by JoAnna Carl
Ruth gestured with the pica pole. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
She had spoken to Ed, but he still didn’t say anything. So Dan Smith stepped forward with his friendly salesman’s grin.
“We didn’t mean to disturb you, Mrs. Borah, but Ed’s trying to help the family of Martina Gilroy locate all her personal effects. Ed wondered if she’d had a file drawer for extra storage, and I told him I thought I’d seen her use one.” He gestured. “I’m not sure which, but I think it was along here. I was here last January, and we went out to dinner. It was a cold night, and it seems as how she got a woolly hat and some warm gloves out of a drawer before we left.”
Ruth remained perfectly calm. “Certainly,” she said. She backed up to the end cabinet and tapped the top drawer. “It’s this one.”
“But it’s marked Marie, not Martina!” Ed sounded outraged.
“Marie Bloodworth had the drawer at one time,” Ruth said. “When she left, Martina moved from the one she’d had to this one.”
Trust Martina, I thought. She’d nabbed the drawer easiest to find and closest to her desk.
Ed almost lunged at the drawer, and Ruth pulled it open at the same moment. Ed nearly fell in it.
“As you see,” Ruth said, “it’s empty. The police took the entire contents of Martina’s desk and of this drawer the night she was killed.”
Ed looked crushed.
Dan was speaking again. “I am sorry to hear that. I had lent her a book, and of course I’d neglected to put my name in it. I guess it’s just gone now.”
“There were several books. What was it?”
“It was that wonderful autobiography by Katherine Graham,” Dan said. “The last time I saw her, Martina said she’d read it. She promised to get it back to me while I was in town.”
“You’ll have to ask the police,” Ruth said. “I’m sure they’ll release her belongings to the family.” She turned to Ed. “I’m sorry I’m not more help.”
“She had . . . she had . . . a clipping . . .” Ed stammered the words out, then drew himself up and spoke firmly. “Martina had a clipping about my son. I wanted it. As . . . as a souvenir. I’ll see about getting it from her family.”
He started across the newsroom, leaving Dan behind. Dan gave Ruth another ingratiating smile. “I’m sorry we’re such a bother,” he said. “What about Martina’s computer files?”
Ed stopped and turned so quickly he looked like a Volkswagen popping a wheelie. “Computer files!” His voice squeaked.
“I don’t know if Martina even had a computer file,” Ruth said.
“Can we look? Where would it be?” Ed almost panted.
Ruth went to her desk. “Reporters use individual files to write and store their stories,” she said. “But copy editors don’t write much, so they don’t have much to store.” She looked at me. “Nell, did Martina have a file on the list?”
Her question threw me into a quandary. The simple answer was no. No, Martina did not have a file on the newsroom list. But I had tracked her file down, copied it off to disk, printed it up, and given the whole thing to the cops.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell Ed and Dan that. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to tell Ruth that. But what grounds did I have for refusing?
I decided I’d better tell them, but they didn’t need to know all the details. I wanted to protect my fanny.
“I’m afraid it’s like the file drawer,” I said. “She did have a file, and I was able to locate it. So, it went to the police along with her personal effects.”
We nearly had to give Ed Brown CPR. After a moment of gasping and turning blue, however, he revived enough to ask to see the file.
“Actually, I think it’s been killed,” I said casually. I tried the code words “sports” and “car” again. And again the screen came up blank.
“I don’t know who killed it,” I said.
“I’m glad it’s gone,” Ed Brown said. His face was grim. He walked away without a word, defeat in every muscle of his shoulders.
Dan Smith sighed and smiled sadly at Ruth. “Our families, bless ’em,” he said. “We can’t live with ’em, and we can’t live without ’em.” He followed Ed Brown out the back door of the newsroom.
“Poor Ed,” Ruth said.
“What was all that about?” I asked.
“Ed Brown has a son, Ed Jr., who’s been quite a problem. At least Ed’s wife lets him be quite a problem.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“The kid is gay. That’s not the end of the world for most people today, but it is for Ed’s wife. She’s sure she’s to blame somehow. We all know about it, but she tries to keep the whole situation quiet.”
