by K. N. Casper
“You botched the report on the Coyote Springs–Abilene game,” Renn Davis complained
“Reversed the scores,” he continued.
“Well,” Marlee Reid drawled a little sheepishly as she climbed down from the set, “the numbers were right there on the screen. Viewers could see it was a simple mix-up.”
“And how were they supposed to know which one you screwed up?” Renn retorted with a thin smile and a raised eyebrow. “Your commentary or your graphic?”
Having no suitable comeback, Marlee sashayed toward the studio door without responding, her chin held high, a taunting smile pasted on her face to disguise her annoyance at Renn’s persistent criticism.
Standing over to the side, the anchor of the sportscast clucked his tongue and cocked his head in amusement at the two younger people. Renn Davis had been sniping at Marlee Reid ever since he’d arrived at KNCS-TV six months earlier to assume his first post as news director. The games those two played. They seemed totally oblivious to the subliminal message they were sending. He was looking forward to seeing the day when the light came on.
Dear Reader,
Have you ever had a job you loved but that somehow turned to…disappointment? Marlee Reid is in that position. The only thing she’s ever wanted to be is a sportscaster, and by golly, she is. But then bad things happen, people around her change and her aspirations, while never completely going away, become tarnished, and she’s forced to make life-altering decisions.
Her boss, Renn Davis, the news director, is in the same boat. He’s spent all his life in the media, loves the frenetic world of news and sports, of perpetually being in on the action. He’s also a man of principles. One is that women don’t make good sportscasters. The other is a firm rule—never get involved with a woman in the media. Recent events at the television station, however, compel him to rethink both these prejudices.
I hope you enjoy this tiny glimpse into the unique and fascinating world of television news and sports and the dilemmas that the people in this story have to face.
I enjoy hearing from readers. You can e-mail me at [email protected], or write me at P.O. Box 61511, San Angelo, Texas 76904. Please also visit my Web site: www.kncasper.com.
Sincerely,
K.N. Casper
Books by K.N. Casper
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
806—A MAN CALLED JESSE
839—HER BROTHER’S KEEPER
884—THE TEXAN
951—THE FIRST FAMILY OF TEXAS
978—THE MILLIONAIRE HORSEMAN
1006—THE FIRST DAUGHTER
1022—GIDEON’S BABY
1041—A MOTHER TO HIS CHILDREN
1100—FIRST LOVE, SECOND CHANCE
1134—JACKSON’S GIRLS
The Woman in the News
K.N. Casper
My thanks go first of all to my son-in-law Greg Kerr, for his insights into the world of sports and sportscasting.
To Lori, who always comes through with valuable suggestions, and to Mary, who continues to inspire.
It’s long past due that I offer my heartfelt thanks to Paula Eykelhof, who took a chance and gave me an opportunity for which I will always be grateful.
And a very special thanks to Beverley Sotolov, editor extraordinaire, whose patience, encouragement and friendship have guided me every step along the way.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
“YOU BOTCHED the report on the Coyote Springs-Abilene game,” Renn Davis complained. “Reversed the scores.”
Marlee Reid glanced over at Clark Van Pelt, her boss and the anchor of the sportscast they’d just completed.
He awarded her an affectionate grin and nodded.
“Well,” she drawled a little sheepishly, as she climbed down from the television set, “the numbers were right there on the screen. Viewers could see it was a simple mix-up.”
“And how were they supposed to know which one you screwed up?” Renn retorted with a thin smile and a raised eyebrow. “Your commentary or your graphic?”
Having no suitable comeback, she sashayed toward the studio door without responding, her chin held high.
“You also let your ignorance of Michigan show,” Renn called out to her retreating figure.
She swung around at the challenge, as he no doubt calculated she would. “I know they’re going into the tournament as the favorites with a record of seventeen-three.” She pasted on a taunting smile to disguise her annoyance at his persistent criticism. “Or is there something else you have in mind?”
Standing over on the side, Clark tucked his tongue in his cheek and cocked his head in amusement at the two younger people. Renn had been sniping at Marlee ever since he’d arrived at KNCS-TV six months ago to assume his first post as a news director. Clark took a kind of fierce pride in the fact that Renn always got as good as he gave. “I think he’s referring to Milbrew’s hometown in Michigan,” he told Marlee.
“Charlotte?” she asked. “What about it?”
“It’s pronounced Shallot,” Renn informed her, “with the accent on the last syllable.”
She pulled back and stared at Clark. “Is that true?”
He pursed his lips, his blue eyes twinkling.
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Obviously,” Renn sniped. “If there are any Michiganders in the viewing area, I’m sure you’ll hear about it.”
Marlee snorted in frustration. “How was I supposed to know that’s how they pronounced it up there? In North Carolina it’s called Charlotte, just like the girl’s name.”
Clark started to walk away.
