Gossip (Desire Never Dies) Read online

  GOSSIP

  By

  Clara Grace Walker

  GOSSIP © 2013 Rebecca von Wormer. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.

  License Notes:

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this e-book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This novel is a fictional piece of work. Any and all references to real people, events, businesses, groups, organizations, places, etc. are only for literary value and authenticity, and are used in a fictitious manner. All other characters, events, businesses, groups, organizations, places, etc. are created by the author. All utterances, actions, thoughts, beliefs, etc. done and/or expressed by any and all characters in this book are for literary purposes only and do not necessarily represent any thoughts, actions, beliefs, etc. on the part of the author.

  Dedication

  Special thanks to Tiffany, Amanda, Luke and Jeff. Your efforts on my behalf have been amazing!

  Thank you Aimee Maike for your invaluable advice regarding police department procedures!

  As always, thank you to Penny, Angie & Marie. Your support and advice makes my writing better.

  Acknowledgments

  Cover photo courtesy of Kelsey von Wormer @ Von Wormer Photography.

  Cover model Miranda L. Bower

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Statement

  Dedication & Acknowledgments

  Quotes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Other Books by Clara Grace Walker

  Connect with Clara Grace Walker

  How often misused words generate misleading thoughts. – Herbert Spencer

  Vilify, vilify, some of it will always stick. – Pierre De Beaumarchais

  Chapter 1

  Gossip fueled Nicholas Beck’s empire. Some people called it mudslinging. Others called it rumor-mongering. Nick just called it work.

  A digital clock on the wall opposite his desk gave the time as 8:32 a.m. As usual, he’d arrived at his office at seven. The spacious room boasted two floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a sunny, September morning. Heat spilled in through their panes, counteracted by the hum of air conditioning blowing through the vent over his head. Bookcases lined one entire wall of the room. Made of thick oak, their shelves housed a diverse lot of works; everything from the Oxford English Dictionary to Homer to the complete works of Elmore Leonard. One shelf held books on art. A reproduction of a Dali watercolor hung on the wall beside the clock. At home he had the real thing.

  For the moment, his office was quiet, though he could hear the buzz of a busy day on the other side of the door. Ringing phones, excited voices, and music from an alternative rock station played loudly enough to be heard above the fray without drowning it out.

  Like he did every other morning, Nick the skipped the morning coffee and small talk circulating through his building and went right to work. Relaxing in a worn, but comfortable, brown leather chair, grooved to the contours of his body, he’d already re-arranged the layout for The Tattletale’s next edition, reviewed circulation numbers and made some last-minute calls fact-checking an intern’s proposed story on pop sensation Mindy LePage.

  Mindy, the music world’s latest it girl, had been entangled in copious amounts of PDA at a Miami nightclub last night with has-been, boy band singer Vince Allan. Nick’s intern, who’d been present and snapped a few cell phone pics, assured him, via a sticky note on the top photo, the story would appeal to younger readers. Said intern was probably right.

  At forty-six, Nick still thought of himself as young, but sensed he was losing touch with the younger generation. Where had manners gone? Where had common sense gone? Hell, where had grammar gone?

  He picked up his intern’s photos, wondering whether Mindy LePage rated as cover material or just an inside story, when a knock sounded on his door. Danny Ventura burst in, eyes shining with enthusiasm. “Hey, boss, you’re going to love what I just picked up off the police scanner.”

  Nick had seen that look a thousand times. This was something good. He sat upright in his leather-backed chair. “Spill it, Danny.”

  “There’s been a murder at Biscayne Bay Golf Club. I’m going there now to check it out.”

  “A murder?” Shock pulsed through him more than enthusiasm. He’d been a member there since 2005. Played golf on Wednesdays and had dinner there on Friday nights. He knew everyone who both worked and played there. Murder on the club’s hallowed grounds would be a first. “Who was it?”

  “Didn’t say. Caucasian female is all.”

  A slight tremor ran down Nick’s spine. His wife was a Caucasian female at the club. Sometimes she jogged there in the mornings. Still, the chances of the victim being Janelle were pretty slim. Especially this early in the morning. She’d just made it downstairs for coffee when he left for work.

  More than likely it was one of the help. He thought next of all the waitresses there; college girls and working moms mostly, and hoped he was wrong. “Wait up, Danny. I’m coming with you.”

  Danny’s eyes held a question. “You sure? We got that exposé on Mayor Hartman’s sexting habit coming out today in Just the Facts.”

