The Dead Dog Day

Book 0: The Cora Baxter Mysteries

by Jackie Kabler

Genres: Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Could the truth be hiding in plain sight? The first 'sharp and totally gripping' book in the much-loved Cora Baxter Mysteries series, from the acclaimed broadcaster, USA Today bestseller and bestselling author of The Perfect Couple and Am I Guilty? Having been unceremoniously dumped over the phone by her boyfriend, investigative journalist and news correspondent Cora Baxter has had the weekend from hell. And when she arrives at the TV studios on Monday morning to find her much-hated boss, Jeanette, on the rampage after a segment has had to be cancelled moments before they are due on air, she fears her week is heading in the same direction. As the post-programme debrief draws ever closer, tensions rise. But when Jeanette doesn't appear, she is found dead on the pavement outside and the studio suddenly find themselves embroiled in a murder investigation. But with a long list of people who despise her, the list of suspects isn't exactly short and, as the enquiry unfolds, the signs point frighteningly close to home and soon everyone is under the spotlight . . . Readers LOVE Jackie Kabler's Cora Baxter mysteries: ' My only problem with this book was that it had an ending ' Goodreads Review ***** 'I could have continued reading forever ' Goodreads Review ***** 'This book is just fabulous and worthy of ALL THE STARS from me!! I can't recommend the Cora Baxter series highly enough! ' Goodreads Review ***** 'I completely adored Kabler's style and already can't wait to read more from Jackie' Goodreads Review *****

Release date: October 22, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 300

Sample

1

Monday 18th December

‘THE DOG IS DEAD? ARE YOU INSANE, CHRISTINA? HOW THE BLOODY HELL CAN THE DOG BE DEAD?’

The furious voice of Jeanette Kendrick rang across the newsroom, and everybody froze. It was 4 a.m. and the usual pre-programme hum, which had been building nicely, faded to a whisper, and then to silence. Cora Baxter, who was on Monday morning newsreader duties, suddenly stopped scrolling through the running order, her heart pounding. She had been on the receiving end of a Kendrick rant once or twice before, and it was pretty hellish.

She swivelled in her chair. Down at the far end of the long room, just visible behind the piles of DVDs and newspapers stacked on every desk, the breakfast TV programme editor was standing outside her glass-walled corner office, hands on Armani-clad hips. In front of her Christina Evans, a young trainee producer, was visibly shaking.

‘I’m really sorry, Jeanette, but … well, I just rang the hotel to confirm the 6 a.m. car pick up, and … and … the guest said he’d just woken up and found the dog dead next to him, in the hotel room … he’s in a terrible state, I mean … what can I do?’

‘BUT IT CAN’T BE DEAD!’ Jeanette was roaring now, her piercing blue eyes burning into poor Christina. ‘IT’S THE BLOODY 8.10, GODDAMN IT!’

Cora gulped and turned back to the running order on her screen. Jeanette’s reaction was way over the top, but everybody knew that, at this hour of the morning, losing the item planned for 8.10 was not good. It was the most watched slot of the programme, following as it did the eight o’clock news, and it was always saved for the biggest talking point of the day.

‘WELL, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?’

Jeanette was showing no signs of calming down. She took a step towards Christina and stamped her foot. She was shod as always in beautiful Jimmy Choos, silver-grey today to match the tailored Armani suit. Christina cowered backwards.

‘Well … erm … erm … well …’ She was stammering now, and sounded close to tears.

Cora quickly scanned the 8.10 link on the running order. The story was about a Newfoundland which had won an international ‘hero dog’ award after rescuing dozens of people from a passenger boat disaster in France the previous year. The dog, plus owner, was supposed to be on the Morning Live sofa to help launch a ‘Britain’s Bravest Pet’ competition. The contest was sponsored by the show, and viewers would be voting for their favourite animal. No wonder Jeanette was so mad – phone-in competitions made big money for the breakfast programme, and this could scupper the whole thing.

Down the newsroom, Christina had started to sniffle.

‘I’m sorry, Jeanette, I don’t think there’s anything we can do,’ she said, and let out a little sob.

Jeanette glared at her, but the tears had done the trick. She took a deep breath and ran her hands through her elfin-cropped, dark hair.

