“I’m trying not to smell it. I’ve made my mind stop thinking about it.” She moved away from TJ toward the kitchen counter and picked up a coffee cup. “Want some coffee?”
“Don’t think so, but thanks. I’ve had enough during the night to sink the Titanic over again. I’m sorry for the smoke smell. Probably makes you anxious.”
Grace dropped into a chair across from TJ. “What happened? Does anyone know what caused it?”
“Don’t know yet. From the color of the flames and how quickly it went up, an accelerant might have been involved. But we don’t know that for sure. State guys are out there today.”
“So what will happen?”
“The body—Brenda—has been sent on to the medical examiner in Woodbury since they can do a more thorough job. She’ll be posted, ah, autopsied later this morning. We have a definite identification and they’ll be able to tell if she died before or after the fire started.”
“And the fire itself?”
“Well, Dan Wakeley’s the local fireman with expertise on origin and cause. He’s had several classes at the fire school. It’s a bit early to be able to check that out because the fire’s still smoldering and not the safest place. But once it burns down he’ll be able to put a few pieces together. And they’ll call in the state guys to examine the whole area.”
“Has anyone said it was set?”
“Good question, Grace. So far the coroner has called Brenda’s demise a ‘suspicious death’ because we won’t know much until the autopsy. Takes time. Over the years they’ve gotten better at both victim identification and fire origins.”
“No one else got hurt, right? The firemen?”
“No. Now don’t start thinking about how this figures with your own life. No comparison. And that was years and years ago. I know it upsets you, but try to put it out of your mind.” TJ yawned. “Think I’ll go home, take a shower, and get a few hours’ sleep before the postmortem. God, what a long night!” She plodded out the kitchen door.
Grace sat down and tried to ignore the smoke fumes that trailed after TJ. She leaned back in the chair and thought about Brenda last night. Jeff said she was practically unconscious when he took her into the house and guided her to the sofa. Maybe she woke up and lit a cigarette and fell asleep again. I wonder what family she has left, Grace thought. I know she has a brother somewhere, but her parents are gone.
“Hey, Gracie, I brought you some blueberry muffins!” Lettie breezed in the kitchen door with arms full of bags.
“I suppose you heard about the fire.”
“Sure did. Mildred at the bakery said Brenda Norris was at Tully’s last night and some dark-haired guy took her home. Probably had his way with her and set the house on fire.”
Grace smiled. Lettie could always make a dark day darker. Too much tabloid reading.
“And then I heard at the dry cleaners that Mike Sturgis was at the bar last night and threatened her. Evidently way drunk and the cops had to take him home, only they didn’t. Took him to his office so he could sleep it off and the little lady, Janice, wouldn’t find out. Of course, I’m not sure what she thought when he wasn’t home this morning. I’d love to be a fly on the wall during that conversation. Anyway, he’s the one people are putting money on.”
“How do you hear all this stuff?”
Lettie took a cup and poured herself coffee. “Oh, I don’t know. People just talk to me. I’m a listener, you know. Lots of theories floating around town. Gladys, my friend who works at the coffee shop, thinks Brenda was a lesbian and jilted her girlfriend, who set her house on fire outta revenge.”
Grace, who was taking a sip of coffee, started choking and had to stand up, lean over the sink, and catch her breath. I’m definitely having trouble with coffee this morning, she thought.
Lettie, ignoring her, continued. “But I don’t think so. I’ve heard that over the years she’s played hanky-panky with a lot of guys in town, several of them married. She wasn’t too selective.” She paused a moment, thinking. “Actually, I guess they weren’t either. And, of course, she’s made no friends with some of the stories she’s written. I’m surprised the fire department didn’t just let it burn after what she wrote about them the other day.”
“Lettie, I’d love to have the life of your imagination. How do you know the fire wasn’t accidental?”
“Brenda Norris?” Lettie snorted. “She never did anything accidental in her life. That woman was made for an unhappy ending. Sorry to say, but I think people could see something like this coming.”
