“I’m not driving you.” Sam Weaver didn’t look up from the Cosmopolitan he was reading, the same issue Bob Meredith had been looking at the other day. His cubicle was two down from mine but this was the first time I’d ever seen him. He was big with a beard and longish brown hair. I had never seen him before but I’d seen plenty of his photos. He was a good photographer and had worked for the newspaper for as long as I could remember.
“Kate said we should drive together so we both wouldn’t need to charge the paper for mileage.”
“Yeah?” Sam lifted an eye from the magazine and fixed it on me. “Well, you can go tell Kate that she can shove her cheapskate attitude right up where the sun don’t shine. I’m not driving you. What am I supposed to do while you’re doing your interview? Twiddle my thumbs and count red convertibles driving down the highway?”
“I don’t know,” I responded since I really didn’t know what he was supposed to do while I interviewed Meryl.
Sam finally tossed his magazine down and gave me his full attention. “What’s your name again?”
“DeeDee Pearson.”
“Well, DeeDee, since you’re new here I won’t hold it against you that you wanted me to drive my vehicle, use my gas, oil and tires to drive out to the middle of nowhere. For your future reference, I don’t drive anybody but myself.”
“Uh, I suppose Kate knows that?”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, Kate knows that. Just like Kate knows not to ask me. Notice how she told you to tell me? That’s her m.o. Get someone else to do the dirty work all the time and never get her own hands dirty. That broad is seriously asking to be whacked.”
I tried to laugh since he had to be kidding. “We won’t get in trouble if we don’t drive together?”
“This isn’t junior high, honey. We’re both over twenty-one and can make our own choices without Kate’s approval.”
But would we both get paid for mileage? I was too chicken to ask Sam that question. “Well, I guess I’ll see you out there then.”
“What’s the address?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I need the address so that I can know where I should go with my trusty camera and amazing photographic talent,” Sam said in the same super slow, overly patient tone of voice that Kate had used on me, only he sounded like he might be talking to someone who was just coming out of a coma. “Would you please give it to me?”
“Oh, of course.” If Sam wanted to make me feel like a dope, he was doing a marvelous job at it. Flustered, I scribbled down the address on another piece of paper and handed it to him. “It’s out in the county.”
“Yes, I can see that by what you’ve written down. I’ve been at this game a long time, little lady, and I know not only our entire town but the whole county as well as I know my wife’s backside. There’s really no need for you to clarify directions for me.”
Oh, boy. Another charmer employed by the Kemper Times. Gulping, I nodded and left without saying another word. Then I went to my cubicle and got the reporter’s notebook that I’d purchased for this exact moment. Written on the cover was DeeDee Pearson along with my cell phone number. Looking down at the notebook, I couldn’t help but smile. An assignment at last.
Once outside, it was easy to forget Sam and his rude attitude. It was a gorgeous late summer day, the humidity was low and I was on my way to my very first assignment as a reporter. Pointing my car in the direction of County Road 19, I began to drive toward Meryl Cunningham’s house.
On the way, I went over the questions I planned on asking her. About a thousand years ago, I took a journalism class in high school and I could still remember my teacher, Mrs. Silber, pounding who, what, when, where, why and how into our adolescent brains. She claimed that asking those questions and having a pushy personality were all anyone needed to succeed as a journalist. You don’t need a fancy schmancy degree, she told us repeatedly. All you need are guts! Guts and at least three active brain cells and you could work for the New York Times!
Well, the time had finally come to put Mrs. Silber’s theory to a test. I knew the questions but I was a little doubtful over whether or not I could be all that pushy. Pushy really isn’t my nature but surely I wouldn’t need to be too pushy with Meryl Cunningham, a local actress who would undoubtedly love talking to the press.
Driving past corn fields that were almost ready to be harvested, I wondered if Mrs. Silber was still alive. If she was, it would be nice to get in touch with her and tell her about my new job at the newspaper. She’d probably be happy to hear that one of her journalism students was now in the business. As soon as I got home, I’d have to see if she was on Facebook. Humming happily, I steered my minivan toward Meryl Cunningham’s house, more than ready to hear about the community theater’s upcoming production of Ten Little Indians.
