Headlines & Deadlines (An Avery Shaw Mystery Book 7) Page 4

  Eliot smirked, rubbing his eyes to clear them. “Seriously, though, don’t you think it’s a little too soon to be calling a news conference? She hasn’t even been gone twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s probably why he’s doing it at his house,” I said, nonplussed. “He probably called the police and they told him there was nothing they could do. He’s trying to be proactive.”

  “Isn’t the husband the first suspect when a wife goes missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to throw the cops off by acting like a victim,” Eliot suggested. “That’s what I plan to do when you go missing.”

  I poked him in the ribs. “You’re going to cry when I go missing. Wait … that came out wrong.”

  “If you ever go missing I promise to burn the county down to find you. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Will you start with Tad Ludington’s pants when you toss the first match?”

  Eliot tilted his head, considering. “Yes. What time is your conference?”

  “I have two hours.”

  Instead of suggesting breakfast, which his growling stomach seemed to indicate was at the forefront of his brain, Eliot graced me with a sensuous smile. “I have an idea on what we can do to burn the two hours before you’re due at work.”

  “Fine,” I said, not even attempting to put up a fight. “You have to do all the work, though, and then I’m demanding you cook breakfast, because I’m going to be too tired to pour my own cereal.”

  “Deal,” Eliot said, rolling on top of me. “Just don’t expect anything fancy. Wait … I think that came out wrong. I was talking about the breakfast not … this. You know that, right?”

  “Eliot? Shut up and put out. I’m not asking you twice.”

  “You’re so bossy,” he grumbled.

  “TWICE in two days,” Devon drawled two hours later, her wide-set eyes taking in my relaxed countenance on the front lawn of Adam Grisham’s house. “How did I get so lucky?”

  “I’m guessing it’s karma,” I said, not missing a beat. “It’s too cold to hold news conferences outside – especially so close to the lake. Didn’t someone tell this guy that it’s February?”

  “It’s in the forties,” Devon replied. “That’s not cold for a Michigan February. And, just for the record, if karma were out to affect my life, only good things would happen.”

  “That’s not the word on the street.” I avoided her sharp gaze as I scanned the lawn. “There’s a lot of media present for a woman who has only been gone fifteen hours. Why is everyone here? I thought it would be just me and the weeklies.”

  “It’s a Thursday,” Devon said. “This is an easy story to put on the noon news. The woman will probably show up before the five o’clock news, so it’s an easy headline.”

  Speaking of easy. “What did you get Derrick for Valentine’s Day? I mean … is there a standard gift you’re supposed to give a man when you’re sharing your first Valentine’s Day together?”

  Devon chuckled hoarsely. “I knew you were lost. I can’t believe you haven’t bought Eliot something yet.”

  “I can’t believe you haven’t bought Derrick something yet.”

  “I have.”

  “That’s not what I’m going to tell him when I see him,” I said. “I’m going to tell him you were asking all of the guys here what you should get him … and flashing your boobs to get inside information.”

  Devon scowled. “I hate you.”

  “I hear they’re looking for a new president of my hate club. You should apply.”

  “I think Tad Ludington is going to win that election in a landslide,” Devon shot back. “What were you thinking going after him like that, by the way?”

  “I was thinking those were all legitimate questions,” I said, making a mental note to enlist my co-worker Marvin Potts when it came time to file Freedom of Information Act requests later in the afternoon. Two heads could only be helpful when it came to taking down Tad, and while Marvin is a walking doormat for women, he’s downright devious when it comes to getting a story. “Are you telling me a fine television personality such as yourself wasn’t going to ask the hard questions?”

  Here’s the thing: Television and print reporters hate each other. Print reporters think television reporters are glory hounds. Television reporters think print reporters are beneath them. There are also hierarchies in the print world – with dailies walking all over weeklies – and the radio world where … huh, I have no idea what goes on with radio. I’ve seen enough of them to know it doesn’t look fun, though.

