The Woman in the News

by K. N. Casper

  “He’s a man,” she muttered.

  “My advice is to do what you do best,” he went on, ignoring her remark. “You’re a good reporter. Audiences like reporters who pose the kinds of questions they’d ask if they were in your shoes. So capitalize on your strengths.”

  Her assent this time was more enthusiastic, though still uncertain.

  “There’s something else.” He had her full attention now. “The job of sports director requires more than just anchoring a segment of the news or editing the highlights of a TUCS football game. You have to be able to supervise people, make bold decisions, be aggressive and dramatic. I don’t have to tell you this business requires teamwork. You get along pretty well with the crews around here. Make sure you continue that relationship, not only with the people who support you—” he paused for emphasis “—but with your contemporaries.”

  In other words, get along with Taggart. Don’t alienate him.

  She pinched her lower lip as she considered his words, spoken and unspoken. Finally she nodded and said, “I understand.”

  “For the time being, we’ll be doing things a bit differently. Clark’s chair will remain vacant. You’ll announce scores and present your highlights from the Live Center.”

  She gazed at him for a moment, her blue eyes appraising him, as if she were searching for some hidden meaning, some secret agenda. He was about to squirm under her scrutiny, when she said, “I’ll do my best.”

  He exhaled a pent-up breath when she looked away. “I know you will.” He stood up. She did, as well. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  He crossed the room and opened the door for her. For a fleeting second, as she moved by him, he thought she was going to offer to shake his hand. He was unnerved by how much the notion of touching her appealed to him, but she just smiled self-consciously and hobbled out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARLEE WASN’T surprised that Renn showed no great enthusiasm for Taggart. The only one who seemed impressed by him was Faye Warren. The ex-jock certainly capitalized on his one year under contract to the Dallas Cowboys, as if he’d been a budding Joe Montana or Troy Aikman. In fact, he’d possessed just enough talent to be a low-round NFL pick in the early eighties. If he’d truly had some great untapped potential, no one ever got an opportunity to discover it. In his first, inconsequential, preseason exhibition game, he’d blown out his left knee. Despite surgery and a year of intensive rehab, he was released from his contract. Apparently, even as a long shot, the odds were against his ever actually making the team. He’d married his physical therapist along the way, but when his promising career was declared dead, he’d blamed his wife and divorced her.

  A year or two of heavy drinking and debauchery had followed. Again, a woman came to the rescue. He sobered up, married her and used his short-lived NFL career to get hired on as a sports commentator by a national sports network. He covered professional football games, then partied with his old teammates—or more correctly with the cheerleaders. His second wife had failed to understand carousing was part of his job description. To hear him talk about it, she never really cared about him anyway, just his money, most of which she took when she divorced him. Poor guy. He was so distraught by her back-stabbing rejection that when a producer questioned some of the charges he’d made on his expense account, he lost his cool and slammed down a heavy microphone stand in a fit of temper. She claimed he threw it at her, and pointed to the hole in the wall to prove it. The network let him go. He settled the assault charge the producer had brought against him out of court. Bye-bye Ferrari.

  He got a job as an assistant football coach at TUCS and married a graduate student. Shortly thereafter, he had a major clash with the head coach, was asked to leave—he claimed he resigned—and donned the sports-analyst hat at KNCS-TV. Four months ago his sweet young wife caught him playing stickball with her best friend and threw him out of the house, but not before burning all his pretty-boy suits. She then proceeded to have her attorney take him to the proverbial cleaners. He’d been crying poor mouth ever since.

  Marlee figured he wanted the anchor position, not just for the prestige but because he needed the money. His ex was driving his Porsche and swimming in his pool, and he was still making payments on both.

  If management brought someone else in from outside, Marlee felt confident she could work with him—that it might be another woman didn’t even cross her mind—but if Taggart assumed the anchor role, she didn’t see any future for herself at the station. The man was a blowhard of the first order. He put in a few minutes’ face time on the air twice a week, while demanding other staff members write his material. She’d end up doing all the work and he’d take all the credit. No career-advancement potential there.

