The Good Byline Read online

  ADVANCE PRAISE

  “Jill Orr’s delightful, laugh-out-loud debut is the perfect mix of mystery, humor, and romance, anchored by an endearing heroine you can’t help but root for. A fun, fast-paced read with a satisfying mystery at its heart. Perfect for fans of Janet Evanovich.”

  — Laura McHugh, award-winning author of Arrowood and The Weight of Blood

  “Riley ‘Bless-Her-Heart’ Ellison is a breath of fresh air—a funny, empathic, Millennial heroine. She kept me turning the pages well into the night.”

  — Susan M. Boyer, USA TODAY–bestselling author of the Liz Talbot mystery series

  “Who knew obituaries could be this much fun?”

  — Gretchen Archer, USA TODAY–bestselling author of the Davis Way Crime Caper series

  “Jill Orr’s Tuttle Corner is absolutely charming, and you’ll want to hang out more in this Virginian small town with Riley and her cast of friends. The methodical local reporter, Will Holman, is a standout, and here’s hoping he will appear in more of Riley’s mystery adventures. Fans of Hannah Dennison’s Vicky Hill series will devour this debut!”

  — Naomi Hirahara, Edgar Award–winning author of the Mas Arai and Ellie Rush mystery series

  “An extremely fun read! Regina H., Personal Romance Concierge, may be my favorite new literary character of the decade.”

  — Anne Flett-Giordano, author of Marry, Kiss, Kill and Emmy-winning writer of Mom, Frasier, and Desperate Housewives

  “Jill Orr will make you laugh, make you think, and steam up your reading glasses with this funny, smart, and romantic mystery debut. The Good Byline is an engaging story that will keep readers wondering whodunit and how’d-they-do-it until the very end.”

  — Diane Kelly, award-winning author of the Death & Taxes and Paw Enforcement mysteries

  “In this irresistible page-turner, Jill Orr delivers a funny, smartly written mystery featuring a charming heroine and appealing setting. I can’t wait to join Millennial Riley Ellison on future adventures—and misadventures!”

  — Ellen Byron, author of Body on the Bayou and Plantation Shudders

  Copyright © 2017 by Jill Orr

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all names and characters, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. With a few exceptions, all places are also products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by Prospect Park Books

  2359 Lincoln Avenue

  Altadena, California 91001

  www.prospectparkbooks.com

  Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution www.cbsd.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Orr, Jill, author.

  Title: The good byline: a Riley Ellison mystery / by Jill Orr.

  Other titles: Riley Ellison mystery

  Description: Altadena, California: Prospect Park Books, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016031253 (print) | LCCN 2016039299 (ebook) | ISBN 9781938849923

  Subjects: LCSH: Women journalists--Fiction. | Female friendship--Fiction. | Murder--Investigation--Fiction. | Triangles (Interpersonal relations)--Fiction. | Virginia--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3615.R58846 G66 2017 (print) | LCC PS3615.R58846 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016031253

  Cover design by Susan Olinsky; illustration by Nancy Nimoy

  Book layout and design by Amy Inouye, Future Studio

  To Jimmy,

  for keeping the champagne on ice…

  all these years

  Is there room for humor in today’s obituary?

  “I think so. The obits section is quite misunderstood. People have a primal fear of death, but 98 percent of the obit has nothing to do with death, but with life. There are maybe two sentences in there about when or where the guy died, and with the rest, you let the person’s life guide the treatment. We like to say it’s the jolliest department in the paper.”

  —MARGALIT FOX, a senior writer for The New York Times, from an interview in The Paris Review, September 23, 2014

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Nothing says “You’re going to die alone” like being asked to judge the three-legged race at the Tuttle Corner Johnnycake Festival because you’re the only one without a partner. Even Mrs. Winterthorne, who had to be at least 127 years old and in a wheelchair, signed up with her nurse, Faye. Never mind that Faye was paid to be there or that she would end up with a shattered pinky toe from old Winterthorne rolling over her repeatedly for twenty-five yards, the point is that I didn’t even have someone I could pay to be my partner, let alone someone who’d take a broken toe for me. The sad fact was that I was twenty-four years old and undeniably, catastrophically, alone. And the worst part was that everyone in Tuttle Corner knew why.

  The day my boyfriend of seven years left me to go find himself, the good people of Tuttle unofficially changed my name from Riley Ellison to Riley Bless-Her-Heart. “Did you hear the Sanford boy left her without an explanation? Poor Riley, bless her heart.” “She’d been so sure they were headed down the aisle…bless her heart.” “It’s been six months and the poor dear can’t seem to get over it. Bless. Her. Heart.”

  People in Tuttle Corner love to bless your heart. It’s code for anything from an expression of sympathy to a vicious insult, sometimes both at the same time. But most often, this is what people say when they want to call you pathetic but their strict adherence to the Southern be-polite-or-die code won’t let them say that. Not to your face anyway. I knew that in my case when people blessed my heart they mostly meant it in the nice way, the snap-out-of-it-honey way. Which I guess was fair enough. I hadn’t exactly been killing it in the having-a-life department since Ryan left. Besides, you weren’t really in trouble in Tuttle Corner until people start saying that they’ll pray for you.

