by Jane Tesh
In my experience, I’d found out that for love, money, or plain uncontrollable rage, anybody could snap.
“They were in the same Auto Club, right?” I asked. “When does it meet?”
“Every Friday night at Best Buys,” the first man said.
Tomorrow was Friday. I thanked them and went on to my next stop, the offices of the Parkland Herald.
***
I didn’t want to talk to Brooke Verner about the Avenger because I had a suspicion she might be the Avenger. I figured Chance Baseford would have some information. I knew he’d have an opinion. I don’t like Baseford, but I’d done him a favor once and didn’t think he’d mind if I stopped by for a brief chat. When I tapped on his office door, he looked up from his computer and reared back in his chair, giving me the full glare.
“What do you want?”
“Good afternoon to you, too.” I made myself at home in the chair in front of his desk.
Baseford’s broad fleshy face went pink with annoyance. He tossed back his mane of white hair in a gesture that I’m sure sends waves of horror through timid dancers and painters trying to make it in Parkland, but I’m not that easily impressed by theatrics. “Every time I see you, it means trouble. What could possibly bring you to my office?”
“I’m mounting a new production of ‘Swan Lake’ and need your advice on the tutus. Should they be full length, or those little skirty things?”
“Very funny.”
“No, really, I’m opening an exhibit of modern art at the Little Gallery, and a bad review from you will send hundreds flocking to see what’s so terrible.”
“Did you just stop by to mock me, or is there a purpose to this visit?”
“Brooke Verner and the Parkland Avenger.”
Baseford made a gesture with both hands as if flinging something gooey away. “Obnoxious upstart. Tabloid mentality.”
“That’s where you got your start.”
“In those days, it was different. We dealt with actual facts, not bizarre space fantasies. True, we may have stretched those facts, but there was always a kernel of truth in those stories. Nowadays, things are outrageous. If Brooke Verner thinks she’s going to turn the Herald into another Weekly Moonbeam, she’s sadly mistaken. This Avenger nonsense, for example. I’ll bet you any amount of money you choose she’s making it up.”
“Eyewitnesses have seen the Avenger.”
“Probably her stooge. She needs to investigate herself and her reasons for this charade. It’s a cry for help.”
I looked at the row of awards on his bookshelf. “She’s shooting for one of those.”
Baseford was too articulate to say, “As if!” but his eyebrows said it. “It’s highly doubtful her work is up to Parkie level.”
I got up for a closer look. “What are these for?”
“Mine are all for excellence in feature writing. Other people have won for investigative reporting, design, editorials. Brooke Verner’s work fits none of these categories. We don’t give Parkies for Fake Superhero sightings.”
The awards were shaped like ovals rising from scrolls. They looked like piles of rolled-up newspapers going up in flames. Baseford had six Parkies from various years, as well as a selection of plaques of all sizes.
“These are voted on by Herald employees?”
“And the public. A week before the awards are decided, we run a ballot in the Sunday supplement.”
“When will the next bunch of Parkies be handed out?”
He checked his desk calendar. “Next Tuesday, the twenty-third. You see what she’s up to. She thinks this sensational story will garner her the popular vote. Well, I think our readers are above this kind of hoax.”
I sat back down in the chair. “I don’t know. You remember that pitiful granny last fall? A lot of people fell for that.”
In October, an elderly woman had come to the Herald with the world’s most pathetic sob story. She’d lost her life savings to a con man who’d promised to pave her driveway so she could finally maneuver her wobbly walker out to her failing Oldsmobile and drive to the market for the meager cans of cat food she shared with her ancient tabby. Pictures of Grandma and Sugar Baby had been on the front page for a week. Contributions poured in. The Herald raised almost five thousand dollars for this old lady until another reporter discovered she was perfectly hale and hearty and actually lived in Pine Village, an upscale retirement condo.
Baseford looked pensive. “I see what you mean. But an old woman claiming to live on cat food and an idiot in Spandex leaping from the rooftops are two different things. Perhaps, after being fooled once, our readers will be doubly cautious.” He glared. “If you see Brooke Verner, tell her she’d better be doubly cautious, too. We won’t tolerate that kind of deception here.”
“You’ll see her. Doesn’t she work here?”
“Her office is as far away from mine as possible. I have no idea when she comes and goes, and I don’t want to know. The last time she was in here, I told her to go away and never return.”
I was disappointed he didn’t say, “And never darken my door again.” “She stopped by to bask in your presence, like me.”
“She stopped by to gloat, the horrid creature. Thought she had some big scoop about me working in the tabloids. When I told her to go ahead and print whatever she liked, she deflated like a cheap balloon. Everyone knows that story. Why, I doubt there’d even be a Parkland Herald if not for my first efforts.”
Give Baseford a chance, and he’ll claim responsibility for creating the universe. “So you told her to go away.”
“And did she go? No, she hung about like a bad smell, asking me all sorts of impertinent questions.”
“Maybe she wanted the benefit of your great knowledge.”
“She wanted to know my sources.” Again the eyebrows went “As if!”