‘OK, Christina, I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, shall I?’

She’d stopped shouting, but the newsroom still held its breath, waiting to hear the magical solution she was about to produce.

‘What you are going to do, Christina, is ring the man back, give him our deepest condolences for the death of his dog, and then ask him to bring it in anyway. We’ll pretend it’s asleep.’

She turned on her four-inch heels and marched back into her office. Wide-eyed with horror, Christina stared after her. Everyone else in the newsroom gaped at each other, aghast. She couldn’t be serious – could she?

Christina was rooted to the spot. ‘But … Jeanette … I can’t … I just can’t! He was in tears … he’ll never agree to it … really, do you really want me to tell him to bring it in? I mean … it’s dead!’

‘Do it, or find me another 8.10,’ said Jeanette dismissively, and slammed the door. A moment later she snapped down the blinds on the glass wall facing the newsroom – her usual signal that the conversation was over.

Christina, still open-mouthed with shock, scurried off. Drama over, the newsroom hum started up again, although it was somewhat subdued. Everyone knew that when Jeanette blew once, it could happen again at any moment, and nobody wanted to be next in the firing line. Cora, who was still feeling fragile from a fairly traumatic weekend, suddenly had an overwhelming urge to laugh hysterically. Muttering something about tea under her breath, she leapt from her seat and ran out of the newsroom, nearly barrelling into somebody coming the other way in the corridor outside. She reached the grubby little kitchen down the hall at the same time as her friend, and today’s senior programme producer, Samantha Tindall, who’d been hot on her heels.

‘Sam!’ gasped Cora. ‘Did you hear that?’

Sam nodded, shaking with suppressed laughter. She grabbed Cora’s arm and dragged her into the windowless box of a kitchen, slamming the door behind them. They collapsed on the grimy lino, howling.

‘“Tell him to bring it in anyway, we’ll pretend it’s asleep!” Have you ever heard anything like it?’ There were tears running down Cora’s cheeks.

Sam was wiping her eyes. ‘Oh my goodness, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks. Bring it in anyway! Bleedin’ thing will have rigor mortis by now – can you imagine it, stiff as a board on the studio floor …’ She buckled again, choking with laughter.

Cora clutched her stomach. ‘Stop it, stop it, I can’t bear it! Picture Alice on the sofa, having to coo over the poor exhausted sleeping dog … imagine her face! And the lights – it would probably start to smell and everything …’

Sam wrinkled her pert little nose, imitating newsreader Alice Lomas – who was covering the main presenter’s job on the sofa today, hence Cora’s call to replace her at the news desk – and they shrieked again, clinging to each other.

They were just starting to pull themselves together when the door burst open and Wendy Heggerty skipped in, red Irish curls bouncing.

‘No need to ask what you two have been talking about!’ said the graphic designer. ‘Wow, Jeanette has lost it this time, hasn’t she? Scary bitch boss from hell … I saw poor old devoted Clancy drop her off this morning. At this hour! Seriously, I don’t know how she puts up with her.’

Clancy Carter was Jeanette’s long-term love. Both big players in the television world, Jeanette’s star had somewhat eclipsed her civil partner’s in recent years – Clancy was head of Chrysalis Productions, a production company responsible for some of the rather less successful TV reality shows. And, while Jeanette’s reputation was terrifying, Clancy was known as a bit of a sweetie. Few could understand how they’d ever got together.

Still tittering, Cora and Sam heaved themselves off the floor, and Cora bent down to give Wendy a hug.

‘Hello, dwarfy. Great to see you.’ Cora was on the road as a roving reporter for much of the time, so it was always a treat to be called in to cover news reading duties. It meant she could have a long overdue catch up with her friends, who nowadays were all too often just voices on the end of a phone, discussing time slots or graphics ideas for her live reports.

‘You too, you big giraffe.’ Wendy’s pale blue eyes grinned up at Cora. Just five foot two, Wendy was buxom and curvaceous, all wild hair and heaving boobs. Today she’d encased them in a tight green jumper.

‘You look fab, Wendy.’ Cora grinned at her friend.