Grace shook her head gently and, in a quiet voice, replied, “I didn’t.” She took another sip of coffee and reflected for a moment. Then she put her cup on the counter and automatically reached for two plates from the cupboard next to the sink. “Let’s eat, and then I have to shower and go to the newspaper office.”
Lettie slid into a chair. “What’s the new editor like? Is he good-looking? Funny? Smart?” She paused. “Your age, perhaps?”
“He seems quite congenial, although I don’t know how he’ll adjust to a small town compared to New York City. Everyone knows the newspaper’s been on its last legs for some time, so he has his job cut out for him. He was the one who took Brenda home because she was so drunk, and he’s worried about what to do with her at the newspaper.” She was silent for a moment. “I guess that’s no longer an issue. Perhaps Mike Sturgis’s lawsuit will go away too.” They ate in silence for several minutes.
“Is he married?”
Grace set her coffee down. “Don’t know. Doesn’t wear a wedding ring.”
Lettie looked up over Grace’s shoulder and out the window. “Hmm . . . I wonder why some big-time NewYork editor would want to come to a small place like this,” Lettie said. Then her voice turned ominous. “Mark my words. More goes on than meets the eye with that one.”
He’s definitely not hard on my eyes. “I haven’t known him long enough to interrogate him on his dark and murky past, Lettie.” Grace popped the last of the blueberry muffin in her mouth, scooped up the crumbs, ate them, and headed upstairs. “Time to get rolling.”
Watching Grace climb the stairs, Lettie muttered, “Male, breathing. What more could she want?” Then she stood up, walked over, and yelled up the stairs, “You might want to wear something . . . attractive.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
Grace pulled into the parking lot of the Endurance Register, somehow skillfully missing five potholes in the asphalt. The building should have had a cheerful exterior of red bricks, but over the years the red had faded and black soot and stains streamed down in several spots. It had all the signs of a small-town, hard-copy newspaper outlet struggling to compete. Scrubby grass, dirt, and straggly weeds occupied the space between the black, crusty edge of the parking lot and the bottom of the building. Near the entrance was a sign with the newspaper’s name and the phrase “Founded in 1852.” Below that the ownership announcement—“A Torchlight Publication”—completed the address.
She strolled in through the double doors and questioned if she should have made an appointment with Jeff Maitlin. It was Friday afternoon and an edition would be published tomorrow morning. The newspaper had changed from a six-day-a-week newspaper to three deliveries on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday mornings, and the circulation had shrunk to 4,000.
Rick Enslow, the advertising and sales person, sat behind the counter. Not a bad student in high school, eager to learn and deeply involved in the cross-country team and the track team. Maybe a long jumper? Grace couldn’t spit in Endurance without hitting former students. Cross country or track? She couldn’t remember. But now—oh, twenty years later—his muscular, trim figure had rounded considerably and his belt size had definitely expanded. Maybe doubled. The once abundant blond hair that drove the girls wild in high school had receded to a shiny landing pad on the top with a few blades of grass on either side. To make up for her nitpicking thoughts, she added to herself, He was a really kind person and had a lot of f
riends.
He rose from his chair and came up to the counter.
“Hi, Rick. Do you suppose your new editor is in?”
“Sure, Ms. Kimball. He’s working on the fire story for tomorrow. Pretty quiet around here today. Someone placed a wreath and a vase of flowers near Brenda’s door. Unbelievable.” He paused. “She was a presence to be reckoned with.”
“You’re so right.”
“Hang on and I’ll buzz Jeff—uh, Mr. Maitlin.” He picked up the phone, announced Grace, listened momentarily, hung up, and said, “He has someone in his office but said to tell you to sit down and he’ll be right with you.” Rick pointed to a waiting area with a few stacks of the latest edition of the paper, and some sepia photographs from the paper’s history on the wall. The phone resonated in the quiet room while Grace sat in the lobby, and she listened as Rick explained an advertising package.
