Читать книгу Dreaming Ivy - Rhonda Lee Carver - Страница 5

Chapter 1

“I must be hearing things. I’ve lost my mind. Or have you lost yours?” Ivy Kennedy eyed her boss, Marshall Deatrick, across the stretch of his paper-scattered desk. Her blood pressure rocketed. Sweat beaded between her breasts and on her upper lip. The air conditioning in the historical downtown building was on the fritz again. Tugging at the neckline of her blouse, she uncrossed her legs. “I could quit, you know.” She swallowed back the bitter taste of reality. She knew it was a weightless threat.

“Well,” he began easily, “you could quit, but we both know you won’t.” His lips parted with smug satisfaction. He lifted the lid from the antique box on the corner of his desk and took out a discount cigar. He laid his large frame back into his shabby leather chair as if he were relaxing into a bubble bath. He slid the cigar under his nose, taking a long, slow sniff like it was premium tobacco.

Ivy counted to ten. Her patience wore thin. “I hope you’re not planning to light that while I’m here. The heat and your arrogance are all that I can endure at one time.” The rotating fan on his desk squeaked as it turned, blowing hot air into her face. She pressed her fingertips to her temples.

“Don’t push it, Ivy.”

Dropping her hands into her lap, she sighed. Marshall was an intimidating man, but she’d learned over the years just how far to push. “Why this assignment, Marshall? Why stick me with a ghost hunter? You know I don’t believe in ghosts and paranormal activity. It’s amazing what people will write about to earn a buck.”

He rolled the stogy between his fingers, then placed the cigar into his front pocket and patted it like a loved one. “Now, now, Ivy. There’s no reason to get your panties in a bunch.”

“That’s a sexist remark,” she snapped.

“Forgive me. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch. Better?” He started to reach into his pocket but caught himself. Ivy knew he’d been making a sizeable effort to stop smoking. It was putting him on edge, obvious by the tense set of his jaw and deeper lines around his eyes.

“Much better.” She rolled her eyes. It was no use. Marshall didn’t understand the concept of political correctness or treating people with respect.

“There are a handful of columnists and reporters in that room–” He flicked his thumb toward the outer offices. “–that would give their eyeteeth to grab this story.”

“Oh really? Let’s take a look at the handful jumping for this opportunity.” She swiveled in the chair. She looked through the dirty window into the work area. Five desks filled the space, separated by short, gray dividers. One desk was occupied, not unusual for a Sunday afternoon. Jimmy Doyle, fresh from college with a golden journalism degree, had joined the Morgan Tribune two months earlier. The wet-behind-the-ears kid left a lasting impression of being an ass-kisser. She had nothing against the guy. In fact, she liked him. She respected anyone who had drive and passion matching her own. Too bad the ladder of success only had two steps above them. To get a better position at the Tribune, one would need to pry dead fingers off the rung.

She turned back to Marshall. He’d claw the eyes out of any person who dared to overstep him.

“Why not give this story to Jimmy? You don’t see anyone else hanging out here on a Sunday, do you?”

“You are,” he said.

She ignored his comment. She was always there. “Jimmy would get a kick out of staying in a haunted house for two weeks.”

Marshall shook his head and scratched the top of his shiny, bald head. “Don’t try it. It won’t work.”

“Try what?” She lifted a brow in dispute.

“To push this story off onto someone else. It’s yours. Like it or not.”

“Why me?” She shivered. Her voice was close to a whine. She didn’t like to bellyache but there were moments. She considered herself a true journalist, open to all stories, but there came a time when she had to stand up for what she believed in. This was where she drew the line. “I’ve been here for five years, Marshall. Aren’t I supposed to be above and beyond all of this small-time news? Hasn’t my column doubled in readers in the last two years? Don’t you like my articles? Isn’t that worth something?”

“You want big? Go about two hundred miles upstate and you’ll get your massacre headliners and your TV highlights. Here, you’ll get what is available.” He shrugged when she groaned. Maybe a silent apology? “Look Ivy, you’re my best journalist. I realize you think you’ve earned the right to call the shots, but you’re not looking at the whole picture.” He scooted forward in his chair. “For example, about that story you did last week. You know, the one about the stolen lawn ornaments. The day after the story ran, the thief was caught, thanks to your amateur detective work.”

