Secrets of Ugly Creek Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Other Books You Might Enjoy

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Secrets

  Of

  Ugly Creek

  by

  Cheryel Hutton

  Ugly Creek Series, Book 2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Secrets of Ugly Creek

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Cheryel Hutton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Faery Rose Edition, 2014

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-311-7

  Ugly Creek Series, Book 2

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Ricky, my real life hero. I love you!

  Chapter 1

  Sweet home Ugly Creek.

  I marched, heels clicking on the cracked sidewalk, toward the portable stage near the front steps of the three-story, red brick, historic courthouse of my quirky little hometown. On the courthouse grounds, around the area of the stage on which the ceremonies would take place, the mayor and other dignitaries shuffled, shook hands, and slapped each other on the back. The good old boys were in all their glory.

  I was dressed professionally in my gray Theory suit, white blouse, and my new red Jimmy Choos (I got them on sale. Score!). Now if I could just get somebody to listen to what I had to say.

  Just then, a big, inflated, toy UFO came flying out of nowhere and clocked me on the head. I stepped backward, my heels sank into the ground, and in seconds I was sprawled on my back in a puddle of cold, squishy, yucky mud. Welcome home.

  A tiny dog came out of nowhere, leaped onto my chest, and looked into my eyes. “Good, you’re finally here,” he said, then jumped off and scrambled away.

  Did that dog just talk to me? This had to be a dream—or nightmare. Maybe I’d hit my head.

  “Are you all right?”

  I looked up toward the voice, afraid of what I’d see, relieved there was a human leaning over me—until I realized who he was. His handsome face was familiar, thanks to all the news photos I’d seen of him. I gotta say, flat on my back and covered in mud was definitely not the position I wanted to be in when I met him.

  “I’m fine,” I said. My smile probably wasn’t great, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. Gibson “Mac” McFain was a tall man with black hair and a five o’clock shadow that was probably deliberate. He was dressed in khakis and a dark blue polo shirt, and, yeah, he was handsome. More the good looks of an actor than a producer of documentaries.

  He held out a hand, and I had little choice but to let him pull me to my feet. The sucking sound as I disengaged with the mud had my face going hot. He didn’t seem to notice, though. He just stood there holding my hand and smiling at me. I could feel the strength in his grip, and he’d lifted me out without difficulty. He was well-built, but then he probably haunted the gym. Most in-the-public-eye types did. “Thank you, Mr. McFain,” I said.

  “Please, call me Mac.”

  “Madison,” I said. “Madison Clark from Capitol Spy Weekly.”

  He abruptly let go of my hand. “Oh good grief, why would they send a reporter from Capitol Spy Weekly?”

  Cold mud slid down the back of my expensive suit, increasing my irritation. McFain knew damn well why I was there. I managed a smile. “Capitol Spy Weekly readers want to know what you’re up to. After all, you’re the guy who blew the lid off the Carson corruption scandal.”

  “And you’re never going to let me forget it.” He turned and walked away, leaving me standing there wondering what got into his undies.

  McFain had never shied from the spotlight. In fact, he’d spent his career being front and center. Men. I sighed.

  To one side, I saw Ace Ellison, local photojournalist and devoted rescuer of animals, scooping up the little dog that had been on my chest. I glanced down, and sure enough, there were muddy paw prints. Not that it mattered, since there was mud all over my back and arms, squishing between my fingers, and caked in my long hair. But then, how I looked didn’t matter, it was what I had to say that counted.

  I looked toward the front near the portable stage, and quickly spotted the man I needed to speak with. My plan had been to present a professional image in an effort to be taken seriously. That plan was shot. Still, as rough as I looked and felt, I was on a mission that wouldn’t wait. Even though my back and arms were covered in mud, I pulled up my big-girl thongs and hurried over the sidewalk to get to my target before the proceedings started. “Mayor Stump, I’m Madison Clark. Do you remember me?”

  His eyes lit up. “Of course I do, you’re Virgil Clark’s little girl.”

  I forced a smile. “Not so little anymore.”

  He took in my disheveled appearance. “Bless your heart. What happened?”

  “I slipped.” I smiled for all I was worth and willed him to ignore the mud. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure, what can I do for you, honey?”

  Not call me honey. “I have some concerns about the effect this documentary will have on our town.”

  “Oh heavens, don’t be concerned.” His lips widened in a condescending smile. “This movie to-do is going to bring tourists with money to spend. Our little town will grow like kudzu.”

  “But.” I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “There are things outsiders don’t need to know about.”

  He laughed. The crazy man actually laughed. “Honey, Ugly Creek’s been keeping secrets for almost three hundred years. I think we can handle a little documentary and the money it’ll bring.”

