Knickers in a Twist

by Kim Hunt Harris

  I wondered what Serena would think of that. A bad vibe. Huh.

  “You were there, too. Did you get a bad vibe?” Viv asked.

  She shrugged. “Not any more than I always get when we're doing an interview with someone who doesn't really want us there. But, I mean...I'm behind the camera, right? People just look at the camera. Never the person behind it. So even when things get tense, I don't feel that same level of exposure that the reporters experience. Misty talked about that sometimes, about how she felt like she was the point person for everything people hated about news media.”

  I thought about that for a moment.

  “Anyway,” Jessica went on, “Once he got outside, and then especially back at the station when he played it back, he was really embarrassed. He had to edit out a lot of it just to get a decent interview for the broadcast.”

  “Did you do a lot of interviews with him?”

  Again with the little shrug. “I mean, sure. We have four photogs and four reporters, so there's just so much rotation you can go through. But like I said, Misty and I are pretty much a team. We work together as much as we can.”

  “How typical was that for him? To be cowed by someone he's interviewing?”

  “That's the only time I saw it. After that he seemed to be even more determined to get whatever story he wanted.”

  I thought about that for a second. “Do you remember which story he did first—the Dorsett Oil or the Baucum interviews?”

  She thought for a second. “I don't really remember. But the dates should be on the videos, in the bottom corner.”

  I made a mental note to check the dates.

  “Now, one last question. Patrice said Peter was working on something but hadn't told her yet what it was. A new angle, I think she said. So I assume it had something to do with the fracking and earthquake connection. Did he tell you anything about that?”

  She shook her head. “No. Nothing like that.”

  I switched Stump to my other hip and chewed my lip. “Do you think he would have said something to Misty?”

  She frowned. “I doubt it. I mean, they were kind of competitors, you know.”

  I nodded as if I did, indeed, know that, but of course I didn't. They worked for the same station. One would think they were collaborators, not competitors.

  But what did I know?

  “I would like to talk to her, too, but Tri-Patrice said she was out sick today.”

  “Oh, she's coming in. She texted me and said she felt better, so she's going to go ahead and come in.”

  “That's good. Trisha—Patrice, I mean—said Misty had been sick quite a bit lately, and she thought it was because she was taking Browning's death particularly hard. Since they were so close, you know.”

  Jessica raised her eyebrows. “Hardly. I mean, yeah, sure, she's been kind of sick lately, but most of the time it's pretty short-lived and she's back to work as soon as she can be.”

  “So, she's not particularly bothered by Peter's death?”

  Jessica gave a short laugh. “I mean, of course she's upset about it. We all are. It's a sad thing. But Peter was no closer to Misty than any of the other of these guys are.”

  I nodded as if this was exactly what I expected.

  “She texted you, though, that she was feeling better and planned to come in?”

  “Well, yeah, we are pretty close,” she said with a short laugh. “Much more than she and Peter ever were.”

  “Will she be here soon?”

  “Should be any minute.”

  “Smashing,” Viv said. “We'll wait outside and see if we can catch her on her way in. It shouldn't take but a tick.”

  “A tick?” Jessica and I both asked.

  “Like a tick of the clock, sillies,” Viv explained.

  “I am a dog groomer,” I reminded her. “Tick means something completely different to me.”

  “Well, I would expect that from you, but not from a fellow Brit,” Viv announced over her shoulder as she headed for the parking lot.

  “You know that you can't actually, like, convert to being British,” I said as I tagged behind. “You do get that, right?”

  She sighed. “You know, I rather think I can, if I want to. I mean, if I moved there and took up their customs. Learned their ways. Eventually the culture would have to...permeate, right?”

  “Eventually,” I conceded. This was not the time to remind her that she was upwards of 80 years old and there was just so much “eventually” left for her.

  I decided to change topics, since some of the responses we'd gotten this afternoon were not meshing. “I wonder how Jessica and Trisha can both work with these people and have such different views on them?”

  “Like how?”

  “Trisha specifically said that Misty and Peter were close. But Jessica seems to think they're more like competitors and not real friends at all.”

  “That's odd. But my money is probably more on what Jessica says. She's their age, she's more of a peer. Patrice is in a supervisory role, so they probably act different around her than they do around Jessica.”

  We reached the parking lot just as Misty was pulling into her space.

  “Since I did most of the talking with Jessica, I'm going to let you take the lead on Misty,” I said. I remembered the swift way Misty had handled us at the Veterans Day event, and how she had visibly pulled herself together before she had to report on the finding of Browning's body. She was obviously upset, but she found some inner reserve of strength somewhere to do what needed to be done. She struck me as a decent person, but someone not to be trifled with. Someone who might possibly see right through our nonsense.

  “Driven career women intimidate me,” I admitted. “Young people who so clearly have their act together. I can't relate to that.”

  “We don't have to relate, we just have to get information from her.” Viv slid her sunglasses on and took off across the lot.

  “We have to create some kind of connection if we want her to open up to us. Make sure you ask about that new angle Peter was talking about.”

  “You ask her, chicken.”