Chapter Five
“You should have called first!” Ms. Cunningham told me sternly though her screened door, heavy arms crossed over an equally heavy bosom. Dressed in a faded bathrobe printed with purple roses the size of large cabbages, her blonde hair sticking up in tufts like cotton candy and her wide face totally devoid of makeup, Meryl was somewhere in her late fifties or early sixties and she looked like I’d just roused her out of bed although it was after ten in the morning. Then again, she was in the theater so maybe she hadn’t gone to bed until dawn.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I thought my editor had been in touch with you,” I apologized. Great. My first interview and I’d already committed a faux pas. Mentally, I kicked myself. Of course I should have called Meryl to set the interview up. What had I been thinking? That she’d somehow know I was on my way out to her house? See? You aren’t a real journalist! Caroline Osborn would never make a mistake like that! I tried to ignore the nasty little voice in my head. My self-esteem was suffering enough without me adding to it. “Would you like me to come back at another time?”
Peering past my shoulder, Meryl eyed my mini-van with its Kemper city sticker stuck on the windshield. “You drove in from Kemper?”
I nodded. The drive had been about twenty miles, not exactly a marathon, but still a good distance.
Meryl sighed dramatically, so dramatically that I half-expected her to do a corny moue with the back of one hand pressed against her forehead and the other hand pressed dramatically across the doorframe. “I suppose we could do the interview now but I hope to God that you didn’t arrange for the photographer to come out today too. An artist needs time to prepare for photographs far more than for a print interview.”
As if on cue, Sam Weaver’s silver pick-up truck pulled into the driveway and stopped behind my mini-van. Although I’d only had one conversation with Sam, I had the distinct impression that he wasn’t the type of person who liked to reschedule appointments. As a matter of fact, I was pretty certain that if I did suggest we reschedule, he’d beat me to death with the long lens on his expensive-looking digital camera. “I’m sorry,” I said sincerely, “but that’s our photographer now. This is my first interview and I guess I’m a little green. I didn’t think things through too well.”
Meryl’s finely plucked eyebrows rose impressively, reminding me of twin curtains going up on opening night. “A little green? My dear, you are positively emerald.” She squinted at Sam. “Is that Sam Weaver?”
“Yes, it is.”
Meryl immediately began patting her cotton candy hair and sucking in her stomach. “Well, I guess it’s all right. He’s a very good photographer and I don’t want to pass up the opportunity of having my picture taken by a true genius. Let me change and toss some make up on. Let him in, help yourself to some coffee and I’ll be down in five minutes.” Meryl left me standing on her front porch to face Sam alone. I watched as Sam got out of his truck, pulled a camera bag from the front seat and then stomped over to join me on Meryl’s front porch. He looked about as thrilled to be there as a vegan at a meat packers convention.
“Hi there!” I said cheerily. “You sure made it here fast!”
&n
bsp; “Where’s the subject?” he asked, ignoring my friendly welcome. “I’ve got seven more assignments to do today so I’d like to get this one over quickly.”
“She’s freshening up,” I said while shooting a silent prayer skyward that Meryl freshened up quickly. Genius or not, instinct told me that Sam Weaver was not the kind of person who liked to be kept waiting by anyone. Instinct and the way he was tapping his foot against the wooden porch floor in a staccato rhythm that Ricky Ricardo would have appreciated. “She’ll be right down.”
“She’s not ready?” Shoulders sagging, he sat down on the porch steps. “What is with these people?” he demanded in a whiny voice. “Why can’t they be ready when I get there? Don’t they realize what a busy man I am? That damn newspaper needs to hire another photographer. I’ve got too many assignments and not enough hours in the day.”
“Why doesn’t the paper hire another photographer?”
“Because Jeff is a cheapskate. I mean, come on! How many papers have the publisher also acting as the chief editor? That guy gives new meaning to the word tightwad. He has his lamebrain nephew takes photos on the weekends and then only if there’s an emergency, like a train derailment. The rest of the time it’s all up to me.”