Why did his comment feel more like a slam than a pat on the back? He said it like it was something grand. It wasn’t a prized moment for her. “Marshall.” She leaned forward too. “The thief was a ninety-six-year-old escapee from the convalescent home. He had been suffering delusional outbreaks and thought he was a savior to all statues of the world. When he was busted, the deputy couldn’t tell who was moving faster: the ornament or the thief. It wasn’t a big-deal story and it didn’t take a genius to figure out the culprit wasn’t a clever thief with a devious, complex plan. The sheriff’s office just didn’t want to waste time on a pointless crime.”

Marshall got up from his chair. He moved his large frame around the massive cherrywood desk and propped himself on the corner like it was his throne. “What do you expect, Ivy? Old men stealing lawn ornaments are the story here. If anything, you gave people a laugh. We’re running a newspaper for a town of less than thirty thousand people, not a city with a population of drug users, felons and murderers. A tale like Thornton House with its ghost sightings and so-called haunting is news to these townsfolk. It has been the curse and talk of these parts since before you were the twinkle in your mother’s eye. For an admired ghost hunter to come here from Chicago to investigate...Well, that is a huge story.” He sighed. “I don’t get why you’re dragging your heels on this.”

Ivy had a murderous urge to look Marshall straight in the eye and tell him where to shove this so-called story. With great control, she swallowed her pride. As much as she hated to admit it, and would refuse to say it aloud, he was right. Bigger stories than a ghost hunter coming to town wouldn’t be on the horizon. “I’m curious why this ghost hunter thinks it’s a value of his time and effort to come all the way out here to investigate paranormal activity. The house hasn’t been lived in for years. Is he really in that dire need of snapshots of ghosts and goblins? You’d think they would have enough horror stories in Chicago.”

“Tsk, tsk, Ivy.” He clicked his tongue. “You’re becoming cynical with age. Your hunger is growing into an evil beast.”

At least she had hunger. “I’m just pointing out the facts.”

“And you’re saying you don’t believe Thornton House is haunted?” One bushy brow popped up.

“We both know the story. I did a piece on the house and its history when I first started working here, remember? There were so many rumors swirling around town. My intention was to piece the puzzle together.” She sat back. “People have lost sight of what’s real and what’s fantasy. They’ve glorified the house with stories of murder and mayhem. There is history there, but–”

“History of a rich landowner who died a lonely man,” he interrupted. “A lot of people believe the spirit of Marcus Thornton and his wife still roam the halls of that old house. Others believe he buried his fortune somewhere on that property.” Out of pure habit, he took out his cigar and took a few unlit drags.

“If that were true we’d have the whole town over there digging up the property. Now that would be a story.” She laughed.

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s time someone found a truth to all those rumors. And that’s where you come into the picture.”

“I’ve already been there and done that. There is no truth to the rumors. It’s pure drama that keeps the rumor mill turning.”

“But this will be different. You’ll be there getting first glance.”

“Why is this so important to you?” No doubt he had an ulterior motive. He always did.

“Imagine the publicity it will bring to our little town. We have to be a part of this, Ivy. We can’t just let some out-of-towner come in and grab our story. We gotta get our piece of the pie. Not to mention that Mayor Tisdell and the owner of the Tribune, Mr. Parks, are breathing down my neck for me to make this work. Since they got wind of this man’s arrival, Tisdell and Parks have been fired up, twisting and spanking this opportunity half past dead. We’ve kept it under wraps until the definite plans were made.”

“All over a ghost hunter?”

“This ghost hunter’s investigations are well known in his field and gobbled up by believers–and some not-so-believing. He’s written a shitload of books on his observations and findings. They sell like crack hotcakes. Imagine all the tourists who’d want to come here just to get a glance at that old dump.” His eyes sparkled dollar signs. “However, if my plan works…” He stopped.

She saw the mischief bubbling in his chubby face. “What are you up to, Marshall?” She narrowed her eyes. “Who is this man anyway?”

“Max Shepard. Heard of him?”

“Maybe, but once again, paranormal activity isn’t my cup of tea.” And then a thought struck her. “Wait… Isn’t he the man who was in all the gossip magazines after he divorced that paper-thin supermodel? She walked the catwalk for those fancy fashion designers. When was that–maybe five, six years ago?”

“I don’t know about all that nonsense.” He snorted. “You know how those good-for-nothing tabloids feed off the crud of other peoples’ lives.”

“You mean the same sort of trash magazines you worked for before coming here?”

He didn’t even acknowledge that. “Why he has chosen to come here and investigate the dilapidated Thornton House makes no sense to me.” He rubbed his palms together. “What I do know is that Shepard made arrangements to stay at the old dump. The latest owner of that shack is all for this investigation. He sees this as a future sale in the making.”

