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“Nothing you can talk about yet. Yeah, I know. I get it.” Her frustration was palpable, even over the wireless connection. “But I don’t care, I want an exclusive.”
“You don’t even know if there’s anything to write about.” He batted away a wasp and started walking to the house again. He was too busy to argue with her right now.
“I’m your wife.”
“And that’s why you need to leave this alone. Okay? Let it go. For the time being.” But he knew she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Hadn’t her curiosity always superseded her brains? As smart as she was, she was even more inquisitive. Scarily so. To the point that she’d gotten herself into trouble—serious, life-threatening danger—on more than one occasion. And the thought of a murder mystery would be too exciting, too enticing for her to ignore. Nikki would want to be more than involved peripherally. She would want to see the crime scene herself. Explore the house. View the bodies if she could. She’d been itching for a new crime to write about. “Look, we’ll talk when I get home, but in the meantime, call Abbey.” He was already up the steps to the porch and paused for a second at the open door to the stairway.
“Don’t try to placate me, Reed. You and I both know that Abbey Marlow will tell me just the same as she’ll tell anyone else,” Nikki argued, and he didn’t disagree. As the public information officer, Marlow knew the boundaries of speaking about an ongoing investigation; she wouldn’t be swayed by any of Nikki’s arguments. Abbey Marlow
would treat his wife just as she would any reporter, and that had never sat well with Nikki. She repeated, “I said, I want an exclusive.”
“You always do,” he said, stepping inside.
“This time is different.”
“Just leave this be, Nikki. For now. I’ll talk to you when I get home. Sit tight. At least for a little while. Okay?”
When she didn’t immediately respond, he was a little more forceful. “You got that? Nikki, stay home.” He caught a glimpse of Morrisette half a flight down, at the turn in the staircase leading to the basement. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight.” He cut the connection but had the gut feeling that she hadn’t heard a word he said. Bullheaded didn’t begin to describe his wife.
“Everything all right?” Morrisette asked, lifting an eyebrow as he reached her.
“Right as rain.”
She sent him a disbelieving glance and headed downward. “Yeah, sure. And I’m a goddamned virgin.”
* * *
“Just stay put. Okay? Nikki? You got that? Stay home.”
“Fat chance,” Nikki said as her husband’s suggestion, no, his order, echoed through her brain. She punched the accelerator of her Honda CR-V, speeding past the city limits as she’d finally, with the help of a driving app, maneuvered through the tangled mess that was most of Savannah. Despite the heat, some water was still standing on the roads and there were potholes to dodge. Fortunately, most of the downed trees had been cut out of the way or pushed to the side, so she could make decent time.
Until just two hours ago, the storm had been the biggest news that had hit Savannah in a long while. All that had changed with whatever was going on at the Beaumont estate. Her mind teemed with possibilities. One person dead? Or multiples? Maybe a murder/ suicide? A drug deal gone bad? Why way out at the abandoned plantation? Squatters? A lovers’ quarrel? She didn’t know and wouldn’t until she got there or she collected more information off the Internet or from Millie. But she felt a sizzle of adrenaline in her bloodstream at the thought of what she might find, maybe something that was more than just a local story, possibly an idea for a new book. It had been two years since she’d submitted the Blondell O’Henry story, a year since Mommy Most Deadly had been published, and her agent was pushing her, but so far she hadn’t been inspired, hadn’t found the right mystery to investigate.
Until today.
She could feel it in her bones.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t even know what’s going on.
But she knew.
Deep inside she knew.
This might be the story that could jump-start her career and she could kiss the Sentinel goodbye forever. Or maybe buy the paper. That thought had always circulated in the back of her mind. She’d be the boss! Her fingers curled more tightly over the steering wheel.
Just calm down. You’ve been here before.
It was true. Each time her latest book had been released there had been some press, a little buzz, and then the book had slowly died and she’d been back to fighting her way for a more interesting job at the Savannah Sentinel. But breaking into that good ol’ boys club at the newspaper had proved tough. It was as if Norm Metzger had a lock on his job and his best bud, editor Tom Fink, just wouldn’t let him go. Because, Nikki suspected, Norm was a man and whether he admitted it or not in this day and age, Tom Fink thought a man should work the crime beat. Same with Metzger, who had barely hidden his looks of disapproval and jealousy at her for actually being a published author. She’d overheard some of Metzger’s remarks:
“Don’t care if it’s ‘true’ crime. Any way you cut it, it’s pulp fiction . . . all it is . . .”
“. . . thinks she can write like a man.”
“. . . just because her father was a judge . . .”
And the one that really stung?
“. . . and she’s got the inside track. Right? Her husband’s a goddamned homicide detective. Hell, how do you compete with that?”
