by Meg Muldoon
I glanced at my phone.
It was now five minutes until the meeting was set to start.
I glanced around the room and then shot a quick look back toward the door.
There was no sign of Mindy.
Chapter 8
“Next on the agenda, we have a presentation by teacher Mindy Monahan regarding an issue Errol Tabor Elementary has been having with irresponsible pet owners. Mrs. Monahan?”
Taylor High squinted into the small crowd of spectators. I did the same from my position in the back, searching for Mindy’s trademark feathered hair.
There was only silence from the crowd.
“Uh, Mrs. Monahan?” Taylor said again into his microphone.
I dug my phone out from the front pocket of my trench and dialed her number for the fourth time. And, just like the other times, it just went straight to voicemail.
I felt my stomach tighten.
Her presentation was critical to the story. Without it, all I had to go on were her claims that there was an abundance of dog poop in the Tabor Elementary School playground, and not much evidence to back it up. I could make something of it with a little more legwork, but for an A1 centerpiece, I needed a lot more. I needed quotes from school board members saying what they planned to do about the problem. And that wasn’t going to happen without Mindy telling them about said problem in the first place.
“Well, I guess she had second thoughts,” Sherry Lynn Hancock said, crossing her arms and leaning back smugly. “Shall we move on, board?”
“Perhaps we should leave room for her at the end of the meeting in case she comes in late,” Hal said. “I know Mindy. She’s a fine teacher, and I know that being late isn’t a normal occurrence.”
“No,” Taylor High said abruptly, his face falling into a sour expression. “That wouldn’t be fair. She’s missed her spot tonight. If she wants to come to our next meeting and give her presentation then, then so be it.”
He rubbed his blond hair forward in a nonchalant manner that looked like he’d lifted it from a Steve McQueen movie.
“I agree,” Sherry Lynn said, piling on. “My kids are waiting at home right now wondering where Mommy is, and I refuse to be here any longer for someone who is so blatantly inconsiderate of the board’s time.”
I felt my hand tighten around the pen I was holding.
Sherry Lynn Hancock was far from my favorite person in Dog Mountain.
“Sherry, that’s a bit unreasonable, don’t you think?” Hal said, pushing his reading glasses farther up on his face.
“No,” she said. “What’s unreasonable is wasting everyone’s time. Now all in favor of moving on, say ‘I.’”
Everybody but Hal chimed in, which meant that the majority of the board was in agreement with the yoga mommy.
“Okay, moving on. Next on the agenda, we have…” Taylor High said before launching into the rather dull topic of what to do about the mysterious graffiti problem Dog Mountain High School had been having lately.
I tuned it out and tried to get ahold of Mindy.
My call went to her voicemail.
Again.
“Mindy, everybody’s waiting for you,” I rasped quietly into the speaker, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “Where are you?”
I didn’t find out.
Mindy never showed up to the meeting.
Chapter 9
I didn’t like being blown off.
Especially when I had gone out on a limb to write this story as a special favor to Mindy.
But after being a reporter for as long as I had, I knew that these things happened more often than they should have. Many times, the prospect of being on the front page of the newspaper had a way of making people chicken out about their causes. To be the face of a potentially controversial issue wasn’t as easy as it seemed once you started getting nasty looks at the grocery store and hate mail from your neighbors.
But it still puzzled me. Mindy had been so passionate about the issue, and while the prospect of taking on the school board and the Dog Mountain Police Department would be daunting to anybody, I had thought Mindy of all people would be up to the task. She had even called me before to make sure I’d be at the board meeting.
It didn’t make much sense. Which is why I found myself driving along the dark, quiet streets of Dog Mountain after the meeting, headed to Mindy’s house.
A few moments into the drive, my phone rang. I answered without looking at the caller ID, hoping it was Mindy.
“Freddie Wolf,” I said, putting it on speaker phone and placing it on the passenger seat next to me.
“You got any quick turn-around stories from tonight’s school board meeting?” he said, getting straight to the point. “Mr. Appleton’s story fell through and we’ve got a rut the size of Hells Canyon running through tomorrow’s local section.”
It was obvious from the subject matter and antagonistic tone that it was Kobrtiz on the other side of the line.
“I’m sorry to say that it was just your same run-of-the-mill stuff at the meeting,” I said. “There’s been some graffiti at the high school, and the Burnside property is still up for sale with no interest from any buyers. And that was it.”
The Burnside property was an old school district building that had once been a preschool. In the more recent past, it had served as a meeting place for various district programs. But after securing funding several years ago to construct new buildings, the district eventually ran out of a use for the old structure and left it vacant. Board members voted two autumns ago to finally put the Burnside building up for sale. But as of yet, there hadn’t been a single offer on it.
“Can you make a turnaround out of the property being a dud on the market?” Kobritz said.
I let out a sharp sigh away from the phone.
In theory, it wasn’t a bad story idea. The only catch was that I had already written the same exact story three months earlier for the local section.