“You mean your golf buddy. Nice how that fits so comfy. Let me guess–you scratch his back, he’ll scratch yours?”

“I have a lot of golf buddies, sugar.”

“And what makes you think this ghost hunter guru would want some writer tagging along? Aren’t most of those people loners?”

His eminent sneaky grin returned. “I’m afraid that choice won’t be given to him. The property owner arranged for you to stay also. It’s all been smoothed out. No worries. Just do your job.”

“That’s nice,” she muttered. “Okay, let’s say this man is worth a story. But what a waste of time investigating Thornton House for haunting. There’s nothing to find but cobwebs and rats. I’d rather just skip the whole haunting buzz and go straight for a personal interview with Max Shepard.” She grinned. “I bet I’d get a good one.”

“Thatta girl.” He stood up and straightened his tie. “And you never know, Ivy. From the photos I’ve seen of Shepard, he’s a looker and known as a ladies’ man. You may have to use those womanly wiles to convince him to give you an exclusive. Cozying up to him might be a blessing instead of a disaster.” He winked.

“Oh…my…my…my.” She surveyed him closely and her stomach twisted. “What are you thinking? You wouldn’t! You couldn’t!” she sputtered.

“What, Ivy?” He pretended innocence, which was a long shot. “Just remember us when you get that interview.”

“I’ve never used seduction to get a story, Marshall. I won’t start now.”

He rubbed his double chin and shrugged a beefy shoulder. “That thought never crossed my mind. But just between the two of us, sex is not taboo in getting an exclusive. You could do worse things–”

Ivy jumped up from the chair, sending it hard against the wall. “Stop right there. There is no chance in hell I’d lower my values for a story. I will not go in there and seduce this man to convince him to let us publish his personal story. This is deplorable.”

“Calm down, Ivy. I’m not asking you to seduce the man, for Christ’s sake. I’m just asking you to go in and get a story on what he finds. Show Shepard how nice our townsfolk are. If he gives you an exclusive, that’ll be icing on the cake. Look at it as a partnership. And being the journalist you are, think of the story you can get from him. And what if he picks up on a few freaking mysteries and ghosts? If we earn a story in one of his books, well hell, this town will no longer be stories of stolen lawn ornaments. Can you only imagine the boost such a story can give to a writer’s career?” He pointed a stubby forefinger in her direction.

Ivy didn’t respond. She toyed with the idea of an exclusive on Max Shepard. She didn’t care whether there were spirits or walking dead. What she did believe in was finding an opportunity to make a name for herself. A story on the Max Shepard would be of interest to a lot of people, and definitely wouldn’t hurt her lackluster career. “I think this Max Shepard is a phony. He claims to see ghosts? I bet he’s never seen a spark of supernatural his entire life. Now that would be a story. To reveal a fake.”

“A fake? Sure, go that route. I don’t give a rat’s ass what your storyline is as long as there is one. Find out what makes this man tick. Stay on him like white on rice.”

“Desperate, are we?” Ivy raised a brow.

“When you get to be my age you’ll know desperation.” Something flashed across his face. Ivy couldn’t read what it was before it disappeared. Was there more to this than met the eye? He turned toward the window and stared out. “Besides, you’re a journalist. Journalists like to report. Maybe this is the story that’ll get you that move into a big-shot newspaper. If not, you may be stuck in this small town for the rest of your life. Unless we both fail on this story and get fired.”

She sucked in a deep breath. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Well, one way or another, you may get your wish.” He turned back to her. “You’ll be leaving dodge by choice or involuntarily.” He chuckled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He returned to his chair.

“Marshall, you know I came back here to live for one reason and one reason only. My mother and her ill health. She needs me. I need this job until I have a backup plan.” With her dismal thoughts burning a hole in her head, she told Marshall, “You should be glad that I’m still here doing your demeaning jobs. I bet we wouldn’t see your star reporter, Jasmine, sleeping in a deserted haunted house for two weeks.”

His scoff echoed off the empty walls. “You’re a much better writer than Jasmine. Good looks, big tits and a tight ass can only get you so far in life.” He thrummed his fat fingers on the desktop.

“And what am I? Chopped liver?” She scowled.

His face softened slightly. “Ivy, you don’t need me to feed your ego. You’re single because you choose that life. You’ve got the whole kit and caboodle. Looks, brain and future.”

“I’ll remind you of those sentiments later. And if I get this story and those photos, if he takes any, I better land a huge raise and a private office, you hear?”

“Does this mean I can count on you?” He was already smiling in success.

“On one condition. Well, two conditions.” She smiled.