Mayhem & Mass

by Olivia Matthews

  His chair squealed as he sat back on its faded gray cushions. He lifted his right arm to drag his thick fingers through his thinning brown hair. The underside of his white shirt sleeve was stained with newsprint from his wrist to his elbow.

  “I gave you a replacement article.” Shari’s muscles shook. It wasn’t the cold air in Perry’s tiny office. It was resentment.

  It had been a mad rush to pull the story together mere hours before the news deadline. She’d had to wrestle information from an uncooperative sheriff’s department after wasting time on a futile interview with the manager of the Sleep Ease Inn Hotel.

  Shari took a calming breath, filling her lungs with the stench of fresh newsprint and day-old coffee. Stacks of newspapers from the surrounding communities burdened the small conference table in Perry’s office. The black metal inbox on the corner of his modular desk was swollen with press releases and news clippings.

  She settled her hands on her hips. “The assignment changed—”

  “No, it didn’t,” Perry interrupted her.

  Shari ground her teeth and tried again. “The story had changed. I made a judgment call, and I was right. No one can convince me otherwise.”

  Perry’s eyebrows shot up his pale forehead. “This isn’t your paper. Your judgment isn’t welcomed here.”

  “I’m an experienced reporter—”

  “The next time your judgment tries to give you a new assignment, you call me to tell me why.” Perry jabbed a finger toward her face again.

  “I have to get permission to report the news? From you?” Shari spread her arms and looked around Perry’s office in semifeigned confusion. “What does that make you, the News Keeper?”

  Perry glowered at her. “This isn’t your paper, Henson. You just work here.”

  “You’re serious.” That blew her mind.

  The urge to run screaming from the building almost overwhelmed her. She couldn’t give in to that temptation every time her boss did or said something crazy, though. If she did, she’d spend half of her week in the middle of the street.

  Suddenly, Shari felt drained. The percentage of time she’d spent packing up and moving on was much greater than the time she’d spent planting roots. She needed to change the odds, and make the job and the community work. “OK, so you didn’t run my article today. When will you run it?”

  “Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your story’s about someone getting killed in our town.”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “You need to tone that down.” He leaned his thin torso into his desk. “We don’t want to scare people. The angle here is that a stranger came to town and brought whatever problem he had with him. That’s what got him killed.”

  Shari blinked. Her boss of one month was certifiably nuts. “We don’t know if that’s what happened.”

  “Yeah, we do.”

  “Do you loan your psychic services to the sheriff’s department, too? Maybe you could help with this case.”

  “Watch your mouth, Henson.” He wasn’t the first person to tell her that.

  Were the fates trying to tell me that I’d once again landed in the wrong place?

  She felt like Dorothy, bouncing into Oz. Perry was the Scarecrow, desperately searching for a brain. At least the Scarecrow in L. Frank Baum’s story knew what to do with one. Perry could be accused of abusing resources.

  Shari planted her hands on her hips over her narrow black slacks. Her oversized white blouse flowed loosely around her. “I want to cover the investigation.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “This isn’t some scandal rag. I forbid you from allowing the community to get worked up.”

  “Forbid? Dial it down, you megalomaniac.” Shari stared at Perry with wide eyes. “I’m not going to sensationalize Dr. Jordan’s murder. I want to personalize it, get quotes from people who knew him, provide highlights of his work.”

  “No.”

  Shari dropped her arms. “So . . . what? You’re just going to cover up the fact that there’s been a murder in this Norman Rockwell town?”

  How many times had he done that before? Was this, in fact, the first murder in Briar Coast in more than eight years, or had the others gone unreported?

  “Cut the crap, Henson.” Perry scowled. “Shorten your story. We’ll print it to report the murder. Once they catch the killer, we’ll announce that. We don’t have to print every comma, period, and quote mark of the case.”

  “Fine.”

  “I need your copy by three PM.” Perry’s voice followed her as she turned to leave.

