Don't Get Mad, Get Even
Page 11
Mother flew out a few times the first year of our marriage, helping me make our house a home while Gavin worked long hours. We even decorated a nursery that looked out on a large pasture dotted with cottonwood trees. But it sat empty.
Thank God.
The song finally ended. I made my way to an empty table while Gavin headed to the bar.
“There she is, our volunteer of the year,” Freddy Crawford said as he and his wife joined me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier gal, except for my Miranda here, of course.” He pecked his wife on the cheek as she sat down.
She laughed and patted my hand. “Honey, it’s good to see your husband supporting you at one of these functions. He’s missed so many over the years, we were beginning to wonder if he was a spy or something, leading a secret life somewhere else.”
“A secret life?” I laughed back.
Miranda leaned forward, her jasmine perfume tickling my nose. “You know, it wasn’t till he started volunteering at the YMCA some months back that I knew Gavin shared any of your interests in children’s causes. He’s been such a help with the afternoon tutoring and the sports programs.”
I forced myself to smile. It was Miranda who’d first mentioned Gavin’s volunteering to me a few weeks ago during one of our charity luncheons. Then Deborah Paterson piped in that the Boy Scouts were grateful for all of Gavin’s support, too—time and money.
How I hadn’t known about his renewed extra-curricular activities, I don’t know. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to know. In the beginning, Gavin seemed to live up to his promise, burying himself in helping run his daddy’s ranch. After a while, I’d busied myself so much with my charities that I’d stopped paying attention to what Gavin was doing.
But after listening to Miranda and Deborah, I couldn’t stay blind anymore.
I spotted Gavin heading our way and jumped up. “Time to cha-cha. Gavin is just a dancing fool.” I hurried over and drew him out on the floor.
“Since when do you like to dance so much?” he asked about ten minutes later, stepping in time with me to a Texas waltz.
“Since you’re here in public with me, making a good appearance.”
When the song ended, Gavin wanted to take another breather, but I pressed for one more dance. The band had started a real fast one. Gavin might have been in his late sixties and a bit pudgy, but he still could tear up the floor. So much so that we attracted a small audience, which spurred Gavin to keep going for three more numbers.
By the time we took a break, he was sweating something fierce. “Gavin, honey, you don’t look so good. You go sit down. I’ll get you some water.”
“Scotch,” he said as he fanned his face with his hat.
I sidled up to the empty end of the bar, set my purse on the counter, and ordered Gavin’s drink. The music caught my attention, and I turned around, taking in the room. Everyone looked so wonderful. Bitsy spotted me and waved. Lord, was she fixing to come over here?
“Here you go, ma’am.” The bartender set down Gavin’s scotch.
“Can I also get a Long Island iced tea, please?”
While the bartender went off to make the seven-liquor drink, I put my cell phone to my ear, pretending I was on a call. I didn’t want anyone, especially Bitsy, to bother me. She’s nice, but boy, could she talk.
I waited a few seconds and glanced over my shoulder. Good. No Bitsy. Never one to have idle hands, I began fiddling in my purse. When my drink finally arrived, I snapped my purse shut, switched off the phone, and headed back to our table, still swirling Gavin’s scotch.
“Here you go. One scotch.” I beamed at him while he gulped it down. “Whoa, that’s kind of fast, honey. You want another?”
“You’re being awful nice to me tonight, Gaylene.”
“It’s my night. I want everything to go just right.”
I got him another scotch, which he downed, too. A few minutes later, Gavin leaned over. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
I sprang up. “Well don’t do it here in the middle of the room.”
I yanked him to his feet and walked him to the men’s room, his breathing shallow. He headed in, and I entered the ladies’ room. Calm, as if nothing unusual was going on.
“Congratulations again, Gaylene.” Bitsy sat next to me at the vanity while I touched up my face. “That sure is a pretty color lipstick. And I loved your speech tonight. I’m always in awe of you and everything you do for children. There doesn’t seem to be any task you’re not willing to take on.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Bitsy. You’re so very sweet.”