“I see.”
“The worst of it is, it’s so hard on Ed Jr. She makes him act out some kind of lie. It’s no wonder he kicks over the traces sometimes.”
“I see,” I said again. I turned to my computer screen. And now I did see. The story about “E.J. Brown” being in the fight outside a gay bar was about Ed’s son, not Ed himself. Martina had been twitting Ed about his son, the son his wife was ashamed to acknowledge. She’d poked her nose into a family’s private business.
For a moment I was so mad at Martina I could have thrown her down the stairs myself.
Belatedly, I remembered that Mike had asked me to call Jim Hammond if Dan Smith showed up at the Gazette. I still felt slightly finkish, but I picked up the phone and did it.
I’d barely put the phone down when it rang again. “Ms. Matthews, can you help me out?”
It was Dan Smith.
My stomach jumped. Did he know that the police wanted to talk to him, and that I’d tipped them off, telling Jim Hammond he was in the Gazette Building? I tried not to act guilty.
“Help you out with what, Mr. Smith?”
“You may have to answer quietly.”
I covered the receiver with my hand and whispered. “Like this?”
“It’s sort of embarrassing. But who is that new fellow sitting at Martina’s old desk?”
Chapter 25
If my stomach had jumped before, that question made it do a somersault. “New fellow?” I said stupidly.
“The bald one,” Dan Smith said.
There was no getting out of it. “His name is Arnie Ashe,” I said.
Dan Smith thought that over before he spoke again. “The name doesn’t ring a bell, but his face does. I think he used to have hair.”
“I suppose he did,” I said. “He’s just been here a few weeks.”
Dan said thanks, and we hung up. My innards were still jumping around.
Arnie had recognized Dan Smith’s name as that of the same salesman who twenty years earlier had visited the Jessamine Journal. Smith had taken some of the newspaper’s management out to dinner at the Jessamine Elks Club, and my parents had been in the group. My mother had gone to the club early and had flirted with some guys in the bar. The episode had led to her downfall in the small farming community. Within weeks she’d been dead, supposedly murdered by my father in a jealous rage.
But my father said Dan Smith hadn’t killed her. In fact, he’d first suspected this particular salesman of being his wife’s elusive boyfriend, the “Mr. Smith” she’d apparently met at a motel, the person he believed had run her down with her own car. Then he’d eliminated Dan Smith, because he appeared to have an alibi. But Smith had definitely known my dad twenty years earlier. Would he recognize him now?
I looked up and saw Dan Smith coming into the newsroom. Was he after a closer look at Arnie? What could I do to stop him?
As it turned out, I couldn’t do anything, short of having a fainting fit and throwing myself to the floor. Dan headed straight for Arnie. Arnie was looking at his VDT, frowning slightly, and he didn’t seem to see Dan coming.
I was tempted to yell a warning. “Look out! Danger! Salesman coming!” But there was nothing I could do. Arnie was on his own.
Dan bustled right up to him, shoving his hand at
Arnie over the top of the VDT.
“Hi, there, Arnie. I didn’t mean to snub you a few minutes ago, when I was up here with Ed Brown. I know we’ve met someplace, but you’re going to have to tell me where it was.”
Arnie froze. Then he thawed enough to shake Dan’s outstretched hand. “Sorry,” he said. “You’ve got the best of me. If we’ve met, it was a long time ago.” His voice was wooden.
“Well, I’m sure we’ve run into each other,” Dan said. “You’re new to the Gazette, aren’t you? Where did you work before you came here?”
“Texas.”
“No, I’ve never had a Texas territory. Did you ever work in the Midwest? Missouri?”
“I worked in Tennessee.”
“No, that wouldn’t be it.” Dan gave a throaty chuckle. “Sorry, you probably think I’m crazy. But remembering people is my stock in trade. I don’t like to let a familiar face get away without a name. Did you ever work in Illinois?”