  So when I arrived at the festival alone, it took Charlotte Van Stone approximately three seconds to ask if I would judge the race. She was in a panic because Millie Hedron, Tuttle’s most famous spinster and longtime contest judge, had to cancel when one of her Persian cats rolled in a patch of burrs. Apparently the shaving process had been traumatic for them both. Charlotte zeroed in on me because, a
s she put it, “Surely you won’t be participating this year?” Then she put a hand over her enormous left breast and added, “Bless your heart.”

  The festival was as hot and crowded as ever, but that didn’t stop the entire town from turning up. The sun beat down on the white tents and colonial flags that hung on ropes between trees. Vendors sold cornhusk dolls. My parents, Skip and Jeanie, otherwise known as the Rainbow Connection, played guitar and sang corncake-themed songs on the main stage, delighting the under-six set with their “corny” puns. And Landry’s General Store (est. 1781) churned a large vat of kettle corn, which permeated the air with its sticky-sweet scent. These were the sights and sounds and smells of my childhood, as familiar and comforting as an old pair of jeans.

  It was almost time for the three-legged race, so I began my walk over to the field. On the way I saw my middle school social studies teacher, Mr. Monroe, talking with a girl named Anna, who had been a few years ahead of me in school. She was holding a baby on her hip and breaking off pieces of pink cotton candy for a small girl standing next to them. I smiled and waved at Anna, who sort of half-smiled like she was trying to place me but then looked away when the baby started fussing. I turned my wave into an awkward pretense of itching my neck.

  Born and raised right here in Tuttle County, I technically knew everyone in town. I could tell you who was kin to whom, which marriages had created which family trees, and who had lived in which houses three generations deep. But knowing people and having friends are two very different things. It’s funny, as they can feel quite similar, and yet sometimes you don’t realize how alone you are until your world falls apart and you have no one to turn to except your parents (who are contractually obligated to love you no matter what).

  The truth is that I had nobody to blame but myself for my current friendless state. Seven years ago, when Ryan Sanford charmed his way into my life, I had allowed all my other friendships to fall away. I didn’t mean for it to happen; he was just the kind of guy who soaked up attention like one of those cloths that can hold six times its weight in water. He took all I had, and I gave it freely because being with Ryan felt like standing in the sun. He radiated confidence and charisma, two things I lacked as a young girl. It was so easy to lose myself inside Ryan’s big personality, his big plans, his big love. Until his big selfish butt decided he needed a change.

  For the millionth time, I thought about the half-assed explanation Ryan gave the day he left me. He said he wanted a fresh start somewhere new (Colorado), doing something totally unexpected of an accounting major (bartending), in order to figure out who he really was (an idiot). He said he was doing me a favor and that in the end the breakup would be good for me, too. I suppose he thought I’d pick up the pieces and move on. But despite six months of pitying glances, crushing loneliness, and abject humiliation, I had not moved on. I was back working at my old summer job at the library, paralyzed by the derailment of my life. I felt stuck in a sort of purgatory—waiting for Ryan to come back to me, or not to want him back at all. So far, neither had happened.

  Mrs. Van Stone handed me a list of race participants written on a long, curling piece of parchment. She was adamant that all props look as eighteenth-century as possible. The list was a patchwork of familiar names: neighbors, teachers, shop owners, former babysitters, school board members. But one name was more than just familiar; it was like a time capsule. Jordan James.

  Jordan had been my very best friend when we were kids. We’d been the sleepovers-every-weekend, read-each-other’s-minds, eat-each-other’s-lollipops kind of friends that you make in early childhood. However, we’d had a divergence of interests in high school. And by a “divergence of interests” I mean she wasn’t as interested in Ryan’s long lashes and emerging biceps as I was.

  I had heard Jordan moved back to Tuttle County after she graduated from Ole Miss and was working for the Tuttle Times as a reporter. I’d even thought about calling her to say hey but always chickened out. Jordan had been one of the casualties of the Ryan era. I had treated her badly, and even though we eventually got to a place where we could casually say hello, our friendship had been damaged. And I knew it was all my fault.

  But seeing Jordan’s name on the list at that moment made me feel both nostalgic and hopeful. I had a sudden vision of us reconnecting and becoming friends again. I could apologize—admit that I’d been wrong and maybe she’d forgive me. I remembered her wide smile and kind eyes. I felt a jolt of excitement at the idea of Jordan and me running around Tuttle Corner again like we did when we were kids, minus the 8 p.m. bedtime. Maybe being asked to judge the contest was fate. Maybe it was a sign of good things to come instead of a sign that I was on a speeding train headed for Loserville.

  I scanned the faces of the crowd but didn’t see Jordan’s. I followed the line across to where Jordan’s partner’s name was, but all that remained was a black splotch of ink. That, I wanted to shout at Charlotte Van Stone, is the problem with using quills!

