Downstairs, Sophie opened the front door. Cold crisp air hit her face just as the Hartford Courant fell from where Jay must’ve wedged it near the knob. She lifted the paper from the snowy stoop, shook off the light flakes, and inhaled the bleach-clean sensation of fresh snowfall.
A minute later, the dog scampered inside. Sophie settled at the kitchen island with the newspaper and coffee. After reading a few stories, she reached the end of the first section and refolded the paper. A headline she’d only glanced at made her pause and she reopened the paper. “Blue Moon Lake Citizens’ Group pulls strings to roadblock RGI Project.” Sophie quickly scanned the article. In the last paragraph, her hand flew to her mouth. “What the…”
All her suspicions about Duncan Jamieson being a two-faced political machine were re-launched with rocket force.
* * * *
Bernadette and Dave’s village Victorian, built in 1890, was walking distance to the church and situated along Main Street amidst other historic homes built around that same time. A place they all gathered each year to view the town’s Fourth of July parade. Sophie turned into the driveway and hopped out of the car.
Dave stopped the snowblower and approached. “Thanks for coming over. Let’s hope you can calm her down.”
Glare from the all-white landscape made her squint. “When she mentioned the new reporter, I had a bad feeling.”
“She’s threatening to drive over to the Jamieson’s house. Even though the paper said unnamed sources at RGI gave them the statement, she’s certain he’s behind it. What do you think?”
Sophie wavered. “Close to a hundred people work at the headquarters, but the fact is none of us are really close enough to Duncan to trust him.”
Dave frowned. “God knows I want to like the guy.”
“Mmm.” She didn’t offer too much, afraid she’d give away her conflicted emotions.
“If Duncan’s not involved, perhaps he can fix what’s been said.” Dave’s usually calm face showed a new kind of worry. “I like to think the best of people.”
“Me too.” Sophie headed to the porch. “I’ll call Marcus, my friend who works at the paper.”
She entered the front foyer. Bernadette, already on her way down the wooden staircase, glanced at Sophie and frowned.
“I’m glad you’re here.” One hand rested on the home’s oak banister, in the other she carried her pumps, and a newspaper had been secured under her armpit.
Sophie unzipped her boots. “Since you’re wearing a skirt, can I assume you’re going to work and not to the Jamieson house to pick a fight?”
“I can fight in a skirt.” Her dark grimace suggested her mood hadn’t improved. “You won’t believe who called me.”
“Duncan?” Sophie slipped off the furry boots, which Cliff said made her look like Big Foot’s sister.
“Yes.” She growled and landed in the foyer, her last step an angry stomp. She continued through the dining room, the yellowed floral wallpaper in this area a relic from the home’s past.
“He claims to have no idea who from his office might have spoken to the Courant reporter. I know you like the guy, but what’s your honest take on this?”
They stopped in the kitchen. “I don’t know, Bern. I’m trying to keep my feelings out of it. Can I see the paper again?”
Bernadette handed over the one she’d just carried down.
Sophie reread the statement in question.
A source at Resort Group International suggests Save Our Lake’s Environment’s President and founder, Bernadette Felton, an attorney at Kramer, Paine, and Anderson, may have influenced the recent Department of Environmental Conservation decision against RGI. Three years ago, Felton represented the DEC in a case against Petrusky Pesticides, accused of violating environmental and consumer safety laws. The source suggests that Felton used her ties at the DEC in order to ensure RGI’s preliminary study be deemed insufficient to proceed with the project due to environmental concerns. When asked, Felton denied the allegation.
Vague enough to cultivate the planted seed: S.O.L.E. shouldn’t be trusted. Sophie’s disgust for media abuse exploded. “These days, all someone has to do is suggest you’ve done something wrong and kazaam…you’re guilty.”
“That damn reporter was sneaky, too.” Bernadette paced the kitchen. “He discussed the case at Petrusky like it wasn’t a big deal. He asked if I might think the past relationship influenced the decision and I said no. I told him I hoped this didn’t go in his story since it had no bearing. He promised it wouldn’t. Do you know this guy? Barry Thomas.”