Arnie shook his head. I was feeling more and more panicky. When Dan’s roll of the states reached Michigan, it was only too likely that the light lashes and pale eyes of Arnie Ashe would remind him of that young, fair-haired managing editor at the Jessamine Journal, the one with the nutty wife who got killed. I had to do something.
I got up and rapidly walked to the nearest reporter’s cubicle. Luckily, it belonged to my friend Mitzi Johns, who covered health. I ducked down and grabbed Mitzi’s phone off the hook.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Slight emergency.” I punched in the extension for Martina’s old desk.
Mitzi turned from her VDT screen, staring at me with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Rescuing Arnie,” I said. I could hear the phone ring in both ears, the one nestled into the receiver and the one hanging out in the newsroom.
Arnie answered on the first tinkle. I hoped this meant he was happy to have an interruption. “Copy desk.”
“Hi,” I said. “Do you need a message that you’re wanted in the library?”
“I think it might be a very good idea,” he said. “I’ll be right there.” The line went dead.
I hung up, then stood erect, looking over Mitzi’s partition. I could see Arnie and Dan jockeying around, shaking hands again, apparently saying good-bye. Arnie walked away calmly, and we passed as I went back to my desk.
“Whew!” Arnie said.
“Right!” I said.
I was afraid Dan Smith would begin to quiz me about Arnie, but he headed toward the back of the building. I saw him turn into the hall that led to the office of the computer guru who keeps the Gazette on line.
I sighed with relief, but I knew the emergency wasn’t over. At any moment some unexpected event could jog Dan Smith’s memory, and he’d remember who Arnie was. And he might call Michigan and tell them where he was. Arnie was never going to be safe until the real murderer—the killer of my mother and of Martina—was found.
I was relieved to see Ed Brown, Jim Hammond, and Boone Thompson get off the elevator. I hoped they’d come for Dan. If they’d take him away, he wouldn’t be an immediate threat to Arnie.
Sure enough, Ed led the group straight back to the computer room. And in a few minutes Boone and Jim came out with Dan. He wasn’t handcuffed or anything, but he had lost his professional salesman’s cheer.
As they crossed in front of the city desk, he spoke. “This isn’t about Springfield, is it?”
“We’re investigating the death of Martina Gilroy,” Jim answered. “Springfield can take care of its own problems.”
They went on through the newsroom and disappeared into the elevator.
I called the library and told Arnie the coast was clear, and he came back to work. I told him what had happened to Dan, and about what Dan had said as he left.
“Springfield?” Arnie frowned. “Wonder what happened there?”
We both went back to work. We barely exchanged a word until time for Arnie’s dinner break. Then, instead of leaving his desk, he turned to me. “I might be able to find out something about whatever bugged Dan Smith in Springfield.”
“Go for it.”
Arnie reached for the rack of reference books and pulled over a copy of the Editor and Publisher Yearbook. It is a major trade magazine for the newspaper world, and their yearbook lists the names and phone numbers of every daily and weekly in the United States. We keep a yearbook on the copy desk in case we need to call an out-of-town paper to trade information on a story with Grantham links. Reporters and editors usually cooperate on this sort of thing.
Arnie noted down a phone number from the Illinois section, then punched in a number. In a moment he spoke into the phone. “Copy desk, please.” Then, “Joe Phillips, please,” and “Hi, Joe. This is Arnie Ashe.”
Arnie and Joe had to talk a minute, of course, to catch up on a couple of years in each other’s lives. But in a few minutes Arnie got down to business. “Hey, Joe, I’m following up a lead on a murder down here. The lead’s sort of nebulous. One of the people being questioned is a salesman for Foster and Company, the printing-supply people. He used to be based in Springfield, Illinois—well, I know he was there twenty years ago. I’m not sure how long ago he left there. Anyway, we got a hint that he was in some kind of trouble while he was in Springfield, and we’d sure like to know what it was. The Tribune covers downstate pretty well. You suppose you could find anything?”
