“That would work,” Brenna agreed. “Let’s separate all of the pictures that need to be smaller and I’ll take them over as soon as I can.”
They made a pile and put them at the end of the worktable. Then Brenna laid out the remaining photos and clippings to see how much room was left.
“It’s going to be tight, but I think we can manage it,” she said.
Ella and Marie looked over her shoulder and clucked their approval. Lillian and Sarah looked over as well and nodded in agreement.
Brenna had placed the large headshot of the mayor in the middle, then using a spiraling technique, she layered additional photos and clippings to swirl out from the center, leaving blank spots for the photos that needed to be reduced in size to fit.
“You have a real eye for shape and color,” Sarah said.
She leaned close to Brenna to examine the layout, and a whiff of cinnamon filled the air. Soft-spoken, Sarah was short and stout and the scent of whatever she had baked that day often filled the air about her. Brenna always felt like she was being hugged when she stood next to her.
“You have a gift,” Sarah said.
“More like a knack, I think, but thank you,” Brenna said.
“Put that down,” Marie snapped.
“No,” Ella refused.
Brenna glanced up to see Ella walking away from the refreshment table with the last of the cream puffs Sarah had brought from the bakery.
“You have to share,” Marie insisted.
“No, I don’t,” Ella said. “You’ve already had five. These are mine.”
Brenna exchanged an exasperated look with Tenley. She had a feeling the twins could get ugly over cream puffs. She was right.
Marie reached around Ella and tried to snatch a cream puff off the plate. Ella spun away from her but Marie caught the edge of the plate with her hand and the cream puffs were launched catapult style. No one moved as the tiny pastries spun through the air to land with a splat on Brenna’s layout.
“Now look what you made me do,” Ella snapped.
“I made you?” Marie argued. “If you hadn’t tried to hog them all—”
“Ladies,” Tenley interrupted. “We have a bigger issue here. Now take it outside or zip it.”
The Porter twins chose to zip it, but this did not prevent them from glowering at one another.
Brenna grabbed a cloth and tried to blot up the cream filling. The photos were okay but the newspaper clipping was done for.
“I don’t think there’s any way to save this clipping,” Lillian said. “The ink is beginning to run through and the paper has absorbed chocolate filling.”
“I’ll have to find another one,” Brenna said. “Would the library have the paper back this far?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Ed Johnson is so controlling, he won’t let us keep any back issues. We lease our subscription and have to return the papers to him every month.”
“You mean you don’t have any old issues?” Brenna asked.
“Only a month’s worth. For anything older, you have to go to the Courier offices,” she said.
Brenna stared at Lillian and then she smiled. She couldn’t believe it. All of her problems had just been solved by a flying cream puff.
Chapter 18
Always wipe away any excess glue with a damp sponge but do not disturb the image.
The map was antique looking, printed on firm paper, not as hearty as card stock but not as flimsy as newsprint. The predominant colors were rich browns and reds and showed a cartographer’s guess at what the world looked like in the times before Columbus fell upon America. Brenna had been commissioned to cover a small oak table with it.
The main image had gone on smoothly and she was now working on the edging and the legs. Brenna was using squares of matching reds and browns to give the surface a finished look.
The little table had been sitting in her living room for two weeks now, and murder or no murder, Brenna knew her buyer wanted the piece finished soon. She was using a long straight-edged ruler to match the squares at opposite ends of the map. She took the two-by-two-inch squares out of the small bowl of water by her knee and let them drip dry, then she covered the back with a light coating of glue. Carefully, she put the squares on the table, making sure they were aligned, then she used a cloth to gently dab up the excess water and glue. After that, she ran over the squares with her brayer and dabbed at the paper again with the cloth, using the ruler to make sure the squares were still in alignment.
Brenna enjoyed the rhythm of working on a piece. It quieted her mind when she concentrated on the task at hand, and it let her focus more specifically on the millions of questions that flitted through her head. During those dark days after the gallery robbery in Boston, she had worked on numerous pieces both large and small. Looking back, she believed it was the only thing that had kept her sane.
It was easier for her to mull things over when she had something to do with her hands. She considered what Marybeth had told her about Roger Chisholm and Bart Thompson, and she wondered why Ed hadn’t gone after them like he did Nate Williams. But, of course, according to Dom, Ed needed to sell papers, and Roger and Bart were of no interest to the world at large. Nate was a celebrity. The mystery that surrounded his departure from the art world made him an enticing murder suspect. Undoubtedly, Ed couldn’t resist, especially if it meant saving the Morse Point Courier.
Brenna wondered if she should call Dom and see if he could get her into the Courier to look around. She hesitated. First, she didn’t know Dom that well, and second, bringing in Dom might put Ed on his guard. No, she needed to get into the Courier offices when very few people were there and look around unimpeded. She glanced at the chocolate-covered newsprint lying on her counter. She ran the brayer over a line of squares. She would go tomorrow night.
