Page 43 of Reptile Dysfunction

As my eyes scan the phone screen, I feel myself growing heavier and heavier, as if the stone in my belly is turning into a boulder.

I have some information you might find interesting. Mayor Wendall might be charming, but he can’t escape his gorgon nature. Like a snake, he’s been slithering through the city’s finances, and there’s a whole underground network of undisclosed financial dealings around Pickle Fest. Follow the pickle trail, and you’ll find the truth.

I read the email over and over again, trying to figure out what to make of it. It’s the last thing I want to hear, especially after everything I’ve already gone through with Mason. But try as I might, I can’t completely dismiss it either.

I’m still a journalist, and that means I take potential leads like this seriously, even if the information clashes with my personal feelings. I sit back in my chair, finally setting down my phone, though the screen still glows with the anonymous email.

I know I let my own bias get in the way the first time I investigated Mason. Hell, I could hardly even call it investigating, since I spent more time making up wild theories than actually looking at the evidence. But I also know I can’t let my newfound feelings for Mason skew me in the other direction. If there’s anything to this email, I have to know.

Besides, this isn’t one of my own baseless theories. This is a solid claim, even if the details are a bit vague. Is it possible Pickle Fest is actually a front for embezzlement? Or maybe some dodgy business dealings?

“God, what am I thinking?” I mutter to myself, suddenly shaking my head.

I can’t believe I’m back to accusing Mason after everything that’s happened between us over the last few weeks.

But as much as I try to shake the thoughts, I can’t ignore this lead in good conscience. It’s not just that though. At the back of my mind, I know I’m still skating on thin ice at the Herald. Eddie hasn’t yet lifted my probation, and if I don’t give him some solid reporting soon, I could lose my job there altogether. And where would that put me? I’d have no choice but to find a job elsewhere, and that would inevitably mean leaving Curiosity, and Mason, behind.

I pick up my phone again, reading over the email one more time.

Follow the pickle trail, it says. If there really is something to these claims, it could be the biggest story Curiosity has had in a long time. Bigger than the Curiosity Commons, bigger than the slime lunches, and maybe even bigger than the 1972 coverage of the Pillow War.

But I have to be sure of my reportage this time. No more sneaking around, no more fabricating facts, no more baseless accusations.

As close as Mason and I have become, I know I have to do my due diligence here. And the fact that Eddie agreed to assign me to the Pickle Fest coverage means that I can easily get inside access to the financials surrounding the festival if need be.

Unlike last time though, I’m going to approach this story impartially. I can’t let my feelings for Mason sway me away from the truth, but I also can’t let my desire for a promising story blind me to the facts.

I think of Mason again, running over everything I’ve seen him do over the past few weeks. For now, I’m still convinced that everything he’s done has been above-board, but if it turns out anything untoward is happening in regards to government finances…

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I say to myself, dreading the thought of destroying Mason’s career for real this time.

It’s getting late, and I know I should make myself some dinner, but this email has taken away any appetite I might have had. Instead, it’s filled me with a hunger for knowledge, and I leave the kitchen table to go sit in the small home office I’ve set up in the apartment’s spare room.

Pulling open my laptop, I run over the material Mason and the planning committee have already sent me for Pickle Fest.

There isn’t much to go on yet, but I can’t help but run a critical eye over everything they’ve sent me so far. I figure I can at least start compiling a list of vendors and partners to look into. If money is disappearing from the Pickle Fest fund, the most obvious way to do that would be to fudge the expenses.

I write down every business I can find that’s associated with the festival. Inkstinkt Printing, suppliers of the pickle-scented programs. FroSno, the frozen snot vendor who’ll be making a special pickle-flavored FroSno just for the festival. Dill Cucumis, the famous singer who will be performing his pickle-themed music. Hear Today, Gone Tomorrow, the rental company supplying the sound system, and many, many more.

Digging into this claim won’t be easy. It’ll involve contacting every one of these companies and asking for the receipts they issued for the festival, then checking that against the festival’s financial records, assuming I can, in fact, get my hands on them.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time at the Herald, it’s that if I’m going to do this, I have to do it properly. I don’t want a repeat of last time.

It’s late into the night by the time I stop work. I’ve sent 56 emails to different vendors and companies, requesting their receipts, and I have another 42 to send tomorrow. And I know this is only step one. Even if nothing turns up here, this isn’t the only way to embezzle funds, if that’s even what this informant is implying.

I sent an email back to A. Helper requesting more information, of course, but I don’t really expect a reply. Proving Mason’s guilt or innocence is up to me now, and I intend to approach it as objectively as I can.

I’m starting to consider it good luck that Mason didn’t answer my phone call earlier though. I can only imagine how much more complicated this would be if we were actually dating.

26

MASON

It’s another busy day of serving the community, and as I walk out the door of my office and into the streets of Curiosity, I can’t help but think of Charlotte. My phone still holds the missed call notification from last night, but by the time I saw it, it was too late to call back. And now it’s still too early.

I promise myself I’ll return her call as soon I get the chance today, even though I’m crammed with back-to-back meetings and engagements. Part of me hopes this phone call might be her reaching out to take our relationship to the next level, but I try not to put any expectations on it.

“Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” says Arthur Wollop, proprietor of FroSno. He’s unlocking the door, getting an early start on the day by the looks of it. “How are you this morning?”