A commotion nearly overwhelmed me when I left the ladies’ room.
“Gaylene! There you are!” Freddy Crawford grabbed my arms. “We’ve called the paramedics. Gavin passed out in the bathroom.”
“Oh, my Lord.” Forsaking my sense of propriety, I barged into the men’s room. Tyler Harrison was giving Gavin CPR. How lucky that a doctor was in the restroom when Gavin collapsed.
“Tyler, what’s going on?” I knelt next to Gavin, who now smelled more like vomit than horse. “Will he be all right? What happened?”
Tyler kept pushing on Gavin’s chest, his face grim. “How much did he have to drink tonight?”
“Um, I’m not sure. Two or three gin and tonics at the beginning of the night. Then at some point he switched to scotch. Might have had a couple bourbons, too.”
“He always drink that much?”
“Yes. But he’s never had any trouble before.”
“Any history of heart problems?”
“No. You think it’s his heart?” I pressed my hand to my own, feeling it beat rapidly in my chest. “Oh, no! His daddy died of a heart attack.”
I slumped back against the wall while Freddy hurried the rest of the men out of the room. Then he sat down beside me and took my hand.
Tyler put his ear to Gavin’s lips, his fingers to Gavin’s neck. Shook his head. When he resumed chest compressions a moment later, Tyler looked defeated. Gavin was pale. I didn’t sense any life left in him.
Tears filled my eyes while Freddy patted my hand. “He’s gonna be all right. You’ll see.” The bathroom door banged open as the paramedics sped in, followed by some firefighters and a police officer. I swallowed hard. The room suddenly felt very crowded.
“You’ve got an overweight man, late sixties to early seventies, apparent heart attack,” Tyler said while they took over Gavin’s care. “I’ve done CPR for the last five minutes or so.”
“He’s sixty-nine,” I said, my voice squeaking.
“He collapsed here,” Tyler went on. “Vomited first. Looks like he drank too much tonight and overdid it on the dance floor.”
“No pulse,” the red-haired paramedic said. A fireman hooked Gavin up to a heart monitor, while the redhead took over the CPR. The other paramedic interrupted a few times to shock Gavin. Then someone shoved a tube attached to a ventilation bag down Gavin’s throat. Someone else started an IV. I tried to back away.
“We’ve got to hurry,” the redhead said as he and his partner loaded Gavin on a stretcher.
I struggled to my feet to follow the paramedics as they rushed out of the restroom with Gavin, but I staggered. Freddy, bless him, steadied me.
“You okay?” he asked.
I exhaled a deep breath. “Yes. I think so.”
“You’re gonna have to run to go with the ambulance, Gaylene,” Freddy said. “Miranda and I can take you to the hospital. Why don’t you let us do that?”
I nodded. “Thank you, Freddy. A ride would be good.” My breath became a bit ragged as I fought off tears. “I’d just like a minute to myself first.”
“Of course. Tyler and I’ll wait outside.”
Freddy and Tyler left the restroom, leaving me all alone. I headed to one of the stalls. Thankfully it was clean. I’d always heard horror stories about men’s rooms.
I reached into my purse and pulled out the baggie I had packed that afternoon. Just a trace of my crushed heart pills remained
inside. I tossed the baggie into the toilet and flushed twice, making sure the evidence floated away.
My tears started flowing then. Tears of relief. And sadness. I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand.
Yes, it was my special night. And Bitsy was right. I’d do anything to keep children safe.
Anything.
“Volunteer of the Year” first appeared in Chesapeake Crimes: They Had It Comin’, published by Wildside Press in 2010. This story was nominated for the 2010 Agatha Award.
I once read a short story where a crime was committed right before the reader’s eyes, but it was disguised so well by the author, I didn’t realize the crime had happened until the end of the story. I was intrigued by that twist and wanted to see if I could do it myself. That was the premise behind “Volunteer of the Year.” Many thanks to New Mexico-based author Christine Barber, who helped me get the details about the paramedics correct. Any mistakes, of course, are my own.