  He turned to greet a state senator. With a sigh, my Jimmy Choos and I drifted back into the crowd. Well, that had worked well. The mayor had treated me with respect and listened to what I had to say. Yes, I’m sarcastic even in my own head.

  Pull yourself together, you have a job to do. Next on the agenda was to find a certain local photographer. I carefully headed toward him, watching out for random flying objects as I went. “Ace.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Madison Clark; I contacted you about working with me.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I’m not interested in working for tabloids.”

  Irritation sprinted up my spine and kicked up my chin. “Capitol Spy Weekly is not a tabloid.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not going to argue. I’m picky about the jobs I do, and I don’t want this one.”

  The irritation grew claws. “Then why didn’t you get back to me to let me know?”

  He shrugged again. This guy was getting on my last nerve. “I was busy.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “
Newspaper. I work for them.”

  “You can’t use all the pictures. Give me a couple and make a few extra dollars. We can publish them under another name, if you want.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Please don’t leave me hanging like this. At least let me have something to go with my first report. Then, I’ll have a chance to get another photographer.”

  “It’s not my fault you’re sans photo-person.”

  “Ace, please.” I didn’t like the desperation in my voice.

  He studied me for a moment. “Oh, all right. Two shots, that’s all.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned and walked away.

  A crowd was gathering around the stage, so I followed. As I waited for the speeches to begin, a strong breeze blew from around the corner of the building. The air was chilly for early September in Tennessee, and felt downright cold on my still wet—and muddy—clothes. Blasted humidity. Standing out here I’d be wet until April.

  Slowly, the dignitaries gathered on the long, narrow stage. Ugly Creek’s not-so-illustrious mayor walked up to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen. Today we are fortunate to have with us one of the most talented documentarians of our time. It is an honor that he has chosen Ugly Creek to be one of the featured towns in his new work, a series of documentaries called Corners of the Appalachians. And now, I would like to introduce this fine producer and person, Mr. Gibson McFain.”

  He smiled, and I felt my breath suck in. He was handsome. The rat.

  “I don’t know that I deserve such high praise,” he said. “I simply want to allow the public to see places they’ve never seen and learn things they didn’t know before. With this series of films, I plan to select a few towns nestled among the hills and valleys of the Appalachian Mountains to highlight. My idea is to break stereotypes and show the beauty of both the scenery and the people of this area. I’m excited to be here in Ugly Creek for the next two weeks. I know many of you are interested in how documentaries are made, but please understand our people are going to be too busy to answer questions. I hope you will enjoy our stay.”

  “Isn’t it true that all the other documentaries you’ve produced were exposés?” I asked. “The secrets revealed in the Carson film put her husband in a mental hospital and provoked a heart attack that almost killed the senator.”

  McFain turned to look at me, adjusting black framed glasses as he did. His face revealed nothing, but I caught the flash of anger in his eyes. “My aim is to unveil the truth about the subject of my investigation. It isn’t my job to coddle the objects of scrutiny.”

  I bit back the anger and concentrated on professionalism, a topic he could learn something about. “So you don’t care what you did to those people?”

  His dark eyes searched mine. “Of course I care about the people, but what they did, they did to themselves. All I did was report what I discovered.”

  The young female reporter from the Ugly Creek Gazette asked before I could. “Are you looking for some sort of dark secrets in Ugly Creek and the other towns you’re putting in your new documentaries?”

  “No. This is a different type of film. I want to showcase a handful of odd, out of the way little towns that have personality and are fascinating all by themselves. There’s no need for secrets.”

  “How is your film going to be different from a PBS special?” I asked.

  “I’d be delighted to be featured on PBS,” he said.

  “Really?” I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “Yes, I would. To answer your real question, which seems to be what’s different about this particular series, my films aren’t going to be histories or overviews of large areas. My vision for the films is an in-depth picture of the sights, sounds, people, and culture of a select few places. I plan to highlight the similarities and differences both between the towns themselves and the stereotypical Appalachian rural landscape. I’d like to leave viewers with the feeling they’ve actually been to these places. That they were privy to things not normally seen or heard on a vacation trip.”

  I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t push the issue. I’d wait until he made the wrong move, and then figure out what to do. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too late.

  There were a few more questions, then the whole bunch of big shots hit the catered drinks and snacks while slapping each other on the back.

  I wanted to head for home, but there was one thing I had to do first. “Ace.”

  “Yeah.” He barely glanced my way.

  “I’m holding you to your word.”

  He glared at me. “I do what I say I’m going to do.”

  “Good.”

  I headed toward my cute red Aveo, where I grabbed an old blanket I kept in the trunk. I used the blanket to put on my seat to keep it clean. Man I was a mess.