It wasn’t long before Jeff’s door opened. Out came a woman Grace didn’t know, about twenty-five, who scowled as she headed toward another office. Jeff followed her, picked up some messages from the front desk, and moved toward Grace with a smile on his face. His shirt and pants resembled TJ’s soot-covered uniform and his eyes looked puffy from lack of sleep. Nevertheless, he smiled and extended his hand.
“Grace. Hope you’ve brought me good news.”
“Yes. I’ll write the column.” She smiled and then, remembering her morning, pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’m terribly sorry about Brenda.” She struggled to think of something else to say and decided to drop the attempt.
He nodded, let go of her hand, and added with his arms outspread, “Come on back to my office.”
She followed him and settled into a chair in front of his desk. Behind him she saw shelves of books dealing with aspects of management, business, and newspapers. Her eyes wandered to his desk and noted an overflowing set of paper trays. The computer screen was over to the side of the desk and a half-empty bottle of water rested next to the wired mouse.
“Horrible night. Ghastly. I got the news on the scanner and headed out there. It seemed like I had just taken her home. But the house was totally up in flames when I arrived, and they had already brought her body out.” He reached for his bottle of water and shook his head slowly. “Terrible.” Grace noticed his hand tremble as he lifted the bottle.
“Did you get any sense of why this happened or how?”
“Not sure. Detective Sweeney is investigating. News conference to come. I don’t know how long it will be before the state authorities figure out the reason for the fire. It sure went up fast. Police showed up here and pored over her files. Not sure they found anything useful and they’ve returned it all, including her laptop. I think Detective Sweeney told me they’d copied her hard drive.”
“Did they say what they were looking for?”
“Any items that might implicate someone if it turns out her death is suspicious. Right now I don’t know what they’ll hit upon.”
“I can’t help but think, knowing the condition she was in, that she somehow caused it herself.”
“Ah.” He paused for a moment, his face pensive. “And I wonder if someone might have set it.”
Grace shifted uneasily in her chair. “Why?”
“You see all kinds of things. When I was on another small paper, we had a fire-setter in town and I researched the kind of people who become enamored of fires. Their choice of accelerant is part of their crime because it causes a fire to catch quickly and travel rapidly. Last night I heard the firemen debate among themselves. Maybe kerosene or gasoline. I could just catch a word or two every so often.”
She started to speak and found herself having to clear her throat. “You’re kidding! Why would . . . would someone do that?”
“We don’t really know yet if that’s true. But if they did apply an accelerant, they didn’t want her to escape alive.”
Grace shivered as her heart pounded a little faster.
He noticed her pale face. “Grace? You all right?”
She looked up and whispered, “Yes. I’ve had a bad experience with a fire—long ago—and fires terrify me.”
“I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject. So you’re all set to write and I’ve already opened an account at Harlow’s Bookstore, since I hoped you’d say yes. You can come and go as you please and I’ll have some keys cut for you. If you’d like, you can work from home and email your column in. Shannon can explain the address to use. Probably need a column every couple of weeks. How about for the Monday edition, say, two weeks from now?”
“Sure. Sounds perfect.”
“Let me show you around. For now you can use Brenda’s office, you know, in case you do want to come in and work here occasionally.” They both rose and set off for the door when Jeff’s cell phone chimed. He glanced at the number and said, “Excuse me for a moment.”
Grace strolled out into the large, open area surrounded by several windowed offices. She thought she saw a brief glimpse of red moving around a corner down the hallway. Then Jeff returned.
After his impromptu tour they reached a hallway where Grace saw a wreath, some flowers, and a few candles on the floor in front of an office door. Jeff pointed out, “Of course, this is Brenda’s. Oops. The door should be closed.” He glanced inside the office and closed the door. “The police searched some of Brenda’s belongings, but otherwise her office is as she left it. You know, some days I’d have a conversation with Brenda because someone had called in and cussed me out,” he began. Then he sighed. “I guess I won’t do that anymore.” His hands fell to his sides and Grace waited as he drew in a couple of deep breaths.
“So you’re working on tomorrow morning’s edition?”