“You’re not likely to tell her that.”
“I’m not likely to tell anyone that! You must have some idea of how important good sources are and how you must protect them. She seemed to think they would know about this Avenger. I told her to go down to the state mental hospital and check herself in. She’d find all the faux superheroes she liked right there. She finally went away. The next thing I know, Galvin is printing Parkland Avenger stories on the front page, above the fold, mind you! Not only do I have that nonsense to contend with, I also have that ridiculous litany of discontent taking up valuable space in what used to be a quality newspaper.”
“Are you talking about ‘Your Turn’?”
He sneered as if smelling a bad smell. “If I were editor, that’s the first thing that would go. I don’t care how many readers it’s pulling in. Do they even proofread that nonsense?”
“How many, actually?”
“Galvin says we’ve had over two hundred new subscribers.”
“People must be hard up for entertainment.”
“Well, thank God that line is down today. I’m sure the repairman will say it’s a case of too many fools trying to call in at one time. Of course, a brain-damaged chimpanzee could make up better stories.” He turned back to his computer. “I have a deadline. Go talk to Galvin. I’ve had quite enough of you for today.”
I took his advice and went to see Ralph Galvin, the editor of the Herald. Galvin’s a tall, wiry man full of energy. It was unusual to see him sitting at his desk. He was checking off dates on a large calendar full of appointments and meetings.
He grinned around the peppermint stick in his mouth. “That Brooke’s kicking up quite a dust, isn’t she, Randall? Got Baseford’s tail in a crack.”
“You think the Avenger’s out there?”
He took the peppermint stick and set it in a clean ashtray on his desk. “Somebody’s out there, and it’s creating plenty of stories. I told Brooke to watch her step, though. I’d hate to have to sue
her for fraud.”
“She seems to want a Parkie pretty bad. Is there money involved?”
“Nope, just the trophy.”
“She said something about a ten thousand dollar reward for information about the Avenger.”
He looked through papers on his desk. “Yeah, we had someone offer that. Let’s see, here we are. Fella by the name of E. Walter Winthrop.”
I’d heard that name before. “Winthrop? Of Winthrop, Incorporated, a company that makes alarm systems?”
“Not any more. Says here they’re into computers now.”
I took the piece of paper and read, “E. Walter Winthrop. Winthrop, Incorporated. Computer Systems for Home and Office.” The address was in the northern part of Parkland, an industrial park called MegaSystems.
“They give any reason why he’s offering this reward?”
Galvin shrugged. “Hey, you’ve lived in this city long enough to know there is no ‘why.’ People do crazy things for no reason at all.”
“But this Avenger isn’t helping out. He’s just getting in the way.”
“Whatever. As long as Brooke Verner brings me stories that sell newspapers, I’m not really concerned over a deluded guy’s motives. He’s not a serial killer, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?”
“What we need are more sensational murders like that Hunter case.” He made a face at the candy in the ashtray. “Some days I think I’d kill for a cigarette.” He glanced up. “Hey, don’t look at me in that tone of voice. You know what I mean: if it bleeds, it leads.”
“Yeah, too bad more people aren’t dying for the Herald. So you’re not concerned about another Sugar Baby fiasco?”
He picked up the peppermint stick and put it back in his mouth. “Nope.”
“Speaking of Jared Hunter, I understand there was a problem at the museum not long ago, and your son was involved.”
He smacked his hand on his desk. “My son had nothing to do with that! Someone on the police force has it in for me, and they thought they’d try to involve my family. That break in was all Hunter’s idea, and if his criminal friends came back to get him, then good riddance.”
“Did your son know Jared?”
“Hunter was a bad influence. I told Bert not to deal with him.”
“And he listened to you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’d like to talk to Bert.”
Galvin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re pals with that policeman, Finley, is it? There’s absolutely no reason why you should be talking to anyone in my family. It’s none of your business. So if you don’t mind, I’ve got a newspaper to run. The door’s right there. Use it.”
Clearly I wasn’t welcome at the Herald.
Chapter Eight
“Let Him Deliver Him”
Camden called to say the service was over. I picked him up, and on the way to MegaSystems, I filled him in on my morning activities.
“The fellows at the garage remember Alycia stopping by a short while back. According to one of them, she gave Jared a hard time about not being in on something. Called him a coward.”
“In on something? That sounds shady.”
“I thought so, too. Then I visited Baseford and got an earful about Brooke. How dare she even think of winning a Parkie was the gist of his conversation. Ralph Galvin only wishes the Avenger was Evil Avenger so he could sell more papers and told me I’d better not come anywhere near Bert because, like the police, I am evil, as well.”
“So where are we headed now?”
“Winthrop, Incorporated. That’s the guy who’s offering a big reward for information about the Avenger. It’s also the company who made Petey Royalle’s alarm system.”
At Winthrop, Incorporated, a very pretty young secretary was happy to tell us the history of the company. Winthrop, Incorporated started in the early nineteen hundreds as a bank, and then became a securities firm. Later, the company branched out into alarm systems, but had jumped on the computer bandwagon, finding it much more profitable.