  “All the more reason to be out of the offic
e.” He grabbed his cell phone, pulled his car keys from his pants pocket and headed off behind the man he considered his best reporter. “My voice mail’s sure to be loaded with angry words and veiled threats when I get back.”

  Speed dialing Jamie Jennings, his favorite freelance photographer, he spoke as soon as she answered. “Jamie, it’s Nick. Grab your equipment and meet me at Biscayne Bay Golf Club. I’ve got a murder in need of pictures.”

  “Murder, huh?” Her voice sounded bright and cheery. “What happen? Another celebrity whack his wife?”

  “Doubt it. Not too many celebrity members at Biscayne Bay. Either some business tycoon whacked his wife or one of the staff did.”

  “At least if it’s one of the staff, he might actually go to jail.”

  “And you think that won’t happen if it was some business tycoon?” Already, headlines occurred to Nick. Family Business Equals Murder? Tycoon Death Match, maybe? Looked like Mindy LePage, the drunken pop star, was going to escape the front page.

  “Come on.” Jamie sounded skeptical. “You know perfectly well all you have to do is be rich and/or famous, and it’s no problem buying yourself a jury. Why bother with the mess and expense of a break up?”

  “Not always,” he reminded her. “Our justice system’s still the best thing mankind’s come up with to protect the rights of the innocent.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “I’m all for protecting the innocent, but there’s a few folks walking around I’m sure as heck are guilty.”

  “Still pissed off about the Casey Anthony verdict?”

  “Damn straight I am.”

  Nick chuckled. He liked Jamie. She’d shown up at his office a year ago, explaining how much better her photos were than every other freelancer’s. Her long, auburn hair, piercing blue eyes and fearless attitude had captured his attention even before she’d opened her portfolio. She had freelanced for several magazines back in Detroit before coming to Miami, looking for a larger market to showcase her work. And she had talent. Could make a photo of a star ducking out of a restaurant look like a work of art. He’d bought a dozen photos on the spot, thinking if he wasn’t a married man, he might be asking her out to dinner as well.

  Making the drive to Biscayne Bay in twenty-five minutes, Nick was displeased to see another news van already in the parking lot when they pulled in. “Damn,” he swore. “Seriously?”

  Danny shook his head. “Looks like Peter’s beat us here.” He pointed at the logo on the side of the van. “You think he got an inside lead from someone at the station?”

  “Only thing that makes sense.” Peter Arnold’s offices were twenty minutes farther away than his own. “Bastard’s got spies everywhere.”

  Jamie had beaten them there also and knocked on his car window, her long hair tucked behind her ears, camera strapped around her neck. “You guys want to sit here and chit-chat, or go to work?”

  Nick opened his car door, greeting her with a smile. “I was thinking chit-chat, but if you insist, I guess we’ll try and work.”

  The three of them made their way across the asphalt, to a swarm of police cruisers parked near the entrance to the white, Spanish-style building. From some unseen place around the corner, the static of police radios and chattering voices drifted their way. Though early in the day, a muggy heat clung to the air, popping beads of perspiration on Nick’s brow and sticking his white dress shirt to him in a way that made him wish he could discard it. He took the lead, heading for the origin of the commotion.

  “Yellow caution tape.” Danny pointed to a length of it cordoning off steps to the side entrance of the club. “See anyone around to keep us from stepping over it?”

  Nick looked around, surprised to see an absence of uniforms. “Guess they just wanted to make sure we knew the way.”

  Rounding the corner to the back of the club, they caught up with the murder scene. Half a dozen cops. Some in uniform; others clearly detectives. And a police photographer snapping pictures of a body Nick couldn’t yet see. He didn’t see Peter or any of his staff, but knew they must be skulking around somewhere.

  An officer rushed over to them. “I’m sorry. This is a crime scene. You’ll have to leave.”

  Nick flipped his press badge out of his shirt pocket. “Coral Gables PD giving out exclusives these days, or are we invited to play, too?”

  The man frowned, looked over the badge and nodded in the direction of the body. “Hey, Sarge? You want to come over here?”

  Nick stood, fairly stunned. What? They were giving out exclusives? Sarge hurried over. Sarge was a woman, he noted with some surprise. A tall, light-skinned black woman with short-cropped, curly hair. She looked very fit and, judging by the unsmiling, firm set to her jaw, very much like she wouldn’t be taking crap from anybody. Nick bypassed the original cop they’d encountered and handed his press badge to her. “Is there a problem, Sergeant….?”

  “Freeman,” she supplied. “Ernesta Freeman.”