‘She always does.’ Sam was crouching in front of the microwave, attempting to use its door as a mirror as she tried to wipe the rivulets of mascara off her cheeks. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Wend – I always look like a dog on nightshifts.’

She straightened up, pushing her wavy caramel bob back out of her eyes, and started to smirk again. ‘I wonder where poor Christina got to?’

‘Ooh, I’m dying to find out what happened – but you’ll have to update me later. I’m just here for a cuppa – got a load of maps to do for the news yet,’ said Wendy, reaching for a polystyrene cup. ‘But I’ll see you both later, OK? And we need to rip that ex-man of yours to shreds too, Cora.’

She stuck a tea cartridge into the machine, and the boiling water streamed into the cup underneath. She grabbed it, splashed in some milk, and headed for the door, just as a pale-looking Christina wandered in.

‘Alright, Christina?’ Wendy grimaced at Cora and Sam as she left, wildly making a ‘call me’ sign with her free hand. Christina didn’t seem to hear her. She shoved a coffee cartridge clumsily into the slot, and stood staring into space as the hot liquid gushed out.

‘Er – Christina – are you OK? What did the guest say?’ said Sam, tentatively. ‘Did you – erm – call him back, about the dog? Christina?’

Christina twitched slightly, as if suddenly registering that there were other people in the room.

‘Oh, hi, Sam … Cora. No, thank God, Gerry from showbiz saved me. Went in and told Jeanette if we had a dead dog in, it was bound to get in the papers and we’d get a right mauling. He’s called in a favour and got that new barmaid off Coronation Street to come in to fill the slot at short notice – you know the one, she’s about to have an affair with David Platt?’

Sam and Cora nodded.

Christina rubbed her eyes. ‘Jeanette’s not happy, but what can you do? We’re going to launch the pet competition tomorrow instead – there’s a cat that woke its owner up after a gas leak or something that should be able to come in. I’m going to be cacking myself tonight – Jeanette will fire me if anything else goes wrong. I’ve only been here for three months, I’ll never be able to get another job if I’m sacked …’

Her voice tailed off and a fat tear rolled down her cheek. Cora felt a sudden massive wave of sympathy, and slipped her arm round the younger girl’s shoulders.

‘Don’t cry, Christina. You won’t be sacked, it wasn’t your fault! I remember what these nightshifts are like – they’re hell, and being so tired just makes everything seem worse. It’ll be OK, you’ll see – Jeanette will have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.’

Christina wiped her eyes and managed a little smile. ‘Thanks. But she won’t, you know that. I hate that woman. I really, really hate her. Anyway, I’d better go … I have loads of stuff to do before we go on air. See you later.’

Shoulders hunched, she picked up her coffee with a shaky hand and slipped out of the room. Cora and Sam looked at each other and smiled ruefully.

‘I have to agree with Christina. Jeanette will get her comeuppance one of these days, mark my words. Karma and all that,’ said Sam.

Cora nodded, and headed for the door. ‘Just another night at the Fun Factory, eh? Right, I’m going back – coming?’

‘I’ll be right behind you when I’ve made my tea, my little news bunny. Want to chat you through the six o’clock bulletin. Dead dog or no dead dog, the show must go on.’

The person who would be the real star of today’s show looked down at slightly shaking hands and took a long, deep breath.

Sod the dead dog. There was only one dumb animal who deserved to be dead today.

And that was Jeanette Kendrick.

How lucky, then, that she soon would be.

2

Morning! Rodders in orange trousers 2day like gangly satsuma. Want us 2 hunt down n kill bastard boyf? L8R. N x

Cora grinned as she caught up on her text messages. Settling into her chair in the cosy make-up room, she reached over and pulled the blinds so the early morning window cleaners couldn’t sneak a peek later on. Then she took a bite of the bacon roll she’d snaffled from the green room, wiped her fingers on a nearby towel, and tapped a slightly less than honest reply into her BlackBerry.

