Secrets and Desire: Best-Kept Lies / Miss Pruitt's Private Life / Secrets, Lies...and Passion. Barbara McCauley
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behind a glass wall that separated the reporters from the salespeople. In the time she’d been gone, the walls had been painted, from a dirty off-white to different shades at every corner. Soft purple on one wall, sage on another, gold or orange on the next, all tied together by a bold carpet mingling all the colors. She passed by several reporters working on deadlines, though much of the staff had gone home for the day. A few night reporters were trickling in and the production crew still had hours to log in, but all in all, the office was quiet.
She slid into her space, surprised that it was just as she’d left it, that the small cubicle hadn’t been appropriated by someone else, as it had been months since she’d been in Seattle or sat at her desk. She’d set up maternity leave with her boss late last summer and she’d created a cache of columns in anticipation of taking some time off to be with the baby and finishing the book she’d started. Between those new columns and culling some older ones, hardly vintage, but favorites, there had been enough material to keep “Solo” in the Living section twice a week, just like clockwork.
But it was time to tackle some new questions, and she spent the next two hours reading the mail that had stacked up in her in box and skimming the e-mails she hadn’t collected in Montana. As she worked, she was vaguely aware of the soft piped-in music that sifted through the offices of the Clarion, and the chirp of cell phones in counterpoint to the ringing of land lines to the office. Conversation, muted and seemingly far away, barely teased her ears.
In the back of her mind she wondered if Kurt Striker had followed her. If, even now, he was making small talk with Shawn-Tay in the reception area. The thought brought a bit of a smile to her lips. Striker wasn’t the type for small talk. No way. No how. For the most part tight-lipped, he was a sexy man whose past was murky, never discussed. She had the feeling that at one point in his life, he’d been attached to some kind of police department; she didn’t know where or why he was no longer a law officer. But she’d find out. There were advantages to working for a newspaper and one of them was access to reams of information. If he wasn’t forthcoming on his own, she’d do some digging. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Hey, Randi!” Sarah Peeples, movie reviewer for the Clarion, was hurrying toward Randi’s desk. Sarah’s column, “What’s Reel,” was published each Friday and was promoted as “hip and happening.” A tall woman with oversize features, a wild mop of blond curls and a penchant for expensive boots and cheap jewelry, Sarah spent hours watching movies in theaters, on DVDs and tapes. She lived and breathed movies, celebrities and all things Hollywood. Today she was wearing a choker that looked as if it had been tailored for a rottweiler or a dominatrix, boots with pointed toes and silver studs, a gray scoop-necked sweater and a black skirt that opened in the front, slitted high enough to show off just a flash of thigh. “I was beginning to think I might never see you again.”
“Can’t keep a good woman down,” Randi quipped.
“Amen. Where the hell have you been?”
“Montana with my brothers.”
“The hair is new.”
“Necessity rather than fashion.”
“But it works for you. Short and sassy.” Sarah was bobbing her head up and down as if agreeing with herself. “And you look great. How’s the baby?”
“Perfect.”
“And when will I get to meet him?”
“Soon,” Randi hedged. The less she spoke about Joshua, the better. “How’re things around here?”
Sarah rolled her eyes as she rested a hip on Randi’s desk. “Same old, same old. I’ve been bustin’ my butt…well, if you can call it that, rereviewing all the movies that are Oscar contenders.”
“Sounds exhausting,” Randi drawled.
“Okay, so it’s not digging ditches, I know, but it’s work.”
“Has anything strange been going on around here?” Randi asked.
“What do you mean? Everyone who works here is slightly off, right?”
“I guess you’re right.”
Sarah picked up a glass paperweight and fiddled with it. “Now, when are you going to bring the baby into the office and show him off?” Sarah’s grin was wide, her interest sincere. She’d been married three years and desperately wanted a baby. Her husband was holding out for the big promotion that would make a child affordable. Randi figured it might never come.
“When things have calmed down.” She considered confiding in Sarah, but thought better of it. “He and I need to get settled in.”
“Mmm. Then how about pictures?”
“I’ve got a ton of ’em back at the condo. Still packed. I’ll bring them next time, I promise,” she said, then leaned back in her chair. “So fill me in. What’s going on around here?”
Sarah was only too glad to oblige. She offered up everything from office politics, to management changes, to out-and-out gossip. In return, she wanted to know every detail of Randi’s life in Montana, starting with the accident. Finally, she said, “Paterno’s back in town.”
Randi felt the muscles in her back grow taut. “Is he?” Forty-five, twice divorced with a hound-dog face, thick hair beginning to gray and a razor-sharp sense of humor, the freelance photographer had asked Randi out a few years back and they’d dated for a while. It hadn’t worked out for a lot of reasons. The main reason being that, at the time, neither one of them had wanted to commit. Nor had they been in love.
“He’s been asking about you.” Sarah set the paperweight onto the desk again. “You know, unless you’re involved with someone, you might want to give him another chance.”
Randi shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You hiding something from him?”
“What?” Randi asked, searching her friend’s face. “Hiding something? Of course not…Oh, I get it.” She shook her head and sighed. No one knew the identity of her son’s father; not even the man himself. Before she could explain, Sarah’s cell phone beeped.
“Oops. Duty calls,” Sarah said, eyeing the face of the phone as a text message appeared. “New films just arrived. Well, old ones really. I’m doing a classic film noir piece next month and I ordered a bunch of old Peter Lorre, Bette Davis and Alfred Hitchcock tapes to review.” She cast a smile over her shoulder as she hurried off. “Guess what I’ll be doing this weekend? Drop by if you don’t have anything better to do….
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I won’t hold my breath.”
Good thing, Randi thought, as she didn’t seem to have a moment to breathe. She had way too much to do, she thought as she turned on her computer.
And first item on her agenda was finding a way to deal with Kurt Striker.
“…that’s right. All three of ’em are back in Seattle,” Eric Brown was saying, his voice crackling from his cell phone’s connection to that of Striker’s. “What’re the chances of that? Clanton lives here but the other two don’t. Paterno, he’s at least got a place here, but Donahue doesn’t.”
Striker didn’t like it.
“Paterno arrived three days ago and Donahue rolled into town yesterday.”
Just hours before Randi had returned. “Coincidence?” Striker muttered, not believing it for a second as he stood on the sidewalk outside the offices of the Clarion.
There was a bitter laugh on the other end of the line. “If you believe that, I’ve got some real estate in the Mojave—”
“—that you want to sell me. Yeah, I know,” Striker growled angrily. “Clanton lives here. Paterno does business in town. But Donahue…” His jaw tightened. “Can you follow him?”
“Not if you want me