  “Oh, I was going to ask the hard questions,” Devon said. “I was simply going to let him make his statement before hammering him. That’s the polite thing to do.”

  “You’re just angry you didn’t get any usable sound bites until I took over the show,” I argued. “That means you had to use me in your broadcast, and that always irks you.”

  “We had to blur your shirt,” Devon said. “Did you know that? You were wearing a trademarked product so we had to go through the process of blurring it. Whatever it was, the guys in the office thought it was funny … although I didn’t get it.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of things,” I said, scanning the large waterfront home. “I never thought I would look at any relationship Derrick was in and be able to say he was the smart one.” Even when I’m distracted I can find ways to insult people. It truly is a gift.

  “Do you think that’s funny?” Devon apparently didn’t like my Valentine’s Day gift to her. Who says you can’t wrap wit?

  “A lot of people find me funny,” I said. “A lot of people want to run me over with their cars. You fall into the second group.”

  “I’m trying to be your friend,” Devon said.

  “Why?”

  “Because … well … we might be part of the same family one day. I think we should at least try to be courteous to one another.”

  My heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”

  “I … nothing.”

  Crap on toast with a side of I-want-to-puke home fries! “Do you think Derrick is going to propose to you on Valentine’s Day? You do, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Devon protested, her face draining of color. “Don’t you dare tell him I said that!”

  Oh, I’m going to tell him. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Devon looked dubious. “Do you promise?”

  I had no problem lying to her. “I promise.”

  “Well, thank you,” Devon said. “I honestly don’t know if he’s going to propose. It’s just a feeling.”

  I had a feeling when Derrick found out what Devon was expecting on Valentine’s Day he was going to run – screaming – in the opposite direction. Things were looking up again. Thankfully, I didn’t have to come up with more mundane lies to placate Devon because the door to the house opened, causing everyone to scamper to their stations.

  Adam Grisham was a walking cliché as he strode toward the end of his driveway. His suit was expensive. His waistline was thick. His hair was thinning. Oh, and his eyes were red-rimmed from crying. He looked like a rich businessman genuinely worried about his wife.

  Of course, that instantly made me suspicious. I know I’m supposed to report the news and not make snap judgments about it, but if I could place a wager on Julia Grisham’s fate I was ready to put fifty bucks on her being dead and her husband being the reason. Rude? Yes. Possibly wrong? Yes. Do I feel sorry about it? Not in the slightest.

  “Hello, I’m Adam Grisham.” He introduced himself nervously while I took the opportunity to study the two-story monstrosity behind him. St. Clair Shores is a mixture of homes. It’s a quiet bedroom community far enough from Detroit to avoid the majority – but not all – of the crime, but the most of the homes are smaller than the subdivision offerings to the north. The one exception is Lake St. Clair, which is what I was getting a view of behind the Grisham home. To live here, Adam Grisham had to be pulling in some majo
r bank.

  “I want to thank you all for coming,” Grisham said. “I’m going to make a brief statement. I will answer a few questions, although I don’t really know anything but what I’m about to tell you. I know it’s cold out, so we should probably get started.

  “My wife, Julia Grisham, didn’t come home from work last night,” he continued. “She’s a professor at Detroit College of Business. She usually leaves the campus a little after five and is home in time for dinner by six every night.

  “When she didn’t show up on time last night, I didn’t immediately panic, although it was unlike her,” Grisham said. “I thought maybe she made plans with the women from her office to go out for drinks. She does that on occasion. I thought there was a possibility I forgot.

  “When she didn’t return home by eight, I called her office and they said she left on time,” he said. “I called area hospitals and police, thinking maybe she was in an accident. None have been reported involving her car, or anyone fitting her description.”

  Despite the fact that he was reading from a sheet of paper, Grisham was a little too composed for my taste. He didn’t resemble a man frantic about his missing wife. Of course, many men put on a brave front in situations like this. Still, there was something about his demeanor I didn’t like.