“Okay, wise guy,” Marlee snapped at Renn. “Here’s one for you.”
Clark turned and caught the smug, almost haughty expression on her face. The games these two played amused him, especially since they seemed totally oblivious to the subliminal messages they were sending. He was looking forward to seeing the day when the light came on.
Marlee grabbed the pen from Renn’s shirt pocket, scratched a word in the margin of the top page of her broadcast notes and shoved it under his nose. “How do you pronounce the name of this town in East Texas?”
The news director grabbed the paper just before it fell to the floor, glanced at it, shrugged and said, “Mexia?”
“Wrong,” she said with undisguised glee. “It’s Ma-hay-ya, with the accent on the second syllable.”
This time it was Renn who looked over to Clark for confirmation. The sports anchor arched his eyebrows and nodded a Gotcha.
Redirecting his attention at Marlee, then at the paper in his hand, Renn let out a guffaw. “Okay, hotshot—” he raised a finger and stroked two marks in the air “—Christians one, Lions one.”
She smiled sweetly at Renn and remarked, “And we both know which side you’re on.”
Clark chuckled and walked away.
CHAPTER ONE
Friday, February 7th
“WE INTERRUPT this program to bring you a special announcement,” a deep, off-screen voice stated, as the news set suddenly appeared in place of the Friday-night network program. Marlee sat opposite the news anchor, both of them staring into the camera with sober expressions.
“We have just received confirmati
on from the Texas Department of Public Safety,” Mickey Grimes said, “that about an hour ago the bus carrying the Coyote Springs High School basketball team home from Del Rio was washed off the road in a flash flood. Details are still sketchy. What we know at this point is that it happened at a low-water crossing over the dry fork of the Devil’s River. A spokesman for the department informs us that the helicopter rescue squadron stationed at Laughlin Air Force Base has been deployed to the scene and is currently airlifting survivors back to Del Rio.”
He turned to his left. “Our own sports director, Clark Van Pelt, was traveling with the boys after their stunning victory over the Del Rio Devils, Marlee. Have you received any word from him?”
The camera swept to her. In spite of her carefully applied makeup, she appeared pale, perhaps because she was so uncharacteristically stiff.
“I’ve been trying to contact him on his cell phone ever since we heard about this accident, Mickey. So far I’ve been unsuccessful. As soon as I do—” Her voice began to quaver.
“We’ll break in with the latest developments,” Grimes finished for her. “We return you now to our regularly scheduled programming.”
Marlee continued to stare glassy-eyed into the camera until the red light went off and she saw the signal from the producer that they were no longer on the air.
Mickey offered her an encouraging smile. “I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe a little wet, though.”
She tried to return the smile and failed. While Mickey responded to a comment from the news producer, Shelley Chester, Marlee leaned over and grabbed the crutches on the floor beside her, stood up and hobbled down from the set, only vaguely aware of the sharp pain in her right ankle. Renn Davis stood by the studio door, watching her.
“Any contact yet?” she asked, though his stony expression had already given her the answer. Her insides knotted. Her stomach ached.
Renn blinked slowly and shook his head.
A heaviness settled in Marlee’s chest. There were any number of reasons that Clark wasn’t answering his cell phone. Atmospherics due to the storm. A tower blown down. He may have turned the phone off or forgotten to charge it—that wouldn’t be the first time. Or it might have been lost or damaged.
“The highway department believes three people are missing,” Renn said, then hastened to add, “but they’re not sure and haven’t released any names. We’ll wait until we get confirmation from them and the next of kin have been notified before announcing anything on the air. No use scaring people when we don’t know the facts.”
She nodded and swayed as a sudden wave of dizziness swamped her.
Renn reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulders to steady her. “You all right?”
The unexpected gesture and the firm strength of his touch caught her off guard. The simple contact felt reassuring enough for her to want to wallow in it. She regained her balance and straightened. He released his grip.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Renn said, attempting to sound positive. She didn’t miss the note of doubt in the words, however. He was worried, too. He walked beside her down the narrow hallway to the newsroom.
THE CAVERNOUS work center was a madhouse. The pandemonium associated with last-minute preparations for the news at ten never failed to shoot an extra spurt of adrenaline into Renn’s bloodstream. He’d grown up in the media world, been lulled by the raspy chatter of teletypes when he was a kid. In spite of its downsides, erratic hours, missed weekends and holidays and occasional public hostility, the excitement hadn’t completely lost its allure. Tonight there was an added throb of urgency. This wasn’t just another big story, breaking news; this involved one of their own. For a few seconds he stood, watched and listened.
The telephones that people didn’t have cradled against their ears as they solicited information from police, paramedics and other emergency organizations were ringing off their hooks. Stations in cities across Texas were calling for information. Against the far wall, wire-service printers clicked and buzzed, a police scanner crackled and burped, while computer sound cards beeped and chirped.
