Deadly Blessings (11 page)

I followed his gaze, as did Sophie, to a
second door that led to an adjacent room I hadn’t noticed earlier,
tucked as it was in the corner behind a wing chair.

The fellow who entered appeared bewildered
by our presence. He blinked several times, switching his focus
between me and Sophie as he came forward. I put him mid-fifties,
scrawny, with a full head of slicked-back black hair so uniform in
color that it had to be dyed. He wore a red plaid cotton
short-sleeve shirt and gray polyester pants.

He still hadn’t answered Father Bruno’s
question.

“
Emil,” the priest said
again, “were you … in back?”
Closer now, it began to dawn on me that wherever “in back” was,
Emil had been hitting the sauce there. His head slightly bent, he
glanced at the two of us through nervous eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“You need something?”

“
No,” Bruno said, “but
these young ladies rang the doorbell twice. I wondered where you
were.”

Emil crinkled up his face in exaggerated
apology. Why people under the influence believed they needed to
react big, was beyond me. Drunks tended not to be subtle. “Oh man,
I’m sorry.” He scratched his head and moved close enough to lean
his hip against the desk. Father Bruno’s face told me he was not
amused. I caught the mixed tang of alcohol and body odor and leaned
back a little. “I was doing some of that paperwork that’s been
piling up. Hey!” he said, his eyes focusing for a moment. “That
you, Sophie?”

Her body had gone rigid and she averted her
eyes.

Emil’s face split into a grin and I winced.
His crooked teeth, brown around the edges, were tiny. Too short for
his gumline, they looked as though someone had painstakingly cut
them all in half.

“
Haven’t seen you in a
while,” he continued.

“
Emil,” Bruno interrupted.
“Sophie’s brother Matthew … you remember him, don’t
you?”

He nodded, again with extra effort.

“
Matthew seems to be
missing. He didn’t call here at all recently, did he?”

Emil shook his head. “No, Father, I haven’t
heard from him.”

“
No messages you forgot to
give me?”

“
No, sir, none. None at
all.”

Sophie and I stood at the same time. She
positioned herself close, and I felt her fingers grasp my elbow
with a tiny tug. Her overbite seemed even more pronounced now, as
she bit her lip. “I think we go, okay? Maybe Matthew call home
already.”

“
Sure,” I said. “I need to
get back to work, too.”

Father Bruno stood, polite man that he was,
and held up a finger. “Ms. Szatjemski, why don’t you give me your
address and phone number.” He handed me a pen from a stand on his
desk, and a pad of Post-It notes. Noting my raised eyebrows
perhaps, he added, “Would you like me to keep you informed as
well?”

“
Sure,” I said. “This is my
parents’ number. I’m staying there.” Sophie grabbed my right hand
as soon as I finished writing, her tugs becoming more insistent as
Emil moved closer and spoke to her in low tones behind
me.

“
Where do you work?” Bruno
asked me, canting his head in curiosity.

“
In an
office downtown. I’m a secretary.” It was my usual cover story, one
I often used when I started investigating features. The lie fell
from my mouth out of habit. Probably burn in hell for that. Right
now our attention needed to stay with Sophie and Matthew. A mention
of my affiliation with
Midwest
Focus
and that might shift. I gave
Sophie’s hand a squeeze, so she wouldn’t contradict me, but she
appeared to be oblivious to the conversation, intent instead on
getting out the door.

I shook my head as we left. My boss thought
I was busy with hair care stories, when really I was trying to
steal back the Milla Murder story from the new hotshot on our
staff. In the process of all this, I’d lied to a priest, and I’d
agreed to help a young woman whose brother had gone missing. Wow, I
was having a busy day.

Chapter Seven

I wanted to call Lucy from home in the
morning, but my sister wasn’t much of an early riser, and I needed
to get rolling again on this hair story. As a researcher, my job
was to take tons of information and winnow it down to a precious
few ounces. Which meant my full scope of information was due on
William Armstrong’s desk by the end of business today, and I still
had another woman to interview.

