“I don’t think he’s eaten since yesterday,” she said.
“I’ll find him something,” Wilson said and headed for the kitchen.
Morrison heard the can opener and went eagerly to the kitchen. When Wilson returned to the livingroom Sam was sleeping. She was lying on her side, but her feet were still touching the floor. He rubbed the back of his index finger lightly along her rug burn. She opened her eyes slowly, but was too weak to lift her head.
“Do you want to eat something?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I’ll help you to the bedroom and you get changed for bed. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep,” he said softly.
She did not argue. He helped her up and to the bedroom. He searched through several of Robin’s drawers until he found one that contained pajamas. He set a nightshirt on the bed where Sam sat numbly.
“Here,” he said. “Put this on. Get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Wilson returned to the living room and surveyed the mess Sam had made of the place. He began to clean. As he worked, he tried to keep his feelings neutral, both his anger and his affection for Sam.
Nick Weeks’ comment about ‘going soft’ on Sam had been on his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he knew part, if not all of it, was true.
When Wilson finished cleaning, he checked the refrigerator. Seeing nothing edible, he went to the grocery store. Before going to bed, he checked on Sam. He heard her breathing lightly and saw that she had piled her clothes at the foot of the bed. He collected them and put them in the washer. He slept on the couch.
Wilson was reading the Sunday Post and drinking coffee when Sam came to the table the next morning. She was freshly showered and wearing Robin’s robe. Her hair was wet and combed away from her face and a fresh scent of lotion followed her into the kitchen. Wilson noticed that the rug burn looked a deeper red as if she had tried to scrub it away in the shower. The gash was fading.
“Morning,” he said and smiled.
Sam smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Morning.”
“How do you feel?”
“I took a shower,” she said running a hand along her hair. “That helped. I’d been in those clothes all week.”
“How’s your head?”
“Throbbing but not as bad as last night.”
Wilson got up from the table. “Coffee?”
She nodded.
They sat at the table in silence. He looked at her over the top of his reading glasses, but she avoided his gaze.
“Sam.”
She gave him a sideways glance, ashamed to give him her full attention.
“Don’t beat yourself to death over this,” he said. “It’s over now.”
She laughed harshly. “You saw what I looked like last night. I’m a miserable failure. I don’t have a clue how I got this,” she said pointing to the rug burn.
“And your forehead?”
Sam rubbed the area gingerly. “That happened Tuesday with Jonathan.”
She shook her head in disgust. “I missed our deadline and I … I let you down … I’m sorry. Jonathan killed himself right before my eyes. My sister’s dead and April’s in Seattle with his mother. That woman hates me.”
Wilson remembered what he told Nick. She had until noon tomorrow.
Sam absentmindedly ran a finger around the rim of her coffee cup. She took a moment to gather her wits and her strength before she told him about Jonathan.
“Before he left my place he must’ve put his keys on the counter but I was too upset to notice,” she said. “I’ll probably never see my daughter again. Nothing would make that woman happier than to keep April from me. She thinks I destroyed our marriage and Jonathan. She told me when we divorced that she wouldn’t let me ruin April’s life, too.”
Sam sighed deeply and sank back against her chair.
Wilson watched silently as she began to pull at her cuticles. The clock on the living room wall chimed eleven times.
“I was going to Washington Tuesday, Wilson. I was halfway to the airport before I turned around.”
“Have you talked to April?”
“I called Wednesday, but his mother hung up when she heard my voice. I tried again yesterday morning, but I can’t get a word in before she slams the receiver down.”
She looked at him with childlike innocence.
“I need April. I want to hold her and tell her I love her. I could be without anyone else for the rest of my life, but not April. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her.”
“To get April back, Sam, you have to make some changes,” he said.
She looked at him, wounded.
Wilson spoke softly. “You have to be willing to do some things that won’t be pleasant or easy. Remember what the judge told you.”
Their eyes locked and he measured how she was accepting his words. She seemed open, willing to hear more. He pressed on carefully.
“It’ll be hard, but you have to want to get help for your drinking.”
She gingerly rubbed the burn on her cheek.
“Even that,” he said softly, pointing at her cheek. “You don’t know when or how that happened. It could’ve been worse. What if you hit your head on the corner of that table? No one would’ve been here to help you.”
She took her hand from her face and looked away, defeated by his words. She couldn’t deny that he told her the truth.
“Did you hire me because I’m a drunk and you had pity on me?”
“I hired you because you’re a good reporter.”
She snorted.
“I’m giving you the credit you won’t give yourself,” he said.
His voice was gentle but firm. The smirk fell from her face.
“Did I ever tell you how I lost my job at the Post?” she asked, feeling the dread and emptiness that came whenever she thought of that day.
The look in Wilson’s eyes encouraged her to continue.
“Whenever I think of the article I wrote it takes all my strength to bury it again,” she said. “I vaguely remember doing the interview. It was a business profile for a local start-up coffee company. I felt exhausted and I didn’t have much energy when I was doing the interview. But I thought it went well.”