  Was that why Renn was buttering her up—because he would rather work with a woman than put up with Taggart? She laughed. Well, that was all right with her. Once she had the job, she’d prove her worth.

  Or was he just stroking her so she wouldn’t leave until he could find someone from outside?

  Renn was right. She needed to go with her strengths. She was a damn good reporter, and she’d prove it.

  Sunday, February 16

  “I REALLY APPRECIATE you helping me with this,” Audrey Van Pelt said.

  “Hey, it’s so nice having weekends off.” Marlee touched her cheek to the older woman’s. “I can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday than with you.”

  Audrey threw open the door to her husband’s closet. Her sons had taken most of his tools, many of his books and a few mementos from his den, but Clark’s clothes still hung where he’d left them. The boys had volunteered to cart off the things that could go to the Salvation Army, but she’d turned the offer down. Their time with her was too precious to waste packing boxes. At least, that was what she’d said. In truth, she hadn’t been able to face the private space that harbored his smell, his presence, the sense of the man about to come home, but who never would.

  “We’ll get the place cleaned out today,” Marlee said. “Next weekend we can paint it and you can spread your stuff out. A woman can always use more closet space.”

  “If only for shoes,” Audrey added, in a feeble attempt at humor.

  Marlee smiled, assembled one of the cartons she’d picked up on her way over, sealed the bottom with strapping tape and set it on the king-size bed. They starting filling it with suits, while she explained what had been going on at the station.

  “I can see why you’re disappointed.” Audrey grabbed a bunch of dress shirts, removed the plastic coverings and hangers and folded the shirts neatly before placing them in the box. “But I wouldn’t be discouraged. A slam-dunk decision at this point would probably have gone against you.”

  “To Taggart.” Marlee brought out casual and work clothes. “The recognized expert, the man,” she groused.

  “This delay gives you a chance to prove you’re the better choice, and with Renn on your side, your prospects should be good. After all, the position comes under his direct supervision. He’s in charge.”

  Marlee scoffed. “Seems to me if he was really in charge, he’d already have made a decision.”

  Audrey understood the younger woman’s frustration. “He’s new here. He can’t very well go directly against his boss at this point and expect to keep his job. It’s called politics, honey, and it’s a fact of life.”

  She ran her hand along the top of Clark’s bedside table. Dust. She hadn’t had the energy to do much housework lately. Without him around there wasn’t much point. With the boys having returned to their own lives, the place was so empty. Sean, their youngest, was in college back East. He’d be graduating in a few months—without Clark to watch him get his engineering degree. She brushed away an incipient tear. Their middle son, Jeff, had returned to his medical internship in New Mexico, and Steve, the model big brother, was an officer in the Marine Corps and stationed at Camp Pendleton. Having them home for the funeral had been a too-brief consolation but now they were all gone.r />
  All except Marlee, whom they’d virtually adopted.

  But Audrey’s mind was wandering; it did that a lot lately. What were they talking about?

  “The only reason Renn wants to give me the anchor job is that he can’t stand Taggart. Not that I blame him.”

  “I bet there’s more to it,” she said. “You’re much better qualified, and he knows it.”

  “You’d never guess it from all the grief he gives me.”

  Audrey had to smile. Clark recognized from the beginning that Renn was interested in Marlee but didn’t want to admit it. Nitpicking, her husband claimed, was his way of establishing distance between them.

  “He seemed pretty solicitous about you during the memorial service.”

  “Yeah, he was sort of sweet.” Marlee paused a little dreamily, then snapped out of it. “But that was different. I mean—”

  “Has he reverted since then?”

  Marlee tossed a wire hanger on the pile with the others. “Well, no. He’s been pretty nice, actually.”

  “And helpful?” Audrey prompted.

  “Well, I suppose. He gave me some good advice on how I can compete with Taggart.”

  Audrey noted the subtle wistfulness in her statement and grinned. “Doesn’t sound like a bad guy to me.”

