2022-04-30 - Raiding the Records

Haggleford.

"Whoever this guy is, he's got them real scared." Nicasia not so much, but maybe it's hard to be scared from the lumpy office chair behind the giant desk that was meant to be the respectable, solid anchor of Safe Harbor's workspace. It is at least clutter-free now, without so much as a desk calendar to distract her from the task at hand. The major distraction comes in the form of the computer she has to work with, which is practically a dinosaur. Old. Slow. It takes several minutes to boot up. Several more minutes to load everything into Windows. Another minute for her to get a browser open, all of the time spent with her very much trying not to glare a hole in the monitor.

She has coffee though, and that helps. An enormous Thermos-style go-cup, and if she holds it with both hands she doesn't try to smack the mouse until it speeds the process along. "Place your bet now: high school dweeb who out he has superpowers and is now living out his best evil villain life, or literal creature from planes beyond who not only doesn't have a social media profile but who the very act of Googling will melt this whole thing down and suck us into an alternate dimension?" Ever the optimist, she.

Myles is distracted.

They could just get a locksmith. But Myles has insisted he can do it.

So while Nicasia actually works, Myles has been doing his own work. Of a sort. The big ol safe is a very important part of a Bail Bonds office. Collateral. Cash. Documents Leonard kept in there. It's all still in the big ol vault. And they still haven't gotten any of it out. Leonard had the combination included in his will.

But he likely changed it at least seven times before he died.

So Myles is sitting on the ground criss cross applesauce, leaning towards the vault. Trying to do what he did with Leonard's home safe. Trying to get it to sing for him. He's having... middling results. Myles features flick over to Nicasia with a quiet grunt. "Call him Evil Santa. Guessin' he's a tubby white dud with a beard. Maybe he's a family man with a tragic back story."

Beat.

"But I think it's safe to google him."

Getting the safe open is an important piece of work; it's also a bit of a mystery, though one Nicasia will just have to wait for the display of, fathomlessly content that Myles will get it open.

Eventually.

"Alright, so that's one vote for high school dweeb and one vote for fat old white guy with a beard," she muses as she finally gets the browser open and types in the first critical keywords: Haggleford and Gray Harbor Washington. "Might've been helpful if somebody had explained why they call him Evil Santa, unless that's some reference to him like, poofing up chimneys or whatever. I doubt he leaves presents. I hope someone would've mentioned that." And yet she doesn't sound supremely confident in that. "Might run him through the background database too. Haggleford is a pretty uncommon name; I doubt I'll get a lot of hits."

Maybe the click of her nails on the very loud old mechanical keyboard are interfering with his safe-opening mojo. It's hard to hear the tumblers click over the noise.

Haggleford. The kind of name that suggests two scenarios, each quite likely.

One, it's a made-up name. A creation by some LARPer or Dungeons & Dragons game master pulling a couple of random syllables out of their arse and combining them in a way that phonetically sounds almost like an Anglophonic name. Stanford, Ashford, Beauford -- Haggleford.

Two, it's a records mistake. An accidental creation by some desk clerk on Ellis Island, writing down whatever he thought he heard and telling Haggleford's ancestor to move it. Many hard-to-spell non-English became American names that way. Göran Berg became Joe Hill, direct translation from Swedish. Friederich Drumpf became Frederick Trump. Endless amounts of people with hard to spell Ashkenazi or Slavic names became Goldstein or Rosenblatt, or an anglophonic nonsense version of their original name.

Either way, Town Hall has no record. Nor does the census poll. No tax records, either. No criminal record, no license plate registration, no license to carry a concealed weapon.

LiveJournal, however. An entry dated July 3, 1998. A single, short paragraph, tacked on at the bottom of a recipe for home baked pear pie.

Selma said she is still seeing Haggleford -- Carnelian. I wish she wouldn't. Mum's right, there's something off about that man. And George is still missing.

A newsroom apprentice could conduct the next search, between fetching coffee and putting away binders.