  Me covered in mud. What a way to start the most crucial assignment of my career.

  Chapter 2

  I was staying at my mom’s house while I was in Ugly Creek on this assignment. It was convenient, comfortable, and I had a chance to spend some quality time with my mom—one reason I’d requested this gig. That and a desire to protect my hometown from the likes of McFain. Right now, though, I hoped she was busy, and I could slip in without her seeing me.

  As soon as I opened the door, Mom, AKA Margaret Clark, peeked in from the kitchen. Her eyes went wide, and she hotfooted it down the short hall into the foyer. “What happened to you?”

  “Would you believe I was attacked by a flying saucer and knocked into the mud, only to be rescued by the unprincipled rat I came here to report on?”

  “Rescued you, huh?” Mom looked for a second like she was going to smile, but wisely, she thought better of it. “So, maybe he isn’t as much of a rat as you thought?”

  “I’d better get these clothes off before I get mud all over your stuff.”

  I started up the stairs, only to find Mom tagging along behind. “In my experience,” she said, “people are usually far more complex and interesting than you might think at first.”

  I grabbed some clothes before I turned to her. “Mom, I’m a journalist. I understand people are complex.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She was fighting a smile. I could tell by the twitching of the corners of her lips.

  “He’s an unethical lowlife and an embarrassment to journalism.”

  “But good looking.”

  “No, he isn’t.” I headed for the bathroom, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the smirk on my mom’s face. Dang, did she always have to be right?

  ****

  The second day of my adventure in trying to simultaneously work an assignment and watch out for Ugly Creek found me in a little wooded park just outside town. Gibson McFain was speaking into the camera, and I listened as he gave what amounted to a lecture on my part of the world.

  “The Appalachian Mountain Range runs almost two thousand miles from Canada to central Alabama. The high peaks, lakes, and state parks are some of the most beautiful places in the world. Known widely for their contradictory beautiful scenery and abject poverty, the Appalachians are much more than either. Tucked within the nooks and crannies are amazing little towns. This documentary series is designed to take you, the viewer, to places you’ve never seen, people like no others, and sights and sounds that will take your breath away.”

  I watched with interest as Gibson McFain handled his job, both behind and in front of the camera like the seasoned professional he was. His deep voice sent shivers up and down my spine. Great, I liked the rat’s voice. He wasn’t such a bad looking dude either. I wasn’t attracted to him, though. Honest, I wasn’t. Well, not much anyway.

  “The town of Ugly Creek,” he said, “took its name from an actual stream named, of course, Ugly Creek.” He pointed to the brown and bronze sign that told the story of the little Tennessee town. “The town itself, as we will see, is anything but ugly.” He smiled. “And so is the creek, actually.” He directed the videographers to film the creek area.
r />   I sat on the bench of one of the three picnic tables and watched the proceedings. I have to admit, having someone talk about our town in such a complimentary fashion was pretty dang cool. Unlike some people I know, including my good friend Stephie (from Crooked Tree Hollow, Alabama), I happen to be proud of my Southern heritage, proud to come from a town that, strange name notwithstanding, is a great place to live.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The little man couldn’t have been much over four feet tall, had ripe-tomato colored hair, and wore jeans, a brown T-shirt, and an Atlanta Braves cap. He turned and glared at those of us who were local. “What’s a herd of outsiders doing here?”

  The little man marched right up to the mayor, glaring hard. “I heard you were gonna let ’em make a movie thing here. What were you thinking? We don’t need no stinking outsiders coming in here and poking their cameras in where they got no business.”

  “Now, Duffy, calm down. This documentary will be good for the town, bring in tourists—with money.”

  Duffy gripped his diminutive fists. “I don’t care about stupid tourists.”

  Mayor Stump’s smile was slipping. I knew he must have been having a hard time holding his temper. “This town relies heavily on tourist money to survive.”

  “I heard leprechauns had quick tempers,” a woman’s voice whispered near my ear. “Seems there’s something to that rumor.”

  I grinned at one of my bestest friends. The sneaky girl had come up behind me without my noticing. “Hi, Liza. Come to see the big movie deal?”

  She flipped her shoulder-length, strawberry blonde hair. “I figured the odds of being ‘discovered’ were better than the odds of me finishing my work before time to go home.”

  “I don’t know, maybe you should stick to computer stuff.”

  She widened her eyes in mock horror. “What, you don’t think my acting is wonderful?”

  I let out a snort in spite of myself. “Not really, no.”

  “Some friend you are.” She crossed her arms in an over-the-top huff.

  The leprechaun and the mayor were still going at it, but at least the mayor had managed to move the discussion away from where the film folks were trying to get started again.