  “I called the local police, the sheriff’s department and the state police, and no one has been willing to help me,” Grisham said. “The police are unwilling to file a missing person report at this time, and they said there is no law about a grown woman voluntarily going missing. But I don’t believe that’s what happened with Julia. She’s a dedicated wife and mother. She’s also a dedicated employee. She didn’t show up for work today and she hasn’t placed a call since yesterday afternoon on her cell phone.

  “I decided to appeal to the media because I believe you are the best shot at finding my wife,” he continued. “Both of my children are grown, but they both still live under my roof while they attend college. My wife would never abandon them. She would never abandon me. We have a happy marriage.”

  Every dirtbag in history who offed his wife uses those words. Grisham appeared sincere. I’m jaded, though. I doubt everything.

  “I’m offering a $50,000 reward for the safe return of my wife,” Grisham said. “No questions asked. If you have her and you’re holding her against her will, I don’t care about pressing charges. I just want my wife back.”

  “That’s generous,” Devon muttered next to me.

  It was … unless he knew there was no way his wife was going to be returned alive.

  “I don’t know what else to say,” Grisham said. “Does anyone have any questions?”

  I immediately punched my hand into the air and Grisham nodded in my direction.

  “Does your wife have any enemies? I mean, does anyone at work dislike her, or is there any reason to think someone from your business dealings would have a grudge against her?” I asked.

  “Not that I can think of,” Grisham replied. “We have money, but not enough to make someone independently wealthy. I work mostly in real estate development and management. My assets are tied up in things I can’t easily divest myself of.”

  “Are either of you having an affair?” I asked.

  The question took Grisham by surprise but, come on, I couldn’t be the only one thinking it.

  “My wife and I love each other very much,” Grisham said. “Thank you all for your time.”

  That was it. He turned on his heel and walked back into his house. A quick glance at the rest of the assembled media told me they were happy with the interview. I guess I was the only one who noticed he didn’t answer that last question.

  Five

  “You’re buying me dinner two nights in a row? How did I get so lucky?”

  Eliot slipped his glove-covered hand around my waist, rolling his eyes as he ushered me down Mount Clemens’ salt-covered sidewalk. “You’re still alive and you didn’t go after Tad Ludington today. I thought you deserved a reward. Although, I’m not sure how much of a reward Coneys and chili fries are.”

  I made a face. “The best reward ever.”

  “You said that when I surprised you with those Vans Star Wars shoes,” Eliot said. “You need to make up your mind.”

  “Fine,” I conceded. “The shoes are better than the Coneys. Any time I don’t have to cook is a great day in my book, though.”

  Eliot snorted. “When was the last time you cooked?”

  “I … what does that matter?” On the domestic front, Eliot is much more composed than I am. He actually likes to cook. He can clean, and does. He even enjoys doing laundry. My idea of domesticity is placing the order for pizza delivery without having to pause my video game in the process.

  “When was the last time you cooked?” Eliot pressed, holding the restaurant door open so I could skirt around him.

  “I cooked Sunday,” I said.

  Eliot tilted his head to the side, racking his brain. “We had Chinese delivered on Sunday. Do you know how I remember? You were wearing those fuzzy Hello Kitty pajama pants and thought you were funny when you joked to the delivery kid that you were going to eat some kitty while wearing Hello Kitty.”

  “That was a funny joke.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Omigod!”

  I froze when I heard the voice, stiffly turning to find two familiar sets of eyes watching me from a nearby booth. There he was, Macomb County’s esteemed sheriff and his chick du jour. Jake Farrell is as handsome today as he was when we were in high school. His black hair was pushed up in its usual messy bird’s nest and his dark eyes reflected surprise when he caught sight of me, crinkling at the corners as he broke into a small grin.

  It was the woman across from him I wasn’t as happy to see.