THE CONTEST
John swiped my suntan lotion off my desk as he strode toward the newsroom door.
“I’m off to do a Suzy Q special, interviewing some of those college girls working the boardwalk concession stands,” he called over his shoulder, an annoying grin creasing his face. “Seems they’re all broken up over their friend who took a header off the pier. Don’t want to get burned up. Thanks, Suzy Q.”
I leaned back in my pseudo-leather chair and sighed. Go ahead, John. Take my suntan lotion. Why not? You’ve already borrowed my tape recorder, my favorite baseball cap, and Lord knows how many pens from me this summer. Oh, yeah. And my dream job. You’ve likely stolen that from me, too. Bastard.
“Susan.” My editor, Frank, leaned out his office. His grizzled beard needed a trim. “Can you come in here a moment, please?”
I grabbed my notepad and hurried in. Maybe he had a big story for me. Maybe I could win this contest after all and get promoted from summer intern to official, full-time reporter.
“I’m awful sorry how this all has turned out,” Frank said, his chair squeaking as he settled his large frame into it.
Ugh. Not a good way to start a conversation. I sank into one of the two faded chairs opposite his desk.
“I had high hopes for you at the beginning of the summer,” Frank said. “I like your approach to journalism, but these circulation figures don’t lie.”
He handed me a spreadsheet, pointing to the number at the bottom of column one. Circulation at my weekly paper, The Cape Times, which covers the goings on in Cape Ann, New Jersey, was up three percent since I started this internship in May.
“Three percent,” I said. “That’s really good. Right?”
“Hell, yes. Especially considering how so many papers are going under across the country. Under normal circumstances, I’d be doing a jig, giving you a big kiss, and offering you permanent employment. But these aren’t normal circumstances.” He poked a stubby finger at the bottom of the next column.
Since the competition began, circulation at The Bay Banner, which covers the adjacent town of Atlantic Bay, had risen five percent. Damn! Looked like my nemesis, fellow intern John Bohnert, had the job in the bag.
“He’s sure been lucky this summer.” My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s a terrible thing to say.”
Frank’s eyes twinkled at me. “Don’t you worry. You wouldn’t be a newspaper reporter at heart if you didn’t have a taste for black humor. And John has been lucky.” He grabbed some old issues of the Banner from a teetering pile on his desk. “Five teenagers killed Memorial Day weekend when their car rammed a telephone pole.” He pointed at another of John’s stories. “Carnival worker died in freak accident while repairing the Ferris wheel.”
“It’s been like that all summer,” I said. “My town’s been nice and quiet, while John’s town has had one big story after another almost every week.”
“And those stories sell newspapers. But don’t you feel bad. You’ve done excellent work.” Frank’s chair groaned as he leaned back. “Heck, I loved that article about the guy with skin cancer who’s using sheep as lawn mowers ’cause his wife won’t let him out in the sun anymore. And that interview you did with the high school principal. Ain’t she a pistol! Everybody thought they knew her, but who ever would’ve expected that her favorite vacation spot is her basement?” He chuckled. “You’ve been reflecting the Cape Ann community, who these folks truly are, in your stories. And they appreciate it. I hear it all the time at the market, at the library, everywhere.”
“Any chance Debbie Cheung won’t come back from maternity leave?” I asked, hopeful. “John could still win the contest and get the one open job, but maybe there’ll be another opening…for me?”
Frank smiled. “Nope. Sorry. Debbie’s set to start again right after Labor Day.” He clasped his hands over his big belly. “Don’t you worry, Susan. I’ve got editor friends at every paper in New Jersey. I’m going to help you find your first permanent job.”
I stood. “Thank you. But you know what? There’s one more week left in this contest. I still could outsell John and win the job. Heck, maybe a serial killer will strike in my town. That story would sell a ton of copies.”
The old newspaper man smiled at me again. “Dare to dream.”