  “No, it's your turn. I've already faced down one intimidating woman this week, trying to help you land Nigel. I need some recovery time.”

  “Well, don't worry. I'm not intimidated by Misty Monahan. I've got knickers older than she is. Miss Monahan!” she called. “Please. If you have a minute.”

  Misty closed her car door and slung her handbag over her shoulder. She raised an eyebrow in question. “Sure. What is it?”

  Viv pulled a business card from the inside pocket of her jacket. I cringed inside, but let it go. I waited for the usual look of unsettled confusion to appear on Misty’s face.

  But Viv didn't give her time to ponder the graphics. “We are investigating the death of Peter Browning,” she announced.

  “Weren't you doing that at the Veterans Day thing?”

  “Unofficially,” Viv said. “It's official now. Do you have time for a few questions?”

  Something I had discovered in Viv's and my interviews is that people tend to think they have to let you ask them questions. As if we're some kind of pseudo-police. They don't, of course. They could tell us to go take a hike and be well within their rights. They rarely do, though.

  Misty was going to be the exception, I could see immediately.

  “No, I don't. I'm late already, in fact.”

  “It'll only take a few minutes. There are people who believe Peter was murdered, but the police have written it off as a suicide and won't investigate further. Any information you can give us is going to help get to the truth.”

  She hesitated, then turned her phone to check the time.

  “Peter told Patrice that he was chasing down a new angle,” Viv forged on, bless her relentless heart.

  “A new angle on what?”

  Viv shrugged. “No one appears to know. But if he was onto something dangerous, that could come into play here.”

  Misty just frowned,
but didn't say anything.

  “He didn't say anything to you about a new angle?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing? Patrice says you two were very close.”

  Misty drew her head back, looking borderline offended. “We weren't very close. I mean, we were co-workers. We spent a lot of time together, but only what was needed to get the job done.”

  “Well, I think Patrice is going to turn his computer over to the police, so they can find out if there's anything worth following up on.”

  “Yes, well,” Misty said. She opened her mouth to say something, but then stopped and frowned hard at the ground, as if something had just occurred to her. She chewed her lip. “Is that all you needed? Because I have to get—”

  Viv reached out and touched her arm. “Listen, Love, we're just looking for what happened to Peter Browning.” She patted Misty's arm. “That's all. We're not here to throw stones or muddy the water with things that don't pertain to his death. We're just trying to get to the truth. Now, we already know about some of the, let's say, poor decisions you've made lately.”

  Misty's and my jaws dropped at the same time.

  “I'm just saying,” Viv said. “It's true, isn't it? You and Peter Browning had an affair? And now you're pregnant with his child?”

  Misty's eyes blazed. “Who told you that?”

  “Don't worry, it's not common knowledge or anything.”

  “At all,” I reassured her, seeing as how this was the first time I was hearing it. How in the world had Viv figured that out? And why hadn't she told me?

  “Of course, it's not common knowledge. I haven't told anyone yet except Peter. How did you know?”

  Viv ignored the question. “As I said, we are aware of that situation, but we're not going to dwell on that unless it appears that it's germane to the case.”

  I nodded my agreement, because there were no words I could say. What had I missed?

  “But I'll be honest. You don't seem like the hook-up type to me. I would imagine that you had more than just an affair with Peter Browning. I imagine you two had a relationship. Something beyond the superficial.”

  Misty's mouth worked, but she didn't say anything. Her eyes became hard, and she stared Viv down.

  “You know nothing about me. If you did, you would know that I'm also not the type to be manipulated into spilling my guts to you with a little tenderness and flattery. Now if you'll please step back, I have a job to do.”

  She hitched her purse higher on her shoulder and stalked into the building.

  “Well,” Viv said as we watched her go. “I guess she told me.”

  “I told you she was intimidating,” I said. “How did you figure out she was pregnant with Peter Browning's baby?”

  “You see, but you do not observe, Watson. That's what that hot guy on Sherlock says. Anyway, all the clues were there. She's sick a lot lately, but just for short periods of time. They either had a close relationship, or they had a combative one, depending on who you ask. Sounds like romance to me.”

  It actually kind of did.

  “Plus, you saw how defensive she got when I called them very close. Clearly something up with that.”

  I pondered that for a while. “If Peter Browning was expecting two babies from two different mamas, that could be a lot of pressure for a guy.”

  Viv nodded. “What did Patrice say that note said? I didn't want it to turn out like this?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “That could fit this situation, I guess.”

  I wondered if knowing this new bit of information might sway Trisha's theory that Peter couldn't possibly have committed suicide. “Where did Trisha say that note was found?”

  “In his car, I think.”

  “Was his car found where the body was found?”

  Viv shrugged. “Let's go ask her.”

  I grabbed her arm. “No. Misty is in there. I'll call her.”

  “You'll call her from the parking lot?” She looked at me like I was stupid or something.

  “Yep. Windy, call Trisha.” Hard to believe, but I used to be the kind of person who actually looked for trouble. Turns out that backbone had been made mostly of tequila. Sober me could be a real wimp. In general, this was a trade-off I was okay with.