That did sound a little daunting but since Sam was already feeling quite sorry for himself, I didn’t want to add to his pity party. “I’m sure Meryl will be right out,” I said.
“She’d better be,” he said darkly.
“You know how actresses are. They can get ready faster than anyone else on the planet. They have to since they need to change so quickly between scenes, you know—change costumes and put on different makeup…” My voice faded away and dwindled down to a mere squeak under Sam’s glare.
“Good Lord, an actress. What’s her name again?”
“Meryl Cunningham.”
“What do you want to bet her real name is Mary?”
“Why would she change it?”
Sam rolled his eyes toward the cloudless blue sky. “Because perhaps maybe she’s heard of another actress who’s done pretty well for herself who goes by the name Meryl?” He shook his head. “These small town actors are the worst. Never made it anywhere but they act like their community theater production of Our Town is the greatest things since the invention of the push-up bra. Talk about phony baloney.”
Sam Weaver’s photographs were the high point of the Kemper Times. He definitely had talent and most of the pictures he took looked like they could be in a much better newspaper. Looking at him, I wondered why he’d bothered to stay with such a small paper. “Who are your favorite subjects?” I ventured to ask, hoping to take his mind off the ticking of his wristwatch.
Sam shrugged. “Pets are good. They can’t talk to you. Hunting shots are always great. I’d have to say anything without people. Especially actors or actresses. Talk about giant egos. Only thing worse are local politicians.”
Thankfully, Meryl’s screen door opened and she stepped out on the porch. Swathed head to toe in a filmy pale blue dress that was a huge improvement over the ratty bathrobe, she had managed to achieve a miracle over the past five minutes. The frowsy looking woman who had opened her front door for me had vanished and was replaced by a handsome, commanding presence who all but screamed the thea-tah. “Good morning,” she said to Sam, enunciating perfectly. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
Sam quickly got to his feet. “Sam Weaver, award-winning photographer. It’s a pleasure meeting you, Meryl.” His transformation was as amazing as Meryl’s and his attitude had gone from whiny and complaining to charming and professional in an instant.
“How delightful, Sam,” Meryl breathed. “I’ve always admired your talent. Whenever I see one of your photos in the newspaper, I ask myself what you’re doing at a small town paper like the Kemper Times.”
I was happy that Meryl had asked that question since I’d just been wondering the same thing. Sam chuckled. “That’s a mystery to me too, Meryl, but you know there’s a lot to be said for working at a smaller newspaper. I have my freedom and that means a lot to me.”
“Freedom is a lovely thing,” Meryl replied, placing one perfectly manicured hand on his arm. “I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t free myself. No husband anymore, no boyfriend, my children are all grown and on their own—I’m a totally free person.” Her heavily shadowed eyes peered intently at him. “Totally free,” she emphasized.
Sam smiled back at her. “How nice for you.”
Pleased, Meryl dropped her clutch from his arm and smiled triumphantly at me as if we were in competition for Sam’s attention. I smiled back while longing to say, He’s all yours, honey. “Now how do you want me?” she purred.
Looking around the porch, Sam pursed his lips. “The light’s not bad out here. Why don’t you sit on your porch swing and we’ll see what happens?”
“All right.” Meryl daintily walked to the swing and sat down, her skirt flouncing out around her. I was completely impressed with how she’d managed to shave at least twenty years off her looks in under five minutes. Once Sam left, I’d have to try and find out how she did that. She glanced over at me. “Did you get coffee for Sam? Oh, and for you too.”
“No, I didn’t. Sam, would you like some coffee?”
“Sure,” he agreed.
“It’s on the stove,” Meryl instructed. “Cups are in the cupboard right next to it. You can’t miss them.”
