A Hopeless Discovery

by Daniel Carson

  “Somewhere in the middle?”

  “I’m too old for this, Hope. And I was just about to call you. It seems you have a gentleman caller.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the nice-looking young man that came into the bar two minutes ago looking for you.”

  “Alex?”

  Granny cackled. “Heck no. This guy’s name is Petterast. Oh, hang on now, he’s telling me it’s Pendergast. Mark Pendergast.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Well darling, he knows you. Or your work. Says he’s here to maybe offer you a job?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. That’s just what the man said! If you want to talk to him, you better get down here.”

  “But that gets me to my emergency. I’m watching Katie’s kids right now.”

  “Then come as soon as she’s back.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m watching her kids all weekend.”

  There was a moment of silence before Granny let out an obnoxious shriek of laughter. Then I heard her telling Bess that I was watching children, “actual children” all weekend. And then I heard her announce it to the bar. By the time she finally got back on the phone, my pride was officially at zero.

  “You about done now?” I said.

  “Oh, man, is that funny. My granddaughter watching children for a whole weekend.”

  “You know, once upon a time, I actually wanted to grow up and have children of my own.”

  “Yeah, and once upon a time I had a butt that didn’t look like a clump of cottage cheese. Times change, my darling.”

  “You think if I came down to the Library to talk to this guy, you could maybe…”

  “Do your job and watch her kids for you?” She sighed. “Well, I suppose since I’ve just taken my blood pressure medication… why not.”

  “Thanks, Granny, you’re the best. Oh, and did he say anything about what kind of job?”

  “As a matter of fact he did. Says he’s with one of the big networks, and he’s putting together a new investigative TV show. Seems like Mr. Pendergast wants you to be on TV.”

  Chapter Five

  Just as I hung up the phone, Celia threw a handful of yogurt in my face. I screamed, which scared her, meaning I had to spend the next five minutes calming her down. Then I tried to set her down so I could jump in the shower and wash said yogurt off my face. But when I set her down she started to cry again.

  “Lucy, how am I supposed to take a shower if every time I set her down she starts to cry?”

  Lucy raised a finger. “You could just take her into the shower with you.”

  “Is that what your mama does?”

  Lucy’s eyes widened. “You want to do what mama does? Just a second.” She skittered away, then reappeared with a package of wet wipes and a stick of deodorant.

  “What’s this?”

  Lucy smiled. “This is how Mama takes a shower most days.”

  A good-looking TV guy was waiting down at the Library to speak with me about a job, and I had a clump of yogurt splattered all over my face and hair. I needed more than just a few wet wipes.

  I set Celia down again, and immediately she started to scream. “Is there any way you could hold Celia for me?” I asked Lucy.

  She shrugged. “When she gets this way, Mama’s the only one who can keep her happy. But you’re doing a pretty good job.”

  I took a deep breath, then carried Celia, the wet wipes, the deodorant, and the very little dignity I had left to the bathroom. I spent the next five minutes pretending baby wipes were a shower nozzle and deodorant was lavender soap. When I was done, I looked only slightly less crappy than before.

  I spent the next fifteen minutes getting the kids ready, then I buckled them into their car seats and went to start the car, only to realize I didn’t have the keys.

  “Son of a—” I stopped myself when I saw Lucy and Dominic looking at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Son of a what?” asked Dominic.

  “Um… planter. George Washington was the son of a planter. That’s your famous fact for the day, kids.”

  “Oh,” said Dominic with a giggle, “I thought you were going to say the really bad word that Mama always says.”

  I ran back into the house and rummaged through the chaos of the kitchen until I found the car keys that Katie had given me. Then I ran back to the van, and finally we were off. Five minutes later, I was parked in front of the Library and hunched over the back seat unbuckling the kids from their car seats.

  “Why are you breathing so funny?” Lucy asked.

  I wasn’t breathing funny so much as I was breathing heavily. Holy bananas, getting kids in and out of the car was exhausting. By the time I grabbed baby Celia, my pits were fully wet, and I was very glad I had applied a thin veneer of deodorant to every inch of my body.

  I stubbed my toe against the curb, just managed to get my balance before launching Celia into Main Street, and hustled the kids to the door of the Library. By this point, I was certain I was going to pass out.

  Note to self: stop getting on Katie’s case for not working out. And never, ever admit to her how hard this is.

  We walked into the Library just in time to see Granny lighting her whiskey breath on fire. This was one of her favorite bar tricks. She’d learned it when she was only eight years old and she got lost at the circus. According to the story, one I’d heard many times, Granny got found by some carnies and convinced them to let her play poker with them. That was a mistake… for the carnies. Within an hour, she’d taken all of their money. And since she was only eight, she didn’t care so much about the money, so she said she’d give the money back if she could learn a genuine circus trick. The bearded lady asked if Granny liked the taste of whiskey… and the rest was history. Granny became the greatest fire-breather in all of central Idaho.

  Dominic squealed. “Can Granny teach me how to breathe fire?”

  Granny bent down and glared at him. “Only on one condition.”

  “Anything.”

  “How are you at Texas Hold ’Em?”