“We haven’t manufactured alarm systems for thirty years, sir.”
“But it’s possible some of those systems are still working?”
“Oh, yes, sir. It was a quality product.”
“What about repairs?”
“We offer a replacement system through another company, Guardian Electronic.” Her hand hovered over the phone. “Do you have a system that needs repair? I’ll be happy to call them for you.”
“Not at the moment. Is there anyone here who knows how the old systems work?”
“I doubt it, sir. Most of the employees here are recently out of college. We have a few senior members, but they’re mainly on the board. We have some displays, though. Would you like to see them? Down the hall and to your right. There’s coffee, too, if you want some.”
I thanked her and we went on our short self-guided tour. The walls were lined with old brown pictures of the first Winthrops. Here was the first building, the first horse and buggy delivery service; here were pictures of solemn men around a table and in front of another building at a ribbon cutting ceremony. Newer color photographs showed the present building, latest models of computers, and a smiling couple who must have been Mister and Mrs. E. Walter. There were also framed awards and citations from the Better Business Bureau and Parkland Chamber of Commerce.
Camden and I went back to the secretary.
“Was there anything else, sir?”
“If I wanted to speak to a senior member, who would that be?”
“Mister E. Walter Winthrop, Senior, would be able to answer any of your questions. Shall I make an appointment for you?”
E. Walter Winthrop, Senior, would be able to see me tomorrow at three. Camden and I thanked the secretary and got back into the Fury. I had every intention of interviewing more of Petey’s employees, but when we got to Royalle’s Fine Jewelry, I noticed yellow police tape across the street at Carlene’s record shop. Carlene Jessup carries every kind of recording, old and new, and I can usually find something, even some on the Stomp Off label, a company that specializes in my favorite traditional jazz.
Now the large front window was shattered, letting in the chilly December air. When we came in, Carlene was cleaning up broken glass. She straightened. Carlene’s slim and almost as tall as I am.
“Hi, David, Cam.”
I brought the trashcan over so she could dump in the glass. “Are you okay? When did this happen?”
“The police say early this morning. Thank goodness I had to take my cat to the vet. I would’ve gotten here right in the middle of the robbery.”
“What did they take?”
She set the broom and dustpan next to a shelf. “About fourteen hundred dollars.”
“You had that much in the drawer?”
“No, it was in the safe. He didn’t get anything out of the drawer.” She led me to the back of the shop to a little room off to one side. A large old-fashioned safe sat in the corner
“It’s not much of a safe,” Carlene said. She gave a little tug, and the door swung open, revealing an empty shelf. “The lock’s been broken for years. But that’s not the problem. There’s only one way to get back to this room, and it involves a hidden panel. I’m the only one who knows where this panel is, so this has always been a secure place. How did the thief know? Can you get anything from this, Cam?”
“I’ll try.” He touched the shelf and the door and all down the sides of the safe. “Nothing here. I’m sorry. Let me check the rest of the store.”
“Who owned the building before you?” I asked.
If she’d said Winthrop, Incorporated, it would have made my life so much easier.
“I bought it from Moore’s Hardware.”
“Any angry customers? Strange people
lurking around the store? Any of your employees unreliable?”
She sat down at her front counter and pushed back her long light brown hair. “David, I’ve never had any trouble. As for strange people, I get all kinds in here. My employees include my sister and my cousin. I trust them completely.”
“But they don’t know about the secret panel?”
“No. I haven’t told anyone except you two.” She looked out her broken window across the street to Royalle’s. “First Petey’s shop and now mine. What’s going on?”
“Somebody likes shopping this end of town.”
A young man came in, a pleasant-looking teenager with crisp brown hair cut so it would stand up like the spikes of a little mountain range. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “Carlene, you want me to help you clean up? Mister Royalle said I could.”
“Thanks, Sim.”
He picked up the broom and began sweeping with too much energy. “You think it could be the Parkland Avenger?”
“I thought he was a good guy,” I said.
“He could have a dark side. I think it’s way cool that Parkland has its own superhero.”
“Even if he breaks into shops and steals things?”
“He may have been trying to prevent the crimes.” He swept another pile of glass into the dustpan, dumped the glass into the trashcan, and wiped his hand on his trousers before offering it to me. “Hi, I’m Sim Johnson. Gert said you were the detective. I missed all the excitement at Royalle’s ’cause I was off skiing.”
“David Randall. This is Camden. What do you know about the Avenger?”
“Just what I read in the Herald. But he’s bound to know the city inside and out, so he can be ready to stop the bad guys.”
“He hasn’t been very successful so far.”
“But think about it. We weren’t cleaned out at Royalle’s. Maybe the Avenger surprised the crook before he could take more stuff. And Carlene, the thief didn’t get the money in your register, did he? Why’s this guy so picky? I think the Avenger shows up and scares him away.”
Right now, it was as good a theory as any. “So how does the Avenger know where the thief’s going to be?”