The Activist Deception

By Patti Larsen

Petal was only hired to uncover a mole in GrandCorp’s new facility, a traitor to the company handing secrets to the protestors trying to shut down the chemical plant. And while she suspects the CEO may be breaking the law and that the activists are telling the truth, when someone turns up dead on the grounds, her client asks her to go above and beyond and solve the murder before the authorities can ask uncomfortable questions that might reveal truths she’s not sure she can live with.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Larsen
• Release date: Jan 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781989925164

Patti Larsen

About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

Book preview

Chapter One

There was something about mid-level board rooms that made me uneasy, no matter whether in a big city or the back end of nowhere like this particular corporate extravaganza deep in the woods of West Virginia. The fact the sun had set hours ago wasn’t helping the faintly creepy vibe I got from the place, industrial carpeting, ceiling tiles, fluorescent lighting and the smell of old, burnt coffee made my stomach tighten in utter and complete rejection of anything faintly resembling a normal job.

Yup, that was the problem. Standing at attention in my cute little preppy suit and white shell with my blonde hair tied back in a tidy bun, nude lipstick matching my nude nylons (who wore nylons anymore?) made me feel about as boxed in as if I’d been dropped into middle American management and told to make do, pumpkin.

As grateful as I was for the fact this position was only temporary, being the gopher for the slowly assembling reason for the particular assignment only reinforced to me exactly why it was I chose to run for the hills when it came to regular employment.

Said a lot about me, I guess.

I shifted my feet under me, pumps making my toes ache after hours standing. I’d started my morning at 6AM with the expectation I’d be leaving with the rest of the staff at GrandCorp Chemical when the end-of-day whistle blew. Okay, there wasn’t an actual whistle, but you get the picture. The chemical plant’s rather decade’s old feel had nothing to do with the fact it was, instead, barely operational a year. Why the designers chose to give it that old-school feel of concrete and deep emotional despair I wasn’t sure. I did know if I wasn’t able to solve this case in the next day or so, however, my soul would slowly begin to ooze out of the bottom of my very tired feet and join the rest of the slaves of convention and mediocrity.

Never mind the activist cell that stood outside the gates to the plant from dawn to dusk—and sometimes beyond—had even gone home for the night. I glanced out the large window toward the entry to the facility, noting the light on at the guardhouse, the closed gate. Security wasn’t exactly stellar in this place, but they did make an effort.

Something I’d have a chat with my client about, you can be sure of that, when I handed in my final report. John Grandel’s concerns about this location in his chain of industrial development and research might not weigh on him so much if he was willing to foot the bill for a few well-trained security guards instead of relying on locals to fill the positions.

Yes, I was judging the usual guy at the gate who really needed to do something about his teeth. Oh, and don’t get me started on law enforcement—or what amounted to such—in these here parts. Speak of the devil, why was it that Sheriff Stan Kroger, he of the potbelly and receding hairline and donkey-bray laugh and hands that liked to wander if a girl wasn’t careful, had just entered the board room at nine at night on a Friday?

Because he was in someone’s pocket, silly, Petal.

He nodded to me, winking like that gesture might endear himself though the very idea of actually welcoming advances from the greasy officer who could stand to shower more often made my stomach do a backflip while trying to clench against the previous locale choice. Good times, let me tell you.

Hey, no judging. I was hangry.

Ms. Grandel. The sheriff removed his beige cowboy hat, setting it on the boardroom table in front of the chair he’d chosen, close enough to her to show his ego need to be noticed.

My boss and, to my surprise when I arrived, wife of my client, nodded impatiently to the officer, her thin lips tightly pursed, that rather severe short haircut of hers a bit much for the lean, almost sunken way her bones protruded in her angular face. It did, however, accentuate her piercing dark eyes, and likely satisfied her need to make everyone around her feel incompetent.

Coffee, Miss Stanton, Cora Grandel snapped at me. Now.

I didn’t bother responding, heading immediately for the small kitchen attached to the office space, though I was careful to give Kroger a bit of a berth, just to ensure he didn’t try anything. The only reason I moved so quickly? To keep myself from snarking a snappy comeback that would either a) out me or b) get me fired and neither would end in the extremely generous paycheck I had coming if I could pull off this job.

In case you missed it, the client’s wife? Called me by my chosen work name, Elizabeth Stanton (I would have loved to push it and use Susan B. Anthony, but her partner in crime in the women’s rights movement was just as acceptable). It had taken me about five seconds after meeting her two days ago to realize that John Grandel had not only failed to inform his wife he’d hired a deception expert, he’d held off telling me not to spill the beans to her. Good thing I was born to act, literally, and that calling up my mother’s screen talents came so naturally to me. While I was no Annette Morgan (a bad parent or not, Mom could act), I at least could hold my ground when it came to lying to people.

Which also said something about me, right?

There you go, judging again.

The coffee pot had crusted over on the bottom and took me a minute or so to clean out, the sound of voices in the boardroom reminding me I needed to pay attention. I wasn’t here for fun and games or to sort out why the CEO of the corporation didn’t trust his own wife. Or maybe that’s why I was here. After all, the client’s fears his plant had been infiltrated by a mole sent by the activists to prove wrongdoing might not have been as farfetched as one might believe.

Nor, I had to admit with a bit of guilt and a rather uncomfortable regret, might said wrongdoing be fully made up. I’d seen enough in the last two days to wonder if I was on the bad guy’s side this time. No, I hadn’t gone looking specifically for proof that the plant was doing as the protestors claimed—poisoning groundwater and sickening residents, anyone?—but only out of the strict resiliency that came from my insistence on professionalism.