Brenna had figured on going into the Courier building alone. The only problem was Tenley wouldn’t let her go without a lookout. When Brenna protested, her friend got downright surly about it and so she reluctantly let Tenley play lookout again.
It was late evening. Brenna sat in the passenger seat of Tenley’s car, and they waited until most of the Courier staff had departed for dinner. She noticed that the few who entered the building had swipe badges. She wondered how she was going to get in without one. For good measure they waited until those who had entered during their watch left again. Office lights were shut off and there was an air of abandonment about the place. Now, Brenna felt confident enough to leave Tenley keeping a lookout in the car while she hurried across the street to the building.
Brenna stood in the shadows until a photographer banged out of the main door, talking on his phone while juggling his camera. Brenna grabbed the door before it shut and slipped inside.
There was a peculiar smell to the offices of the Morse Point Courier. Brenna tried to place it, but all she came up with was a mixture of sweat, rancid coffee, and printer’s ink.
A light at the end of a short hall led her to the main newsroom. Most of the cubicles sat empty. She wandered through the sea of abandoned desks until she reached the one office in the room that had a door. It belonged to John Sheady, the night editor.
John was a little over six feet tall and everything about him was gray. His hair, his dingy dress shirt, his charcoal slacks, even his skin under the pulsing fluorescent lights appeared to be a pearly shade of gray. John had been the night editor for fifteen years, and Brenna wondered if this was what a life without daylight did to a person.
He glanced up from his computer. He appeared grumpy and annoyed at the interruption, but when she explained about the plaque, he nodded in understanding.
“I went to grade school with Jim,” he said. “He wasn’t my favorite person, but he sure deserved better than this. I can’t imagine what Chief Barker was thinking letting that crazy artist out of jail when he’s obviously a sociopath.”
“He is not,” Brenna snapped.
John looked at her and Brenna pressed her lips toget
her. She had to play this very carefully; otherwise she’d be tossed out on her posterior before she had a chance to look for any evidence.
“What I mean is, ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ Right?” she asked.
“So, what is it that you need exactly?” John asked. He looked less helpful than he had a minute ago and Brenna figured she’d better smooth it over.
“A copy of the article about Ripley being sworn in as mayor,” she said. “One of my students splatted a cream puff all over the original.”
John Sheady took the chocolate-crusted clipping out of her hand and grimaced. “You’re lucky the date is still legible.”
“I know,” she said.
“We have old issues on hard copy and on microfilm. I’ll get you the hard copy. It’ll make a better print for what you’re doing.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Look, I have to proof the layouts for tonight’s print run,” he said. “I can show you the archive room and the copiers and then you’re on your own.”
Brenna wanted to do a happy dance, but she settled for smiling and nodding instead.
John led her back through the maze of cubicles to a room in the back of the building. The temperature dropped to a frigid fifty-eight degrees, and Brenna knew it was to preserve the papers that had yet to be put on film.
John checked the date on the clipping and then led her to the compact shelving. He hit a button to make the shelves move over. A grinding noise began, and one by one the shelves slid over toward the right wall.
Once they stopped, John stepped in between them and pulled out an archival box of newspapers.
“The one you’re looking for is in here,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “I have to start proofing. The copier is down the hall to your right, in front of Ed’s office. When you’re done, leave the papers in the box here. I’ll put them away.”
Brenna suspected that was his way of being sure that she didn’t steal anything. She was just tickled that he had handed her the golden ticket, an unsupervised visit to Ed’s office.
She dug into the papers, looking for the one she needed. He was gone a mere two minutes when she found the article. She left the freezing room behind and headed down the hallway.
The copier in front of Ed’s office was off. She switched it on and then hurried back down the hall to look over the newsroom. John’s office was located on the other side, past the sea of cubicles. There was no way he could see her from here and no one else appeared to be in the building.
She hurried back to the copier. She lifted the lid, but it was still warming up. She leaned her back against Ed’s office door and turned the knob with her hand. It opened with a muffled click.
Brenna pushed the door slowly backward, hoping its hinges weren’t squeaky. The door slid silently across the blue industrial carpet, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She turned and slowly closed the door behind her.
She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and called Tenley, who picked up on the first ring.
“What’s your twenty?” she asked. Obviously, she’d been watching too many cop shows.
“I’m in,” Brenna said.
“Roger that,” Tenley said, and then she giggled. Brenna rolled her eyes, although there was no one there to see her, and hung up.
They had worked it out that if Tenley saw anyone enter the building, she would call Brenna’s cell phone, which was set to vibrate, to warn her. If Ed entered the building, she would call her once, hang up, and call her again to let her know he was on his way.
Brenna kept the office light off and worked by the glow of Ed’s screen saver, which was the header of the Morse Point Courier being typed across the screen in a continuous loop.
A cursory glance was all she needed to see that Ed was a pig. A blackened banana and empty carryout containers littered the top of his desk, which was piled eye high with reams of paper, folders, and Post-it notes. Good grief, how was she supposed to find anything in here if she didn’t even know what she was looking for?