  The bell rang to signify that the race was about to begin. Thirty-six teams lined up on one end of the field and tied their legs (or wheels, in Mrs. Winterthorne’s case) together with thick brown twine. I stood at the opposite end of the field just behind a white strip of muslin that had been staked down as a finish line.

  I looked through the crowd again but saw no sign of Jordan or her mystery partner. I was disappointed. If she wasn’t here then our reunion and subsequent re-best friendship would have to wait. I motioned for Charlotte Van Stone to come over.

  “I see Jordan James’s name is on the list, but she’s not lined up.”

  A look of annoyance crossed Mrs. Van Stone’s face, and I got the sense she was trying to furrow her heavily Botoxed brow. “No-shows just make my blood boil. It’s like people think these races organize themselves or something.”

  “I was hoping to see her,” I said, looking around again to see if maybe she was on her way over. “Do you think she’s here?”

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know, Riley.” Mrs. Van Stone’s eyes darted to the racers. “But we can’t wait on her. Go ahead and start. You snooze you lose is how I see it!”

  Even though I was pretty sure they didn’t have bullhorns back in the 1700s, Mrs. Van Stone shoved one into my hands and handed me a little slip of paper with the words she wanted me to say. The sting of humiliation burned my cheeks as I raised the bullhorn to my lips and announced, “Pray pardon me, neighbors! It is time for the Tuttle Corner Johnnycake Festival’s annual three-legged race to begin. Huzzah!”

  The race began, and it was as if I could see the whole ridiculous scene like it was in a Wes Anderson movie. The camera panned down the field as the coupled-up racers, cheeks red with effort, hopped down the field in awkward slow motion. Then the long shot of me, the lonely loser at the end of the field. Cut to the teams: full of life and happiness. Cut to me: full of emptiness and regret. Cut to them: laughing and falling onto the grass. Cut to me: writing my own obituary inside my head.

  Riley Ellison, twenty-four, shelf clerk at Tuttle Corner Library, died of loneliness and shame during the annual Johnnycake Festival as a crowd of racers hopped toward her, two by two, highlighting the fact that she was a single in a world meant for doubles, a solo act among a sea of duets, an à la carte menu item in a combo-meal world.

  It occurred to me in that moment that I really needed to make some changes. I didn’t want to be the lonely loser at the end of the field. I wanted to be in the race. I wanted to feel the joy and pain of walking through the world with someone else. True, I wanted Ryan, but even more than that I wanted friendship, connection. I wanted to get my life back on track. And I’ll admit, I wanted to show every last person in Tuttle Corner that they didn’t have to bless my heart.

  CHAPTER 2

  In the same way one decides to start a healthy eating plan every Monday morning, I began the week determined to change my life. I texted my mom for Mrs. James’s phone number, made an appointment to get my hair highlighted, and even gave
in to my mother’s pleas to sign up for Click.com, a dating website she swore matched up at least five of her friends. Fine. Whatever. I figured if nothing else, when I casually mentioned it to Ryan the next time we talked, it would prove to him I was moving on. And if it drove him mad with jealousy, then that was just a bonus.

  So when I arrived at work Monday morning, ready to begin my new life with my new attitude, I wasn’t entirely surprised to find something new at the library as well. Dr. Harbinger was already in his office with the door closed. Dr. H never closed his door and was never at work before I or Tabitha got there to let him in. To be honest, I didn’t even know he still had a key.

  He hadn’t done any of the opening tasks, like turning on the lights or the copy machine, so I set about readying the library for business. This took me approximately three and a half minutes. The extra minute and a half was only because I stopped to clean up the sunflower-seed casings someone had left under one of the study cubicles near the new and notable section.

  I was in the middle of cataloging—or rather re-cataloging—our biography section, which involved hours and hours of tedious work checking call numbers against MARC records, when Dr. H finally emerged from his office. He looked surprised to see me. “Hello, Miss Ellison!”

  “Hi!” I gave him a cheery wave.

  “Is it noon already?” He looked up at the clock overhead.

  I nodded.

  “Huhm.” He furrowed his brow for a long moment, then shook it off. “How was your weekend? You attended the festival, I trust?”

  I nodded again. “Did you go?”

  “Ah,” he said with the kind of smile that is meant to comfort someone else. “No, dear. Just isn’t the same without Louisa. It was always her favorite.”

  “I know how much she loved it.”

  “But I hope that you and your cohorts—the young and the restless of Tuttle Corner—stayed out late and made it a night to remember!”

  “Yeah,” I said vaguely. Dr. H thought I was much more social than I actually was, often asking about what I did over the weekends, then launching into some story from his wild youth. But while I liked Dr. H very much, I didn’t talk to him about my personal life, such as it was. I assumed he’d heard the gossip about Ryan leaving me and would have definitely noticed that the pop-in visits from him had stopped abruptly several months ago, but it was fine by me to have it all go unsaid.