“No.” Sophie took out her phone. “Let me call Marcus.” There was a missed call on her phone, but she didn’t recognize the number.
Bernadette poured two cups of coffee, handed one to Sophie, and continued pacing, the way she always thought through problems. Sophie sipped the hot drink and Marcus answered on the fourth ring.
“It’s Sophie. Did you read what your replacement wrote about Bernadette?”
Marcus’ anger rivaled her own, both firm believers in ethical reporting. After a few minutes, she thanked Marcus and hung up.
“Barry Thomas is a recent hire from the Stamford Advocate.” Sophie leaned against the counter near the sink with her back to the window. “The reporter has a reputation. Likes to stir the pot with barely creditable accusations. Somehow he gets away with this crap every time.”
Bernadette stopped. “How does that happen?”
“Wish I knew. Reporters like him give us all a bad rap. Marcus said his boss hinted the assignment change came directly from someone high up at the paper.” She considered Duncan’s relationship to Will Steiner and the possibility he had contacts at other papers, too.
Bernadette’s gaze drifted toward the open pantry door, where she stared in deep thought for several seconds. “Do you think Buzz has anything to do with it? He seemed pretty mad at me during the hearing.” She huffed a sarcastic snort. “What else is new?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“Did Marcus mention Duncan?”
“Not directly. He’s certain someone from the firm is sticking their nose into the newspaper’s business. Who, though, remains a mystery.”
Dave called to Bernadette from the front door, so she excused herself.
Sophie turned and watched out the window. A threatening blue jay flew to a snow-covered branch near two cardinals, who twittered with the nervous energy of Bernadette. The blue jay’s beautiful sapphire hues settled in a mosaic pattern along his backside and rendered him a handsome creature of nature. The idea he presented danger seemed almost impossible.
Looks could be deceiving. After this, she’d have no problem cornering Duncan at next week’s interview during Northbridge in Focus. This little bit of revenge, however, did nothing to massage her stung ego. How could this guy hold her hand at the game and give her that tender kiss at her house then pull a stunt like this?
Never before had she felt such a kinship with the word naïve.
* * * *
Bart snapped a few last photos as a menagerie of wooden sleds, ski boards, and snow tubes flew past them like rush hour on the interstate.
“I’m all set.” Sophie brushed some snow off her jeans. “I got the names for the pictures and even took a run down on a borrowed tube.”
“I know. I’ll e-mail you the photo when we get back to the paper.” Bart tucked his camera back into the bag slung over his shoulder and adjusted the knit cap keeping his nearly bald scalp warm.
Her stomach growled, earlier than its usual time. “Want to stop at Sunny Side Up? I’m starving.”
“Sure. Let me toss the camera in your car.” Bart held out his hand and she gave him her keys. “Go grab us a booth.”
She rounded the corner onto Main Street and a windy gust of powdered snow sent her scurrying inside.
A minute later, the restaurant door swung open. Duncan headed straight for her booth, an underlying question mar
k forming his expression.
“Hi. I was across the street when you came in. Didn’t you hear me yell your name?”
“No.”
“I tried to call you a little while ago. Cliff gave me your cell number.”
“Oh?” She sat back and crossed her arms. She’d have a long talk with Cliff about loyalty when she returned to the office. “What do you want?”
“Something wrong?” His hands pressed deep into the pockets of his field coat.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“You mean the article in the paper?”
“Gee, ya think?” Several people in nearby booths turned, so she motioned to the bench seat opposite her. He slid in. She leaned forward, lowered her voice, and pointed until her index finger fell one step short of poking the center of his chest. “We’re not having a very good day.”
“Sophie, I have no idea how the story got in the—” He stopped and clasped her finger in his warm palm. He grinned. “Finger pointing isn’t very polite.”
“You’re right.” She jerked her hand away and he twitched as if he’d been slapped. “Neither is planting lies to ruin someone’s reputation?”
“You think I planted that lie?” His jaw flexed.
