Cover Story by Rachel Bailey

affairs.” I tried for my steely gaze to put him off.
    “You’re welcome,” he said, unfazed. “Why don’t you just let yourself sneeze properly?”
    Why was everyone so hung up on my sneezes? Surely they had other things to occupy their minds? Although, I supposed, all evidence was to the contrary.
    I folded my arms. “For your information, it’s not that simple. I’ve tried, but it’s a habit now and I couldn’t have a proper sneeze even if I wanted one.”
    His eyes danced and the corners of his mouth were turned down, repressing a smile. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re uptight?”
    “They have, actually, but I’ll add you to the list.” I turned to get in the car.
    “You should let go a little.” His voice dropped a note. “Relax and have some fun.”
    Oh, that was rich. I turned back to him. “And you’re basing this advice on knowing me in a purely professional capacity for less than thirty-six hours?”
    He shrugged. “You journalists haven’t got a patent on observation.”
    Of all the conceited, cocky men … “And you think … ah … ahh … you think … ahhh … fink .” Dammit. “Look, I have to go. Can you say goodnight to your mother for me?”
    He grinned, damn him. “Sure. ’Night, Tobi.”
    I scrambled into my car and made a quick getaway. What did he know about me? I stopped at the liquor store and bought some cheap red wine—I’d show him I could relax!
    *
    I woke the next morning feeling like my brain had been partially eaten by rats—dirty, smelly rats that’d crawled through my mouth on their way in. I’d remembered on the first glass why I didn’t drink cheap red wine—the hangover was horrendous—but I refused to wimp out of a challenge, even if no one else would know … and if I’d set it myself to spite Simon Hanson. It was the principle of the thing.
    My open laptop glared up from the table, taunting me. I ran an eye over the drivel I’d written the night before while under the influence, then deleted the lot.
    After a shower and coffee I had another go at writing up the feature but couldn’t seem to get a handle on it. Whenever I tried to put it together in my mind, my thoughts were too scattered, so I plodded into the kitchen, hoping more coffee would help.
    It didn’t.
    Running out of time, I dragged on another pet hair-friendly trouser suit and my favorite diamante watch—one of my good luck watches.
    Davo was already at the diner, waiting in a booth. I ordered coffee and a pastry and waited while he ordered a breakfast burrito, scrambled eggs, chunky fried potatoes, English muffin, and a chocolate milkshake. My stomach churned just thinking about it.
    “So, did you unearth anything?” I took off my sunglasses but when the glare hit my retinas, I flinched and put them back on.
    “It’s more than that, boss chick.” Davo executed a quick look around—I assumed checking if the coast was clear to report his findings. Pointless really when we were the only ones in the place. “There’s been another one.”
    A gum-chewing waitress appeared with my coffee. I smiled my gratitude and stirred in the sugar. “Another one?”
    “Another gnomicide .” Davo leaned back in his seat, savoring his moment of glory.
    “Oh, another gnomicide. I see.” I sipped my coffee. Gritty and burnt, but I’d take what I could get this morning. “A new crime scene?”
    The waitress returned with our breakfasts and Davo waited until she was out of earshot before replying. “Yep. This one was in front of old Valentina de la Vega’s house.”
    “I’m surprised they got past Winston.”
    “Winston sleeps inside at night.” Davo didn’t miss a beat as he covered his meal in every condiment on the table. “They woulda had free rein.”
    Dammit. I could feel another theory about to implode. “Does Winston sleep inside every night?”
    “Yep. Old Miss de la Vega won’t go to bed until he’s tucked up in his basket. You should hear her. ‘Win-STON!’”