“It’s not that,” Sunny snapped. She jumped up and wrestled with her thick dark hair which she’d pulled back into a messy bun. “It’s that absolute… that woman makes me want to swear like a sailor.”
“That’s totally unlike you, Sunny. Who are you talking about?” Johnny vaguely asked, as he used the joy stick from the computer game to screech his virtual Lamborghini around a sharp corner.
“And yes, you can turn the volume down on that stupid game,” Sunny said. “I’m talking about that… absolutely ridiculous woman, Ashlee Nelson.” She spat out the name, then waved her list furiously in the air. “Okay, so not all of my sorority sisters have turned against me, but there’ll be some notable absences from the annual tea event.”
Sunny chewed her lower lip, staring at Johnny while she continued. “Of course, the Pi Beta Phi alums from the Lindsay area are my loyal base. As for the other alums? I got Jennifer, you know, that super-whiz virtual assistant in New York that I was telling you about, to send out the invitations again this year.
“She noticed that the RSVPs were trickling in very slowly, so I asked her to compare them with last year’s, and can you believe it? We’re down 24% so far. Twenty-four per cent, Johnny!” Her voice turned into a wail. “That… that… absolutely unethical woman has turned as much as a quarter of the sorority alumnae against me!”
Johnny felt his blood pressure rising. He knew he had to stay calm, like the doctor had told him to do, in order to keep himself from having any more heart problems. This was not the time for more drama. He streaked around a sharp curve on the road that was displayed on the screen and smiled triumphantly, but his breathing was becoming shallow. He desperately tried to control the joystick, but his fingers began to shake and he crashed his car into a wall.
He glanced up at Sunny, who was looking very unlike her name. Her facial features were screwed up, and her fingertips were white where she was tightly clutching her attendee list. “That piece of work,” he said, feeling heat rush into his face at the mere thought of the woman. He sat up, pursed his lips and breathed through his nose like a bull that was about to charge a matador.
Sunny started pacing back and forth. “You’re darn right she’s a piece of work. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Even if this tea goes really well, everyone’s going to notice that the attendance is really down from last year, and everyone will know why. And of course, when they report it in the paper, they’re going to say why it’s down and bring the whole darn subject up again in people’s minds. Probably the… evil witch…” She took a deep breath, since it was taking a lot of effort not to turn the air blue, before she carried on. “…will show up outside the gates to our house with her microphone and awful attitude and harass my guests with whatever allegation she feels like she needs to next blow out of proportion.”
“She’s one lousy meddling know-it-all pretending she’s a do-gooder,” Johnny said. He felt blood and adrenaline rushing into his legs, like he wanted to jump up and fight, then he remembered the words of his physician telling him to let out a long breath. He followed his doctor’s advice and did just that, then he laid back down on the couch. The doctor had told him to mentally press a restart button, which he did in his mind. “Sunny, I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s not good for my health.”
But Sunny was too far gone to care what he wanted to talk about. “And she just gets away with it?” she said bitterly. She knew Johnny had mentally tuned her out, but it didn’t matter. She was as much talking to life itself as she was to him. “How is that fair, I ask you? All I ever tried to do was be an upstanding member of my community, nurture the young women of Pi Beta Phi, and raise money for charity.
“That’s all. Yet I’m the one she picks on. I wonder how many tens of thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of dollars, she’s prevented me from raising? Money that could have been used for nourishing the poor and needy, or promoting the arts.” Sunny felt very self-righteously angry as she strode the length of the huge room.
She was mind-boggled at the audacity of Ashlee Nelson. First, her gall at challenging Sunny and Johnny’s status in the community. After all, they were the wealthiest couple in Lindsay, Kansas, and probably one of the wealthiest in the state. They even had maid’s quarters, for goodness sake. No one else in Lindsay had maid’s quarters.
Sunny’s reputation had been stellar, all the way through her private girls’ school education in Kansas City, all the way through her Pi Beta Phi membership at the university in Lindsay, and continuing right up to the moment the Ashlee Nelson scandal broke. A third generation Pi Beta Phi, there had never been any doubt Sunny would join Pi Phi. She had planned to be a pediatrician, but when she met Johnny, who was very wealthy, she gave that dream up for a new path.
