Death of A High Maintenance Blonde (Jubilant Falls Series Book 5) Read Free Page A

correspondent” beneath their byline.
    I stepped into the hallway as I locked the classroom door and, in a few steps, turned the corner toward the stairwell that led to the department’s basement offices.
    My own office was the third door from that stairwell. The latest college president had milked some millionaire alumnus for repairs to the gothic old building that housed the English and communications departments; as the final term of the year wound down, the smell of the newly painted hallway and newly varnished doors had almost dissipated.
    I plucked the several students’ Post-It notes off the ornate oak door and slipped inside, reading the notes as I sank behind my desk.
    “Hey, Huff, did U get my paper? I sent it thru campus e-mail.” There was no name on that one, so I tossed it in the trash. Either the paper was in my inbox or it wasn’t. I wasn’t here to hold hands.
    “Dr. H—I can’t get into JOUR211 this fall. Can you get me a waiver? Plz call…” The kid who left that note was a go-getter, the editor of the college paper. I stuck that note on my phone. I would make certain he got into the class. I would call him on Monday morning, after AA and before I left town.
    I pulled a framed photo of my son Noah and me off the bookshelf. It was taken during a camping trip just before his death. He had just graduated college, before he started on his own career as a spokesman for an environmental organization. We were smiling at the camera as we enjoyed a beer, the fish we’d caught that afternoon frying over the campfire.
    His mother, Bitch Goddess of the Frozen North, often commented on how alike we’d looked. Noah’s hair was in a long, brown ponytail, much like mine had been. Just like me, he had been tall, thin and tanned from his love of the outdoors. We even shared the same space between our front teeth. On that last camping trip, we’d not only brought our fishing gear, we’d each brought our cameras, to capture the stunning wildlife we saw during the days.
    Six months later, life would never be the same.
    There was a knock on my door.
    “Come in!” I called out.
    “Last day of the term!” sang a woman’s mellifluous alto voice. It was Audrey Dellaplain, who taught the broadcast classes.
    I placed Noah’s photo back on the bookshelf before I answered.
    “Yes, it is,” I said.
    “You got plans? Anything exciting?”
    “I’m meeting with a series of US editors to assess the state of open records laws around the country.” At least that was what I was telling people.
    “God, you’re a party animal.”
    “Well, I think that’s something a lot of students need to know and a lot of working journalists probably have strong opinions on.” I pretended to sift through the papers on my desk so I wouldn’t have to look her in the eye. In reality, there would be no article, no treatise, no dissection of facts or conclusions or theories on various open records laws.
    This summer, I wanted to find those journalists who, like Icarus, flew too close to the sun and, as their wings melted, found themselves falling all too rapidly toward the ground. I wanted to interview those who hit the ground hard and then couldn’t get up again.
    I wanted to know the reasons behind the fall. Was it conflict with those further up the food chain? Questionable sources? Expensive lawsuits? Outright plagiarism? And what led up to it? Ego? Fear? Pressure to publish in an increasingly unstoppable news cycle?
    In particular, I was looking for one person, someone I wanted to talk to more than anything: the one reporter who flamed out in one spectacular way, then disappeared from sight.
    This summer I wouldn’t stop until I found her.

 
     
     
    Chapter 3: Charisma
     
    “Your name is Charisma ? Really?”
    My reporter’s notebook slapped my thigh in frustration at the deputy’s question. I pushed my short brown hair (which never seemed to lay right anyway) out of my eyes and tried to sound professional. We were