  The tone in her voice didn’t invite shaking hands.

  She took her time looking over his press badge before handing it back to him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Beck. Come with me.”

  Something wasn’t right. He saw it in her downcast eyes. Heard it in the apologetic tone she’d used when speaking. He felt the same warning tremor he’d felt at his office, only stronger now. The air grew heavier and filled his lungs. Still, he followed her. Danny, Jamie and the other cop trailed close behind.

  A few feet farther, at the back lawn of the clubhouse, the body came into view. Bare legs. One foot still wearing a silver, Chanel flip flop. The other foot bare. Nick recognized the shoe at once and dropped to his knees. He didn’t want to look anymore. “No.” He could barely speak the word. “Not Janelle.”

  Melancholy, thick as London fog, clouded his being. He’d spent the last eight-and-a-half months watching his marriage crumble. He never imagined it would end like this.

  He was barely aware of Danny and Jamie kneeling down beside him. At that moment, someone jumped from behind the bushes. A flash bulb from Peter Arnold’s camera went off in his face. Peter. His biggest competitor. The man who’d sworn to ruin him thirteen years ago. Rage overtook Nick. He had the guy by the shirt collar, knocking the camera from his hands before the officers pried him away. “You son-of-a-bitch!” He screamed. “How dare you!” Turning to the cops, he yelled. “Get him the hell out of here!”

  He let go of the smug suit of self-confidence he usually wore. Tried to kneel beside Janelle’s lifeless body. And was pulled away by the coroner.

  Chapter 2

  Hours later, Nick sat at home, in the sunroom of a house looking out over Biscayne Bay. Thoughts of Janelle swirled through his memories like ghosts. He’d married her not once, but twice. He’d never gotten over her after their first marriage ended, a split precipitated by her pedigreed family’s dislike of him. When she’d returned to his life, the flames of passion, never extinguished, burned once more. Getting re-married had felt like winning the lottery. Now it felt like a cruel joke.

  He watched the waves toss themselves onto the shore. Just watched. Ice cubes in a glass of Glenlivet scotch, held loosely in his hand, clinked together as the highball threatened to fall from his trembling grasp.

  Jamie nodded at his drink. “You want me to take that?”

  She’d insisted on following him home, apparently worried he might do something drastic. He shook his head. “No. I’m okay.”

  “Yeah. Sure you are.”

  Skepticism laced her voice. The same skepticism Sergeant Freeman had given voice to when he’d told her the same thing. She’d asked him a dozen or so questions. Did he know of anyone who would want to hurt his wife? Did he know why she was at the club so early and not dressed for a morning jog? Had his wife mentioned anything strange to him lately?

  No, no and no. He hadn’t told Sarge about the rift in his marriage, and she hadn’t asked.

  He’d felt the weight of her stare as she’d spoken to him, and the stares of t
he officers with her. Waiting for him to lose his composure; to break down again. He wouldn’t do it though. Would never again give public voice to his private pain. Wouldn’t give that asshole Peter Arnold the chance to take another picture. Use his grief to sell more papers. All he’d wanted was to go home. Be alone. Jamie had insisted on coming with him. And maybe she was right to do so. Having her here produced uncomfortable urges though. Like the urge to grab hold of her, bury his face in her bosom and forget everything that had happened since last Christmas; the fights with Janelle; the divorce he felt sure was coming and the horrible reality that had taken her from him for good.

  “Nick,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re okay. I know better.”

  “All right then.” A sudden and unreasonable anger forced out his words. “No. I’m not okay. Janelle is dead.”

  She looked at him with sad eyes. “I know.”

  He regretted yelling. “I know you’re just trying to help.”

  She got up from the love seat in the corner, walked over to him and took the glass from his hand. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  He laughed, hearing the shrillness of it. “When have you ever known me to say I’m sorry?”

  “Actually, never. You’re not exactly a second-guess-yourself kind of guy.”

  He nodded, watching her as she watched him. Holding his drink in one hand, the other hand stuffed into the pocket of her white, linen shorts. Her hair fell in careless strands down her back and over her shoulders, and made her look all the prettier for it. She knew him pretty well. He was a charge-right-in, do-what- he-wanted kind of guy, and he didn’t make any apologies for it. “As long as you’re up, why don’t you refill that for me?”

  “I think you’ve had enough already.” She set the glass down on the bar at the far end of the room.

  “You’ll know I’ve had enough when I pass out,” he said. “Until then, just keep pouring.”

  Chapter 3