Okay, fine. I didn’t look because I didn’t want to know because I needed the job. The giant sum offered to me was enough to not just pay off the last of my debts at last but give me a nest egg. An actual honest to goodness nest egg. I’d never had savings in my entire life. I could pay back Dad for the money he’d lent me when I’d first come to live in the garage apartment at my parent’s house, afford to upgrade my ride (my poor car wasn’t going to last much longer) and maybe even splurge a little on dear little Petal Morgan.

I know. I know, all right? Morality and ethics and I had a terrible relationship that I really had to get a handle on. After I got paid.

As I filled the filter for the coffee machine, I partially blamed Reggie. My best friend of late and owner of the After Hours Club and Full Reveal Theater came through for me last time, recommending me to her real estate developer buddy, Dorian Steele. And, thanks to the success of that job, Dorian, in turn, brought his friend John to me. All very organic and a friend of a friend, right? Why was it, then, I wished Reggie had kept her acquaintance to herself this time around?

No, not going there. The sound of percolating signaled the end to any whining. I took the job, eyes wide open. I knew why I was coming here to West Virginia, that there were claims against the plant. And though John assured me they were false, I knew in the back of my mind and deep in my heart that there was a good chance I’d be helping him cover up something that needed to see the light of day.

Morals and ethics. My favorite. And my job had nothing to do with proving or disproving the claims of the activists. All I was hired to do was find who it was inside the plant that was passing information to the protestors. That was it. Simple, straightforward and hardly worth the paycheck John offered me. Except, I guess, to him I was more than worth it.

Besides, I comforted myself as I set the now full coffee pot on a tray with a collection of mugs, the carton of cream I wasn’t sure should be served and the little bowl with various sweeteners in paper sleeves ready for consumption, it wasn’t like corporations the world over didn’t bend rules. Dirty up the environment for the sake of a dollar. That was capitalism at its finest, and nothing I could do would make a dent in the mess.

Keep telling yourself that, Petal. Conscience vs. cash flow be damned, right?

I was going to hell. Out of debt and free to be choosier about my next client, but absolutely going to suffer for eternity. Oh well, what else was new?

Except, as I hurried back to the board room with the full tray, I made a decision that lightened my heart a little and gave me hope for my eternal spirit. If I came across anything that proved this plant was creating the ecological damage the activists claimed? I’d turn it over to the authorities. After I got paid.

That seemed to be my mantra these days. After I got paid. How many times had I said it to myself over the course of this very short job that felt like it was stretching out into infinity?

After I got paid. Okay then.

How was that for a selfish attempt to save my own soul? At least I was making an effort. Though I doubted Pops would accept that particular argument as cause for celebration. I couldn’t help thinking my adorable ethics professor father #2 would be very ashamed of me if he knew what I was up to.

We’d just make sure he never found out then, wouldn’t we?

Maybe they’d let me pick my own handbasket for the trip down below.

***

Chapter Two

Ms. Stanton, Cora snapped, both in her tone and her fingers, earning her another internal grimace and my client, her unfortunate husband, further leeway for not trusting her because, if I was going to be totally honest, anyone that cranky and nasty to subordinates? Couldn’t be trusted.

So there, mean boss lady.

Ma’am, I said, totally meaning it in the most insulting way possible and still managing to come across as polite.

You forgot the spoons, she said as though I’d murdered sixteen babies and kicked her puppy before destroying the ecosystem all on my own.

Was she serious? I forced a small smile and nodded, not believing I could keep from snarking this time, spinning on my toes instead and heading back to the kitchen for the freaking spoons.

All while doing my best not to picture me stabbing her with one. Repeatedly.

Obvious yet I didn’t do well when browbeaten by authority? Thought you missed that one, you’re welcome.

The drawer for the cutlery didn’t come all the way out and spill the contents onto the floor only because I was very, very careful not to jerk on the handle hard enough for that to happen. Just with enough force to rattle every single piece of metal together, however, in a protest I could only enjoy myself and not share with others.

A fistful of spoons in one hand, I turned to head back into the conference room and the miserable unfolding of the rather unusual meeting in the hopes of ending my employment here, tonight, without killing the woman my client was married to.

That would be peachy.

Instead, however, as I crossed the kitchen, the sound of hissing whispers caught my attention and as was often the case, the possibility of scuttlebutt had me pausing and my temper easing in favor of eavesdropping on whoever it was decided to have it out prior to whatever this meeting was about.

Didn’t take much to peek through the partially open door to the corridor, to catch sight of the pair huddled close but clearly unhappy with the intimacy of their stance since both of them looked about as delighted by their present circumstances as I was. Mind you, the fact that Jay Quayle, the plant’s lead counsel, seemed to have a conflict with town mayor David Yancey did lend toward the possibility I might, in fact, get to wrap up my own dog and pony show in short order. Hey, a girl could dream it would be that easy.

Instead, the tall, well-suited lawyer’s angst seemed to come from another source, nothing to do with what I sought. I didn’t fly in from Charleston for this, he snarled at the mayor, actually poking the shorter, rather spindly middle-aged man who ran the small town of Geraldsburg. Don’t waste my time, Yancey.

You’re the one who— he cut off suddenly, the pair looking up, noticing me and ending any chance I had to find out what Jay Quayle was up to. At least, for now.

Gentlemen, I said, covering my butt as best I could, Ms. Grandel is waiting for you in the conference room. I held up the spoons. Coffee is ready.

The lawyer grunted at me, turned and headed through the main door’s boardroom without another glance in my direction. As for the mayor, David Yancey took a second to compose