  “I know.” She marched out of his office and toward her cubicle.

  What kind of managing editor ignored a crime story when it landed in his lap? Well, Shari couldn’t ignore it. She wouldn’t.

  Shari’s footsteps quickened as she strode past the copyeditors, the kitchen entrance, and the cubicles of her fellow reporters. Dr. Maurice Jordan’s death deserved more than a courtesy column inch buried in The Briar Coast Telegraph. And she wanted to do more than type up the calendar of events and write recaps of community celebrations.

  She rounded into her office cubicle, tossed her copy of the Telegraph onto her desk, and set her hands on her hips. This was her chance to cover real news. However, Perry already had proven that, just because she wrote the article, didn’t mean it would appear in the newspaper.

  Dammit.

  He’d tied her hands. She needed to find a way around him. But how?

  Chapter 5

  “So what are you going to do?” Diego DeVarona’s lightly accented baritone swelled with amusement.

  Shari spun around to find The Briar Coast Telegraph’s news editor standing in her cubicle entrance. Diego’s lean, six-foot presence destroyed even the illusion of privacy that the modular offices were supposed to project.

  Where had he come from? She hadn’t realized she was being followed.

  Diego was old enough to be her father, but he’d aged well. He was lean and handsome with chiseled features. The fluorescent lights beaming down to the newsroom picked out the silver strands woven into his thick mahogany hair. He was always the best-dressed man in the newsroom, even better dressed than Perry, his boss. Today, in his crisp white shirt and wine-red tie, he looked like he was getting ready to give a press conference.

  “Do about what?” Shari winced at her surly tone. She shouldn’t take out her disappointment on her coworkers. She should save it all for Perry, the despot news dictator.

  “Your story on the theology professor’s murder.”

  Shari regarded the editor with suspicious eyes. “Perry killed that story before it got to the news desk. How do you know about it?”

  “I’m a journalist. I know things.” His smile displayed perfect white teeth and deepened the creases at the corners of his coffee-brown eyes.

  “Then you know Perry’s refusing to let me cover the murder. The closest I’m allowed is transcribing the deputies’ reports.” During the more than four weeks since she’d joined the Telegraph, this exchange was by far the lengthiest they’d ever had.

  Shari turned away from Diego, searching for something to take her mind off of her disappointment with Perry’s decision. The tan surface of her modular desk was covered with well-organized stacks of press releases, pitch letters, and news clippings. Shari was still sorting through them to find the next community event she’d cover for the local newspaper. It was hard drumming up enthusiasm for the task, though, when the event descriptions bored her to tears.

  “Do you want to cover the story?” Diego’s voice again interrupted her pity party of one. She’d thought he’d left.

  “Of course, I do.” Shari kept her back to him.

  “Why?”

  “What kind of question is that? We’re a newspaper. Aren’t we supposed to cover the news?”

  “Try again.”

  Shari faced him. She preferred the days when Diego didn’t say much to her
. How did she return to that time? “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me why you really want to write this story.”

  Shari huffed an irritated breath. She didn’t care that Diego had heard it. Let him know she was annoyed with him. Maybe then he’d go away.

  She shifted her attention to the newsroom just outside of her cubicle. It was crowded, faded, loud, and smelly. And she loved it. She loved the energy of her fellow reporters as they ran out of the room on their way to track down a news source. She loved the intensity of the copy editors as they hustled to verify facts before the paper’s deadline. Phones rang. People shouted. Printers whirred. She wanted to be in that mix, not on the outside observing it. She was an experienced reporter with a journalism degree. Why was she stuck covering town fairs and church events, and rewriting bake-off press releases?

  Shari leaned back against her desk and crossed her arms. She angled her chin and pinned Diego with a cold stare. “I want to cover hard news.”

  Diego shook his head. “Again.”

