by Jill Orr
CHAPTER 20
I’d barely sat down at my desk when Kay Jackson called from down the hall, “Ellison, can I see you a minute?” “Look out! Intern walking,” Gerlach Spencer joked as I passed his desk on my way to Kay’s office.
“Shut up, Spencer.”
“I’m only joking, kiddo. I’m sure she just wants to give you an encouraging hug.” He busted out laughing and gave Henderson a high-five over their shared cubicle wall. Idiots, I thought. There should be a law against forty-year-olds high-fiving.
I felt buzzy with nerves as I once again walked into my boss’s office not knowing what she was going to say. Kay stood with her hands on her hips, her body language a nonverbal warning that I wasn’t getting an encouraging hug.
“Did you tell Toby Lancett yesterday that you were not going to report on Tabitha St. Simon’s confession to the Davenport murder because she is a friend of yours?”
The question hit me like a wrecking ball. “Of course not!” My denial came out in a high-pitch tone I barely recognized.
“Because that’s what Toby told the mayor. And that’s what she reamed my ass about for five straight minutes just now.”
My pulse went into overdrive. “No, that’s not what I—” I started to say, but then I stopped myself. I had sort of said that to Toby, hadn’t I? I mean, I didn’t say I wasn’t going to report the story, but I did say that I didn’t believe Tabitha killed Arthur Davenport despite her confessing to the crime. “I mean, what I said was—”
She cut me off. “Did you know about Tabitha St. Simon’s confession?”
I nodded, too scared to speak.
“When did it happen?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.”
She stared at me without saying a word, but I could see her jaw flexing in anger. “Then why didn’t you log an update?”
“I was going to—I just . . .”
The truth is I hadn’t updated the story because I felt so sure that Tabitha’s confession was fake, that it seemed silly to report on it. I hadn’t exactly not written the article on purpose . . . it was more like it never even occurred to me. It just didn’t seem like news. And then there was what happened with Jay: finding out he followed me, then our argument, then making up . . . it pushed all thoughts of Tabitha’s confession from my mind. That had to be what I felt like I was forgetting this morning. If only I’d been able to figure it out before Kay had.
I tried explaining myself to Kay (minus the part about Jay of course), but with each word I said, she just looked angrier. When I finished my defense, such as it was, she muttered something under her breath before taking a deep breath. She blew it out slowly, as if she needed the time to control her reaction.
“You compromised the integrity of this paper, Riley. I’m not sure if you did this because you’re inexperienced and don’t understand how non-biased reporting is literally the cornerstone of the American newspaper, or if you did it because you were trying to protect your friend.”
“I wasn’t trying to protect Tabitha, I swear! She’s not even really my friend. We’re more like frenemies, actually . . . she’s always insulting me and barking orders at me—” The look on Kay’s face stopped my ramble.
“You screwed up,” Kay said. “And I even warned you about this. Do you have any idea how bad it is for the local paper to be at odds with the mayor?”
“I’m sorry, Kay. I’m so sorry. I’ll go write the story right now. I have quotes and everything—I can have it to you in twenty minutes.”
“Nope.” Kay shook her head before I even finished talking. “You’re off the story. I’m giving it to Spencer. You can keep the obit, but you’re off the rest of it.”
Her words were like a slap to the face, quick and painful. It was just one little mistake! And it wasn’t even like I’d misquoted someone or gotten any facts wrong—I just delayed reporting something that was clearly false for a few hours . . . but even as the rationalizations were coming to my mind, I knew that’s just what they were: rationalizations for my mistakes.
Kay stared at me, waiting for me to say something. I don’t know if she expected me to argue with her, to plead my case, to beg for a second chance, but I didn’t trust myself to speak. I was afraid if I opened my mouth I might start crying, and I was not about to let that happen, so I just nodded and walked out of her office as fast as I could.
“What—no trophy?” Spencer chided as I sped past his desk with my head down, trying like hell to hold in my tears until I got to the women’s restroom. At least I knew no one would bother me in there. I pushed open the door and as soon as it swung shut, the tears fell.
Hey Riley,
OMFG. I cannot believe that ur boss freaked out because of one tiny mistake! See, this is my problem with Baby Boomer bosses: they are so JUDGEY. Like they never made a mistake before!
Anyway. Riley, I want u to focus on what I’m about to say because it is the absolute 1000% truth: Don’t let ur boss make u feel you’re some kind of screwup just because of one teeny misstep. U r doing the best u can and if ur boss can’t see that then she is the one with the problem. She’s probably afraid that ur going to take her job. I read somewhere that Baby Boomers’ second biggest workplace fear is Millennials taking their jobs, behind losing their health insurance.
And remember, in the wise words of Queen Bey,* “Power is not given to you, you have to take it.”
xx,
Jenna B.
Personal Success Concierge™
Bestmillenniallife.com
*The use of this quote does not constitute an endorsement of any kind by Beyoncé, who is not now nor has never been a paid spokesperson for Bestmillenniallife.com (but who I think we both know would totally slay as a Personal Success Concierge™—haha lol!).