  She paused over the expensive suit she’d bought Clark when he’d gotten the job at KNCS. Twenty years ago. She hadn’t realized he’d held on to it all this time. Out of style now and probably too small for him. Her eyes welled up. She kept her back to Marlee and rubbed her nose with a tissue from her jeans pocket.

  “I never said he was a bad guy,” Marlee rambled on, “just that he doesn’t like me.”

  Audrey wondered if she should clue the young woman in, that he probably liked her too much for his professional good. She neatly folded the suit and placed it in the box. “What do you think of him?”

  Marlee shrugged. “He’s my boss. What can I say?”

  “He’s quite good-looking.”

  Marlee sealed a box and assembled another, this one for shoes. “He’s okay.”

  Oh, honey, Audrey wanted to say, he’s more than okay. Tall, lean, square jawed, with blue eyes and dark hair. Maybe Clark had had it right after all. The two of them were attracted to each other but were terrified of admitting it.

  “I like your hair longer, by the way. Letting it grow was Renn’s idea, wasn’t it?”

  “It was easier to take care of when it was short,” Marlee objected, but she kept her eyes averted.

  Audrey smiled to herself. The attraction was definitely there.

  They’d removed all the clothes from the closet. Marlee started on footwear, while Audrey began emptying the built-in drawers. She wasn’t sure what to do with the rest of Clark’s jewelry. Steve had taken his Rolex. Jeff and Sean had divvied up his gold cuff links, tie tacks and clasps. The rest was costume quality. She scooped it into a shoe box and deposited it in a corner of the carton on the bed.

  In the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, she found Clark’s military medals and awards. She removed them and set them aside to send to Steve in California. In the back of the drawer she discovered his grandfather’s pocket watch.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever seen this.” Audrey held it out.

  Marlee examined the elaborately etched gold case. Audrey opened it so she could see the inscription inside the back cover and the date: 1889.

  “It’s beautiful,” Marlee said reverently.

  “Still works, too. A bit delicate by today’s standards for a man, though.” But not for a woman. “I’d like you to take it.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “As a keepsake of Clark. You were the closest thing we had to a daughter.”

  “But—”

  Audrey’s eyes brimmed again. “He would want you to have it, honey.”

  They both had tears running down their cheeks as they embraced.

  “I can’t imagine what I would have done without you two all these years,” Marlee said between sniffles. “Even when I wasn’t living here in Coyote Springs, I knew I could count on you, that you’d always be here for me. I love you so much.”

  “And we loved you,” Audrey whispered. “Still do.”

  They blew their noses, tried to dry their eyes and resumed cleaning out the closet.

  “So what did Renn tell you to do to get a leg up on Taggart?” Audrey asked a little later.

  “To be bold, aggressive and dramatic.”

  “Seems like good advice to me.”

  RENN SAT on the patio of his lake house, sipping coffee, munching a bagel and reading the Sunday newspaper. His thoughts kept wandering to Marlee and the hopeful determination he’d seen in her eyes when he’d told her she was being considered for Clark’s job. It was a long shot; she must realize that—unless she did something to make a name for herself, not just at the station but with the public, something out of the ordinary.

  Even if he didn’t really want her to get the job as sports director, he did like the idea of her doing well as a reporter. Maybe he could help her out.

  He flipped to the sports section. Rumor had it that Bill Parcells, the coach of the Dallas Cowboys, was in imminent danger of being fired. Parcells wasn’t known to be particularly hospitable when dealing with the media, so he might flat-out refuse any overture for an interview, but if Marlee could get one with him, it would definitely put her on the radar screen for sports director at KNCS-TV, or anywhere else, for that matter.

  Renn decided to check some of his contacts in Big D next week and see if Parcells might be receptive to talking with a young woman reporter from West Texas. Faye would scream bloody murder at the travel expenses, especially if Marlee and her photographer had to stay overnight in Dallas, since it would also mean separate rooms. But so what? That was the price for having a female reporter on the staff. The benefits to the station would far outweigh the costs.