She glanced out the window of the office. There was no movement. She felt jittery and jumpy, expecting to be caught at any moment. The harder she tried to figure out where to start, the more paralyzed she felt.
“Knock it off, Brenna,” she whispered to herself. “Come on, focus.”
She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. Feeling a smidge calmer, she figured the best starting place was his desk. She began to flip through the stacks, being careful not to move anything in case Ed was one of those people who knew exactly where everything in his personal mess was.
She tried to read his notes but his handwriting looked more like hieroglyphics than anything else. She shuffled through several piles of minutes from the latest town council meetings, the schedule for the peewee football league, and the take-out menus from eight nearby restaurants.
She glanced back through the window again—still no sign of anyone. She shifted to the left side of his desk and began to riffle through those papers, while holding a congealed cup of coffee from Stan’s Diner in her left hand to keep from spilling it. Ew.
Still, there was nothing. She tapped the space bar on his keyboard to see if she could access the files Marybeth had mentioned. She scanned the icons, but saw nothing that looked like what she wanted. She double-clicked an e-mail icon. His e-mail log-in window filled the screen.
His first initial and last name were already in the log-in space, but the password line was empty. She tried the obvious and put in his first initial and last name in the password line. She was rejected. Then she tried the name of the paper. Nothing.
What would Ed use as a password? She glanced at his desk. There were no photos of people or pets. On the wall were framed photos of him at several area press club banquets, but there were no awards on the shelf.
The one thing Ed craved more than anything was recognition. It was a long shot, but she tried it anyway. In the password line she typed “Pulitzer,” and Ed’s e-mail opened up like an oyster spitting out a pearl.
Brenna resisted the urge to pump her fist, barely. She scanned through his in-box. There were lots of local messages about events happening in Morse Point; several more were from New York and had Nate Williams as the subject line. It killed her to skip these, but she knew they were just gossip. She thought about deleting them, but knew that would be crossing an ethical line she was not yet ready to jump over.
She worked from older to newer, starting with the day Ripley was murdered. There had to be something in here that would give a clue as to who Ed thought was the murderer or even if it was Ed himself. She still hadn’t given up the idea that he might have had something to do with the mayor’s demise. Ed did not strike her as the sharpest pencil in the box—he had to have left some clue, made some misstep, something.
Toward the top of his in-box, she saw a message with no subject line. She opened it.
It read: I know who murdered Mayor Ripley. Meet me at the Willow House at 9:00 pm. Come alone.
It was dated today.
Just then, her phone vibrated in her pocket and she jumped. She knocked the congealed coffee cup with her hand and sludge oozed out across the desk.
“Damn it,” she hissed. Her phone stopped vibrating. She had to get out of there.
She hit print and bounced on her feet as the printer slowly ground out the message. She exited out of Ed’s e-mail, snatched the page from the printer, and hurried out to the copier. It was ready now. She ran a quick copy of the article she needed. As the copier hummed and its green glow lit up the hallway, she felt her phone vibrate again.
Oh no, that was two calls. That meant Ed was on his way.
She grabbed her copy and the original and dashed down the hall to the archive room. She stuffed the newspaper in the box and hurried back through the newsroom toward John Sheady’s office. She found him sipping a steaming cup of coffee.
“Thanks so much, John,” she said. She forced a smile even though she
felt as if her heart was going to pound right through her rib cage.
“Sure,” he said. “Did it copy all right?”
She glanced at the copy in her hand without really seeing it. The phone in her pocket was still vibrating. She was out of time!
“Yeah, it looks great,” she said, backing toward the door. “Thanks and, uh, bye.”
She turned and broke into a run.
Chapter 19
To sharpen edges or add colors, use a pen and ink or a thin marker.
Brenna broke through the main doors to find Tenley in her Honda Pilot with the engine running. Brenna hopped into the passenger’s seat and Tenley sped from the curb.
“I’m sorry,” Tenley said.
“For what?”
“It was a false alarm,” Tenley said. “I saw Ed walking down the street towards the building, so I called twice but he didn’t go in. He climbed into his car and took off.”
“That’s okay,” Brenna said. “Because we’re going to follow him.”
“What? How? I didn’t see where he went,” Tenley said.
“What and where is the Willow House?” Brenna asked, while she fumbled with her seatbelt.
“It’s a student hangout on the edge of town, near the university,” Tenley said. “Why?”
Brenna glanced at her watch. It was eight thirty. They only had thirty minutes.
“How fast can you get us there?”
“If I hit the lights right, twenty-five minutes,” she said. She stomped on the accelerator and Brenna reflexively grabbed her armrest.
Tenley glanced at her. “What’s going on?”
“I found this in Ed’s office,” she said and read her the e-mail.
“Should we call Chief Barker?” Tenley asked.
There was a beat of silence.
“I am going to hope that Ed had the good sense to do just that,” Brenna said. A thought struck her. “Unless Ed is the guilty party.”
“You think someone is calling Ed out?”
“Maybe,” Brenna said. “We need to see who is meeting Ed then we’ll call Chief Barker.”
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