Sure enough; a man named George Hampton was reported missing on June 28, 1998. He was officially declared dead in 2018, allowing his daughter Alice to inherit. Alice Hampton is a reporter at the Gray Harbor Gazette. Her cousins are named Selma and Jane Connaught.

Selma since moved away but Jane Connaught, the owner of the LiveJournal handle AndPiesForAll still lives across the Chehalis, in the town of Hoquiam. She's married, no children, to Michael Connaught, a real estate agent. Jane is a semi-successful writer of paranormal romance; she has a handful of novels on Kindle, but she is not a household name. Her name crops up regularly for local church bake sales; her pie making skill has not decreased.

"Motherfucker." Myles is rumbling at the vault. "Come on, bitch." Usually when he sweet talks like that, it works! There's another click and the clang-clang of Myles unsuccessfully trying the door. He growls, slowly pushing himself up to his feet. "You been watchin' too many movies. Dweebs don't always become the super villains or end up shoo-- Who the fuck says dweeb?" He suddenly remembers, shooting her a look. But shes deep into her googling and Myles starts to amble over to her.

"Th'fuck is Carnelian?" Myles squints. "That's not a first name is it? That's a weird as fuck first name if it is."

But he falls quiet as she continues, squinting at the monitor as she brings up a handful of paranormal romance titles. He's squinting. "The Lustful Lycan." He reads, slowly looking down to Nicasia then back up to the screen. "Prisoner of the Heart: Taken by the Fae King." This one read a little more flatly. "She shouldn't be hard to get talkin'. Pretend you're a publisher or some shit. Get her tongue movin', do your thing."

Who The Fuck Says Dweeb answers that by raising her middle finger in Myles's general direction in between searches. But she's having more luck and it's actually audible when she finds some kind of lead because the half-focused familiar patterns of entering the same keywords or variations on them over and over again changes into a much more deliberate hunt. More mouse clicks.

When he comes to loom, Nicasia leans back in the chair and considers. "Carnelian's a kind of rock. Red-orange. Kind of a random thing to attach to a pie recipe but where else are you going to dish about your boring life story?"

It's a few moments before she tilts her head to look sideways up at him. "What? No way. We can just hit you with a little bit of body glitter, get you some leather pants, you can be the Fae King. She'll tell you any old thing." She's not real serious about that, but she is fetching Connaught's personal information. "I wonder if she remembers anything useful. She seems pretty ordinary." Though for giggles she runs the obligatory search for Carnelian Haggleford because why not?

Brush past a dozen entries about red, semi-precious stones; not looking for literal carnelians here.

No records of a Carnelian Haggleford. There are a few Carnelians -- most of whom appear to be men born in the period between 1967 and 1973. They're the unfortunates who are thanking the powers that be that at least their hippie parents did not name them MistyMountainKittyKat Galadriel Moonshine (and somewhere, somewhere, MistyMountainKittyKat has probably changed her name to something along the lines of Jane because really, really, mum and dad?).

There's a Cornelius Haggleford, Esq. Parking ticket, 1956. Mentioned in the Gazette because Mr Haggleford apparently counter-sued the police department (and subsequently lost the case). His argument -- the part that made a reporter take notice -- was that it's not parking in front of a fire hydrant if the fire hydrant moves around. He also got docked for driving under the influence.

"Yeah? You sure bout that?" Hitting him up with body glitter and tight pants. "Don't write checks you can't cash, woman." Though despite the words, one hand goes to rest on her shoulder as she continues to research. Leaning forward he's slowly tilting his head to the side. "Cornelius." Beat. "What so he preferred Carnelian or--- Auto-correct wasn't a thing when she wrote that was it?" Beat. "Nah. 1956." He lets out a quiet grunt. "There a picture? Maybe we can get a rough age, get some yearbooks or shit if he's local."

There's a beat.

"If this is him. Gray Harbor police can suck my--" He squints at the monitor. "Fire hydrant? Th'fuck."

"I'd laugh that check all the way to the bank, Ogeron," is only vague taunting. Nicasia is distracted and it nullifies some of her sparring.