“If the shoe fits.”
Momentary annoyance shadowed his eyes, and then he moved closer and dropped his voice. “Sophie. There’s one thing I want more than anything.” His gaze pleaded. “Your trust. Please. Tell me how I can earn it.”
She floundered for a response, his request for trust the last thing she’d expected him to say. “Well, I just assumed when the paper said RGI….”
His mouth bowed into a frown. “You assumed it was me?”
“It’s your company.”
He folded his hands on the tabletop. “I’ve been trying all morning to find out who’s behind this. I’m coming up dry.” He tilted his head. “You really thought I’d do something like this?” His pained stare rested on her for several seconds, then he looked away, toward the counter and row of old red leather stools. His jaw tightened then he sighed and turned back to her. “I’m aware how this looks, but weren’t we—I mean, last night I thought we were getting closer.”
She had, too. The kiss they’d shared in her kitchen had kept her awake the past two nights and the sweet way he’d taken her hand during the game made her heart swell.
“Hey.” Bart arrived while unzipping his ski jacket. His head swiveled between the two of them and a slow realization settled over his face. “Um, back in a sec. I’m heading for the men’s room.”
Duncan studied his hands while tense lines dominated his face. Not the face of a manipulator, but someone experiencing hurt. It was possible someone else in his company was behind the story. Had Ryan Malarkey left her so overly suspicious that she couldn’t tell genuine caring from manipulation? Duncan’s overtures toward her were too intense not to be heartfelt.
“Duncan?”
He looked up.
“I’m sorry. Really.”
“It’s fine.” She deserved his crisp tone, but it still hurt.
“Listen.” Sophie sighed. “Once I had a man use me. Take advantage of my role on the paper. He showed an interest in me and fed me lies. Guess I’m gun-shy.”
His forehead crumpled and he nodded. “I’m glad you told me, but that’s not what I’m doing to you.” He paused. “Like I said, I only want your trust.”
She blew out a breath. “I’ll try.” She wanted to reach out, take his warm hand, and make everything better. The lunch crowd made her resist. “Any idea who at your firm might have pushed that angle to the paper about Bernadette? She’s really upset.”
“No. Wish I did. I called her this morning. I knew she’d be upset.” He took a sugar packet and his fingers fiddled with it for a few seconds. “Dave and Bernadette have been very kind to me. I’d never have condoned the statement.”
Every part of Sophie wanted to believe him. She spoke softly, “Can you narrow it down to a short list of people?”
He nodded. “There are only two I can think of. Since the main roads are clear, I’m going to Hartford to try to get to the bottom of this. I hoped you could help me.”
“How?”
“By clearing Bernadette’s name. At least locally. Can you can get something in the Gazette right away saying the Courant accusation isn’t true?”
“You’re asking me to plant a story for you?”
“Well, yes.” He paused. “I don’t want people to think RGI would be involved in spreading rumors. I also don’t want Bernadette’s reputation hurt.”
Duncan’s hopeful gaze worked overtime to convince her manipulating the press to repair her best friend’s reputation had merit. He clearly had no problem pulling her across a journalistic line. His expectant stare turned into something more sincere and almost awkward.
He reached across the table and threaded his fingers through hers. “Please, Sophie. I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t matter so much.”
Her resistance wilted. Letting go of his hand would be the right thing to do, but his touch felt so secure and right. Quietly she replied, “I’ll discuss it with Cliff.”
He studied her for a long moment then his face softened. “Thank you.”
She hoped nobody in the restaurant watched them, but a lifetime of living in Northbridge told her they all were.
Chapter 19
Stan Polanski cracked an egg and it sizzled on the hot grill. His back to Sophie and Cliff, he kept talking. “Yep, Farmer’s Almanac says this winter will be tough. Last Friday’s storm may be the first of many.”
Cliff’s voice rose over the hissing grill while he removed his wallet. “Seems like when we were kids, every winter had tons of snow.” As Sophie reached for hers, he put out a hand to stop her. “My treat, kiddo.”