“Yes, and that’s why I have to cut this short. I was up all last night, and once this edition is finished I’m going to crash. Monday they may have a press conference concerning the autopsy, so that’s made a hell of a mess out of what I thought were my firm deadlines.”
“I won’t keep you then. Thanks for the tour. If it’s all right, I think I’ll go into Brenda’s office, check out the computer, and think about my first book review. If you believe the police are done and you have a few cardboard cartons, I could pack her belongings for you. You know, personal stuff. Brenda and I were friends long ago, and I’d like to think that someone who knew her in a good light—at least in the past—would . . . touch her things.” She stumbled through the last words, her voice wavering.
He seemed to compose himself. “Wonderful, Grace. I’ll have Rick bring you some boxes. We have plenty. Welcome to the paper and I hope you’ll decide to stay with us for a long time.” He chuckled, turned, and plodded back toward his office.
Grace glanced into Shannon Shiveley’s office and saw her sitting at her desk, her red dress a contrast with her chair. She stared at Grace with a smirk on her face. Grace was sure Shannon had come out of Brenda’s office earlier. Strange.
Carefully stepping around the wreath and flowers on the floor, Grace reached up and gently stroked the letters on Brenda’s door—“Brenda Norris”—and underneath, “News Reporter.” She remembered the determination, the set jaw, when she saw Brenda downtown as she said, “Some people are gonna wish they’d never done what they did.” Oh, Brenda. If you just hadn’t pushed people so hard. As she stood in the doorway, someone came up behind her and she panicked, jumped, and caught her breath.
“Jeff—uh, Mr. Maitlin—said you would need these. Sorry I scared you,” and Rick handed her a cardboard box and set two more on the floor. “Wow, you’re kind of jumpy, Ms. Kimball.”
She let out her breath. “Thanks, Rick. Sorry. I didn’t expect anyone. Just me—I’m, uh, skittish, I guess.” Her breathing began to normalize. “And since I’m writing a column for the paper, you can call me Grace. And you don’t have to call the boss Mr. Maitlin. He can be Jeff.”
“I know you’re Grace, but it’s hard for me to say anything but Ms. Kimball. Jeff I can do. Let me know if I can help, Ms. Kimball.” He left
and strode back to the front.
Why am I so jumpy? Grace wondered. Do I think Brenda’s ghost haunts the place? She glanced behind her quickly and moved all the boxes into the office. She pushed on the wall switch and the room filled with light. That must be some of her research, Grace decided as her eyes first fell on several stacks of papers on a table near a loveseat. One whole wall held three shelves of books and lopsided piles of folders.
She moved in farther and examined the titles of the books. Some were college texts and others appeared to be books she’d used to teach. The Great Gatsby, The Last of the Mohicans, a few volumes of short stories, a well-worn handbook of literary terms, The Devil’s Dictionary, some mysteries, a Poe short story collection, an anthology of American writing from the romantic period, several grammar textbooks, and a dictionary. Grace ran her hands over the titles and selected the Fitzgerald book about the ill-fated Gatsby. She opened it to the middle and saw Brenda’s copious notes in the margins. On the inside cover she had scribbled Fitzgerald’s quote, There are no second acts in American lives. “Or at least they’re short second acts,” Grace murmured.
On the shelf below Fitzgerald she looked at two different sets of Endurance High School yearbooks. One set included 1984–1988 and the other group covered 1968–1971. One set must comprise her teaching years and the other her high school years. Grace recognized the 1987 and 1988 books. She had similar copies from the two years she’d worked with Brenda. She opened the 1971 book and was surprised at the huge graduating class: 150 students. “Well,” she said out loud, “I guess that makes sense since the baby boomers had hit the high schools by then.”
Thumbing through the senior section she saw Brenda’s photo. Her black hair was stylishly flipped up and she wore dark-framed glasses, so she must have switched to contacts later. Slender and good-looking, she had been in the Future Teachers of America, the high school choir, and the journalism club. The hopeful caption announced she was “most likely to be the first woman journalist to anchor an evening news program.”
Three May Keep a Secret (An Endurance Mystery) Page 6