Pearl Montez, the local news reporter who handled the Hispanic beat, was hanging up the phone with one hand and jotting down notes on a steno pad with the other. A fifteen-year veteran who’d covered innumerable local accidents and tragedies, the short, round native of Coyote Springs was caring and sensitive, but she could also be aggressive.
Not far away, Darius Smith was slapping fresh labels on the stash of videotapes he carried for his cam-corder. Six feet tall, rail thin, dark-skinned with a retro Afro hairdo and a diamond stud in his left ear, he was in his late twenties and had been with the station five years. He was also good with the camera.
Mickey Grimes brushed between Renn and Marlee with a barely audible “Excuse me” and raced to his desk, where he snatched up his phone. It was time for Renn to get into action.
“Pearl,” he called, as he approached Montez and motioned to Darius to join them, “I want you two to take the van and drive down to the crash site. Get as close as the police will allow. Find Clark, interview him and the rest of the survivors, rescue workers and any other people on the scene. We want to know exactly what happened.”
“You got it,” Pearl said.
“What about the Sky-Spot?” asked Shelley. She’d just hung up the phone at the neighboring desk.
“We’ll deploy it,” Renn said, “at first light.”
The station’s helicopter was used mostly for transporting reporters to remote locations, but it had an aerial photography capability, as well. Expense of operation dictated that it be used judiciously.
“With military choppers in the area, I don’t want to risk a midair collision or interfere with rescue operations. One tragedy is enough.”
They nodded. No one doubted the seriousness of the situation.
“In the meantime, I want you and one of the photographers—take Wayne Prentice—to search through the archives for any footage that might fit the situation—shots of flash floods, of buses half submerged in floodwaters. We won’t need them if Darius can get us something at the scene, but under the circumstances he may not be able to.”
Shelley nodded and scribbled a note to herself.
“Also,” Renn went on, “we’ll want the most recent group pictures of the Coyote Springs High School basketball team, its coach—”
“We have Marlee’s last interview with Coach Hillman after the Abilene game,” Wayne Prentice offered. He’d been her photographer for about a year. Young, ambitious and enterprising, he had potential if he could learn to be more disciplined.
“Good.”
Renn watched out of the corner of his eye as Marlee struggled with her crutches between the desks to join them. The pain in her foot was undoubtedly enough to cause the tight expression on her face, but he suspected it had more to do with uncertainty about Clark’s fate. Not only was the sports anchor her boss and mentor, but a close personal friend.
He turned again to Wayne and Shelley. “Put together a montage of Van Pelt clips—of him interviewing famous athletes, helping with handicapped kids, the dinner where he received the National Sportscaster of the Year Award—”
“Sounds like an obit.” Marlee cleared her throat. “Is he dead? Have the police—”
She was close to tears, though she was fighting valiantly to hold them back. He marveled at her composure under the circumstances.
“No,” he assured her. “I’m putting together a tribute. Depending on what happened…if he gets hurt…or actively involved in the rescue…you have to admit it would be just like him.”
She combed her fingers nervously through her shoulder-length blond hair. He could see in her eyes that she wanted to argue with him, but she was also a professional who knew they had to plan for contingencies.
“I’ll help,” she told the others.
A surge of flowery perfume heralded the arrival of Peggy Faykus, the daytime receptionist.
“I heard what happened on the
car radio after I took the grandkids home from soccer practice,” she announced. Five-ten, with raspberry-colored big hair, she carried enough weight to intimidate a football lineman. “Any word on Clark?”
Renn shook his head.
She looked at the familiar anarchy around her. “I’ll open the switchboard and deal with the nuisance calls.”
He was grateful for the offer. “I don’t want any information given out that hasn’t already been reported on the air.”
“I’m familiar with the rules and the routine, Mr. Davis.”
He shook his head by way of apology. “Sorry, Peg. I know you’re an old hand at this.”
“Watch that old part,” she retorted, forgiving him with a thin smile. At fifty-five, she’d been at the station almost thirty years, longer than anyone else.
“Thanks for doing this. We’ll work out comp time or something—” He stopped when Peggy planted her right hand where Renn presumed her hip would be, frowned and peered past him. He turned.
Faye Warren, the station’s vice president, stood in the reception area, the glass front door inching closed behind her. Instead of a short-skirted business suit that showed off her shapely legs, she was wearing jeans and a tank top. Several people turned to stare, unused to seeing her casually attired.
“What’s going on?” she demanded of Renn without greeting him or anyone else.
He took no offense. The situation was tense. Everyone was on edge, and she wasn’t the easygoing, amiable type under the best of circumstances. He led her over to the side so Peg could get behind her desk, then filled her in on the latest developments.
“Why was Van Pelt on the bus? He’s the sports director, not a cub reporter. Why didn’t Marlee go?”