It had been at least twenty years since Sophie entered Polanski’s Grocery. Third generation owner of the business, Stan Polanski, looked a little plumper and grayer than years ago but, according to Cliff, he still made the best damn cheesy egg sandwiches in town.
Every Wednesday, Cliff met here for breakfast with other members of the Northbridge High School class of ’55, or thereabouts. She figured the older crowd found nostalgic comfort in the yellowed linoleum floor and the old metal-rimmed Formica countertop.
Cliff invited Sophie to join him this morning, part of a well-thought out plan to pry more information out of gossipmonger extraordinaire, Les Wilson. Since he’d clammed up on Meg a few weeks ago at the real estate office, refusing to give full disclosure on Frank Jamieson’s bribe to the town Police Department, Cliff seemed hell-bent on finding out the rest of the story. Nobody else he’d spoken to remembered a thing.
A part of Sophie wanted to stop their hunt on the Jamiesons’ past. What if they learned something even worse than bribery about Duncan’s father? How would she tell Duncan, who remained oblivious to her research?
Of course, the only way to suggest this to Cliff would be to ante up with her indiscretions. Something she wouldn’t do. In her current position, she could protect Duncan from any scathing news that came out about his father. She ignored the tug at her conscience, screaming something about a journalist’s ethics. There was always a chance today’s venture wouldn’t even tie into Duncan’s land purchase. If so, she’d insist Cliff put the story to rest.
Protectiveness over Duncan now guided many decisions, a severe shift in her loyalty compared to a few short weeks ago. Well-hidden shame filled her every move and yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
Five days had passed since the storm and their major handholding PDA—her daughter’s acronym for public displays of affection—at Sunny Side Up. Sophie was shocked it hadn’t shown up in one of the newspaper’s “Eye Around Town” entries. If Cliff knew, he hadn’t said a word. His silence offered her a false sense of security, though. Cliff always gave matters their due consideration. However, if he wasn’t talking, neither was she.
The short store-owner stretched on his toes and removed a bag of napkins from one of the ancient steel cabinets lining the wall then flipped the eggs. “Leave the money on the counter. Make it an even seven. I’ll bring this to you.”
“Thanks.” Cliff dropped the bills near the register and they picked up their coffees.
She followed him down an aisle of canned goods toward the back of the store. Adli’s familiar gentle chortle came from the direction they headed. They rounded a corner. Les Wilson had taken some time away from bothering the folks in Meg’s real estate office. He sat with Adli at an old round veneer table with folding chairs.
“Morning.” Cliff motioned for Sophie to take a seat with the men.
Adli’s face lit up. “Here he is. The only working man over seventy in town. Time to retire, don’t you think? Maybe run for office, like me.”
“I only turned seventy six months ago.” Cliff removed his VFW cap and put it on the table.
Adli nodded at Sophie. “To what do we owe the honor?” The bright morning sun peeked through a nearby window and glinted off the lens of his wire-framed glasses.
“Cliff tells me Stan makes the best breakfast sandwich in New England. Figured it was about time I tried one.”
“A true statement if I’ve ever heard one.” Les scratched the side of his balding scalp, the only hair remaining a bit like a baby chick’s fuzz. “What’s the good word down at the paper? Seems there’s plenty going on to keep you two busy.”
Cliff poured a packet of sugar into his Styrofoam cup and stirred. “Yup. It’s been one of our busier months.”
“I watched the last zoning meeting on the local cable channel the other night.” Les chuckled. The shake of his curved belly moved underneath his tight turtleneck and the tall neckline bumped the jowl of his chin. “Better than those new reality TV shows. Jamieson worked the room like Donald Trump.”
“Well, he is a big-time New Yawk City based developer.” Adli’s knock-off Bronx accent surprised Sophie, a bit out of place for his usual serious demeanor. He dusted a little confectioners’ sugar off the chest of his sweater vest, residue from the powered donut near his cup. “Probably even has lunch now and then with ‘the Donald.’ I can’t figure out what the hell he’s doing in Northbridge.”
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