Other than Wilda Lassiter’s bald and
blue-headed incident, I didn’t have much to go on. After Sophie’s
frantic phone call, I asked Jordan to reschedule my third hair
victim, Angela Cucio. She’d been accommodating, thank goodness. I
hoped that bode well for today’s chat. Since I had nothing from
Tammy Larken other than the bad taste left in my mouth from our
brief, unpleasant conversation, I needed to make sure this next
interview soared.

I’d made it back to the office yesterday to
be greeted by Fenton, nearly apoplectic with anticipation over the
file I promised him. It took me just over fifteen minutes to gather
and copy all the information, but the way he behaved you’d think he
waited a year. Bass had provided him with plenty of basic facts.
And while nothing stopped him from researching the story on his
own, Fent had spent the entire day waiting for the folder. I was
certain he’d been disappointed to find that I hadn’t swooped in
like the good fairy and left him a fully-written report inside. Too
bad.

His scriptwriter was going to have a tough
go, but David Gonzales was a talented guy. I wouldn’t have minded
being assigned to him, now that Tony was gone. But I figured that
maybe this William might be good, too. I’d find out soon
enough.

I flipped through my calendar to see when my
next free day might be. Lucy always liked to have the date to look
forward to, and I knew how much she’d been counting on seeing me
this Saturday. Even though I was pretty anxious to grab my junk out
of Dan’s place, now that we’d made the decision to split, my
letting Lucy down gave me a queasy sad feeling, as though I was
making a poor choice and I knew it.

The Wrigley Building across the river showed
nine o’ clock through a lingering mist that looked to be burnt off
any moment by the sun rising over the lake. Time to talk to Lucy. I
picked up the receiver.

My door opened, without an announcing knock.
“Alex?”

Fenton actually called me by the correct
name. I was impressed enough to hold off dialing, but I kept the
phone close to my ear in a “don’t make this long” maneuver.

“
What’s up?”

“
I talked to Bass. He’s
giving me an extra week on the Millie story.”

My lips compressed as I bit back correcting
him on Milla’s name once again. I’d have to stop in by Gonzales to
make sure the poor girl’s name wasn’t massacred in Fenton’s notes.
“Another week?” I asked, and I know incredulity squeaked out in my
voice. “This is one of the hottest local stories out there. Why in
the world would you want to hold it for a week?”

Fenton was wearing yet another pair of
Dockers, dark gray this time, with a pink golf shirt. It had one of
those “I paid a lot for this item” logos embroidered in yellow on
the chest, small enough that I couldn’t quite make it out, but from
where I sat it looked like a pig being hoisted up by its
middle.

He flipped his hair back, jutting his chin
out in an insolent way. “Because,” he said giving an impatient
wiggle, “you haven’t been exactly forthcoming with information. I’m
in a bind here, you know.”

I stood up, and although the room stretched
between us, I noticed he took a tiny step backward. Just enough to
make me feel like I had an edge. “Guess what, Fent? I’ve got a
story to research too. So, your best bet is to figure out how to do
your job and get it done. Nobody here is gonna hold your hand.”

“
You know, that’s another
thing.”

“
What?” I asked. He backed
out of the doorway to allow me to pass.

“
The way you talk to me.
I’m Genevieve Mulhall’s nephew, you know.”

“
Yes, I’m fully aware. And
I remember Hank telling us to treat you like everyone else. Just
like any other member of the team. And you know what? Each of the
players on this team holds up their end, and I don’t think we
should start making exceptions. Do you?”

His brown eyes blazed.

I made a show of looking at
my watch. “I have another appointment scheduled soon. For
my
story.”

“
The hair care story.” His
mocking voice dripped derision.

“
The hair care story.” I
answered him in kind.

“
Well,” he said, “it’s
obvious they know which of their researchers to give the important
stories to.”

This guy was a total idiot.