  Shari ground her teeth, narrowing her eyes at Diego. What was his problem? “Look, this guy—Dr. Jordan—left his home in Buffalo about an hour from here, checked into the Sleep Ease Inn Hotel in the heart of Briar Coast, and then turned up dead. Who killed him, and why?”

  “So you’re curious?”

  “Aren’t you?” Shari was suspicious of the approval in Diego’s eyes.

  “Good.” Diego inclined his head. “Write the story. I’ll get it into the paper.” He pointed his long index finger at her. “But it has to be a very strong story, not just who, what, why, and how.”

  Shari straightened away from her desk. “Hello, didn’t you hear me? Perry ordered me not to cover the investigation.”

  “What Perry doesn’t know won’t hurt us until after it’s printed. By then, things should have changed. If not, you’ll have your news clip for your portfolio. You can use it to find a new job.”

  “Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly. “Why would you help me?”

  Diego arched a thick, black eyebrow. “You think it’s frustrating not being able to write a news story? Try filling a hard news section with puff pieces. Perry’s emasculated the news beat, but I can’t challenge him unless I have copy to print.”

  “I tried challenging him. It didn’t go my way.”

  “You won’t be alone this time. I’ll help you.”

  Shari studied her proposed partner in crime. “You’d put your job on the line to help me?”

  “It’s not for you. It’s for the town.” Diego strode toward his office. If the Telegraph was Oz, she’d just met its wizard, the man behind the curtain.

  Shari took her seat as she considered Diego’s plan. She spun her chair to face her computer monitor. What kind of person put his job on the line for a town?

  What kind of town inspires a person to put his job on the line?

  * * *

  “I’ll be glad when your license suspension is over and you can drive yourself.” Sister Carmen’s tone was a perfect blend of resignation and affection.

  Sister Lou watched her friend check her compact car’s rear and side mirrors before switching lanes on the freeway into Buffalo. It was just before ten AM Friday morning and they were on their way to the Jordan family home to pay their respects to Maurice’s widow, Jessica.

  She returned her attention to the windshield. “You’ve been saying that practically every day for the past month, every time I get into your car. I don’t blame you, though. You and Chris have had to chauffeur me all over town for the past thirty days.”

  “I should have kept track of the miles we’ve logged.”

  Sister Lou hadn’t realized how much driving she did. Maybe that was the reason she was always speeding; she had too much to do. That was her story and she was sticking to it. “Let’s get back to what the deputies asked you.”

  “As I said, they wanted to know how I’d spent the evening. I told them I’d attended the student tribute to Saint Hermione and gave them the names of the students and sisters who could corroborate my story. They said they were going to follow up with them.”

  “This is outrageous. I can’t believe they suspect you of murder.”

  “I’ve never been a murder suspect before. Their questions made me very uncomfortable.” Sister Carmen sped up to pass a slower-moving vehicle.

  Sister Lou glanced around. There weren’t any police officers in sight. Why are the police always around when I decide to speed? “No one in our congregation would harm Mo.”

  “I told the deputies that murder isn’t the way the sisters in our congregation deal with our differences.” Sister Carmen’s wry comment brought a moment of much-needed levity.

  “How did they respond?”

  “They ignored me.” Sister Carmen exited the freeway and started weaving her way through the suburban neighborhoods. “Instead they asked about other sisters and their reactions to having Maurice as our guest speaker.”

  “I should have asked you to do the Saint Hermione presentation in the first place.” Sister Lou’s muscles tightened as she fought back tears. “I should never have asked Mo. He’d still be alive and the deputies wouldn’t be harassing us.”

  “Don’t say things like that.” Sister Carmen uttered a sharp response. “This was not your fault. You’re not responsible for Maurice’s death. His murderer is.”

  Sister Lou straightened on the passenger seat as Sister Carmen drew closer to Maurice’s home. The years in between visits to the house drained away. She recognized it even before she read the numbers on the mailbox at the curb. The landscaping triggered a memory of Maurice trimming the hedge while his son, Nestor, who’d been just a boy at the time, mowed the lawn.