The rest is skimmed through, her teeth catching her lower lip to bite into. "1956," she muses. "A lot of records from that far back aren't digital. Gotta go look for them in person, though maybe Ancestry or something has a hit. "'56 to '98 is..." Her fingers move, tapping individually against her thumb. "42 years. Plus 24 puts us at 66. If this fucker was old enough to be driving - excuse me getting ticketed for parking - he woulda been, what, late teens at least? Let's be generous, say he was 20. Makes this Cornelius Haggleford in his 80s." There's a little inhale and a little roll of her eyes, like she just realized Myles maybe wins the Evil Santa bet.

"You think this Selma chick was 'seeing' an old man?" Next question. And the next, "You think Jane remembers any of this, for real?"

The fire hydrant thing is mulled over. "Maybe that is him. Maybe it did move on him. Maybe he was weird back then and nobody believed it, but it's been in literal print all this time. Could probably find him in the yearbook though. Could hit the high school, see if they have any pictures."

Myles grunts and gives a nod, abandoning the vault to grab his hoodie. Sounds like it’s time for a road trip. His gun is checked over before it’s holstered, his little badge attached to his belt before his hoodie is pulled down and over.

“High school then town hall? If there’s any daylight left. This is going to be tedious as fuck.” There’s a little flicker of his lips as he looks over to Nicasia.

“Specially if we act like we used to in that library.” He rumbles with a wry grin. “You mentally prepared to go back there?” He is, apparently.

"High school, then town hall. If there's any daylight left. If not we can hit it in the AM, maybe see if the local paper has an archive that they didn't get around to scanning." It seems like a plan, alongside, "And I'll give this pie baker a call, see if I can interview her. Shouldn't be too hard to coax her into spilling her guts. Hell, maybe I can come home with some dessert." But this is a later problem: Nicasia scribbles down Connaught's number on a post-it and sticks it into a pocket before getting to her feet.

Then Myles is asking about the library and both eyebrows arch at him. "The higher you get those hopes, the harder they're gonna crash. But you're so hot when you're disappointed," she deadpans. "Decisions, decisions." She's headed for the door in short order though, with but one more look at the unopened safe. "I suppose you can drive."

Teddy S. Addington High. A modest but perfectly serviceable high school the kind you find in towns like this; large enough to provide required services to a town of eighteen thousand, not large enough to warrant much of a note on anyone's map. The basketball team is decent. The gym coach is popular, and known to have helped a number of troubled kids get a better start in life. The roof of the gym was repaired -- read: mostly replaced -- after structural damage done to it last summer by a hurricane, Storm Cimaron.

There's nothing secret about the high school's old records. A bit of a wait for the school secretary to pull up what files are on computer record and then head down to the basement to look up what's not. A few polite inquiries -- "Oh, are you doing genealogy? It's quite exciting, I had one of those tests done and it turns out I have Cherokee ancestry, who would have thought" -- and a chat about the weather and how the baseball team is doing. Normal business. Definitely not the first people to turn up here and ask for old school records and yearbooks.

"I don't have anything under the name Haggleford," the secretary regrets. "Not in the 1950s and not in the 1990s. I do have Selma and Jane Connaught -- but that's strange, though. Look at this." She turns her monitor to allow her visitors to see the names on the screen. "Class of '89 -- Selma Wilmerton, Jane Wilmerton. The record has been updated here, at a high school reunion in '19 -- Jane is now Jane Connaught." She frowns. "So how is Selma a Connaught too? Must be a clerical error there, somewhere, because they probably didn't marry the same guy. Jane attended the 20 year reunion, Selma didn't. Jane donated to the high school gym repairs fond after the storm," she reads up the last note on record. "So unless something happened very recently, she still lives in Hoquiam. I can't give you her number for legal reasons but it's in the phone directory."

She beams. "We're a bit proud of our Jane. She's a writer now, you know? Lives over in Hoquiam." This woman either hasn't actually read what Jane Connaught publishes, or she's defiantly open-minded about paranormal erotica. Fans, everywhere.

