Stone Cold Dead (23 page)

“Ellie?” he asked, rousing me from my thoughts.

“Of course, Frank,” I said. “I’ll keep this quiet for now.”

He nodded in satisfaction. “I need you to give a statement on the bus receipt you found at the Metzger place. And I’m going to need that love note.”

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting across from Deputy Pat Halvey, dictating my account of how I’d found the receipt in Darleen Hicks’s room. After a couple of minutes of watching Pat hunt and peck at the keys, I elbowed him to one side and assumed control of the typewriter, completing my own statement while Pat fetched me a cup of tea. Once I’d finished, the sheriff packed me off with Stan Pulaski, who had orders to retrieve the receipt from Darleen’s room at the Metzger farm, as well as the love note from my place on Lincoln Avenue. Stan waited in my kitchen, hat in hand, as I made several photographs of the crumpled note in the other room. I watched Stan drive off, thinking about the packed bag I’d left upstairs. The trip I had planned would have to wait for now.

It was after eleven by the time I walked into the City Room. Norma Geary looked distraught, her face ashen as she caught my eye. Then Charlie Reese strode in.

“Where have you been, Ellie?” he demanded, his voice tight and impatient. “I called you five times yesterday, and now you show up three hours late for work, and on a Monday morning. You know how Artie Short feels about tardiness after the weekend.

It was true. The publisher had met a statistician from the university in Albany who espoused a theory that employees ditched work, pretending to be sick, on Mondays and Fridays, thereby extending their weekends and defrauding their employers. That set Artie Short on a crusade to prove we were all slackers. He collected his evidence over the next six months then called a general meeting with the staff to present his findings.

“People,” he began, frowning, clutching a few sheets of paper in his right hand. “I stand before you today to report that I have been concerned about absenteeism in this place for quite some time. So concerned, in fact, that I have compiled data from the past several months.” He held the papers up for all to see, crushing them in his tight, sweaty grip. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and continued. “You will be interested to know that the staff of this publication seems to think it normal to take things easy, play hooky, and shirk its working responsibilities, on Mondays and Fridays in particular.” The crowd of employees glanced about at each other in confusion. This was news to me as well; my attendance had been nearly perfect for two and a half years. “The statistics do not lie,” he continued. “Eighteen percent of all absences occur on Mondays,” he announced, reading from the wad of paper in his hand. “Eighteen percent!” he said, shaking the document at us. “And fully sixteen percent of absences are recorded on Fridays.” He paused to glare at his audience.

I raised my hand. Artie Short took notice and gave a start. He actually looked stunned that anyone, let alone I, would interrupt him in the middle of an all-hands chewing-out. His mouth hung open, and his eyes betrayed both anger and surprise. He stared at me for a long moment, saying nothing. Bobby Thompson, standing at my side, inched away from me.

“What is it?” hissed Short at length.

“Excuse me, sir. You said that sixteen percent of absences occur on Friday?” I asked. The publisher gaped at me but said nothing. “And eighteen percent on Monday?”

“That’s what I just said, yes. What is your point, Miss Stone?”

“Just that Friday and Monday account for forty percent of the workweek, yet only thirty-four percent of the absences. It seems to me that Tuesday through Thursday are the real problem.”

Artie Short recoiled, twitched, then huffed, looked around, searching perhaps for someone to contradict my math. When no one volunteered, he throttled the papers one last time, shaking them at the employees.

“Precisely my point, Miss Stone,” he said with an unconvincing nod. “The shirking is a problem all week long. Correct it immediately, people. I will be monitoring your absences.”

“I was home,” I said, returning to Charlie Reese’s question. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

He gave me a knowing look, but didn’t dare suggest I had been drinking.

“What’s the big crisis anyway?” I asked.

“George Walsh has been nosing around your story,” said Charlie. “He’s got a big scoop, and Artie Short has pulled you off, in part because we couldn’t locate you yesterday for your input on what George found.”

“Off the story? He can’t do that.”

“He already has,” said Charlie, waving a hand at me in frustration and turning to face the window.

“What does George have that I don’t?”

“Read it and weep,” said Charlie, tossing some pages onto my desk. “This will be in this afternoon’s edition.”

I snatched the story off the table and read. It only took seconds to realize what kind of scoop George had landed. Mine. His article told the tale of Darleen Hicks’s bus ticket. “Missing Girl a Runaway” he led. A receipt for a one-way fare to Tucson, Arizona, had been found in her bedroom. She was thought to be in the company of an enlisted man at the nearby Fort Huachuca army base, and the
Republic
was spearheading the effort to locate the wayward girl there and bring her home “to the bosom of her modest, salt-of-the-earth, loving mama and papa.”

“Charlie, this is my story,” I said, punch drunk. “I mean, I didn’t write this schlock, of course; it’s classic George Walsh, with the melodrama and the references to ‘this newspaper’ and ‘your humble correspondent.’ But this is my research.”

“Can you prove that?”

“He must have gone through my notes. I saw him skulking around here the other day. I’d almost finished the story, and I’d left it and my notes in my desk.”

I yanked open the drawer and rifled through its contents, but my story and notes were nowhere to be found. Georgie Porgie must have removed them in anticipation of my reaction.