Obediently, I trotted into Meryl’s small house. So far, so good in spite of Meryl’s initial bad mood and Sam’s grumpiness. I didn’t want any more coffee but I poured a cup for Sam, pausing for a moment to study a large collage Meryl had up on the wall of her kitchen. It consisted of pictures of Meryl from what had to be two dozen plays. It was obvious that the woman had been in the acting game for a long time. She had been quite stunning when she was younger with good bone structure and pretty eyes. After studying the collage for a few moments longer, I returned to the porch just in time to hear Sam say, “You’re kidding me! She didn’t call you first?”
My good spirits plummeted a notch or two. Had Meryl been telling Sam how I’d neglected to call to set up an interview before coming out to see her? It sure sounded that way. I slowed my steps to hear her response. “Well, in her defense she said that this is her first interview—although that does surprise me. She looks pretty old to be just starting out as a reporter, much older than I am.”
“I’m sure the paper got her cheap,” Sam replied. “Our management isn’t exactly known for hiring top drawer talent.”
“Except for you,” Meryl cooed.
Sam laughed. “Of course.”
The two of them were getting along swimmingly. I almost hated to interrupt them but sensed that cowering in Meryl’s front hallway while waiting for Sam to leave wouldn’t exactly further my reputation as a rising middle-aged reporter. “Anyone for coffee?” I asked, stepping out on the porch.
“Sure. We’re all done here.” Sam accepted a cup and sat down on a glider.
“You’re done? Already?”
“That’s how professionals do it, DeeDee. We know our subjects, we get what we need and we call it a day.”
“That was the best shoot I’ve ever had,” Meryl assured me, sounding like she’d just wrapped up shooting the cover for an upcoming edition of Vanity Fair. “I’ve never been handled quite so professionally before. Sam, you really know your craft.”
I glanced over at Sam to see what there was about him that would cause such a high octane reaction from Meryl but I drew a blank. Kind of tubby, in need of a haircut and wearing a Minnesota Twins T-shirt that had a large mustard stain on it, I was missing whatever allure Meryl was finding but that was okay. I didn’t want to find him alluring. I just wanted him to be nice to me. “Well, as soon as you’re done with your coffee, Sam, Meryl and I can get started.” I really didn’t want to interview Meryl in front of Sam. Not just because it was my first interview but also because I had the feeling that he’d hang onto every word, c
orrect me when I made a mistake and then report all of them to everyone else down at the paper.
“I don’t mind if you start while I’m still here,” Sam said as he put his feet up on a wicker ottoman.
“I thought you were in a hurry. I thought you had seven other shoots for today.”
“I do but I also deserve a coffee break. Go ahead. Start your interview.”
Since he hadn’t offered me too many alternatives and since I’d also look like a wienie extreme-o if I refused, I gave him a tight smile before turning to Meryl. “Is that all right with you, Meryl?”
“Of course it is.” Meryl was sitting in one of those wicker chairs with a huge fanning headrest. Very Morticia Adams. “Fire away.”
Trying to get my hands to stop shaking, I pulled out my reporter’s notebook, flipped back the top and asked my first question. “Um, let’s see…where did you grow up?”
Meryl launched into her background with gusto. “I was born in Kansas City, Kansas, although I won’t tell you when that blessed event occurred. I grew up in Springfield, Illinois, where I met and married my dear late husband Howard and had our five children. Do you want their names?”
“Sure,” I agreed somewhat recklessly. My handwriting was already deteriorating and even I could see that there must be a better way to interview someone that didn’t involve writing down every single word they said.
“Michael, Michelle, Melissa, Mortie and Max.”
“Cute,” I commented as I struggled over spelling out Melissa. Was Melissa spelled with one s or two? My brain seemed to be taking a sudden holiday to the Bahamas. “When did you get interested in acting?”
“Oh, my, let’s see…I think I’ve always been dramatic. At least, that’s what my grandmother used to say. I can still remember her telling me, ‘Meryl, you have talent and it would be a shame not to share it with the rest of the world. That’s why I’m such a strong believer in Community Theater. We might not reach huge audiences but I always feel that we’re helping improve people culturally one performance at a time. I remember my first grade teacher telling me––”
Black and White and Dead All Over: A Midlife Crisis Mystery (Midlife Crisis Mysteries) Page 7