"And you're cute when you act like you can say no to me." Myles pipes over to her, making his way past her, grabbing her keys as they head towards the car.

When they're at the school, Myles squints slightly at the woman talking about her Cherokee ancestry. He's able to restrain his eye roll. He'll get his chance to complain about white people to his white ex-wife later at some point. His lips quirk up lightly, that big genial polite smile he's learned to make people more comfortable with him around.

When the woman says she can't pass out the information for legal purposes he nods. "Of course." He rumbles with a gentle smile. "I'm sure we can find everything on our own." But she might have something. And they have powers now. Is Myles going to have any sort of qualms with using his powers for professional purposes?

No. Absolutely not. He doesn't hesitate for even a nano-second. Below the desk, his phone is coming out. He's setting it to video record. With a waggle of fingers, it starts to float. Down where only Nicasia can see it. There's a surreptitious bump to Nicasia's foot, bringing her attention down. He looks over to her, then looks to Phyllis. Distract her. When Nicasia works her own magic, the phone will float up over the desk, and just slide over to do a casual slow scan of the monitor Phyllis currently has up.

Myles might be able to restrain his eye roll but Nicasia can't, quite; fortunately she masks hers with a look over to one side as well, like she's looking around not just trying to make nice. But she is mostly making nice. There's a smile anyway, not as big and friendly as his but then she doesn't quite need to work that hard.

She's not quite done with her litany of questions though, and makes a show of checking her notes. In reality it's a couple of random nasty old file folders pulled at random out of one of the cabinets back at the office, and a legal pad with some random nonsense scribbled on the top sheet. This always looks somehow more impressive than digital notes. More real. "Maybe he went to school here in the 40s? The 30s?" She tries, sifting backward. "Could you maybe see if there were any Corneliuses at all? Couldn't have been large classes." There's the very barest of little pauses before she looks more genuinely awed. "This place has been around for a long time, huh?"

Then comes that little nudge of her foot and she takes a couple of steps over in another direction, away from the machine Phyllis is working on, to go peer out a window. "Hey," she says, "didn't there used to be a tree out there? One that flowered in the springtime?"

The secretary looks up and at the window. Tree? What tree? Was there a -- oh. Oh. It dawns on her -- maybe not so much from the conversation as from the names. It's a small town. Local couple. Mixed couple. And some trouble with cops, too, wasn't there? Riiiight. She shoots Nicasia a look and then leans in. "You're after someone who did something terrible, aren't you? I know that look. This Cornelius, is he a murderer? Did he do away with poor Selma?"

Somebody likes her true crime shows. And somebody is definitely not paying attention to her monitor or the cell phone that snaps a quick screenshot of a student file, complete with social security number, telephone number, and street address. Jane Connaught, your secrets are -- well, they weren't all that secretive before, either, let's be honest about it.

The phone slides back to Myles. It's pocketed.

Nicasia gets a little nod before he's looking back to the woman who is now trying to 'help'. He's not sure what he hates more someone trying to obstruct them or someone trying to help them. His brow narrows lightly. "No ma'am. We're not detectives." Myles grunts quietly. "We're in bail bonds. Nothing exciting like murder, unfortunately. Probably just skipped a court date on more traffic violations." Beat. "Thank you for all your help."

A sidelong glance to Nicasia, as if asking 'you good'? Apparently he's done here.

Oh well now Nicasia has to smile extra big. "No ma'am," she echoes Myles. "No, this really is some ancient history. Side project, not work related. Thank you for all your help," she assures, which may or may not convince the secretary that they aren't hot on the trail of a murderer, but it does seem to signal the fact that they aren't going to get anything else from this particular venue.

Will the town hall be more or less informative? It remains yet to be seen. "You get anything?" Is her question once they get out to the SUV. "Because otherwise all we have right now are two missing persons - and that's assuming Selma disappeared, just didn't come back for the reunion - and a lot of name changes. Strange ones. If they were in the same year of high school, they must've been twins. Maybe Irish twins at a stretch..." Contemplation happens while she doesn't have to drive.