“
You can look at it that
way,” I agreed, forcing a smile on my face to let him know just how
pissed I was. “But then it only reinforces the fact that you won’t
need my help. Not one little bit.”

I’ve always wanted to flounce away from
someone. It’s such a neat, strong action. So, I shot him another
insincere smile saying, “And next time you come to my office,
remember to knock first,” and turned my back in a grand gesture of
dismissal, not realizing that William the scriptwriter was right
behind me, yet again. I flounced all right. Right onto his left
instep while the knee of my other leg rammed into his thigh.

“
Geez!” I exclaimed. I was
so embarrassed that my immediate reaction came out sounding annoyed
rather than apologetic.

“
I’m sorry,” William said,
grabbing me by the elbow, keeping us both from falling to the
ground in a heap. He managed to keep me upright and still hang onto
a manila folder tucked under his right arm. Chalk one up for being
coordinated. Him, not me.

I heard Fenton snicker.

I backed away, murmuring my excuses, feeling
clumsy and off-kilter.

“
I was just coming to see
you,” he said to me. His eyes flicked over my head. I turned and
watched the Nephew retreat back to his office. “But if you were on
your way out …”

Totally frazzled, I stood there, attempting
to collect my composure. “No, actually, I was just trying to shake
Fenton.”

He gave a look then; his eyebrows raised a
notch and his mouth twitched. It could have been amusement, or it
could have just been an acknowledgment that I’d spoken. I wasn’t
sure, but I headed back into my office after checking with Jordan
to be sure my nine-thirty hadn’t cancelled, and motioned William to
follow me.

“
Come on in,” I said, with
an expansive gesture toward the two chairs by my desk. Having met
him only twice and both times being under less than ideal
conditions, I felt an inexplicable need to impress him. As if to
prove I wasn’t quite the twit that I appeared to be at first, or
even at second glance.

“
Hmm. Different setup,” he
said, taking in the side-set desk. “Interesting chair.”

The black leather chair behind my desk was
about as comfortable as they come. High-backed, with cushy arms, it
came with the office and it was beginning to show its age.

“
Yeah. It’s a
keeper.”

The man, it seemed, didn’t smile often, or
maybe it was just that he didn’t like me much. Not that I could
blame him at this point. But I got a better look at him as he
settled himself across from me. Just as handsome as I remembered,
maybe even more so now that I could assess him without little
streaks of panic distracting me.

“
So,” I began, “How are
things going, so far?”

“
Good.”

“
Starting to settle
in?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

His brevity unnerved me a little. It made
him harder to read, but I got the distinct impression that there
was more to him than met the eye. Still waters run deep, so they
say. Mr. Armstrong carried himself with an air of confidence that I
found compelling; I sensed there was much more to this man than his
laconic responses would suggest.

I tried again. “Is it a lot
different here than at
theDaily
Times
?”

Amusement. I swore I caught a flicker of
amusement in his eyes. As though he knew I was trying to jump-start
conversation, and he was having fun watching me flounder. “I’m
adjusting.”

I waited.

“
I worked
at the
Times
about eight years, wanting to write, but copyediting mostly.
I knew when I started that there was a hierarchy in place and that
if I wanted to make a name for myself, I’d have to play by their
rules. I knew that, and I was prepared for it.”

He gave a self-effacing shrug. “I wanted a
feature column, worked hard to get one, and did lots of writing
with no byline because my boss at the time promised that my
cooperation and team spirit would pay dividends down the road.”

“
But …”

“
Yes. But.” He raised his
eyebrows in a helpless gesture.

William Armstrong was anything but helpless.
I’d gotten the lowdown on him over the past couple of days. From
everything I gathered, he was a respected and valued team player.
No shortage of glowing reviews there. There was however, one small
glitch.

No one would tell me why he left the
newspaper. Like it was some big secret. Or maybe, no one knew.

I’m nothing if not direct. “But,” I
repeated. “You left. How come?”

The breath he expelled as he leaned
backward, told me this was a difficult subject. “It’s a long
story.”