  Cara. Jake’s new girlfriend and my … I don’t even know what to call her. Where Cara and her perfect hair and skin are concerned, I’m at a loss for words. I know, I’m baffled, too. That rarely happens.

  The woman seems perfectly nice. She’s pleasant. She smiles a lot. She goes on and on about shows like Dancing With the Stars and The Bachelor. She’s a great woman, and I hope she and Jake are very happy together. Yeah, you’re right, she should be publicly flogged and banished to Canada.

  “It’s Avery and Eliot,” Cara gushed, patting Jake’s hand enthusiastically. “This is such great timing. We haven’t ordered yet. We can all eat together.”

  Over my dead body.

  “That sounds great,” Eliot said, shuffling in the direction of their booth.

  My mouth dropped open as Eliot ignored the obvious hints I was sending him. Okay, they were obvious in my head and he’s not a mind reader. Still … . “We don’t want to ruin your date,” I said.

  “You’re not ruining our date,” Cara said, sliding out of her side of the booth and moving around so she could crowd Jake on his “We’re having dinner here because we’re too lazy to cook.”

  “Join the club,” Eliot said. He met my reluctant gaze and gestured toward the booth. “Slide in.”

  “You slide in.”

  “You know I don’t like feeling trapped,” Eliot argued. “Slide in.”

  “Maybe I don’t like feeling trapped,” I argued. “Did you ever think of that?”

  “I’m going to spank your bottom blue if you don’t get in this booth,” Eliot warned.

  “Oh, that sounds kinky,” Cara enthused.

  Since that wasn’t what he was going for, Eliot had the grace to look abashed. “I … .”

  I moved around him and slid into the booth wordlessly. I figured I owed him after the Tad incident. I started to pull my mittens off, but ceased when Cara’s eyes bore into the crocheted winter wear.

  “Are those … sharks?”

  I glanced at the mittens. I’d purchased them on Amazon on a lark. I was looking for warm gloves that I could wear while writing. When I saw the double-lined adult shark mittens I had to have them. They looked like puppets. In fact, I’d give
n them names – Captain and Crunch – so I could perform shows for Fish when I didn’t want to cover an assignment. The sharks took on personalities and I laid my best arguments out with energetic visual aids. Yeah, Fish hates it. That doesn’t stop me from doing it. In fact, it encourages me.

  “Um … yes. I bought them on Amazon.”

  Jake snickered. “It’s good to see the classics survive,” he said. “Let me guess, you do puppet shows for your co-workers, don’t you?”

  He knows me too well. “Of course not.”

  “Their names are Captain and Crunch and she makes me listen to them when she doesn’t want to go outside because it’s too cold,” Eliot said, shrugging out of his coat and resting his arm across my shoulders on the back of the booth.

  “Do you use a lot of props at work?” Cara asked. She was desperate to get me on her side. Rumors of my former relationship with Jake were rampant. I had a feeling Cara was trying to make me a friend so I wouldn’t become an enemy and act as a wedge between her and Jake. I could see through her, and yet I was reluctant to be mean to her – my initial inclination whenever Jake selected a new girlfriend. Jake deserved to be happy, and even though our relationship failed that didn’t mean I wanted all of his relationships to tank. What? I don’t.

  “Only when I want to get my own way,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Cara said, looking to Jake for help.

  “Avery likes to be in charge,” Jake said. “She’s bossy and she doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “Bossy is an understatement,” Eliot added.

  “I saw what you did to Tad Ludington last night, by the way,” Jake said. “It was inspired. I especially liked the part where you kept repeating the word ‘tool’ over and over to see if you could get his head to explode.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” Eliot chided. “What you probably didn’t see on television was the part where he chased her down and grabbed her.”

  Jake’s face hardened. “What?”

  “He had hold of her arm when I showed up,” Eliot said.

  “Why is he still alive?” Jake’s voice was deadly as Cara shifted uncomfortably next to him. She clearly wasn’t used to seeing his temper displayed.