"Fucking white people." He finally lets out once they're going back to the car. "I'm 1/16th Cherokee." He bobs his head from side to side as he rattles this off in an imitation of the woman inside. Though at the question his phone comes out, the recording is played for her. "Got everything on her." He rumbles with a little shrug.

"We may just have to go visit this woman. How you wanna do it? Pretend to be a publisher or.. What?" He gives a little shake of his head. "We know this is gonna be fuckin' weird. I don't wanna try to put anything together yet. That's what all these people have already done. We make assumptions and conclusion, we might miss shit. Let's just keep gatherin'. We can put it together later. Let's go to town hall and see what we can find on these three."

When the Addington family purchased the land that would someday become Gray Harbor, they built a small two-roomed house sat in the very center of that plot. Eventually, the house evolved into a gorgeous three-story red brick Federal Colonial. It is this house that became City Hall, where the Mayor (currently an Addington, though a side branch) and the rest of the city council work.

The grand, curved front steps lead up to a white-washed door flanked by symmetrical long rectangular windows. Within, the house keeps most of its original architecture, with an inlay marble flooring and cathedral ceilings. The bottom floor acts as a lobby and meeting space with minimal furnishings, all antique. A few rooms are kept as museum space, with many pictures of Gray Harbor through the years and different items in display cases, along with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that contain interesting historical works.

None of which is what our intrepid heroes are here for. A receptionist directs towards the archives, with a helpful warning that town hall records are available only within the usual privacy stipulations; no looking up your ex' work email and signing him on to forty-odd spam email registers.

Not all of the archives are digitised. "In fact", warns the clerk in charge, a rotund little man in a patched-sleeve tweed jacket, "the older the records, the more likely it's not. A lot of records, particularly those pertaining to the Addington family itself, are at Addington House -- it's a town museum now, in case you're interested in local history." This fellow, whose name lanyard reads R. M. Hoskins, does not seem to recognise the pair.

"Let's see. Cornelius Haggleford -- that's a curious name." He taps away on his computer; like those in public institutions anywhere, it's a decade old, and probably badly in need of a Windows update.

A moment passes; another succeeds it. Then Hoskins looks up and arches an eyebrow. "I got a Carnelian Haggleford. When did you say this person was born, or moved into town? This entry is from 1915 -- it's the list of people seized on the Annie Larsen." Pause. And then, the realisation that not everybody is a local history buff. Hoskins looks up again and adds, "The Annie Larsen. She was a three-masted schooner that was involved in arms shipment during World War One. The ship was seized in 1915 by US customs officials, she was smuggling weapons for India. The trial was one of the largest and most expensive in American legal history."

Nicasia's only stand for white people everywhere is another languid little lift of her middle finger. It's not a defense. Not even an excuse. But she takes his phone and watches the recording. "You know that trick could probably come in pretty handy in some other spots," she muses before the smallest of disappointed sighs escapes. "Already got this from public records but at least she wasn't being consciously dodgy." She's got a plan for Jane, though. "Naw, not a publisher. She's already got one of those. Far better to be an independent journalist doing a piece on local authors in Washington state. Easier to ask all sorts of prying personal questions."

She's content to feign some interest in the architecture of City Hall; it is a lovely building, certainly. Very historical. And the receptionist is a touch hysterical, given the sharpish smile she delivers with the solemn promise that she absolutely is not going to be looking up her ex's work email address. The same sharp smile is given to Myles as they head to the archives proper. "Spam registries. Bet you I could get you on all sorts of fun lists."

Ah but then there's the clerk to deal with and she makes what little case they have. "He was party to a lawsuit with the police department in 1956," she provides, "I don't suppose you might still have a copy of that document on file?" It may have some other details contained in it, on it, around it. But then Hoskins is skipping past Cornelius and back to Carnelian and one brow arches upward . "Carnelian Haggleford was aboard the Annie Larsen? I'm afraid I don't know much about that particular bit of legal history. Even generally. They were smuggling weapons out of the US into India, and he..." There's a sidelong look at Myles, a slight arch of an eyebrow. Then, "Maybe he's our Cornelius's father." Probably he's not. "Do tell."

