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

but I’m sure he’d still talk about it.” McGinnis pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket and, with his thumb, scrolled through his contacts. “His name is Hiram Warder. Here’s his number.” McGinnis showed me his phone and I scrawled the information down.
    “Anybody else?” I looked at him hopefully.
    “Let me check with my brother, Marvin—he’s the chief. He was new on the force and on patrol then. He might have some ideas of who is still around,” McGinnis said.
    “Is there anything else you can show me in that file?” I asked.
    McGinnis shook his head.
    “I’ve given you all I can, legally. It’s still an open investigation, although we are at a complete standstill. We recently sent the victim’s clothing to the state crime lab for DNA testing, but because we don’t know how long the body was in the river, I’m not certain if they can pull anything off of it.” McGinnis pushed a small folder my way, filled with whatever case file copies I was allowed access to. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Maybe we can shake something loose on this thing.”
    I tucked the file under my arm and we stood up. “Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand.
    McGinnis nodded. “Glad to have your help. You still look like someone I’ve seen before.”
    I tried to laugh it off as I made my way to the door.
    I walked the two blocks back to the Journal-Gazette, deep in thought. Addison was right—she couldn’t protect me if someone came looking for me. But what if that person was someone I worked with on a regular basis? Could I bring them in on my secret and ask them to keep it for me?
    On Sunday, while I was enjoying my Cincinnati chili, I read a New York Times story about a well-known comedian who stepped away from his Emmy award-winning show to return to the small Illinois town of his youth.
    Everyone in that little town knew he was there and, despite the steady stream of fans that came to scout the small business district in search of him, the residents protected his privacy. The comic managed to live a fairly regular life, putting his kids in the public school system, taking his morning coffee—black, two sugars, please—at the local donut shop. The article compared the little farm town to J.D. Salinger’s hometown of Cornish, New Hampshire, whose residents rabidly protected the notoriously private author’s address and daily whereabouts.
    Here in Jubilant Falls, my co-workers in the newsroom only knew me as a young widow coming back to work following a horrible car accident. I wasn’t ready to socialize with them, much less tell them the truth about myself. But if the assistant police chief thought he recognized me, other people probably did too. Could I trust anyone, let alone an entire town, to keep the secret until I was healed and ready to tell the world myself?
    I stopped at the corner, clutching the file to my chest. My plan was to check in with Addison and then visit the homes along the creek bed, much as the Plummer County sheriff’s deputies had those many years ago.
    I looked to my right as a man stopped on the sidewalk beside me, both of us waiting on the traffic light. Bearded and tall, he had a gap between his front teeth and wore khaki shorts and a dark, maroon tee shirt. His thin, muscular legs looked like they belonged to a hiker or a runner; on his feet he wore sandals and rag wool socks. His eyes were incredibly sad; white streaks in his beard and hair made their blueness stand out like winter sky.
    Without thinking, I swept my hair behind my ear, exposing the pockmarked scars on my arm. I nodded at him and he did a double take. Before he could speak, I felt fear rise in my chest. Maybe it was my scars that horrified him—maybe it was something else. I didn’t want to ask. I turned and walked the other direction.
    *****
    Back at the newspaper, I put my desk phone on ‘do not disturb’ and disappeared into the morgue, where old editions were kept, and scoured through the