Expose! Read Online Free

eight-by-ten photograph of a garden snail labeled SEABISCUIT. A plaque with the number one was stuck to the snail’s shell.
    “This, believe it or not, is our lead story,” said Pete grimly.
    “Snails? You’re joking!” I shrieked, expecting to be joined in by a chorus of ridicule.
    “Let me explain, Vicky,” said Annabel. “Hedge-jumping ends on April thirtieth. From May until the end of August, it’s officially snail season.”
    “ Snail season?” I’d thought hedge-jumping was strange enough. Would I ever understand these bizarre country pursuits?
    “Something to do with birds nesting and nature recovering,” Annabel went on. “Call it an enforced détente between the hedge-jumpers and cutters. Gives the men something else to think about. I must say I’m surprised you didn’t know this.”
    “Thank you , Annabel,” said Pete. “We kick off with the GSRF—”
    “The Gipping Snail Racing Federation, Vicky,” Annabel put in, adding in a low voice, “Tony accepted the role of scrutineer this season. Pete feels it’s a conflict of interests.”
    “Are you finished?” Pete snarled.
    “Sorry,” said Annabel. “But Vicky keeps asking questions.”
    “Actually, that’s—”
    “You can ask me afterward. I’m the bloody chief reporter, got it?” Pete said. “As I was saying, the Gastropod Gala is tomorrow night. The first race of the season will be on Sunday at the Three Tuns. Wilf has written some very exciting features on breeding and training. We’ll finish up the interviews with the owners today. Those will appear on pages eleven and twelve since there aren’t any funerals—thank you very much, Reverend Whittler.”
    I raised my hand. “Actually, there is one obit—”
    “Edward, what’s the latest on the Larch Legacy?” said Pete.
    Annabel whispered in my ear, “The Larch Legacy—”
    “I wrote Sammy Larch’s obituary,” I hissed. “I know what it is, thank you.” Once a year this highly coveted award—and five hundred pounds cash—was given to one of the dozens of local societies deemed worthy of recognition. With no guidelines or prerequisites, it was more a case of finding favor with the now—thankfully—deceased old man.
    “The winner will be announced at the gala,” said Edward. “Being as it’s the last one, his daughter, Olive, wanted to make a big deal about it.”
    Pete frowned. “That’s too late to get into this Saturday’s edition. By next week, it’ll be old news.” Pete slammed his hand down on the table. “Someone’s got to know who gets the award? Christ! Larch has been dead for weeks.”
    “I already asked Olive,” said Edward. “She said the winner’s name is in a sealed envelope in the safe and she doesn’t even know who, herself.”
    “Goddamit! Wasn’t last month’s Gipping Guessing Game calling on readers to vote on who might win?”
    “Barbara won’t talk,” said Edward. “She padlocked the voting box.”
    “Bollocks.” Pete slammed his hand down on the table again. “I need something else beside bloody snails on Page One.”
    “I thought my CCTV report was going on the front page,” said Annabel in a sulky voice.
    “Haven’t seen it.”
    “I tried to give it to you last night.” Annabel batted her eyelashes. “Remember? When we were working late?” Annabel leaned over giving Pete an eyeful of cleavage, and pulled out a manila folder from yet another new handbag—Gucci, this time. She flipped through her notes and began to read, “New cameras have been installed on Plym Bridge, the industrial estate, the market square—”
    “Yeah, but what’s your angle?” Pete said.
    “Angle?” Annabel looked blank. “Um—well—there are a lot of cameras.”
    “Latest statistic I heard was there are 4.2 million—and rising,” Edward chipped in. “That’s one CCTV camera for at least every fourteen people.”
    “But not in Gipping.” Annabel glowered at Edward.
    “I think it’s an invasion of privacy,” I said.