  “There it is.” Why had it been so long since she’d visited Maurice? She’d told herself it was because he traveled so much. More than likely, it had something to do with the tension she’d begun to sense in his home.

  From the compact car’s passenger seat, Sister Lou raised her eyes to the front door. Just then, Jessica stepped onto the porch. A tall, well-built man followed her. He wrapped her in his arms and brought her closer. The passion in their kiss caused the air around them to shimmer with heat.

  “Are you sure that’s the right house?” Sister Carmen slowed the car.

  “Did you see that, too?”

  “How could I have missed it?”

  “Keep driving.” Sister Lou sank lower into her passenger seat. “I don’t want Jess to see us.”

  Sister Carmen sped up. “So that was the house?”

  “Yes.” Sister Lou felt grim. “And that was Jess.”

  “I know you wanted to offer your condolences, but I’m pretty sure she’s receiving some from her friend.” Sister Carmen continued down the road to the corner of the block, pausing at the four-way stop sign.

  “Who was that man, and why was she kissing him?” Sister Lou craned her neck, trying to see Maurice’s house through the rear window.

  “I can tell you who he’s not.” Sister Carmen muttered as she circled the block. “She’s pretty brazen to kiss him while they’re on her front porch.”

  “She probably thought her neighbors were at work, so no one would see them.”

  “What do you want to do?” Sister Carmen made another right-hand turn.

  “After you circle the block, let’s wait a few minutes before ringing the doorbell.”

  “You still want to go in?” Sister Carmen gave her a wide-eyed look.

  “Yes, please.” Sister Lou braced herself as they once again drew closer to Maurice’s home. “Mo was my dear friend. Jess may not appear to be grieving, but I still want to pay my respects to his widow and child.”

  Minutes later, Sister Lou led Sister Carmen up the steps to Jessica’s porch. She pressed the doorbell and prepared to wait for their hostess.

  The door opened and Jessica greeted them. “May I help you?”

  “Hi, Jess.” Sister Lou offered a somber respon
se. She saw the moment recognition settled in.

  “Lou.” Jessica’s sapphire eyes widened with surprise, then darkened with grief. She stepped back, welcoming Sister Lou into her home. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Sister Lou led Sister Carmen into the house. She turned to embrace Jessica.

  “And I’m sorry for yours.” Jessica accepted Sister Lou’s comfort.

  Sister Lou swallowed back another one of those burning lumps in her throat before stepping back. “Jess, this is my friend, Sister Carmen Vega. Carmen, Jess Jordan.”

  Sister Carmen shook Jessica’s proffered hand. “My deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Jessica released Sister Carmen, then escorted both women to her living room. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you.” Sister Carmen’s response carried from behind Sister Lou.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” Sister Lou hesitated before crossing the threshold into the room.

  The décor roared with rage: crimson curtains cornered the picture window on the left; a coal-black leather sofa stood opposite its matching recliner, armchair, and ottoman; fake violet flowers soared from a dark clay vase that stood on the onyx coffee table. The only warmth came from the hardwood flooring that gleamed in the natural light pouring into the room.

  Daunting. Had this anger risen before or after your affair, Jess?

  Sister Lou settled onto the leather sofa. Sister Carmen sat beside her. Jessica took the matching recliner.

  “Is Nestor here?” Sister Lou smoothed the cotton material of her dove-gray pants as she scanned the magazines scattered next to the fake flowers. They covered cooking, exercise, and women’s health. Perhaps this explained why Jessica was even more attractive now than the last time Sister Lou had seen her.

  Maurice’s widow looked at least a decade younger than her sixty-two years. Her black jersey and slacks complemented her tall, slender figure. Her salon-styled honey blond hair fell in waves past her shoulders.

  “Nestor will probably be over later.” Jessica crossed her left leg over her right knee. “He wanted to be alone after I told him . . . what happened.”