Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) by LynDee Walker Read Free Book Online Page A

hair around my index finger, I stared at the screen.
    An attractive, if a little plain, gentleman stared back, his round face comfortable in its smile. It was a headshot, so I had no point of reference for height or size except average shoulders and full cheeks. The age was maybe a little off too. My chin dropped to my chest.
    “So who are you? Where did it pull this from?” I muttered, clicking to the source page.
    Holy Manolos.
    From us. The photo was in the Telegraph database, on the local server. I logged in and searched the offline archives.
    Fifty-nine hits. I clicked into the most recent article, which turned out to be no kind of recent at all.
    Nine years ago, Maynard retired from the RAU Medical School. And from the hospital, where he was the chief of oncology. His career change had warranted a feature on the society page because of the gala the hospital’s board threw for him. No one could say enough good things about him. Brilliant, caring, patient. A true loss to the local medical community.
    The man himself was quoted as saying he’d miss the bustle of the hospital, but looked forward to pursuing his true passion.
    “Which is?” I scrolled down, but that was it. Either the reporter didn’t ask, or they didn’t print it.
    So I still had a big fat question mark over where he’d disappeared to. Almost a decade later, his doorman said he’d been in private practice, but not for how long or where. And the internet, usually my best friend when researching a story, had nothing for me. Why?
    I tapped more. The furrow in Jeff’s brow when I bolted told me asking him more questions about the doc would blow my dog trainer cover wide open. But someone had to know.
    I scrolled back to the top of the article and checked the byline.
    Elizabeth Herrington.
    Didn’t ring a bell, and the story ran nine months before my first day at work. I clicked through a few more articles, but the dates were positively ancient, the reporters’ names unfamiliar. Not much in the way of content, either—mostly side mentions in pieces on the medical school, though there was one headline about a drug breakthrough a dozen years ago. Maynard’s name popped up in that one thirteen times. Brilliant doctor. But I already knew that.
    Strike one.
    Damn, damn, damn.
    I hopped to my feet and strolled to Bob’s office, tapping on the open door.
    “Hey, Chief?” I poked my head around the corner. He waved me in, keeping his eyes fixed on his screen. I plopped into the Virginia Tech orange armchair in the corner near his desk. A glance at his borderline-obnoxious Hokies wall clock, hanging just above and to the left of his Pulitzer on the opposite wall, told me I was running out of time.
    “What’s up, kiddo?” His chair squealed as he turned toward me, and I smiled at the affection in his voice. Bob was doubtless the closest thing I’d ever had to a father, and as such, I didn’t smack him for calling me kiddo.
    “Elizabeth Herrington.” I paused when his face took on the distinct expression of a man who had, in fact, been smacked.
    He closed his eyes for a long blink and tried for a smile. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long while,” he said. “What brings her up?”
    Yeah, no story there. Curiosity bubbled in my throat, but I swallowed hard and breezed into my next question. No time for reminiscing today.
    “She did a feature story a while back—”
    “Have to be a long while back,” he interrupted.
    “It was.” Focus, Nichelle.
    He nodded, raising his bushy white brows expectantly.
    “About my murder vic. Turns out he was a doctor. Bigshot over at the RAU Medical campus.”
    Bob sat straight up, the color vanishing from his face in a blink.
    “Not David Maynard.” The words sounded choked, and I flinched. It had never once occurred to me I’d be the bearer of bad news when pitching Bob a story.
    I scrunched my face and leaned forward, softening my tone. “I’m afraid it sounds that way,” I said. “Aaron