After Sam filed her story, she didn’t give it another thought until the business editor called her into her office the day after the article published. The editor avoided Sam’s gaze and she knew something was wrong.
“Have a seat, Sam,” Debbie Wade, the business editor said and pointed to a chair directly in front of her desk.
The blinds were drawn. The room seemed small with the blinds closed, making Sam feel trapped. They were in a high-rise building downtown Denver and Sam knew that the view beyond the window offered a generous vista of mountains and foothills.
“Sam,” Debbie said, “we’ve had a problem with the story you wrote on the coffee company.”
Sam swallowed over the lump in her throat, her mind racing back over that interview, then writing the story.
“Did I misquote someone?” she asked.
Debbie Wade shook her head and spoke matter of factly. “It’s more than that.”
Sam inventoried Debbie’s attire. She wore a dark-tailored blazer and skirt. Though Sam tried hard not to admit, but she had always been jealous of Debbie Wade. She was younger, thinner and certainly much prettier that Sam. Debbie was smart and seemed to know what she wanted in life. Debbie was already an editor of a major metropolitan daily. And what was she? Where was she headed? She wouldn’t let herself think about it.
Sam looked puzzled and didn’t know how to respond to Debbie. Silence hung in the room until Debbie broke it.
“Sam, you didn’t misquote anyone,” she said directly. “In fact, the story is quite good.”
Debbie hesitated an agonizing moment before continuing.
“It’s just that you had the name of the president of the company spelled wrong throughout the article and …”
When Debbie stopped talking, Sam spoke quickly.
“There’s more?” she asked with a sense of falling.
Debbie nodded apologetically. Before she continued, she cleared her throat.
“You had the name of the company written as …”
Sam followed Debbie’s hand to where it mentioned the company.
“This here, when it should have been this,” Debbie said and tapped the section twice with her index finger.
Debbie Wade picked up the press kit and slid it across the table toward Sam. She stared numbly at the packet, humiliated into silence. She didn’t want to look at the article for fear she would look directly into Debbie’s eyes.
“What happened, Sam?” Debbie asked.
Debbie’s voice was soft and yielding. When Sam finally did look up, she saw empathy in the woman’s eyes. Sam felt like an elementary school student receiving a scolding. She turned her attention to the pen in her hand, wishing the blinds were open.
“I don’t know,” Sam said feeling meek and small in her chair. “I thought I had the names right. You know, I always try to …” Sam’s voice fell away and she wondered what the implications would be, but was afraid to ask. She feared she already knew.
“The editor wants to have a talk with you,” Debbie said in benign softness.
Sam nodded involuntarily. She always felt that Debbie had a compassionate spot for her and she showed it now.
“Sam,” Debbie said speaking softly as though the walls had ears. “Do you know about the treatment program the company has to help its employees who are having problems with substance abuse?”
“I know,” Sam said trying not to sound as if her defenses were rising. “But it’s not for me because I don’t have a problem with alcohol, Debbie. Sure, I drink a little, but who doesn’t? Besides, I’m not an alcoholic. I’ve never gotten a DUI. And I’ve never wrecked my car.”
Sam did not share with Debbie what she was thinking to herself. She didn’t want Debbie Wade to know that when she drank, she felt she had a sense of self worth, and could communicate comfortably with others. That when she drank a little, she felt more socially and professionally adequate. She couldn’t tell Debbie that. Or anyone.
“Sam, this isn’t the first time we’ve had problems with your stories, or with your behavior here in the newsroom. Can you look at me and tell me that’s not true?”
Sam could not look at Debbie. She felt small as though she had been caught in a terrible lie.
“I care about you, Sam. The program’s good and I wish you’d check it out. I know several other employees who’ve gone through it. It’s helped them.”
Debbie grew quiet and stared at Sam. “It’s helped them to keep their jobs.”
Sam attempted to form a small smile, but her lips remained pressed in a thin line.
“Are you saying that I have to go through a substance abuse program I really don’t need just so I can keep my job?”
Debbie sighed and settled back against her chair. She looked from Sam’s article to the reporter who had written the story.
“Sam, look, I’m being honest with you and letting you know what’s coming. Yes, that’s what it means, basically. If you don’t get some help soon, you won’t have a job.”
Debbie leaned forward and crossed her hands over the newspaper article Sam had written.
“Sam, you’re an alcoholic and you need to get some help,” Debbie said trying earnestly to keep her voice collected and even.
Sam nodded, but heard nothing. She felt herself make her usual shift into denial. Absorbed by her own blind spots, she hardly noticed the white flash of humiliation, the red heat of rage, the cold wave of grief and surge of panic that consumed her.
She felt like a stranger in her own body, as though she were her shadow, removed, detached and watching from a distance the scene playing out before her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes until the moment passed. When she opened them, Debbie was looking at her.
“I’m sorry, Debbie,” Sam said and got up from the chair. “The program’s not for me. I don’t know what happened with that article. I’m sorry, I wish there were something else I could say. I must’ve been having a bad day, or problems with Jonathan.”