  I handed Celia to Granny, and she nodded me toward a man at the far end of the bar. “That’s Pendergast.”

  “And he’s from Hollywood?”

  “New York. Not a bad-looking feller.” She looked me up and down, and frowned. “Though I’ve seen you have better days.” She leaned forward and sniffed. “And why do you smell like a bed of flowers?”

  “Do I really look that bad?”

  “You’d be the best-looking gal in the entire emergency room.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’ll have Bess turn the lights down a bit.” She slapped me in the shoulder with her free hand. “Good luck, honey. Time to go teach these kids about poker.”

  I wanted to check a mirror and make a last-minute adjustment, but Mr. Pendergast was already looking right at me. So instead I remembered what Granny told me when I was younger and worried that my boobs weren’t coming in. She stared at my chest like she was mining for buried treasure, then finally looked up as if she had my diagnosis. “Well, Hope, you may never have boobs, but you know what you can have? Confidence. No matter what situation you’re in, stand up straight, throw your shoulders back, smile like an idiot, and own the room.”

  And that’s what I did. I stood up a little taller, threw my shoulders back, and aimed for Mr. Pendergast. I was, after all, the best investigative reporter in the world. My talents were being wasted in Hopeless, and I was the right woman for whatever job Mr. Pendergast had. I hadn’t thought of doing TV before, but why not? CNN and Fox News had hired two entire networks full of morons; surely there was at least one role for a woman with a gift for finding bodies and solving murders.

  When Mr. Pendergast saw me coming, he smiled and nodded, then tapped something on his phone and slipped it into his pocket. Granny was right: he was handsome. He wasn’t especially tall, but not short either. Probably five
ten, five eleven, with the fit physique of a soccer player. His beard was dark and closely trimmed, and circular specs framed intense eyes. As I neared he straightened himself up and stuck out his own chest. Maybe Mr. Pendergast had small boobs too.

  “Hope Walker, I presume?”

  “At your service.” I stuck out my hand out, and he took it. I squeezed, and he held on for an extra second before letting it go.

  “Can I buy you a—”

  “Bess!” I hollered. “One Stella!”

  He chuckled. “Forgot. Your grandmother runs this place.”

  “And I live upstairs.”

  “And how is life above a bar?”

  “Not quite as glamorous as you’d imagine.”

  He laughed.

  “So, my granny says you wanted to see me, Mr. Pendergast?”

  “Call me Mark.”

  “Then call me Hope.”

  He paused, like he was studying me. In another life, I’d think he was checking me out. But this man was here on business.

  He took another drink. “I’m very interested in your work, Hope.”

  “Which work?”

  “I’ve read all of your stuff from the Portland Gazette. Hard-hitting, insightful—you have a gift for picking up on a really compelling narrative through line, plus you’ve got just enough personality.”

  “You do realize I don’t work for the Gazette any more, right?”

  “Which makes you suddenly available, doesn’t it?” He smiled. “Mind telling me the story behind your departure?”

  Bess handed me the Stella, and I took a long sip.

  “Not much to tell. I was working on the story of my life, and the paper was too chicken to run it.”

  “I figured as much. I didn’t show up here in Hopeless without doing a little background first, Hope. And I’ve talked to enough people to figure out that someone is blackballing you.”

  “But you didn’t know why.”

  He rubbed his dark black beard. Yep, Mark Pendergast was a good-looking guy. And business or no business, I didn’t hate having drinks with him. “Still don’t know why,” he said. “Care to elaborate?”

  “My guess is Tommy Medola doesn’t want me to tell his story.”

  Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Medola? As in the Medola crime family?”

  “The one and only.”

  He looked away and scratched at his chin like a piece of his puzzle had just fit together. “So Medola gets wind of your story, pressures the newspaper to shut it down… and pressures every other newspaper to make you persona non grata.”

  “And that’s why I’m back in my hometown, living above my granny’s bar.”

  Mark took another sip of his drink, then pulled out his phone and looked at some messages like I wasn’t even there. Finally he put it away and turned back to me.

  He leaned in. “Listen, Hope, I’m sorry for your troubles… I really am. But maybe fate is playing a part in this drama. Maybe fate wants you to tell your story in a different medium.”

  “Television?”

  He nodded. “I’m putting together a new newsmagazine for the networks.”

  “Like 60 Minutes?”

  He scoffed. “60 Minutes is a prescription for insomnia. I think half of those anchors are legally dead. No, what we’re doing is the next generation of magazine shows. Younger. Hipper. Edgier. And, if I may say…” He smiled. “Better-looking.”

  Of course I knew he wanted to flatter me. But genuine or not, it felt good.

  I took another drink. “That Ed Bradley’s still quite the looker.”

  “I’ll tell him you said that.”

  I grabbed his forearm. “You know Ed Bradley?”

  “Hope, New York City is the largest small town in the world. And the news business is especially small. I know everyone. Well, everyone who’s important.”

  “Then why are you in the weirdest town in America talking to me?”

  He hesitated just a beat. “I’d heard about you—read your work. And I was in Sun Valley for business and thought, what the heck. Maybe we could chat. So I did my homework, and here I am.”