Don’t worry Nathan, over him already! Nice and cosy in here … ha! Love C xxx

She took another mouthful, watching the three make-up artists buzzing around laying out their brushes and tubes, and wiped ketchup off her chin. It was freezing outside and Nathan Nesbit and Rodney Wood hall, her usual camera and sound crew when she was on roving reporter duty, were up in Nottingham with one of the other reporters this morning, on a prison overcrowding story. As a white gown was whipped around her, Cora smiled, her difficult past few days forgotten for a while. Much as she enjoyed being a reporter it was, she thought, very nice to be indoors for a change.

‘Cora, darling, it’s been ages! What are you wearing today?’

The cheerful Scottish burr of Sherry, her make-up girl, broke into her thoughts.

‘Got some gorgeous new colours this morning, you can be my wee guinea pig!’

‘Lime suede jacket.’

Cora peered at the fantastic line-up of bottles, powders, and eyeshadow palettes in front of her.

‘Wow, Sherry, I wish I had you on the road with me. You’ve got stuff here I’ve never even seen in the shops. I love that one.’ She pointed to a soft brown shadow with iridescent green flecks.

‘Well that will go perfectly, especially with your green eyes.’

Sherry set to work, pulling Cora’s straight shoulder-length brown bob back into a hairband and running a critical eye over her skin as she began applying powder and concealer. Cora watched her in the mirror, grimacing inwardly. These early mornings, most of which were spent outside in all weathers, were taking their toll. Half-listening to the early news on the TV in the corner of the room, she shut her eyes and relaxed as the make-up artist’s experienced fingers patted and smoothed. She adored this ritual, the soothing minutes before she entered the pressure cooker of the live studio. The magic of the make-up room never ceased to amaze her, taking in as it did weary, baggy-eyed people and, without fail, spitting them out again a short time later looking like polished professionals.

The peace was shattered suddenly as the door was flung open.

‘Oh, hell! How long are you going to be, Sherry? I need you to dry my hair and everything this morning!’

Cora opened her eyes at the familiar, whiny voice. Alice Lomas was standing in the doorway, a petulant expression on her beautiful face. Her long, poker-straight blonde hair was damp, making dark stains on the tight navy T-shirt that clung to her voluptuous chest.

‘Well, good morning to you too, Alice,’ Sherry said primly. ‘Come back in fifteen minutes, I’ll have Cora out by then.’

Alice pouted and walked off, swinging her hair. She’d totally ignored Cora, as usual. Thirty-two, but claiming to be just twenty-nine, Alice had already been a national newsreader for six years, making her one of the youngest news anchors in the country when she’d started. With no university degree, and distinctly average A level results to her name, she had still somehow managed to land a job as a weathergirl and occasional features reporter on a regional news programme after leaving school. But exactly why Jeanette had taken her on to present national news had long been a puzzle to the Morning Live staff, who had finally concluded that the editor, along with men across the UK, must simply have fallen for her stunning looks. It was a view reinforced by the fact that, despite having limited journalistic experience, she’d recently started filling in on the sofa when Jane, the main presenter, was away. The Lomas ego, always big, was becoming massive, and Cora couldn’t stand her.

‘Cow. Nice of her to say hello!’ she said, shutting her eyes again as Sherry started to apply her eye shadow. ‘Ben and Danny aren’t doing anyone at the moment – why can’t she just have one of them do her?’

‘Och, she’s alright really. You just have to know how to handle her,’ Sherry replied soothingly. ‘She’s just used to me, that’s all, I do her nearly every day. It’s all insecurity, you know – you’re a way more experienced journalist and she feels threatened when you come in to read the news – probably scared Jeanette’s gonna put you on the sofa instead of her.’

‘Seriously? Do you think so? Gosh, there’s no chance of that. I mean, I’d love it – being on the road is so utterly exhausting, and being in the studio is SO much easier – shorter hours, no driving, more money, it’s a no-brainer really. But Jeanette would never replace a babe like that with me! I mean, look at me, Sherry. I look like a right old dog first thing in the morning. No wonder Justin dumped me.’

Sherry squeezed her shoulder. ‘I heard earlier – sorry about that, Cora. But you’ll find someone else, gorgeous girl like you. Now shut up so I can do your lips.’

