“Sheryl writes scripts?” John didn’t sound convinced.
Roz shrugged. “Her gardening columns don’t have any dialogue. Maybe it’s her secret weapon.”
“Maybe a shotgun is her secret weapon,” John said.
“Come on. You don’t believe that,” Roz answered.
Alden cut in. “We’re not even sure if that’s what killed him. I don’t think that was a shotgun shell on the ground, but it’s hard to tell from my photos, and Hai didn’t get many shots of the carnage.”
“Then what killed the man?” John asked.
“No official word. And Duke hasn’t returned my phone calls,” Roz admitted.
“Is the honeymoon over?” John snarked.
“Hey,” Alden said. “If she’s having a honeymoon with anybody, it’s me.”
Roz’s gaze snapped to his.
“I mean … uh …” Alden looked sheepish, but the embers burning in his gray eyes were only for her.
Her heart fluttered even as she lifted a scolding eyebrow. She wanted their relationship to be invisible at work, even though the editor was well aware of what was going on.
She turned back to John. “Duke and Deputy Byrd are heading up the investigation, and they were busy yesterday. And the sheriff wasn’t thrilled that Alden and I were on the scene before they were, so Duke is lying low. He’ll get back to me today. I’m sure of it.”
John sighed. “All right. The wire already picked up the story since it happened at an Enolia Honeywood signing, and I don’t want anybody coming in and scooping us in our backyard. I’m sure the city is freaking out over another celebrity-adjacent death, especially after all that fuss a couple of months ago. This is a quiet town, usually, and they want the money to keep rolling in.”
“And our publisher does, too,” Alden pointed out.
John grimaced. “Which means I can’t waste my reporter resources. Get me something that makes it worth my while to have both of you on the story. We need to get something fresh online today, too.”
“Will do,” Roz said.
“And I want that feature on Enolia Honeywood to run Friday, which means you need to turn it around by Wednesday,” John told Alden.
Alden gave him a pleading look. “Not Thursday?”
“Wednesday,” John insisted. “I want to run it with a story about the murder. Which means you two need to get cracking. Roz, let me know what the others are doing, OK? I want a budget by noon.”
“Sure.” She got up, and Alden followed her out of John’s office.
Roz was both a reporter and the managing editor, a big title that didn’t mean much at a small publication like this one. It was a nod to her role at the erstwhile Courier. And it meant they really had her doing multiple jobs for the price of one, including writing and editing and wrangling the junior staff. Which meant she had to come up with a story budget including summaries, story lengths and art possibilities so they could plan Friday’s edition. She’d done most of that already, but she had to make sure everyone was on track.
She studied Alden as he sat at his desk, complete with his own piles of paper, a bust of Shakespeare wearing a Bohemia Beach bucket hat, and the hidden book of poetry filled with Donne and Marvell and compatriots that he didn’t think anyone knew about. A poet with a cynical shell. Her … boyfriend? Lover?
Her employee? Ugh. No. But she did have to manage him a little bit, even though she left most of that to John, since the men had worked together before she came along.
Could she manage her feelings?
That was another question entirely.
Alden finished checking his email, grabbed his cooling coffee cup and sat at the table in the center of the bullpen, the open area outside the glass offices. He glanced at the biggest fishbowl, where publisher Webb Howard would sit if he ever actually appeared. His executive assistant, Helen, focused on her computer in his outer office, also behind glass, as was John on the perpendicular wall. A rarely used conference room sat next to John’s office.
Maybe they were fish in a bowl. But they also had a private space Alden envied and nice views from the second-story windows, with the town laid out before them and glimpses of the ocean several blocks beyond.
“Gather round, folks,” Roz called out from the seat she’d claimed at the head of the table. The reporters in the room stopped chatting and scrolling their laptops and dragged themselves over, plunking down beverages and notebooks.
Alden turned his attention to his colleagues. A few had worked with him when The Beacon was just The Beacon: Kat McClure, stylish and red-haired, whom celebrities genuinely liked but who could write anything with verve and often covered bigger news stories. Tim Shepard, a short fair-skinned guy with shaggy brown hair and a beard who kept locals happy with his coverage of high school sports and the publisher happy with peppy pieces about the pro golfers who came to the recently expanded club near the wildlife refuge, Vesper Lakes.