“I just don’t think there’s a new angle to it—”
“Ten inches is all I need,” Kobritz said. “What about writing about the high school graffiti? I mean, do we have a gang war crisis on our hands? Should parents be worried? I’m sure you can turn that into something.”
I felt my ears grow hot.
It seemed like lately, I was always the one to catch these last-minute, pull-em-out-of-nothing stories. I didn’t mind saving the paper from a rut the size of a canyon. It would just have been nice to feel a little appreciation once and a while for making lemonade out of green lemons, instead of the usual disappointed stares I got from my boss lately.
“I’m sure you can pull it together by deadline,” he continued before I could protest anymore. “Anyway, how’d it go with the dog poop woman tonight?”
I was sure that Mindy wouldn’t have liked being known as the “dog poop woman,” but at the moment, I wasn’t feeling very sympathetic towards her.
“Not good,” I said. “She was a no show.”
There was a big old static check from the other side of the line.
“Do you have enough for Sunday’s story?”
“Yes,” I said. “But in all honesty, I’m just not sure if it’s going to be the A1 material you’re hoping for.”
I waited, but he didn’t respond.
“You still there, Kobritz?”
“I really needed that story, Freddie,” he said in a tone that was filled with disappointment.
I swallowed hard.
Somehow, no matter how hard I tried, it seemed like I couldn’t get out of the dog house.
“I’ll do my best to pad it,” I said.
“Do what you can.”
The phone went dead.
I felt my hands grip the steering wheel tightly.
When I was first hired by The Chronicle nearly ten months earlier, I had liked Kobritz. He was a fair editor who still cared about the quality of his work and the work of his reporters: something that plenty of small town newspaper editors
his age had given up in favor of going through the motions. He was a good mentor, too. And I felt that his editing had improved both my writing and my reporting skills.
But these days, I was beginning to have my doubts about him.
I hooked a right on Dalmatian Road and followed it past a row of cramped, newly-built houses with perfectly-manicured parcel yards and freshly-painted front porches. It was a newer suburban development, and it looked as though mostly young professionals lived here. If I hadn’t shared a house with Lou, I might have ended up in this neighborhood.
After finding the address on my phone, I pulled up to a narrow two-story house and killed the engine.
None of the lights in the home were on and Mindy’s car wasn’t in the driveway, either. Though that didn’t necessarily mean anything – the turquoise Jeep could have just as easily been sitting in the garage.
I got out of the car and jaunted up the driveway, a damp wind biting my cheeks the entire way. I pushed the doorbell hard and listened as one sluggish chime echoed from inside.
I waited.
Then I waited some more.
If she’d been home, I would have expected Bogey to start barking.
But there was nothing except silence.
I let out a sigh and looked down the driveway behind me.
Where was she?
Didn’t she know there were people depending on her?
I shook my head and then left the porch. I walked down the steps and to my car.
I was about to open the Hyundai door when I glanced back for a split second.
And that’s when I saw it.
The curtains in the front window suddenly moved.
I studied the window, watching for more movement. But all was still again.
I climbed back up the steps and rang the doorbell another time.
“Mindy? Mindy, are you in there?”
I was met again with silence.
Leaving me to conclude one thing.
That Mindy was in there. And that she was completely blowing me off.
But why?
I didn’t know. All I knew was that I was cold and tired and hungry and that I had a ten-inch story about graffiti still left to write.
I walked down the concrete stairs, feeling defeated.
Chapter 10
My depressed mood didn’t last long.
It couldn’t have. Not with Sam’s arm around my shoulder, a cozy fleece blanket across my lap, and a steaming mug of hot cider between my hands. And not with Mugs sprawled out across my legs, snoozing softly like the sweet pooch that he was.
“This part… right here. You see the way he looks at her there?” Sam said, nodding to the black and white images on his big-screen television. “That’s my favorite part of the movie. Because you know that it’s more than just acting. He’s really falling in love with her. Not the character she’s playing. But the real her.
“That look makes the whole movie for me.”
I smiled, feeling my heart melt a little listening to Sam talk.
We were watching “To Have and Have Not,” the black and white Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall movie from the 1940s. Sam had said it was one of his favorites, and I was beginning to see why. The dialogue between Bogey and Bacall was snappy and intelligent, and their chemistry on screen was electric. Even all these years later, it was plain to tell that they were falling in love in real life during the filming of the movie.
I glanced up at Sam.
“Do your fellow officers at the station know you’re this big of a sappy romantic?” I said in a teasing tone.
Something sparked in his dark eyes.
“No,” he said. “And I plan to keep it that way.”
He suddenly slid his hands up under my shirt and started tickling my ribcage with an accuracy that sent me nearly jumping off the sofa.
“Hey!” I yelled, unable to keep from laughing like a lunatic.
Mugs pricked his ears up and turned over, alarmed by my cry. His dog elbows jabbed into my thigh, adding insult to injury.
“Ow!” I shouted.