  “I’ll be honest, Mark Pendergast—you’ve piqued my interest.”

  He tilted his head and smiled. It was a nice smile, with good teeth. And I imagined somewhere under that beard was a dimple. “Very good,” he said.

  “What do you need to know?”

  “Is that Medola story ready for prime time?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I thought you said your editor was chicken.”

  “He was. So was the owner. But Medola’s lawyers said there are holes in my story. Said I flat-out lied.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “What would you expect a criminal to say? But regardless, I need to see that list of what they said I lied about… and then… well, prove them wrong.”

  “Okay.” He nodded, as if thinking this over. “Until then… you got any other stories you’re working on?”

  “I’ve solved a few murders since I’ve been in town.”

  “One of the reasons I’m here. Terrific stories by the way. Just one problem: they’re the property of the Hopeless News. Got anything else brewing?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes. Right now. Ongoing.”

  “I just happened to catch a case this morning.”

  He opened his hands like we were in business. “Great. What is it?”

  “Another murder.”

  “Remind me not to stay in Hopeless very long. Who’s the victim?”

  “His name’s Percy. Gunshot victim.”

  “Anything particularly interesting about this one?”

  “Percy was castrated.”

  Mark’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope. There’s one more thing.”

  Now he was hooked. “What’s that?”

  “Percy’s a goat.”

  Mark was clearly very confused. “He’s a castrated man who thinks he’s a goat?”

  “No, he’s a castrated goat who thinks he’s a goat. Correctly, as it turns out. And his owner thinks he was deliberately gunned down in the prime of his life.”

  Mark looked down and laughed. “I’m guessing my Manhattan audience won’t be particularly interested in a story about a dead goat from Idaho.”

  “A castrated dead goat from Idaho. Don’t forget the castrated part. That’s the sizzle viewers are looking for.”

  “Listen, Hope… I’ll be honest with you. You’re one of several people I’m looking at for this show. And all the others are talented. Very talented. Every one of them’s got solid news chops. But I’ve gotten to where I am by trusting my intuition. And right now…” He reached out and touched my hand. “I like what I see.”

  He stood and put a twenty-dollar tip down on the bar. Then he handed me a card. “I’m headed to Sun Valley for business in the morning. There’s a media conference all week. But I’ll come back through town next weekend. Was hoping you and I could get dinner?”

  “Dinner?”

  “So we can… get to know each other better. Would you like that?”

  Mr. Mark Pendergast, of soccer physique and dark beard, appeared to be a man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted. And that made him even more attractive. But it also scared me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get to know him better.

  But I did want to hear more about his job. So when he held out his hand, I took it.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think I’d like that just fine.”

  Chapter Six

  My excitement about the potential TV job vanished the moment Granny handed me a bucket and a mop, pointed to Celia, and said “Cleanup on aisle two!”

  I wasn’t sure what exactly I was cleaning off of Celia, but it wasn’t natural. It seemed like something out of a Stephen King novel.

  The nightmare continued at home. Celia, apparently, didn’t believe in being put down—ever. I was able
to calm her down, but every time I laid her in her crib, she would instantly wake up and begin to cry. And so it was back to my arms, where I rocked her and swayed back and forth. This dance continued for an hour before she finally gave up and went to sleep.

  It was at that point that I went to check on Lucy and Dominic, hoping beyond hope that they were already nestled in their beds.

  They were not.

  Lucy had piled a large stack of books in the middle of the bedroom floor, and Dominic had popped a bag of microwave popcorn. They both pointed at the books.

  “Read!” they yelled in unison.

  It took four princess books, three Spider-Man books, and two nursery rhyme books for Dominic to fall asleep, his face pressed against the greasy popcorn bag. I cleaned his face off, carried him to bed, and tucked Lucy in as well.

  I was just about to leave when I heard her sweet little voice say, “You forgot to pray.”

  And so we prayed. And when we finished our prayers, and I dragged myself to my own bed, I felt like I had just run some sort of domestic Iron Man contest. I had a brand-new appreciation for Katie and all she went through on a daily basis. And despite my excitement about Mr. Mark Pendergast and his new TV show, I had no trouble whatsoever falling asleep once my head hit that pillow.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t last very long.

  The baby woke up in the middle of the night. I thought it was the fire alarm at first, but once I got my bearings and realized what was happening, I ran in there to get her before she woke up the other kids.

  Unfortunately, when I picked her up she continued to cry. It was then that I smelled the reason why she was crying. Boy, did I smell it.

  And trust me, it looked exactly like it smelled. Call it Creature from the Black Lagoon 2.0. Seriously, how does something like that come out of a baby that cute? I changed her, rocked her back to sleep—in only thirty minutes this time—then went into the bathroom to clean up.

  What I saw in the mirror was not a pretty sight.

  It was then I realized, now was my chance to take an actual shower. With water. Two o’clock in the morning? Why not.

  Once I was clean, I found that I was wide awake, so I plopped on the couch and flipped through some infomercials. I estimated if I could just come up with $479, I could have tight abs, clean teeth, perfect skin, I could fry a turkey in my bathtub, and I could remove all the hair from my legs for a year.