I shook my head. This was getting me nowhere. Time to go back to bed. What I needed to do next was find some clues at work that would help me figure this whole thing out. There had to be someone working at the newspaper who knew more than they were saying. Just like there had to be someone—or possibly two someone’s—who killed Kate. I wasn’t at all sure how I was going to do it but I was bound and determined to find out who that someone was and then I could quit the newspaper with a totally clear conscience.
Chapter Twenty
“You can quit the newspaper right now with a totally clear conscience,” Steve told me the following morning as we were drinking our coffee before heading out the door. I have to admit that I missed the old days of a month or so ago when we had time for a more leisurely morning meal. With me working, breakfast had become coffee and toast followed by a hasty kiss and Steve driving off in one direction and me in the other. “I don’t see why you’re taking on figuring out who killed Kate Weston. It’s not your job, DeeDee. Let the police handle it.”
I ignored his suggestion. “I’m thinking it has to be Bob Meredith. He might have heard that Kate was onto a big story and killed her because he was jealous.”
“Seems like a mighty big step to take for professional jealousy,” Steve remarked.
“Bob is a very petty person. He doesn’t want to share the limelight with anyone.”
“Maybe not, but murder? What about the sports writer? You’ve barely mentioned him.”
“Frank. I have considered him but he was covering a baseball game when it happened so he’s off the hook. He was the only reporter out of the building other than me so we’re the only two with iron clad alibis.”
“I’m glad you have an iron clad alibi.” Steve gave me a quick kiss. “See you tonight. You will be home for dinner, won’t you?”
“As far as I know,” I promised. “Unless something comes up.”
Steve sighed rather loudly as he went out the back door. “I wish you’d find something with more regular hours,” he said over his shoulder.
“I could go back to catering!” I called after him but he was already in his car with the door shut. Steve can be a bit of a baby at times but I suppose that was partially my fault. I’d spent most of our marriage taking care of him so it had to be a shock to have me gone so much. Truthfully, I wasn’t that crazy about it either. I missed being at home.
With my own sigh, I threw together a lunch and followed Steve’s tracks out the back door. I had four stories to cover that day plus the column I’d promised Ren. I’d written two columns already that didn’t quite make it. I wanted to write something original and entertaining and shocking, just like Ren had requested. Halfway out the driveway I had an idea. What if I wrote a column about Kate’s murder? What if I tried to find her killer in print?
No, bad idea. I’d get fired for sure.
But as I drove toward the newspaper, my mind wouldn’t stop turning the idea over. And over. And over. What if I did write about Kate’s death? I’d written about Fritz collapsing at the Coffee Hut and surely murder was more compelling than food poisoning. I could write it from the point of view of a cub reporter—an older cub reporter but still someone who was new to the staff. I could describe what happened and then, without naming names, of course, suggest who might have done it. I could end the column with a plea for the guilty person to step forward.
Chewing on my lower lip at a stop light, I tried to decide if my idea sounded like something out of a corny 1930’s crime movie. It kind of did but those corny movies always ended with the killer getting caught and since that was what I wanted too, then I should go for it.
Of course, it was doubtful that Ren would run it but what if I handed it in so late that he didn’t have any choice but to run it? I knew that I was risking my job but I was okay with that since I wasn’t all that sure if I wanted to keep my job anymore. It would be way more satisfying to flush out Kate’s killer than to continue working at the paper for peanuts and having to attend school board meetings that were so boring I was sure that my rear end felt like it had turned to stone by the end of them.
“I’ll do it!” I said out loud. “Let them fire me—the truth shouldn’t be silenced!”
The woman in the car next to mine gave me an odd look before driving off but I didn’t care. Finally I was going to write something for the newspaper that just might make a difference…and that also might catch a killer.
“How’s that column coming?” Ren asked me. It was almost five and it had been a long, hard day. Any stardust that had still been in my eyes had vanished earlier that day during my interview with the director of city services who was not only dull but incredibly full of himself.
“It’s all written,” I told him.
“Great! Send it to me.”
“It’s all written in my head,” I explained. “I just have to type it up for you.”
“Not too momsy or folksy?”
“I think I got it right.” I wanted to point out to Ren that I was doing him a favor but he looked so grouchy that I let it drop. Maybe being a columnist wasn’t the dream job I’d thought it was either. Coming up with acceptable ideas on a weekly basis would be a nightmare.
“DeeDee, you do know the deadline for Sunday’s paper is six o’clock tonight, right?”
“I have an hour to write it,” I said.
“But I have to read it and edit it,” Ren responded. “That’s why I wanted it by five. How am I going to do that before six if you haven’t even written it yet? What’s it about?”
“It’s a tribute to Kate Weston. Sort of.”
Ren frowned. “What do you mean ‘sort of’?”
“Well, I’m also doing a little fishing in it.”
“And you think that by writing a column about it, you’ll be able to make the killer confess? Wow, you are a full-time dreamer, DeeDee. I don’t think you should be in journalism. Fiction is obviously your field.”