  Renn smiled as a sailboat glided by. Marlee needed to co-opt Taggart. Getting an interview with Parcells would definitely do the trick.

  Friday, February 21

  THE NEXT-TO-LAST GAME of the college basketball season was Friday night, exactly two weeks after the death of Clark Van Pelt. TUCS versus Angelo State, and it was a home game. Marlee had been covering the Coyotes for months, watching them practice, talking to the players and their coaches. She didn’t need an expert analyst to tell her they were good. Their team captain, a six-foot-eight leaper by the name of Ty Jameson, moved with the grace and power of Michael Jordan. The Angelo State Rams had a couple of good players, as well, notably Stretch Higgins and Slim Brenner. Individually, neither of them could stop Ty. Combined, they promised an electrifying game.

  “Bring plenty of tapes,” Marlee told Wayne Prentice, her cameraman. “I’ll need complete coverage.” In two hours of taping, she might use a minute and a half, but without the raw footage, there was nothing to edit. “And save a blank for the after-game coverage. I want to do a couple of in-depth interviews.”

  “Got it,” Wayne said.

  She grabbed her press pass and notebook and charged out the door, while he lugged his fifty-thousand-dollar video camera with him.

  TUCS’s aging gymnasium, now called the athletic center, was located in a corner of the campus. Parking was at a premium. Fortunately, space was reserved behind the building for the press. Marlee pulled the white KNCS-TV van close to the back door that opened into a corridor between the men’s and women’s locker rooms. The voices of five thousand spectators echoed off the concrete-block walls. Excitement filled the heavy, humid air. The game wouldn’t start for another thirty minutes, but cheerleaders were already warming up the masses. The Angelo State contingent, though small, was every bit as enthusiastic as the home crowd. The court was squeezed between bleachers stacked so intimately close to the players that fans were virtually on top of the action, becoming almost a part of the game.

  While Wayne hauled his camera and tripod to the top of the stands behind the thro
ng, above the madness, Marlee scanned the packed assembly from press row on the front line. Coyote maroon-and-gray banners were held aloft, while pom-poms darted and bounced. Home-team fanatics brandished painted faces, animal masks and outlandish hats.

  A buzzer signaled the end of the twenty-minute warm-up period; the two teams lined up on their respective sides. A man’s voice boomed over the PA system: “Please rise with us in singing the national anthem and remain standing afterward for a special tribute.”

  The cavernous room rumbled as people rose to their feet. When the last chords faded, the university athletic director stepped to the edge of the court, microphone in hand.

  “Texas University at Coyote Springs and our community suffered a terrible loss two weeks ago when the bus bringing members of our high-school basketball team home from Del Rio was caught in a flash flood. Our own Voice of Coyote Springs, Clark Van Pelt, gave his life trying to save others. I ask you all to bow your heads in a minute of silence in honor to his heroism and in memory of those who perished with him.”

  Marlee had had no warning this tribute was going to be offered, and the sudden, respectful silence of the assembled crowd sent a shiver down her spine. Staring blindly ahead, biting her lips and straining to hold back tears, she tried to picture Clark’s face, his white hair, ruddy complexion, sparkling blue eyes. Panic swept through her when she realized she couldn’t see him distinctly in her mind, as if his features had been rubbed out. Fear that his memory might fade terrified her. Her head shot up just as the athletic director said, “Thank you,” and invited everyone to enjoy the upcoming competition.

  As she had expected, the ensuing game was up and down, each side running and gunning. By the end of the first half, the score stood at forty-eight all.

  The second half was even more boisterous. The battle was clearly drawn between Ty Jameson and the two star players from ASU.

  One minute to play. The score stood at ASU 107, Coyote Springs 106. Ty had the ball. He passed it to Tommy Remington, who dribbled to the left, spun, then whipped a behind-the-back pass to Ty. He pump-faked Stretch Higgins out of position, then slammed home a go-ahead bucket.