The White Carnation

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by M.H. Susanne Matthews.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

 

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-9118-0

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9118-1

eISBN 10: 1-4405-9119-9

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9119-8

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Anna Yu; 123RF: cygnusx, pinkynoise

 

For the real Rob and Faye: friendship like ours outlasts time and place. Thank you for believing in me and supporting me. You're the best. I promised I'd make you famous one day!

• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• More from This Author
  
• Also Available
  

“Don't do me any more favors! One of these days, Sloan, I'll take one of these crappy assignments and turn it into a Pulitzer, just watch and see.”

Faye stormed out of the editor's office, slamming the door behind her. The glass pane rattled in its frame. Her chestnut ponytail swished from side to side as she swiftly crossed the large room to her cubicle, the despised assignment sheet crumpled in the fisted hand at her side.

Not that this one will be the one. A frigging engagement party. What next? Advice to the lovelorn? Haven't I paid for my damn sins yet?

She ignored the sly “I told you so” looks on the faces of her fellow reporters as she passed each desk. Journalism was a dog-eat-dog business, and even after a year, she was still the main item on the menu. She was an investigative reporter, not a frigging social columnist. Although she didn't give a damn about Fifi or Fido and was sick to death of playing nice-nice with dog-show judges and patrons alike, she'd had a great idea for a story, one with teeth, and Sloan, that no-good, low-down snake, had given it to the competition.

Shafted again. Damn it.

Weren't there any decent people left in the newspaper business? When she'd suggested looking into the extravagances she'd seen covering dog shows the last few months, Sloan had promised to consider it, and now, not two hours later, he'd just told her Tina Jackson would be looking into it.

That bitch has been gunning for my job from the minute she got here.
Faye huffed out a frustrated breath
.
Abel Rogers, the newspaper's top criminal investigative reporter, was scheduled to retire in three months. Faye had hoped to make it back into the
Boston Examiner's
crime beat section with the dog show exposé
.
But from now on, instead of covering dog shows for
Around Town
, the local page, she'd be having tea with the upper crust as a second-string society columnist.
La-de-da!
And he considers this a step up? Bullshit.
Half the time I won't even have a byline.
Plopping down on her chair, she flung the offending wad of paper onto her desk.

“Temper, temper,” Phil, one of the transplanted Brits who worked as an errand boy for the senior staff, said. “You could've broken the boss's bloody window.”

“Too bad I didn't,” she answered and turned her back on him.

“Don't get your knickers in a knot, princess. I don't agree with the way he's treating you either. You're better than this.” He stomped off after dropping two memos on her desk.

Faye reached for them—the first was about reallocating parking spaces.
Crap
.
Can't they leave anything alone?
The second was about improper use of the photocopier. Some idiot must have been taking butt shots again.

Her cubicle, a poor replacement for the broom closet-sized office she'd had, was the one closest to the far wall. She stared at the chaos atop her credenza—the assorted bits and pieces of what had once been a thriving reporter's career. In one corner stood a cut glass vase filled with year-old remnants of a dozen red roses, their black, wilted skeletons a constant reminder of her disgrace. Turning the partitions around to ensure a small measure of privacy hadn't helped. Right now, she could feel Tina Jackson gloating right through the portable walls. It was her idea, her story, and now that fool who couldn't write her way out of a paper bag and hadn't had an original thought in a decade, was going to get the credit. What Faye wouldn't give for the courage to tell Sloan to take his job and shove it.

Working at one of Boston's largest newspapers as its top investigative reporter had been her dream, and she'd sacrificed too much to give up on it just yet. This was just a temporary setback. She'd find a story, investigate it on her own, and present him with a
fait accompli
. There had to be hundreds of juicy stories out there just waiting for her. If she could find the right one, she might freelance and sell it to the highest bidder.

Who am I kidding? I can barely make ends meet on my miserable paycheck and don't have time for anything else—at least nothing worthy of a Pulitzer.

Maybe she should take some time off and go visit her mother. She hadn't been home since her stepdad's funeral six months ago. She was already depressed; going to Kennebunkport couldn't make her feel any worse. She picked up the phone and was surprised by the sound indicating she had a message waiting. No one had bothered to call and leave her a message in months.