“Are you telling me you don’t want me to write it?” I admit that a small part of me hoped that was true since then I could go straight home, fix Steve his dinner and collapse in my recliner. I was beat.
Ren looked at me consideringly. “No,” he finally said, “go ahead and write it. It might be good to shake a few branches around this dump and see what falls out. Besides, at least it won’t be overly sweet if it’s about murder. That’s your problem, DeeDee, you’re too nice.”
“Just like you used to be,” I pointed out.
Slightly abashed, Ren ducked his head. “Touché. It’s this place. It gets to you. I’m sorry, DeeDee, if I said anything that hurt your feelings. I just want everything that goes into my section to be perfect.”
I laughed. “Then why on earth did you ask me to write Sunday’s column? You have to know it’s not going to be perfect. I’m too new a writer to come even close to perfect.”
“Maybe but you’re an honest writer and that’s my second favorite trait after perfect. I’ll print whatever you write and I’ll only edit it for style. I’ll do my best to leave it exactly how you write it. Deal?”
“Deal.” I paused. “Even if it makes someone who works here look guilty?”
It was Ren’s turn to laugh. “Well, I know that I didn’t kill Kate Weston so I’d be happy if your column figured that out. You really think someone on the paper did it?”
“I don’t know who else could have gotten in here,” I replied.
“Maybe you’re right. Okay, I’ll leave you alone so you can get it all down. Shoot it to me as soon as you’re done and have a nice weekend.”
“You too, Ren. Hey, Ren,” I said before he vanished on me. “This column could get us both in hot water.”
Ren grinned. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. It doesn’t matter. I’ve found my happy place and it sure isn’t around here.”
Before I could quiz him on what he was talking about, he got up, walked through the newsroom
and out the door.
“So you finished your first column,” Steve asked later that night. We were in bed reading. At least I was trying to read but I was so tired that I kept reading the same sentence over and over. “I’m proud of you, honey. Even though that newspaper sounds like one screwed up place to work, I think it’s great that you’re having your own column in Sunday’s paper. That’s amazing. What’s it about?”
“I’m going to let you be surprised,” I said. Along with everyone else. “I will tell you this: it’s not about us or the kids.”
“Really? What else could you write about?”
Wow, I all but had WIFE AND MOM tattooed across my chest. “Something else,” I said vaguely.
Steve grew quiet. After a couple of minutes he said, “DeeDee…”
“What?”
“You didn’t write about anything controversial, did you?”
“Such as what?”
“You know what. Did you write about Kate Weston’s murder?”
Sometimes it’s a drag being married to someone who knows you so well. “What if I did? I didn’t use anyone’s name.”
Steve sat up in bed and peered down at me. He was wearing his reading glasses and wearing an old Bozo the Clown t-shirt so he didn’t look too threatening. “Couldn’t you get sued?”
“I don’t think so. Fired, maybe, but sued—I doubt it.”
“What did you write exactly?”
“You’ll have to wait until Sunday to read it,” I said drowsily. “Along with everyone else in town. Now can we turn out the lights? I’m too tired to read.”
Steve snapped off his light and I switched mine off too. We laid next to each other in the dark and I was almost asleep when Steve added, “I just hope that whoever killed that poor woman gets caught soon. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
I didn’t answer because I was already half asleep.
Chapter Twenty-one
Today’s column is a little different from what you’re used to. As the guest columnist, I’ve chosen to tackle a topic that has been uncomfortable for everyone at the Kemper Times, although calling murder ‘uncomfortable’ is a little bit like calling a tsunami a little wave. I’m talking about the murder of editor, Kate Weston. Kate was strangled in the Kemper Times building, and as I write these words, the police have yet to arrest her killer.
I would be lying if I wrote that I liked Kate. She was a difficult person to work for and could be demanding, picky and quite often rude. Kate was a perfectionist but after much thought I’ve come to realize that a perfectionist is exactly what a newspaper needs. When I first started at the newspaper, Kate had me re-write everything I turned in to her. While I didn’t appreciate how Kate showed me what to do, the end result was that I learned from her and I learned how to get better. I know that I have a long way to go, but Kate helped me by taking the time to show me what I was doing wrong. For that, I will always be grateful.
Kate set high goals for the staff at the paper and she set high goals for herself as well. Although her official title was editor, Kate was still an active journalist. Since her death, I have learned that Kate was doing some undercover investigating on her own and that she stumbled upon what might turn out to be not only highly unethical business practices in a well-known local company but also potential damage to the environment that she was determined to stop. The story Kate was working on was big––far bigger than any other story this newspaper has covered in a very long time. Unfortunately, Kate was silenced before she could put her plan into action and before she could expose the people who might be setting our town up for what could be potentially disastrous environmental impacts.
When Kate Weston was murdered, almost half a dozen people were within shouting distance but Kate didn’t call out for help. Or if she did, apparently no one heard her. Since her death, her name has seldom been mentioned and her memory has apparently been snuffed out at the newspaper.