"You'd make a hot reporter." Though according to Myles, she would likely make a hot most any profession. As they make their way in he gives a little grin. "Yeah I think that little trick will come in handy quite a bit."

There's a roll of his eyes as they make their way into City Hall over at all the fun lists she can get him on. His gaze sharpens once at the mention of Carnelian Haggleford. Eyeing the man for a few moments. He glances over to Nicasia, but falls silent for the moment. The information is confusing thus far, so he's doing his very best to try and not piece it together.

He allows Nicasia to prompt Hoskins, as Myles just sort of wanders around, looking around City Hall with a sharp gaze.

Hoskins is happy enough to poke at the digitised archives -- a search field, a name. Nothing comes up, though, and he shakes his head, male pattern baldness and all. "I'm afraid not. The record likely exists -- somewhere in the basement of the GHPD, or possibly at Addington House in some crate marked '1956' that no one has opened since 1957. Did you say the Gazette wrote about this man? They might have it. But I have to warn you, if you think our archives are dis-organised. . ."

He leans in and says, in an almost confidential tone, "It's like they just throw every day's copy in through the door and let it all pile up. Terrible archiving methods, I tell you. Terrible." Sigh. "Somebody really should tell them that proper newspapers have microfilm archives as a minimum."

The clerk taps his lip. "See, if the Historical Society was still meeting, I'd tell you to go talk to them about the Annie Larsen. Although I think Dr Brennon is trying to get it back on its feet? Maybe they know something. Otherwise, there's bound to be half a dozen war buffs on the Internet but you know how it is, asking questions of those. Before you know it, you're watching two basement dwelling forty-year-olds argue about the Robert E. Lee, and whether it was ever on time."

Must be referring to the railroad engine.

"He was mentioned in the Gazette; we found one really brief namedrop. Online. Probably the only one that exists because, like you say, they don't seem to know about microfilm." See Nicasia can suck up to archivists okay. "But this being city hall, we thought we'd start here since you keep the best records, especially of old court proceedings, and, well. Maybe they didn't realize in '56 how interesting a thing might be seventy years later. Who ever does?"

There's that slight-ish nod at the mention of the Historical Society, and acknowledgement that, "We can probably find one of them who's willing to talk to us. I'd rather not go fishing online if I can help it. Nothing quite beats primary sources. Secondary sources. Anything but basement dwellers, you know?" She's genuinely sympathetic to this plight, or seems to be. "So what's ol' Carnelian's connection to this ship? Passenger manifest, owner, first mate?" A gentle prompt, but all she's got to go on at the moment.

Myles is mostly just wandering around at this point. Seeing if he can find anything interesting by walking past Hoskins and casually looking over his shoulder. But for the most part, this is Nicasia's thing. And she has it well in hand. Eventually he posts up on a wall, massive arms folding over his chest.

"Well, that one ought to be pretty easy. If you direct a query to the harbour office they'll have records, or know who has records. Maybe the state? It was a high-profile legal case, there's bound to be records of what was found, who was on board, and what service they performed, or claimed to perform." Hoskins nods enthusiastically -- in the fashion of someone who thinks he's a fountain of great ideas but he's not going to be the one doing the leg work here. "If that fails? The N. Y. Times. They're the paper that would have covered the whole affair back then, and they have microfilm."

On paper one would think that Myles has the tougher job since he's the one that actually has to physically recover people sometimes. One would think.

"The harbor office," Nicasia repeats. "Right. Alright." She looks around for a longish moment before trying one more random dart, this one a whole lot more recent in the timeline. "You have anything on a Selma Wilmerton? Or a Selma Connaught? A little more this century. Also not going to be fishing for her email address or signing her up for anything funky, just pulling loose ends. You know how it is."

Myles has taken out his phone over in the corner. Occasionally they may hear a little sound effect. Is he playing a game?

