And he didn’t stop after saying it a few times. He’d already repeated this cruel new moniker at least fifty times when Charles asked, “What do all these meows mean? I’ve never heard a cat talk so much in all my life.”
“Um, he’s just wondering if you have a nickname we could call you by,” I hedged. What? My explanation was mostly true. While I wasn’t big on bending the truth, I was even less a fan of hurting others’ feelings when it was in no way warranted.
Charles broke into a smile at last. “Sure,” he said, his eyes lingering on mine. “My grandfather was Charles. My dad was Charlie… And since I’m the third, they call me Chuck. You can, too, when we’re not in the office. I mean, if you like that better.”
Of course his nickname would be Chuck. Of course it would.
Octo-Cat just about died laughing.
Chapter Five
Even with our multiple pit stops, Charles—I’m sorry, I just can’t bring myself to call him “Chuck”—and I still made it back to the office before the others returned from their long working lunch.
Charles locked himself into his office for the rest of the day, while I did some research on prior cases that could help defend Brock Calhoun from the double murder charge hanging over his head. Charles had probably already pulled every possible case, seeing as he was so desperate he’d now turned to my newly discovered pet whispering abilities to help suss out leads. Still, it felt good to know I was doing something to assist on the case.
Toward the end of the day, the mailman came and handed me a thick stack of bills, flyers, and correspondence for the office. After discarding the ads and circulars into the recycle bin, I made a round to deliver the letters by hand.
Charles groaned when I brought his to the office he shared with Derek. Previously, another associate named Brad had sat at his desk, but he was fired a few months back for workplace misconduct—which was a gentle way of saying the guy was the biggest, most sexist jerk you could possibly imagine.
“More hate mail, I take it,” Charles said as he studied the postmark and sighed. “Great. It’s coming all the way from Misty Harbor now.”
“Hate mail? You have got to be kidding.” I sat down on Derek’s empty desk. He must have gone home early after the big lunch meeting. Whatever the case, I was thankful to have some alone time with Charles now. Yes, I’d already forgiven him for the blackmailing that had taken place that morning. Maybe I needed to re-evaluate my life choices, or maybe it was just impossible to stay mad at a guy who already seemed so defeated.
“I wish,” he said as he tore his thumb through the top of the envelope and extracted the folded paper inside. His eyes roamed down the page quickly, and then he handed the letter to me. “This is pretty much the usual these days.”
The short letter was typed in a large serif font and wasn’t signed by its sender. You should be ashamed of yourself was the general gist, but it also included threats of picketing the trial and appealing to the bar to get Charles’s ability to practice law revoked.
“Is this for real?” I asked, shaking my head as I handed the letter back to him. “People are ridiculous.”
“If they’re sending me this much mail, I can only imagine how much Brock must be getting.” Charles balled up the note and tossed it in the trash.
No wonder he was so desperate to defend his client. I hadn’t seen the people in my hometown—and even the neighboring towns, too!—this worked up since a popular football player got suspended for dealing drugs to underclassmen. He lost his college offers, scholarships, and even had his Homecoming King title retroactively pulled.
And back then it was just drugs.
Now we were facing murder, and things definitely didn’t look good for Brock. Small towns never forget, which meant that even if he was found innocent, his reputation would be forever tainted and he’d probably have to move somewhere new to start over.
Poor guy.
“It gets even worse,” Charles said, his mouth arranged in a firm line. “I just found out the local news station is devoting their entire broadcast tonight to a special they’re calling Brock Calhoun: A Murderer Amongst Us.”
Ugh, leave it to my mom to go full-on sensational over this.
“I might be able to help with that,” I said with a cringe and an apologetic smile.
He turned to be with excitement shining in his eyes. “Of course! Why hadn’t I put two and two together before? The sports guy, Roman Russo, you’re related, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I admitted through clenched teeth. “He’s my dad. Also Laura Lee is my mom.”
His expression soured instantly. Generally my mom was well-liked all across Glendale and the greater Blueberry Bay region. Usually, though, people didn’t find themselves on the receiving end of her passion for investigative journalism.
Most people also didn’t realize that our locally famous news anchor was actually my mom, seeing as she decided to keep her maiden name just in case Nan’s lingering showbiz connections could help her own career get a leg up.
That strategy had worked well, and Mom had boasted a very successful career pretty much ever since I was in diapers. Lately, though, she seemed to be growing tired of all the puff pieces and human-interest stories that dominated Glendale’s news. I hadn’t talked to her in a couple weeks, but I could almost guarantee that she saw the Brock Calhoun case as a way of getting national attention—and possibly a better job offer for both her and my dad.
“Let me talk to her,” I said with a sigh. “Maybe I can get her to ease up a little.”
“More like ease up a lot,” Charles said with a groan.
I nodded. “Yes, okay. I’m not sure I can catch her before tonight’s story runs, but I promise you I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks.” Charles frowned and shuffled some papers around on his desk, which I took as my dismissal.
Halfway to the door, though, he stopped me. “Angie?”
“Hmmm?” I whipped around, pleasantly surprised by the smile he offered me.
“Thank you,” he said in earnest. “I know I kind of pulled you into this case against your will, but it means a lot that you’re willing to help me.”
“No problem,” I said with a giant grin of my own. Yes, I’d definitely forgiven him for the whole blackmail thing now.
Charles returned to the papers on his desk, and I left his office to return to my own work spot near the firm’s front door. As soon as I reached my desk, I shot a quick text to my mom:
SOS. We need to talk ASAP. XOXO.
I usually preferred to text in complete sentences and with proper punctuation, but it was a well-known fact that the more acronyms I used, the more likely my mom would be to respond quickly. Sure enough, I received a message back almost as soon as I’d hit send on mine.
What’s wrong? She included an exploding head emoji and also one that looked like an alien, which I didn’t quite understand, given the context. It kind of rankled that my middle-aged mother was more up on the current lingo than I’d ever be.
I drew in a deep breath before composing my next text. I had her attention now, but getting her to agree wouldn’t be easy. Need you to cancel the Brock Calhoun special you’re planning for tonight.
My phone buzzed with an incoming call not even a full minute later.
Mom’s voice sounded panicked, which made me feel a bit defensive. “Why do you need me to cancel my report? It’s one of the best pieces I’ve ever put together.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose while speaking, hoping it would help to stave off the migraine pressure I felt building in my head. “I’m sure it is, Mom, but he hasn’t been put on trial yet. It isn’t fair to turn the whole area against him before he even gets a chance to defend himself.”