Dear Jenna,
Thank you for the encouragement; I really needed that right now. However, as much as I love me some Beyoncé, I’m not sure that quote applies in this scenario. And actually, I think my boss is from Gen X.
Anyway, thanks for being on my side.
All best,
Riley
Hey Riley,
Number 1 Rule of Life: Beyoncé always applies. And Gen X’ers are just as bad.
xx,
Jenna B
Personal Success Concierge™
Bestmillenniallife.com
CHAPTER 21
I waited until the redness in my eyes and cheeks had faded before going back to my desk. I resolved to focus on the obit and make sure there was no angle I didn’t cover. At least I could still do that right. I’d be sure to check in with Flick and get his approval at every step so that by the time it got to Kay it would be beyond reproach. Maybe that would make up a tiny bit for my colossal error in judgment. But as soon as I opened the obit document on my laptop, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Carl’s private number: Meet me at Tuttle Gen now. David Davenport has been poisoned.
I left the newsroom through the back door without telling anyone where I was heading. When I got to the hospital, the woman at the information desk stonewalled me, saying since I was neither David’s family nor with the sheriff’s office she could not tell me anything. Carl was nowhere to be found and not responding to my texts.
I took the elevator to the fifth floor and asked at the closest nurses station if they knew where David was, but the woman I spoke with had no information, or at least none she was willing to give out to a random girl wandering the halls with a notepad.
I decided to head back down to the information desk and see if I could sweet talk someone down there into giving me his room number. I had my doubts, but it was worth a try.
I went back to the elevator bank and when it opened, my old friend Jack the custodian was in there. “Back again?” he said with a smile.
“Yeah,” I said and pushed the L button. “No coffee this time, though.”
He laughed. “You working on a story or something?”
“I’m actually going to be writing Dr. Arthur Davenpor
t’s obituary for the Times.” The door opened and we both headed in the direction of the lobby.
“Heard about that. Sad deal.” He was quiet for a moment and then continued, “I’ve always been fascinated with obituaries.”
“Really?”
“I’ve read them all my life,” he said. “My sister and I wrote one for our mom a while back and it was harder than I thought it’d be.”
I’d heard this a lot from people who wrote the death notices for their loved ones. It was a difficult thing to reduce an entire life to two or three newspaper inches, and many people toiled over it. I think that’s why so many allow the funeral home directors to write it for them. When they’re grieving, writing is often the last thing they want to do. That was one of the reasons I think the Times readers responded so positively to our running editorial obits. Many small newspapers had cut them altogether as budgets and readership declined, but in a small town we were sort of insulated from that. It was one of the many reasons I loved living in Tuttle Corner.
“If you wrote from the heart, I’m sure it touched the people who knew your mom,” I said. It probably sounded trite, but it was all I could think to say; I was glad when Jack smiled like maybe the thought made him feel better.
“I hope so,” he said. “She was a pretty special lady.”
The information desk was unmanned as we approached. So much for my plan. “Hey,” I turned to Jack, “you haven’t heard anything about Dr. Davenport’s son, David, being admitted have you?”
He nodded. “Just heard about it from Sheila down in the ER. Apparently, he was doing rounds and just passed out cold.”
“Did she say why?”
“I heard someone say they think maybe it was food poisoning.”
Oh. Food poisoning. Was that all this was?
“Do you know what floor he’s on?”
“Maybe four? That’s the internal medicine ward.”
“Thanks again—see you around!”
“Not if I see you first,” Jack said with a good-natured laugh as he took his yellow mop bucket and went on his way.
I rode the elevator back up to the fourth floor, got off, and saw Carl sitting in a chair near the end of the hallway.
“Please tell me David has food poisoning.”
“What?” He looked at me like I was speaking Klingon. “No, David has poison-poisoning. As in someone tried to kill him.”
Damn. Someone was hunting Davenports.
Like most rumors, the food poisoning one had a kernel of truth. So while David Davenport did not have food poisoning, he had most likely been poisoned by way of food. After drinking a protein shake for lunch he had passed out on the floor of the ER, where he was checking on patients. Luckily, since he was at the hospital, a quick-thinking nurse figured out what was going on and was able to get him the appropriate treatment.
“He’s fortunate,” Dr. Cavell said to us before opening the door to his room. “There was an enormous amount of digitalis in his system. If he’d been at home, he would have very likely died just like his father.”
Dr. Cavell granted Carl and me a few minutes but warned us not to push David. Assuming his recovery went well, he’d probably be able to go home in a couple of days. Until then, he’d need to finish his course of treatment and, above all else, rest.
Carl opened the door and the sight caught me up short. David’s skin looked almost gray. He looked so different from the vibrant guy I’d met yesterday.
His eyelids fluttered open as we approached his bedside. “Hey guys.” His voice was weak, higher than normal.
Carl wasted no time in getting right to the questions. “Can you think of anyone who’d want to do this to you, David?”
David closed his eyes as he thought. “I really can’t,” he said, slowly opening his eyes back up. “But I mean first Dad and now me? What’s going on here?” He sounded scared, and I had the feeling a guy like David Davenport didn’t often sound scared.
