the job and Earl won on a write-in vote a couple of years ago. Heâs the resident complainer, and I guess all his carping finally paid off because they made him the guy in charge.â
â Heâs the mayor?â Oh hell, that really screwed things up. Sheâd never get permission from that man to film within the Tempest city limits. The last thing Earl would want was more strangers traipsing all over Tempest, disturbing the peace. âIâll be sure to talk to him.â
Iraâs chuckle became heartier. âGood luck. Heâs not exactly a fan of tourism.â
âIâm sure once Earl sees the money something like this can bring to the town, heâll change his mind.â She hoped.
Once again, Ira gave an unconvinced shrug. He tapped the ad. âOkay if I cover this for the paper?â
She hesitated, then chided herself. The chances of Ira connecting the thin, blond Allie with the fat brunette girl who had sat in front of him in Mrs. Andersonâs English class were slim. And if she refused to cooperate, sheâd lose her chance at some decent prepromo. The only thing Jerry found sexier than a stripper on a pole was free publicity. âSure. Iâm Allie Dean, the location scout for Chicken Flicks.â
âAllie.â Ira noted the information on his pad. âIs that short for Allison?â
Panic rushed through her. Of course someone would connect her nickname with her given name. How could she have been so stupid? Sheâd never even thought about using a different first name. She glanced at Iraâs pen, perched over the pad. To his right sat a camera, the Nikonâs lens seeming to wink at her. If Ira ran her picture, how long would it be before someone else put the pieces together?
Someone like Ira, who was still watching her intently, wheels turning behind his glasses. âIt is Allison, isnât it?â
Allie dug in her purse, fished out a twenty, and dropped it on his desk. âIâm sorry. I really donât have time for an interview right now. Hereâs the payment for the ad.â
She turned away, hurrying toward the door.
âWait!â Ira called. âDonât you want a receipt? And what about the interview?â
âLater,â Allie said over her shoulder, then bolted from the office.
Ira Levine may not have been able to figure out the meaning of âpseudonymâ if his life depended on it, but there was nothing the former Sleuth Club president loved more than a good mystery.
That was the last thing Allie needed to add to her growing mountain of problemsâa homegrown Columbo.
Â
Duncan was back at work and sat behind his desk, a remote control in his hands, replaying the video from last Friday nightâs Litter Box Dance report over and over again. Heâd smiled too much. Came off as too glib. He looked about as much like a serious reporter as a Fluffernutter looked like gourmet food.
At this point, given how slow Tempest moved, he was going to have to generate some major national news of his own. Orâ
Wait. He didnât need to pull a single news rabbit out of the Tempest hat. He already had his story. He shut off the TV, then crossed into Steveâs office. âYou got a second?â
âSure,â Steve said without looking up from his computer. âLet me just say good-bye to my Russian love.â
Duncan chuckled. âDonât tell me youâre still looking for true love in a chat room.â
âHey, these women are in dire straits. Natasha just escaped an abusive marriage and is looking for a man who likes long walks on the beach and piña coladas.â
Duncan laughed. âUh-huh. And thatâs exactly why youâre chatting with her, to share rum recipes?â
âHell no. I like her because she has an awesome set of 36Ds. She showed them to me last night. Iâm hoping to see whatâs below them later today.â Steveâs brows
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