"Contemporary, you say." Hoskins seems to be quite enjoying himself -- maybe this is a little more interesting than the average genealogist coming in to verify that her Cherokee princess ancestor eloped to Gray Harbor with an emerald-eyed Latvian prince, and somehow, this ended with some dentist's secretary in nowhere, Washington. He taps his keys and calls up software that looks like it might still run on Netscape.

"Selma Wilmerton -- Wilmerton -- Yes. Born Selma Geraldine Wilmerton, 1978, to Geoffrey and Dahlia Wilmerton. Twin sister, Jane. She's a writer, you know that? I'm a fan. Lovely woman, lives in Hoquiam." Hoskins prattles on. "Goes by her husband's name now, of course, Connaught. That's what you said, yes? Selma Connaught. Hm, that's odd. Apparently Selma took her sister's husband's name too. That's not illegal, just -- strange."

"Very strange," Nicasia agrees. "Very strange indeed. Well. Thank you, Mr. Hoskins, you've been a delight. Very helpful. It's always a treat coming to sift through real documents, you know? There's just something about paper that the digital age can't really capture, even if it does make finding things so much easier. And oh, I'm sorry, you must be looking forward to getting out of here. Thank you for your time," etc, etc, and they're walking, and they're walking...

...and when they're out in the car again she settles into her seat with a quiet sigh. "So there was a Carnelian Haggleford. But if he was on a weapons smuggling ship in '15, then if Selma was dating him in '98 then he'd have been a fossil." She makes a face, then shakes her head. "Might have to call the harbor office, though at this point we could possibly pawn this back off on the Historical Society." There's a tiny snicker of amusement behind this, but it's very, very short-lived. Her phone is out, the number they found for Jane retrieved so she can punch it in, can make her excuse about freelancing, writing a story about local authors, etc. Specific enough to be interesting, vague enough that it shouldn't trip any triggers when not a whit of it can be verified.

"Connaught." The voice on the other end is exactly what one would expect: A white middle-aged woman in her late forties, early fifties; local accent, as she answers her phone. "Can I help you?"

Better than going to voice mail, at least.

Nicasia looks ever so slightly surprised when Jane actually answers but she recovers quickly enough. "Hello, Mrs. Connaught? My name is Nikki Webber," shut up Myles, "I'm working on a piece about the life and times of some of Washington's own homegrown authors and was wondering if you might be interested in having lunch with me sometime." It's almost not exactly like a lie. Almost.

"Oh, I'm not a big deal," the voice in the other end exclaims, and sounds positively delighted. "I just write stories, and if other people like them, that makes me happy. Are you from the paper? Have you spoken to Taylor or Weber? They're the big names locally. You really want to speak with me?"

It's always easy to flatter somebody who wishes she was more successful. A little taste of spotlight would be so sweet, would it not?

"Everyone interviews them," from the sound of it; Nicasia has absolutely no idea who they even are. "I'm going a little bit off the beaten path, as it were. Trying to give the readers something new to bite into, someone new to be interested in. I mean, The Lustful Lycan was secretly my favorite book for longer than I probably ought to admit to..." Shut up Myles.

It is not a hole she wants to get too deeply dug into though. "This is meant to be a little more personal than that though, you know? Lining up all the hard questions, like why did you decide to get into your particular genre, what inspires you, and so on. So. Lunch? I'll be out that way tomorrow and the day after if you think you can spare some time."

"After four would be perfect," says the voice on the other end, presumably Jane Connaught, writer of paranormal porn and maker of church bake sale cookies. "My daughter comes home and takes the baby, so we won't be disturbed every five because the little rascal needs something. Children, am I right? Happy grandmother, that's me. Do you need my address, or would you prefer to meet at a place in town?"

Presumably Jane Connaught. If not... well. "Where'd you be more comfortable meeting?" Nicasia questions. "I'd be thrilled to see you in your natural habitat, as it were, but I really would just as soon take you out for a late lunch, or maybe an early dinner. Maybe you'll decide you like me and I can take home a pie. If you want dinner, you can pick where. I'm not real sure what's best for dinner in... Hoquiam?" Hoa-kim. Totally not how that is pronounced but who's paying attention?