I instinctively reached out for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I hope you don’t think my brother did this. Because there is no—”
“We don’t.” Carl cut in before David got too upset. “Thad was being held at the county jail when this happened, so unless he figured out how to bend the laws of time and space, there’s no way he had anything to do with this.”
David looked relieved.
“David,” I said slowly, a thought coming to mind. “Did you have a chance to look through those files?” I remembered what he’d said on his voicemail.
He tried to shake his head but what resulted was more like a head roll from side to side.
“What files?” Carl asked. I filled him in on Arthur’s relationship to Invigor8 and the drug they were developing. If he already knew this information, he didn’t let on.
“You called it a biologic. What exactly is that?” Carl asked David.
“It’s basically a type of medicine that uses living organisms—like plant or animal cells as opposed to chemicals like a traditional drug might.”
“Okay,” Carl said, making some notes in his pad. “And what was this drug for?”
“I don’t know. It was real hush-hush. Dad had to sign a bunch of confidentiality documents because they were in the patent-development phase. But his relationship with Invigor8 had soured. At first he seemed excited about their new product, but then he told me a few weeks ago that he felt like they were trying to rush to market. Last week Dad told me he was going to sever his ties with them.” He paused to catch his breath.
“All right. We’ll check it out,” Carl said, making notes in his notebook.
I had yet to ask Carl what he knew (or didn’t know) about Arthur’s relationship with Libby or Bennett Nichols, but since we were both there with David, I brought up the subject. “Did you know anything about a relationship your father had with a woman named Libby Nichols?”
David rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I knew.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I think he was taking care of Libby’s husband when the two of them started up.”
“Did it end badly?” I asked.
“Do things with a married woman ever not end badly?” David gave me measured look. “I think her husband found out and freaked. But I don’t know a lot about it. Dad didn’t really tell me about that part of his life.” His fading voice trailed off. I wanted to ask him about Shaylene Lancett too, but he was tired and it seemed like it was time for us to leave.
“All right,” Carl said, taking a step toward the door. “You get some rest now. We’ll be in touch.”
After we closed David’s door, Carl turned to me. “You can forget about the Bennett and Libby Nichols angle, Riley. Trust me.”
“Why?”
“The Nicholses have airtight alibis for the time Arthur Davenport was killed. And before you go guessing that they are each other’s alibi—let me inform you that that is not the case.”
“Wait—what?” I thought Libby said she and Bennett were home alone at the time of the murder. “Did something change?”
“Let’s just say that we have proof of Libby and Bennett’s location on the night Arthur was killed, and it was nowhere near the Davenport estate.”
“Where were they?”
“You’re on a need-to-know basis and you don’t need to know that.”
“Fine,” I said, irritated. “What do we do next?”
Carl sighed. “The mayor is hell-bent on the prosecutor filing charges against Thad PDQ, and if she hears that we’re looking into something new, well, I’d rather not have to explain that till we know a little more. She and Toby are crawling all over me about this.”
Even though I hadn’t had a chance to verify it yet, I told Carl what Libby had said about the mayor. It seemed like important information for him to have, especially in light of the pressure her office was putting on him.
Carl sighed again, this time louder and longer. “If that’s true—emphasis on if—we’re going
to need to know about it. It’ll be tricky for me to ask those sorts of questions without garnering more heat”—and suddenly the reason Carl wanted me here became crystal clear. He needed me to look into the things he couldn’t. “Do you think you can ask around about some of this more sensitive stuff—just to get a taste of whether this is just a bunch of smoke and no fire?”
I bit my pinky nail, a nervous habit I hadn’t reverted to in years. It felt like I was at a crossroads. On one hand, I was off the story. Kay Jackson had been clear about that. On the other hand, I had come to the hospital knowing full well that I was violating the order my boss had given me because I also knew if this led to a break in the story, it’d be a huge scoop for the paper and a way to get me back into Kay’s good graces. Of course, if she found out I disobeyed her, she’d be furious. Maybe so much so that she’d fire me? And losing this job was not an option—not after I’d left my job at the library and made such a big point about starting a new career. It would be the talk of the town, and I’d be Riley Bless Her Heart once again.
“Do you think you can do that for me?” Carl asked.
I stared back at him silently, trying to decide what I should do. What would Holman tell me? He’d probably say something annoyingly vague and Yoda-esque like, “Your instincts, you must trust.” My instincts were being annoyingly quiet, so I thought about what Jenna B said. What was it—Power isn’t given to you, you have to take it. Maybe she was right. This story felt like it was mine, and I wanted to take it back.
A feeling was building inside me as the moment stretched on. It was time to decide what kind of reporter I was going to be: the kind who took risks and followed my instincts, or the kind who obediently stayed inside the lines. I thought of Thad and Tabitha sitting in jail cells and David lying in a hospital bed. I thought of Holman and Granddaddy and their passion for telling the truth and then of Flick, who seemed strangely afraid of it. All of a sudden, it didn’t seem like much of a choice. I decided to forget following the rules and forget being afraid. Breaking this story, even if it meant breaking a few rules, would be my chance to prove to Kay Jackson—and to myself, too—that I belonged at the Times.