She turned and walked to the door. She had opened it and was about to leave when she stepped back inside and closed the door. She studied Debbie for a moment. She still had her hands folded and resting lightly over the newspaper.
“I don’t have a drinking problem. I wouldn’t gain anything by going through this treatment program. If that means my days here are over, I can’t fight that and I won’t. I’m not an alcoholic and I have to stand by what I believe.”
Sam waited briefly for Debbie to respond. But when she said nothing, Sam opened door and left the office.
I’m not a drunk, goddammit.
Later that afternoon the editor of the Denver Post talked to Sam. It was her last day at the newspaper. They asked if she would be willing to attend the substance abuse program, but she declined. They gave her the option of working two weeks. No thanks she had told them.
Nearly a decade as a reporter at the Denver Post melted down before her in a single afternoon. She was thirty-two years old. She had hoped to stay at the Post for the duration of her career.
When Sam finished, Wilson nodded and said, “I know the story.”
“And you hired me anyway?” Sam asked, dismayed he knew.
“I hired you because you have a lot going for you, in your career and your life with your daughter. You know …”
He stopped, considering how to phrase his next sentence without putting words in her mouth, without pointing fingers, without accusations.
“You know what’s stopping you,” he said softly.
Sam directed her attention to her coffee cup. When she looked at him, her eyes were glassy with tears.
“I’m so sorry I let you down. I prom …”
Wilson held up his hand, stopping her from what he knew she was about to say. “Don’t promise me anything unless you know you’re going to keep it.”
Their eyes met. Hers were searching for answers. His seemed to have them.
“How is it you know how I feel?” she asked.
Wilson allowed a small smile to form. It was his opportunity to tell her about his own past, but he let the moment pass. He knew he would tell her someday, but not today.
“I don’t know,” he said instead. “I guess there are some people who just know.”
She shrugged her shoulders, pursed her lips and tried to smile.
“I’ve got some sausage in the oven and omelets ready to go. I make the best Denver omelets. I know you probably don’t feel much like eating now, but a good breakfast will do you good,” Wilson said getting up from the table.
“Sounds wonderful,” she said. “Maybe I can eat a little.”
“Time has started to work against us,” Wilson said as they ate. “I got a call from Judie Rossetti Friday morning.”
Sam’s eyes widened in interest.
“She wanted to talk to you, but Anne said you were out. She said it was about Robin’s autopsy and Anne asked if I would talk to her.”
“What did she say?” Sam said leaning closer to the table.
“She said the Post reporter was poking around asking questions about Robin.”
“Simmons?”
He nodded. “Judie said it sounds like he’s still fishing. But we can’t afford too many more chances. I made a call to the Grandview PD and heard the same thing. Simmons has been snooping around there, too.”
“And I know Simmons,” Sam said feeling desperate. “It won’t take him long to find a story once he starts digging.”
“When people read this in the dailies first, they won’t give a damn what we have to say about it two or three days or a week later,” Wilson said. “We have the flash drive thanks to Brady, but we can’t let up now. We need that story.”
Sam nodded. “Jonathan refused to say w
ho ordered him to kill my …”
She couldn’t bring herself to finish her sentence.
“I know,” Wilson said in an assuring voice.
Sam suddenly sat straight up in her chair, her eyes bright and full. He looked at her, his brow furrowed.
“What is it?” he asked.
Sam looked directly at him. He saw that determination and mastery had returned to those blue eyes.
“Roy Rogers,” she said. “That’s why Jonathan was ordered to murder Robin. She must have found out who he was. I am sure of it now.”
“Since Jonathan was part of the operation, he had no choice but to kill Robin,” Wilson said. “And this Roy Rogers won’t be wearing a white hat, whoever he is.”
Sam studied Wilson intently for a moment before she began to clear the dishes.
“I think I know just the person who can tell us who Roy Rogers is,” she said, her shape retreating from the kitchen table.
Forty-six
Basketball practice was almost over when Wilson and Sam arrived at Grandview High School. They had planned it as the best way to talk to Brady.
They sat on the bleachers and watched Todd and the team finish the final minutes of practice. Todd knew they were coming, Wilson had called to explain why.
When practice was over Brady walked to the bleachers in front of Wilson and Sam. His hair was tousled, his face pink with exertion.
“Todd said you guys wanted to see me,” Brady said looking from Sam to Wilson.
Sam patted the empty space beside her and Brady climbed the bleachers.
“Do you feel better, Sam?” Brady asked.
She felt terrible at the moment, but the last thing she wanted to do was tell Brady why. She knew what he meant and she was recovering, slowly.
She forced a smile and nodded. “I’m doing a lot better, thanks to you and Todd.”
She put her hand gently over Brady’s knee. “If it hadn’t been for you, I could’ve been a lot worse,” she said.
Brady smiled broadly and directed his attention to Wilson.
“Brady, this is Wilson Cole,” Sam said extending a free hand in Wilson’s direction. “He’s the publisher of the newspaper where I work.”
The Friday Edition (A Samantha Church Mystery) Page 27