“My notes are gone,” I said. “But Norma knows. She can tell you I wrote it all down.”

“That’s true, Mr. Reese. Miss Stone showed me her notes, and we discussed the entire story on Friday.”

“If that’s so, why didn’t you finish it? Or tell me?” asked Charlie.

I didn’t have an answer for that. There was the basketball game Friday, but that didn’t explain Saturday or Sunday. I should have written the article then, but I was glad I hadn’t. The truth of the matter was that Darleen Hicks had never boarded any Trailways bus for Arizona. The actual ticket was safe with the sheriff, locked away in his safe, along with ninety-seven dollars in cash. I couldn’t say any of this to Charlie, or even to Norma. For the time being, I had to bide my time and take my lumps as they came.

As things turned out, I didn’t have to wait very long.

Artie Short entered the City Room with George Walsh following behind. The publisher strode up to me and smirked right in my face.

“I see you’ve found your way to work, Miss Stone. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I’m very sorry for being late, sir,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

That disarmed him for a moment. But being the odious worm that he was, he found his bearings in short order and resumed his attack with a new salvo.

“Are you aware that I’ve taken the Darleen Hicks story away from you and given it to George here?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Reese just told me.”

Artie Short didn’t like the direction our conversation was going. He was egging me on and wanted a strong reaction, probably so he could fire me on the spot for insubordination. Charlie looked uncomfortable, surely expecting me to rise to the bait, and Norma was green. Even George Walsh tried to shrink from sight.

Short harrumphed. “Well, have you seen George’s piece for today’s edition?”

I nodded meekly. That seemed to floor Georgie Porgie. He looked alarmed and relieved at the same time, if that’s possible. He must have expected me to cry foul and accuse him of having stolen my notes. I’m sure he had some phony defense all prepared, but I held my tongue, and so did he.

“Very well, then,” said Short, his bullying petering out without my participation. “I want you to read that article again, young lady. Pay close attention as you do. You’ll learn something. That’s how a
newspaperman
writes a story.”

“Yes, sir.”

But he wasn’t quite finished yet. He smiled at me with all the self-righteous condescension he could muster and offered this: “Even with the help that Charlie Reese provided for you—an assistant . . .” He leaned backwards to whisper to his son-in-law, “What’s her name?”

George whispered back, and Artie Short bellowed, “What’d you say? What’s her name?”

“Norma Geary,” said George, loud enough for all to hear.

“Yes, Norma Geary,” repeated Short, aiming his scorn back at me. “George, here, didn’t have an assistant, Miss Stone, and still he bagged the story. What do you have to say about that?”

I said nothing. One word from me, and he would fire me. The humiliation mounted with each passing moment. So many witnesses to my dressing-down. I wanted to kick him in the shins and wring George’s neck.

“I didn’t think you’d have anything to say,” he smirked. “Well, that cozy situation is over, young lady. Mrs. Geary is being transferred back to the steno pool.”

I glanced at Norma whose expression told me she’d known about the change when I entered the room. In fact, she’d already gathered her belongings and put them in a box. Though I’d never asked for her, losing her would be a bitter pill to swallow.

“You’ll have to make your way without unfair advantages and accommodations for your gender,” continued Short. “Men have it tough enough as it is, without us making things easier for women to supplant them in the workplace.”

That was the last straw. I had been holding my temper in the hopes of staying on the story, but also because I wanted to keep this job. What were my options if I lost it? A secretary for some lawyer? I didn’t want to know what other humiliation Artie Short had in store for me. But I’d had a bellyful. Job or no job, I was going to tell Artie Short and George Walsh what I thought of them. I was going to tell them both where to get off, then quit in triumph. From the corner of my eye, I caught Charlie Reese’s terrified expression, practically begging me to shut up. But all went quiet in my head. Dead silence. I was resolved, decided, and ready to accept the consequences of my sharp tongue. My lips parted and squeezed into place for my first syllable. But then, satisfied he’d taken me down a few notches, Artie Short turned and looked to his son-in-law. I hesitated.

“Now, George,” he said, “are you all set? All packed? Got your traveler’s checks from Millicent? Do you have your ticket?”

Oh, my. I took my finger off the trigger. Was this really happening?

“Now, it’ll take you almost three days to get there by bus,” continued Short, “so don’t go wasting my money phoning in from Peoria or Jefferson City to tell me about the weather. This is costing me enough already. Wire me when you reach Tucson. No long-distance phone calls. You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” barked George.

I shifted my mouth to park, my explosive invective holstered safely again, and hung on each word. This really was happening.

“Your bus leaves in an hour,” he said. “Billy will drop you at the station. Have a good trip and bring home that story.”

I nearly snorted a laugh, and Artie Short took it for a stifled sob. I played along, assuming the best hangdog expression I could manage. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands, bit my lower lip, and tried to conjure up my saddest memories to beat back the laughter that wanted to burst out of my chest. It must have been quite convincing; Charlie told me later on that he’d almost stepped up to punch Artie Short in the nose. I’m glad he didn’t.

“Something to say, Miss Stone?” asked Short.

“Yes,” I said once I’d wrestled my joy into submission. I took a deep breath and stared into George Walsh’s eyes. He seemed to flinch. “Have a nice trip, George,” I said. “You deserve this.”