I opened my notebook, pulled out the card that Dan Smith had given me, and handed it to Arnie. “Daniel H. Smith,” he read aloud. “He’s probably close to sixty.” He listened. “Sure, Joe, I’ll be here all evening. I don’t expect you to drop every thing, but I’d sure like to know ASAP.” He gave Joe the Gazette’s number and his own home number. They traded a few more bits of professional gossip, and Arnie hung up.
“Guess I’ll go up to Goldman’s and get a hamburger,” he said. “Do you want me to get you anything?”
“Chili and a side of three-bean salad.”
He left, and I went back to reading copy. In less than fifteen minutes, Arnie’s phone rang. I hit the magic keys that allow me to answer any phone in our pod, and I picked up my receiver. “Copy desk.”
“Arnie Ashe, please.”
“Sorry. Arnie’s gone to dinner.”
“This is Joe Phillips with the Chicago Tribune. Arnie called me—”
“Yes. I’m working on the same story. He didn’t expect to hear from you this quickly.”
“I had a few minutes to do a search, but I’ll be busy later on. I found out some very interesting stuff.”
I fought the impulse to say, “Tell me about it!” I tried to keep my voice calm. “Arnie will be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. I can have him call you then.”
“What’s your e-mail?”
“[email protected]. But sometimes our local server isn’t too fast.”
“Can you take a message?”
“Sure.” I was dying to.
“Well, about ten years ago this Daniel H. Smith came close to standing trial for murder.”
“Murder!”
“Yep. It seems his wife was chronically ill—one of the muscle-wasting diseases—and was also suffering from clinical depression. Luckily for him, she’d been treated for both conditions. Apparently, she saved up her pain pills and used them to commit suicide.”
I made a noncommittal grunt.
“The police suspected that Dan had arranged the whole business. Or helped. They thought it might be a case of assisted suicide.”
“His wife didn’t leave a note?”
“That’s what got him off the hook. She hadn’t left a note at her bedside, or anything simple like that, but she’d written a letter describing what she planned to do, and she mailed it to an old friend in another city.”
“Lucky for Dan!”
“Right, when this Martina Gilroy—”
“Martina!” I yelled so loud that I must have split Joe’s eardrum.
Joe was quiet a moment, then he chuckled. “Shall
I assume you know her?”
“Right! She’s the victim in the murder here, the one Arnie and I are looking into.”
Joe whistled. “I remember now,” he said. “We ran a story on it. Well, Dan Smith shouldn’t have wanted to kill her. She’s the one his wife wrote to, and she definitely saved his bacon in Springfield. Without that letter from his wife, Dan could well have been charged. And, by the way, I knew Dan Smith’s wife. She covered the courthouse in Effingham when I worked there as a cop reporter. We were both just out of college. She’d gone to the University of Missouri.”
He promised to e-mail the complete stories on the death of Dan Smith’s wife, and I gushed thanks at him. My heart was pounding as I hung up.
Assisted suicide! Martina had a story on the legal aspects of assisted suicide in her file. This was probably quite a sore topic with Dan. He wouldn’t want that episode from his past brought up.
But Martina had saved Dan from possible charges on assisting his wife to commit suicide. He should have been grateful to her. I now recall that Martina had mentioned she’d been in college with Dan Smith’s wife. She’d named some other old college friend, too. Acted as if I should know who she was.
Or had Martina come forward with the letter selfishly, to place Dan in her debt? Had she demanded the dinners, the attention Dan had paid her? Was their relationship not friendship but blackmail?
Could Dan have gotten sick and tired of Martina?
In a few minutes, Arnie called to say he and my chili were downstairs. Ruth okayed a slightly early dinner break for me, and I ran down the back stairs. I was in the first-floor hall—the one where I’d once done a little dance with J.J. Jones as he came up from the basement—before I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be there alone.
I looked up and down the hall. It was empty, and the doors that led into Classified and Circulation were shut. The coast seemed to be clear. I walked swiftly down the length of the building and into the break room.
Arnie had spread our dinners out on a table on the dividing line between non-smoking and smoking. He looked up when I came in the door. “Do you want to stick your chili in the microwave?”