Sam stopped tickling me, dropping his fingers from my ribcage.
Mugs looked from me to Sam, his blond Labrador eyebrows drawn together in a confused expression, not understanding what had caused me to shout like that.
“Did Mugs get you bad?” Sam asked, lifting the pooch up and taking him into his arms.
“Yes,” I said rubbing the spot where the pup had elbowed me. “Thanks to you.”
“Sorry, Freddie,” he said.
But in his eyes, there still remained a hint of mischief.
“No you’re not,” I said.
He smiled. Then pulled me closer and planted a tender, sweet kiss on my lips that made the throbbing point in my thigh somehow magically disappear.
“That make it better?” he said, pulling away, his eyes burning into mine.
I reached a hand up to his strong jawline and stroked the side of his face.
“Almost.”
He kissed me again. Mugs jumped down from the cushions and lay on the ground, burying his snout under the sofa, as if grossed out by our display of affection. He let out a little whimper of displeasure.
We both started laughing at that. For the sake of Mugs’ sensitive sensibilities, we stopped kissing. But Sam drew me closer, wrapping his arms around me, making me feel safe and warm.
I leaned my head against his chest and went back to watching the movie.
Or at least I tried to watch the movie, anyway.
My palms were sweating like I was about to give a speech to an auditorium of thousands.
That was the way I got anytime Sam was near me.
It was a strange place to be in: feeling so comfortable with him, yet feeling so uncomfortable with him at the same time. I guess it was just the stage our relationship was in.
Sam Sakai had a way of turning my insides to Jell-O with just one look from his hazelnut eyes.
“You got any stories from your day?” he said, pausing the movie for a second and nudging me gently so he could stand.
I always liked the way he asked me that. He always said it so sincerely, like he really wanted to know about everything that happened: Every boring minute of it.
“Well, as you already know, I got stood up by Mindy Monahan at the school board meeting,” I said, watching as he went over to the kitchen and pulled a microwave bag of kettle corn popcorn from the cupboard. “Kobritz had me write about graffiti at the high school. In addition, I was late to this morning’s newsroom meeting… again. And it’s obvious that I’m still on my boss’s bad list for turning down the crime beat position.”
Sam shook his head at that, tossing the bag into the microwave.
“It seems like if he wanted you on the crime beat in the first place, he shouldn’t have let you suffer on the dog beat for six months to begin with.”
“I know,” I said, stroking Mugs’ fur. The dog had jumped back up on the sofa and was out like a lamp again.
“So what are you gonna do?” Sam asked, leaning against the counter as the first few kernels started popping.
I shrugged.
“Wait Kobritz out, I guess,” I said. “He can’t hold a grudge forever.”
Sam nodded. Then he cleared his throat strangely.
“Is… uh, is anybody else giving you trouble at work?” he asked.
We both knew what he meant by that question.
Or more like, who he meant.
I’d told Sam about Jimmy and me once being together. And while Sam wasn’t particularly happy about me working in the same office with an ex-flame, we didn’t discuss it all that much. Every once and a while Sam would ask a question like this, though, and it’d be clear what he was getting at.
“Everything’s fine,” I said, forcing a tight smile.
I paused for a moment, remembering something else that had given me trouble during my day. Something that had nothing to do with the photographer.
“I did see
that black Kia again today, though,” I said.
“Where?”
“In the paper’s lot this afternoon,” I said. “It was just sitting there, like it was waiting for me to come out of the building. And then it sped away before I could reach it.”
Sam furrowed his brow.
“Did you get the plates this time?”
I shook my head.
“Did you see the driver?”
“He pulled out of the lot before I could get a good look.”
“Why didn’t you call me right away?” Sam said, his voice sounding slightly strained.
I shrugged.
“I was talking to Mindy on the phone and I just… I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want to bother you.”
“It’s not a bother, Freddie,” he said sternly. “This could be serious. And you shouldn’t take it lightly.”
He suddenly looked worried.
“Promise me you’ll call me right away the next time you see that car, all right?” he said. “It’d make me feel better.”
I nodded.
“Okay. I’ll call.”
“Right away,” Sam added.
“Right away,” I repeated, unenthusiastically.
I didn’t know why I had hesitated about calling him when I saw the car earlier. I guess part of me felt like I wanted to handle my own problems.
I wasn’t used to having somebody in my life to help me with them.
“You still have the can of mace I gave you attached to your car keys?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Good,” he said, looking a little relieved.
The corn popped for a while and the conversation stalled.
When I had first told Sam that somebody was following me around town, he’d given me a new canister of pepper spray to carry with me at all times. The old one that I had been carrying around since my days as a reporter in Portland had an expiration date from three years earlier.
“You know, if you’re sick of working at The Chronicle, you could always come work for the police department instead,” he finally said. “That way you wouldn’t have to deal with Kobritz, and I could keep an eye on you there. There’s an opening for an entry-level officer. You’d make a really good one.”