Cora adjusted her earpiece as the PA in the gallery began the countdown to the opening titles. She felt the usual little surge of adrenaline as she straightened the scripts on the news desk in front of her. Grant, the weatherman, poised by his map, winked at her, fiddling with the orange tie that matched his slightly overdone fake tan. On the big yellow sofa to his right, Alice, looking stunning in a taupe Donna Karan trouser suit, simpered at her co-presenter Jeremy and then turned smartly to Camera One as the music died and the red light came on.

‘Good morning, it’s six o’clock on Monday the eighteenth of December, and you’re watching Morning Live. A great show lined up for you this morning …’

‘Coming to you in fifteen, Cora.’ The director’s voice rumbled in her ear.

‘… all that coming up shortly, but first let’s go over to the news desk for the rest of the day’s stories, and we’ve got Cora on the desk this morning, how lovely! In from the cold, Cora?’ Alice smiled amiably across the studio.

Two-faced cow! Cora thought. She smiled sweetly back. ‘Yes, good morning, Alice, it’s very nice to be here!’

She turned to the camera in front of her, and the autocue rolled. ‘And good morning to you too! Our top story this morning …’

The show whizzed by. Floor managers, flustered beings whispering urgently into headsets, whipped the usual mixed bunch of guests in and out of the studio, among them Christopher Biggins promoting his Christmas panto, and the Defence Secretary talking about festive gifts for troops on missions overseas.

Cora had a bulletin to read every quarter of an hour, and by the time she’d finished the 7.30 news she was feeling decidedly shiny. Making sure she wasn’t in shot, she slipped quietly from behind the news desk, pushed open the heavy studio door and headed for make-up.

‘Hey, Cora.’

‘Scott! Hi, babes – forgot you were here today. The old disciplinary, eh? How did it go?’

The burly six-footer grimaced, and Cora reached up and pecked him on a slightly sweaty cheek. Scott Edson was her usual satellite engineer, number four in the on-the-road quartet she spent most of her time with. He’d been called to London today too, for an early morning telling-off from Jeanette for falling asleep on the job.

‘Not too good. On a written warning,’ Scott muttered in his broad Bolton accent.

‘Oh hun, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, you know what Jeanette –’

Cora stopped abruptly as Scott brushed roughly past her and headed off up the corridor.

‘It doesn’t matter. See you on the road,’ he said over his shoulder, and disappeared round the corner.

Puzzled and a little hurt, Cora stared after him for a moment, then wandered into the make-up room. Scott wasn’t normally so off-hand, although he hadn’t been himself recently. No wonder he was grumpy though – who ever heard of a 7 a.m. disciplinary hearing for goodness’ sake? But that was Jeanette’s style – she was at her desk from three, so everyone else simply had to fit around her schedule. The editor was on exceptionally fine form this morning though. How many other people was she going to upset?

As if on cue, Christina hurried into the room. If anything, she looked worse than she had earlier. Still red-eyed, she now had a slightly manic expression on her face and beads of sweat on her forehead.

‘Tissues!’ she said frantically. ‘Tissues! I need tissues for dressing room three!’

Sherry opened a drawer, pulled out a packet and thrust it into Christina’s shaking hands.

‘There you go sweetie. Anything else you need?’

‘No … no … that’s fine. Thanks,’ Christina stuttered. She stumbled back out into the corridor and vanished.

Sherry shook her head and caught Cora’s eye in the mirror.

‘Now, that looks to me like a girl on the edge.’

‘I know.’ Cora plonked herself into the chair for her touch up. ‘Poor Christina. I’m not sure she’s going to last the course, to be honest. Not tough enough, bless her.’

She closed her eyes as Sherry got busy with the powder puff, suddenly feeling exhausted.

‘Not even eight o’clock and we’ve already had tears, tantrums, and a dead dog,’ she thought. ‘Good old Morning Live!’

And, freshly powdered and glossed, she headed back to the studio.

Usually, as the clock ticked towards the Morning Live closing titles, Jeanette Kendrick would be fiercely scribbling on her pad, ready to savage a few producers at the post-programme debrief.

There was still an hour to go, but in the newsroom several were already nervously gulping coffee and swapping anxious glances, steeling themselves for the completely unjustified mauling they would all shortly receive over the dead dog debacle.

