Love You to Death by Melissa Senate Page A

had friends.

    I headed down to Finch’s corner office. Cutting through the kitchenette, I almost knocked into our contracts manager.

    “I am so, so, so, so sorry!” he said. “I do hope you’re all right.”

    This was the same man who had literally barked at me last week for taking the last of the awful office coffee. I assume you’ll be making a new pot!

    “Did you want a fresh cup of coffee?” he asked. “I’d be happy to make some. My turn!”

    Yeah, right.

    I ignored him and continued on to Finch’s office.

    I knocked and walked in. “You wanted to see me?”

    “Ah, there you are!” he said in his proudest, most fatherly tone. “Yes, indeedy, I did. Why don’t you have a seat? Would you like Marcella to bring you a cup of coffee? A scone from the bakery downstairs?”

    “Yes, actually, I would,” I said. I might as well milk this for all it was worth—at Marcella’s expense.

    He buzzed her with my order. “Abby,” he said, turning back to me, “I have good news. You’re being promoted to associate editor.”

    My heart leaped. I’d only been after this promotion for the past year. Working overtime, asking directly. I’d gotten the “just keep doing what you’re doing” speech.

    “You’ve done fine work here for the past three years,” Finch said. “You’ve been a real go-getter, and you’re being rewarded for your hard work and dedication to the Maine Life magazine organization. Of course, you’ll receive a ten percent raise—that’s a bit more than our usual promotion raises, but you deserve it!”

    Hey, wait a minute. Was I promoted? Or was Finch just protecting himself and his staff from a murderer? The last time I’d asked for more meaningful reporting assignments, Finch had sent me to “hang around” outside Stephen King’s mansion in Bangor in February without informing me that the famous author and Maine resident wisely wintered in Florida.

    My promotion was more protection for Finch and his staff. I had no doubt. Still, a promotion was a promotion. “Thanks, Gray. I couldn’t be happier. Will I be assigned a particular area of the magazine to cover?”

    “Well, I’d actually like you to build the Best Of column into a real feature,” he said. “And I’d like to start off your increased coverage by sending you on an all-expenses-paid trip to a wonderful locale to do your research. Leave in the morning. Spend the entire weekend.”

    Oh, please tell me I’m going to Camden, I thought. I loved Camden. Or maybe Augusta, the capital. Moosehead Lake? I’d go anywhere to get away from Portland this weekend. Away from Ben and his questions. Away from my family, who clearly thought I was capable of murder.

    Don’t leave town…

    “Where am I headed?” I asked. Wherever it was, I’d just clear it with Ben. He could investigate me without me, couldn’t he? I had a cell phone. And a laptop with e-mail. He could e-mail me questions like I’ll ask you again—did you try to kill Riley Witherspoon by letting a pit bull loose in his house? And I could type back a simple I did not.

    He smiled. “Moose City! Pack your bags ASAP, since it’s a long drive. Marcella’s booked you a lovely room at an inn for a few days.”

    I frowned. A few days in Moose City—practically the farthest north you could go and still be in the United States. The Moose part applied, as Moose City was eighty percent moose, twenty percent people. It was the city part that was misleading. Not too many people needed to know where you could get the best manicure or the best custard in Moose City.

    Fishy. Very fishy.

    “Um, Mr. Gray, I think I might have to clear this with Detective Orr,” I said. “I was told not to leave town. In case he needs my help in solving Ted Puck’s murder.”

    “Oh, don’t you worry your head about that,” he said. “I’ve already cleared it with the police.”

Chapter 9
    A five-hour drive gave me a lot of time to think. Namely of why. Why, why,