As the newest employee on the Kemper Times I undoubtedly have the least right to voice my concerns over how the newspaper is run. It isn’t up to me to point fingers at anyone. However, as the newest employee I also have the freshest eyes and as I look around the newsroom at my colleagues I see tired, jaded journalists who are underpaid, overworked and burned out. Although I’ve worked at the newspaper for only a few weeks, I understand where they’re coming from. This is an exhausting job, one that is next to impossible to do on a regular basis.
That said, I don’t think we can in good conscience ignore what happened to our late editor. We must start asking each other, and ourselves, the hard questions. Who knows more about Kate’s murder? Who has seen something that could help the police? Who has information that he or she isn’t sharing?
Someone must know more that he or she has made public. Our building is small as is our staff. Please step forward and share what you know so that we can move on as a staff and so that Kate Weston can rest in peace.
Journalism is about telling the truth. The time has come for the truth about Kate Weston’s death to be known by everyone.
“What do you think?” I asked Steve Sunday morning when he set the newspaper down.
His face was pale. “I think you’re going to get canned,” he said. Almost as if on cue, my cell phone began to ring and the caller I.D. told me that it was Jeff Hamilton.
“You may be right,” I said as I picked my phone up. “Hello?”
“You’re fired,” Jeff said in a tone that was awfully close to hysteria. “Who do you think you are, writing that drivel? You have no right to come out and say that one of us knows more than we’ve told the police. Do you think you’re some kind of middle-aged Nancy Drew? Come in tomorrow and clean out your cubicle and then I never want to see you again!”
“But Jeff,” I began before he cut me off.
“And don’t expect a reference from me!” He severed the connection.
I set my phone on the kitchen table. “I wonder if I worked at the paper long enough to get unemployment.”
“He fired you?”
I nodded as I tried to decide how I felt. Relieved but also hurt and more than a little angry. “He said to come in and clean out my cubicle tomorrow.”
Getting up, Steve took me into his arms. “I won’t lie and say I’m not happy. That job was thankless, DeeDee. You deserve better than that and they don’t deserve anyone as wonderful as you.”
A few tears ran down my cheeks. “He didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself!”
“From what you’ve told me about management at that place, are you really surprised?”
“Well, no.”
“Then forget about it. You got some valuable experience that you can take to your next job and whoever hires you will be lucky to have you.”
Reaching into my bathrobe pocket, I pulled out a crumpled tissue. “Thanks, Steve. I guess I didn’t think that one through all the way. I knew Jeff might be upset but I never dreamed he’d actually fire me.”
“Maybe you hit a little too close to home.”
“Maybe I did.” I wiped my eyes. “One thing is for sure. It’s going to be interesting to see who talks to me and who doesn’t when I go in to clean out my cubicle.”
Steve hugged me even tighter. “The thing I love best about you, DeeDee, is that you always see the bright side.”
Like I had any choice, I thought the following morning as I lugged a cardboard box to my cubicle and slowly began filling it up. Another job bites the dust and while I’d been able to stick a few hundred dollars in our retirement account, it felt like I’d added two tablespoons of water to an empty swimming pool. Practically pointless.
“I’m sorry, DeeDee,” Ren told me when he entered the newsroom. “I was just talking to Jeff and I tried to talk him out of letting you go but his mind is made up.”
I shrugged. Truthfully, I wasn’t all that sad about leaving the newspaper. I didn’t like the fact that I’d been fired but I knew that I wasn’t a journalist. I didn’t have
the stamina for it and I really didn’t have the disposition for it. Even if I’d been twenty years younger I doubted that I’d ever have the nerve that Caroline or Bob or Ren had. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to have that kind of nerve, that detachment that made each of them so good at what they did. Let’s face facts: you’re a wife and a mom, not Maria Shriver. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. How did everyone else react?”
“You mean did Caroline jump up and confess to killing Kate?” Ren grinned. “Sorry to disappoint you but no one has mentioned your column. I don’t think most of the reporters read the Sunday paper.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“Nope, I’m not. No one cares about anything around here which is one of the reasons why I’m getting out of here.”
“You’re leaving too? You didn’t get fired for letting me write that column, did you?”
“No, my leaving has nothing to do with that. Remember when I told you that the newspaper is no longer my happy place? I think I’ve found my new happy place. I got hired as a copywriter at an ad agency in Chicago. It’s the bottom rung of jobs there but I’ll still be making double of what I make here.”
“Good for you. Won’t you miss having your own section? You did such a great job with it.”
“Are you kidding me? I can’t wait to get out of here! I feel about ten years younger than I did on Friday. I want to see my wife and my kids and have a normal life for once. Two weeks and I’m through.”
“About ten minutes and I’m through,” I said. “I want to say good-bye to everyone before I take off.”
Ren held out his hand for me to shake. “Good luck, DeeDee. If you ever need a reference, I’d be glad to help you out.”
“Thanks. I may take you up on that.” I smiled, suddenly remembering something Ren had told me. “You know, I never did get to see my job description. I wonder what my housekeeping duties were supposed to be?”
Black and White and Dead All Over: A Midlife Crisis Mystery (Midlife Crisis Mysteries) Page 22