They would have been greatly relieved to know that right now, a deceased canine was the last thing on the editor’s mind. Jeanette was rarely fazed by anyone or anything, but as she listened to the quiet words being directed at her, fear twisted her stomach.

‘I didn’t know … I had no idea … I’m so sorry. So terribly, terribly sorry. Please, if …’ she stuttered.

For once, though, the boss’s words were being completely ignored. And minutes later, it wasn’t just the unfortunate dog that had passed away on that chilly December morning.

Jeanette Kendrick was quite, quite dead.

3

Three days earlier

Friday 15th December

@srharrison65 @CoraBaxterMLive I like to draw picshurs of allien animals. I am drawing u an allien hors and will post it 2day. Luv Kevin. PS. I luv u.

Cora laughed out loud. Alien animals indeed. She thoroughly enjoyed getting Twitter messages from Morning Live viewers, but there were some real crazies out there, bless them. She shoved her BlackBerry back into her coat pocket then jumped as a large, yellow shape loomed out of the darkness to her right.

‘These feet are ridiculous,’ said the man in the chicken suit. ‘I’m surprised hens don’t fall over more often, really I am.’

Cora tried to look sympathetic. It was just before 6 a.m. on a freezing Friday, and she was standing in almost total darkness on a roundabout in the middle of a Devon A-road, surrounded by chickens – and people dressed as chickens.

‘And then there was light,’ muttered Nathan, and Cora winced as two hefty spotlights popped into life, illuminating the scene. The hens that had been pecking quietly around her feet jumped in fright and scattered, and the man in the yellow costume tugged his over-sized beak further down over his eyes and groaned, his breath hanging in the air like ghostly candy floss.

‘Bloody bright, those lights, aren’t they? How long till we’re on, Cora? There’s a few not here yet – need to go bang on some doors.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ve got about twenty minutes yet, but I want to do a run-through as soon as I can, so the faster you can get everyone out here, the better!’

The man nodded his big furry head, dropped the homemade protest placard he was holding, and stomped off awkwardly into the darkness, his chicken feet crunching across the frozen grass of the roundabout.

In her pocket, Cora’s BlackBerry beeped again and, not for the first time, she marvelled at the ridiculousness of her job. After nearly three years on the show she had certainly covered her share of quirky stories, but some days were definitely more surreal than others. In today’s bizarre, pre-dawn scene on the icy edge of Exmoor, Cora and her team would be broadcasting live with a group of protesters, who were trying to save the feral chickens that had roosted on a local roundabout for over a century but had now been deemed a traffic hazard by the local council.

‘Everything OK, Cora?’ Nathan pushed his dark, floppy hair out of his eyes, zipped his Arctic-weight, navy fleece even further up under his chin, and started his daily fumble with the camera tripod.

‘Yep.’ Cora stamped her feet. She was freezing, despite the thermal socks, long johns and long-sleeved vest she’d struggled into as usual in her hotel room earlier. There was no place for sexy undies in the wardrobe of morning TV reporters at this time of year, sadly. The male viewers who regularly wrote to Cora and her female colleagues extolling their virtues and asking for photos of them in their underwear would be sorely disappointed; Cora had often been tempted to send out photos of herself in her old faithful Marks & Spencer grey thermals, just for a giggle.

‘First hit 6.20, and then another one later, time TBC – you know what “Fun Fridays” are like!’

‘Fun Friday? More like Freeze the Crew’s Balls Off Friday,’ said a gloomy voice, as Rodney appeared, his mixer slung around his neck and his hands full of sound equipment.

‘Got your earpiece, Cora? Oh yeah, I see it.’ Rodney adjusted his headphones. ‘Give us a voice level, eh?’

‘OK – I’ve been in a different town every single night since Sunday, I’m exhausted, and here I am, freezing cold at stupid o’clock on a roundabout in the middle of nowhere,’ said Cora. ‘That OK, Rodders?’

‘Fine,’ replied the soundman, pushing his little round glasses higher on his nose and adjusting a couple of knobs on his mixer.

Cora smiled at him, trying to ignore his trousers. Much as she loved Rodney, he did have spectacularly bad dress sense. Today he was wearing the most lurid . . .