Yes, you did tell me that a few times,
Abby.
I was trying to inject some levity into the conversation.”
“Look, cut the crap, okay?”
Oh, God, why am I being so…so…bitchy?
“I called you on…a professional matter.”
“Well well well! Am I hearing Abby Simpson asking me for a favor? I seem to recall your saying you would never, and I mean
never,
resort to using my professional services. I remember you saying something to the tune of how you despised bloodsucking lawyers, and that their version of the First Amendment was extremely warped. Not that I want to bust your bubble, sweetheart, but I am a member, and still in good standing, I might add, of that bloodsucking society. So what can I do for you?” Chris asked. He hadn’t had this much fun since…since he’d sat next to her at dinner last night, if you could call sitting on pins and needles fun. Just thinking about Abby always made him smile.
“Forget it, Mr. Clay. I’d rather—”
“Just say it, Ab.” Whatever he had was hers for the asking. Didn’t she know that?
He heard her suck in her breath, then exhale. He knew she was already regretting the call.
“IneedastoryandIneeditnow.” She blurted out the words so fast, he thought at first he had misunderstood her.
I need a story and I need it now. Hmmmm.
He wanted to ask what it was worth to her but knew how much professional and familial pride it’d taken for her to make the call, let alone follow through with her request.
“I’m all yours, Abby. Anything you need,” Chris said, realizing he’d never uttered more truthful words in his entire life. The fact was, dear old—
well, I’m not
that
old
—Christopher Lee Clay, was/is totally, completely, madly in love with Abigail Simpson.
“Anything, huh?” Chris heard the humor in her voice.
“Anything, Abby. I’d go to the ends of the earth for you, you know that.” If she didn’t know he was more than a little bit in love with her, surely she would know it, given what he’d just blurted out. Dickweed that he was, he knew he would have to say the actual words out loud before he could hope for any kind of reaction from Abby. Even then, she’d probably stomp him to death.
“Thanks, but you don’t need to go that far. Just to the Buzz Club with me tonight. Like I said, I need a story.”
Chris had a date with a potential client, another airhead. He couldn’t wait to call and cancel.
“What time would you like me to pick you up?” In the blink of an eye, they were back on a professional level.
“I’ll meet you there. Just in case…something comes up. Is ten o’clock too late?”
“Ten o’clock is perfect, Abby. Just perfect.”
Perfect like you,
he wanted to add, but figured he’d gone too far already.
“I’ll see you there.”
With bells on,
Chris thought. With a lightness to his step, Chris practically danced to the shower. Once inside, with the hot spray sluicing down his well-muscled back, he started to sing at the top of his lungs. It was turning into the best day he’d had in a long, long time.