She punched in the necessary codes. The automated voice indicated the call had come in two days ago.
Damn it.
She'd gotten complacent dwelling in her misery, preferring the anonymity of self-isolation to listening to the commiserations of others. Was this one of them—someone devious enough to try to dig up more dirt for the rumor mill? After all, the story of her disgrace was old news now. They'd need fresh meat to revive it. Annoyed with herself, yet too curious to erase the message, she pressed the button to retrieve it.

“Hello, Faye. This is Lucy Green, Mary's mother. I need to talk to you. Can you come by the apartment this afternoon? I wouldn't bother you, but I can't think of anyone else who could help me. My number is 617-635-8765.”

Surprised, Faye jotted the name and number on a sticky note before hanging up.

Weird! What can I possibly do for Mary's mom?

Mary had been her best friend—her BFF long before the term had become popular. They'd been inseparable in high school and at Boston College, but once Faye had gotten her shot at major crime stories and Mary had moved to New York, they'd drifted apart. They kept in touch, mostly through online chats and emails, with a few phone calls thrown in. She made a point of seeing Mary if she happened to be in the Big Apple, but it had been a while. The last time she'd spoken to her had been about four months ago in January, when Mary had called to wish her a happy birthday. Mary hadn't been feeling well and had cancelled her annual visit. Faye had celebrated alone with a pint of gourmet ice cream and a bottle of Irish whiskey. She'd never even called to see if her friend was feeling better—she'd started investigating the dog show, and when she was on a story, as Mary had often said, the world could blow up around her and Faye would never notice.

She frowned and bit her lower lip. Lucy Green sounded upset, and that compounded Faye's guilt about not calling Mary or checking her messages sooner. Maybe there was something seriously wrong with her old friend. Faye liked Mrs. Green, even if the woman's ideas and attitudes didn't keep pace with the times. Mary was exactly the opposite. Modern, embracing every aspect of the twenty-first century, her outlook on life was
qué sera, sera
—what will be, will be. Her happy-go-lucky acceptance of whatever life threw at her had often irritated Faye, who was as emotional and explosive as they came. Where Mary made lemonade out of life's lemons, Faye just scowled and ate the sour fruit.

She pulled open her desk drawer and dragged out the mini photo album she kept there, the book automatically falling open at the page she wished to avoid.

Typical! What else is going to go wrong today?

She stared down at the happy couple in the snapshot,
letting regret wash through her a moment, and then turned the page. She flipped through the photos until she found the one she wanted … the picture of Mary and herself taken at the Empire State Building more than a year ago. On the heels of that trip to New York came the betrayal that had not only broken Faye's heart but had also gotten her booted off the crime beat and relegated to the back pages of the local section, the middle of nowhere for an up-and-coming reporter.

She stood, leaned against the credenza, and dialed the number given, hanging up when the answering machine kicked in. Faye flattened the assignment sheet and checked the time. She had a few things to tie up, but if she left by one, she could be in Wellesley in plenty of time for the engagement tea and back to meet with Mrs. Green after four. She redialed, left a message, and gave her cell number in case that wasn't convenient.

“Faye, are you going to need me today?”

She jumped and turned quickly as the deep voice startled her.

“Jimmy, you scared the daylights out of me.” She chuckled to take the sting out of her words. “How can a man walk softly in those bloody things?” She stared down at the combat boots he preferred.

He laughed. “What can I say? I tread carefully.”

Dressed in beige camo gear, he stood right in front of her, close enough to trap her between himself and the desk. His dark brown hair, disheveled as it always was, fell into his eyes. The scruff on his face was a little worse today than it had been, and while she knew some women considered his look sexy, she didn't. He reminded her of a war correspondent who didn't know when he'd get his next shower or meal. Tinted glasses all but obscured his eyes. His slightly sour body odor and cigarette-tainted breath filled her nostrils. She put her hand up to his chest and shoved lightly.

“A little room to breathe, please. What's with the outfit? If I did need you, you'd have to go home and change. You look like Grizzly Adams in that getup.”

“Going to do a nature shoot later today.” He stepped back as requested and smiled down at her. “Sorry, didn't mean to crowd you.”

“Well, you'd better stay upwind. If any of the animals get a whiff of you, they'll run for cover. That gear's in desperate need of washing.”

Jimmy's face reddened, and he stared down at the fancy Japanese camera hanging around his neck. At his waist, he wore his military-style utility belt filled with lenses, film, and everything else his craft required. The man was a genius with a camera, but as eccentric as they came.