  Trisha confirmed that Browning's car was found not far from his body, all a few yards off the road on that stand of mesquite trees we'd seen behind the ambulance that Tuesday night.

  “I think it's still impounded by the police, but you might check with Bitsy on that.”

  I ended the call and told Viv.

  “Let's go out there.”

  “To the impound lot? They won't let us see it,” I said.

  Viv frowned. “Bloody obstruction,” she groused. “Let's go back to the scene of the crime, then.”

  I checked the time. It would be dark soon, but if we were just going to drive through there... “Might as well. Are you okay with taking your car out on the dirt roads?”

  Viv frowned at her car. “Hmmmm.” She did not like that car.

  I said, “Maybe we should drop by Flo's and switch to mine. I'd hate to mess up your new car on those back—”

  “Great idea,” she said, before I could finish. “It's on the way, anyway.”

  This was fine with me. Viv had had her car in the shop a dozen times in the few months since she'd bought it. It would not do to get out on a dirt road and have it break down. That's how horror movies started.

  So, we left Viv's Caddy at Flo's and piled into the Monster Carlo, with Viv behind the wheel. She drove us over to the south side of town. We swooped off the loop, following the roads back to the area where Browning's body was found. While Viv bounced us along dirt roads, I thought some more about what we'd just learned, trying to put together a picture of Peter Browning.

  Hotshot reporter, getting major attention from bigger news markets. A star on the rise.

  Family man with a baby on the way.

  Adulterer, with two babies on the way.

  If and when that came to light, his fall from grace was going to be public, at least in local eyes. Browning would then add the phrase “sex scandal” to his other labels.

  If I had only seen Browning's reports that included Baucum Engineering, NorthStar Elementary, and the Space Cop toy scandal, I would have tagged Browning with the word 'relentless.' But his work also included that uncut interview with Dorsett Oil, where he had shown a notable—and somewhat confusing—lack of courage.

  Thinking of labels put me in mind of Jacob the Heel-Grabber and David Disgrace-to-the-Family-Name Baucum.

  As I had done with Baucum, I wondered what all this would do to a person like Peter Browning. He was thrilled with the attention he was getting on the earthquake stories, Trisha had said. Jessica had painted a picture of an ambitious person. He must have seen all these reports as his ticket to a better career.

  And then, along comes the threat of a scandal. Would something like that hurt the career of someone in the news business? If he was facing that kind of fall just as he'd been getting started, would it be enough to drive him to the brink?

  I also had to consider that Browning was considering something more personal than just a failed career—if his affair with Monahan came to light, of course, his marriage could very well fail, too. Although his treatment of Baucum made me slightly nauseous, there was no reason to think Browning didn't love his wife and want his marriage to succeed. I mean, apart from his infidelity to it, of course.

  Viv stopped in the middle of the road, then looked behind us, shifted into reverse, and swung the car so that it was pointed diagonally toward the trees.

  The dead branches looked stark and ghostly, lit by the Monster Carlo's headlights. I shivered. “What if someone drives by?”

  “On this road? At this time of day? Highly unlikely.”

  “Still. Maybe we should pull off to the side a little, just in case.”

  She rose in her seat and craned to see the edge of the road. “Those d
itches look deep, and might still be muddy. We'd probably get stuck.”

  I sighed. I did not want to have to call Tony to come help me get unstuck from what could be a murder scene. “You're right. If someone comes we'll just hop in and pull to the side. You do have your gun, right?” I asked.

  “Are you thinking this is going to turn into some kind of dirt-road-rage thing?”

  “No, I was just thinking that Tony wouldn't be very happy with me being out here unprotected.”

  “Well, don't you worry.” She stretched and leaned over the back of the seat, tugging her handbag over with a groan. “You are protected.” She dug through the bag. “Wait. Where is it?” She pulled out her wallet, her phone and a small notebook she carried for notes she rarely made. After that came a makeup case, a planner, a coupon book, and two sets of keys.

  “Why do you have so many keys?”

  She shook her head. “I don't even know anymore. I'm just afraid to throw them away.” She kept rummaging. Three more lipsticks followed the original makeup case. “Blast. Where is it?”

  I turned on the flashlight app on my Smart Enuff phone and held it over her purse.

  “There it is!” She pulled out a small handgun. “Look at it. Isn't it cute?”

  “Adorable.” I reached out and gently pushed the barrel away from my general direction.

  Viv slid forward in her seat, tucking the gun into the back of her waistband. “If I had needed to, I could have found it quicker. Besides, I haven't let you get shot yet, have I?”

  “True,” I said. I opened the door and checked the ground for rattlesnakes—I’m Texan, I can't help myself—before I stepped out. “In fact, you beaned the last guy who tried with a toilet tank lid.”

  I looked at Stump, pondering whether I should leave her in the car. She would pitch a deafening howling fit if I did, and sound carried out here. Someone might call the cops, and I didn't want to explain to anyone (again) that I hadn't been torturing my dog, that she just had major issues with separation anxiety.