* * * *
“I’ve got it!” Amanda said that night as she slid another bite of apple pie onto her fork. “We pool all our money together and buy every copy of The Cape Times next week. Circulation will go up, and you’ll land the job.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said to my roommate as we sat at our battered, wooden kitchen table. “That’ll work. Because we both have so much spare cash on hand.” I’d been earning peanuts at the newspaper all summer, and Amanda had been selling them—literally—on the boardwalk, along with every kind of junk food imaginable, to afford her share of our small, one-story rental.
“Well, there’s got to be something we can do. That Bohnert guy doesn’t even like living at the beach, does he?” She cranked up the volume on her old radio as the Boss began singing “Born to Run.” Gotta appreciate a classic.
I swallowed my Ramen noodles. “No, John’s made it very clear. The only thing he likes about the shore is that it attracts a lot of girls in the summer.” Such a typical guy. “He’s aiming for a big, urban daily. It’s completely ironic. All I’ve ever wanted was to work at a small newspaper down the shore, settle into a town, and grow roots. And Cape Ann is perfect. I love it here.” I dug in for more noodles. “John sees covering Atlantic Bay as merely a stepping stone to a more prestigious paper. But he’s going to get the job, and I’m going to have to hit my parents up for another loan.”
Not that I’m bitter or anything.
“Then tell your editor that.” Amanda refilled her water glass at the sink. “The fact that you want the job long term has to count for something, right?”
“You’d think so. But Frank doesn’t actually have a say in the matter. This contest was the publisher’s idea, and all he cares about is circulation. Frank has to give the one full-time job opening to the intern who increases sales the most this summer. And the folks in Atlantic Bay seem to appreciate John’s bad-news approach to journalism more than the Cape Annians like my good-news approach.”
Amanda returned to the table and speared another bite of pie. “Want me to rob the convenience store? That’ll give you some bad news to cover.”
I laughed, my mind going places it shouldn’t. “Would you?”
* * * *
“Whoa!” John said over my shoulder a few days later. “Stop the presses!”
I started as John peered at my computer screen. God, I hated how he always snuck up on me like that.
“A record number of adoptions this summer at the animal shelter,” he read, smirking. “Hot news, Suzy Q.”
I swiveled around in my chair, then stood so we were eye to eye. “Couldn’t you once, just once, call me Susan? And it is good news. Don’t you like animals?”
“Sure
I do. Back at the university, our frat had a dog. You can’t imagine the number of chicks I attracted each time I walked that mutt.”
How sweet.
“You know, Suzy,” he said, while I gritted my teeth at the nickname. “You have to go out and find the big stories. You’re never gonna get anywhere in this business if you keep concentrating on all that fluff.”
Fluff?! “Let me guess, John. You must be working on a much more important story. Has the pope come to Atlantic Bay and dropped dead? Or maybe you’ve had a huge bank heist.”
“No such luck.” He shook his head, looking genuinely disappointed. “But Doug Potter did land in the hospital this morning. I’m just about to write that up.”
“Potter?” Frank came out his office. “What happened?”
“Bicycle accident. Broke his left arm and leg and has a concussion,” John said.
“Will he be okay?” Frank asked.
“That’s what I hear,” John said.
“Good.” Frank turned to me, apparently taking in the question on my face. “Potter was Atlantic Bay mayor for over a decade in the eighties and nineties. He’s one of the most popular mayors the town has ever had.”
I sucked in a deep breath. Of course he was.
“In addition to the story on the accident, let’s do a sidebar on bicycle safety,” Frank said. “And give a call over to Potter’s family, John. See if we can get a recent photo.”
“Already done,” he said. “I’ll pick it up before afternoon visiting hours end.”
“Great work, John,” Frank said. “Really great work.”
Yeah. Great. Just great.
* * * *
A couple hours later, I was still tinkering with my animal shelter story when Frank poked his head into the newsroom again.
“Any luck with that Potter photo, John? I bet visiting hours are almost over.”
John jumped up, checking his watch. “Shoot. I’ll go get it right now.” He grabbed his keys and hurried past my desk.