Her family said that being a rich man’s wife was career enough, and she agreed. Sunny had played it to the hilt, raising over five million dollars over the years for the arts and for sick, impoverished children. She had hosted dazzling teas, balls, and galas, and generally lived up to her name as the most charming, radiant hostess for the elite alumni of the university.
Even with all of that, it had taken Ashlee just a couple of weeks to tarnish the Barton name. If Sunny hadn’t been the tenacious type, she’d have been rocking back and forth in her darkened bedroom, never daring to throw another party again. She’d never even switched the news reports off when the scandal had broken. She’d forced herself to stare at the screen in steely silence, taking it all in, watching her and her husband’s reputation being torn to shreds on live television. Sometimes little snippets of it replayed in her head.
“Johnny Barton is a diligent businessman.” She heard the echo of Ashlee Nelson’s voice boring through her. “There can be no doubt that he knew what was going on at his auto dealerships.”
That was the report that made Johnny throw the remote at the screen, then sink to the couch, clutching his chest in pain.
A man, toward whom Sunny held no grudge, known in the media only as ‘Buyer’, had purchased a gleaming, brand new BMW Z4 from Johnny’s Winnetka, Illinois dealership. A couple of days later he’d been involved in a terrible auto accident and ended up paralyzed from the neck down. It turned out that the brakes on his car had failed, and when an inspection was made, it came out that the Z4 wasn’t so new after all.
Of course, Johnny immediately conducted an investigation to find out what had happened. It came to light that a new salesman had forged the car’s title documents, so he could make his sales target goal for brand new vehicles. Mr. Buyer had particularly wanted the electric blue color of the Z4 in question. There were no brand new Z4s in stock in that color, and the buyer didn’t want to wait for a factory order. So the salesman made a fatal decision, found a couple of rogue mechanics (with whom he split the extra cash from his sales commission), and sold Mr. Buyer a used vehicle as if it was new. The brakes on the used Z4 were in bad shape and failed. Johnny was ready to pay off Mr. Buyer and wrap the whole thing up. He’d even decided to pay off the press to keep the unfortunate incident out of the public’s eye.
But Ashlee hadn’t taken the deal he’d offered. Instead, she’d exposed Johnny and his deal. “He tried to bribe me to shut my mouth,” she’d said, “but nothing can stop me from speaking the truth and fighting for justice!”
“She’s like some blonde, unscrupulous Gandhi,” one of Sunny’s friends had commented.
Ashlee Nelson had parked her van, with its TV crew, outside their gates for far too long. Over and over she showed rolling footage of their lavish Colonial home, which also captured shots of Johnny’s expensive vintage car collection. “Money obviously means more to this man than the safety of his customers”, she’d said as the camera had panned to their estate. It was as if there wouldn’t be any repercussions for her, no matter what she said.
Sunny looked down at the list of names in her hand. Far too many were crossed out. Normally, she’d have called to ask each ‘no’ RSVP why they couldn’t make it
to the annual tea, and often talked them into coming. Now she found her finger hovering above the call button but never actually pressing it. She looked over at Johnny and remembered how scared she’d been when he was admitted to the hospital with chest pains. His cardiologist had put him on new medication and told him to take it easy.
“There have to be repercussions for what she did,” Sunny said to herself. “There just have to be.”
CHAPTER SIX
The fact that Mickey Connors’ brother had gone to live in Europe was actually a blessing in disguise. At first Mickey lamented that his partner-in-crime on the Topeka Tribune had ‘hopped across the pond’ to some sleepy English hamlet.
He and Rowan had always done everything together and competed in a friendly but spirited brotherly fashion. At a young age it was all about who could throw or run or spit, often much to their mother’s chagrin, the farthest. As they got older, it was who could snag the prettiest girl. Then it went on to who could get the best story for the Tribune, the paper they both worked for as journalists. There were long boastful back-and-forths between them about who’d make it into the editor’s chair.
But before that particular race could come to a conclusion, Rowan did snag a lovely English girl, Helen. She and Rowan had set off for a new life in England which consisted of converting a falling down two-hundred-year-old house with rats in the attic, into a country house hotel reminiscent of old British glamor and sophistication. Rowan always did like a challenge.
Mickey got the editor’s chair. A chair that he might just get tossed out of if he didn’t come up with some sort of a genius idea… and fast.
It turned out that having Rowan live in England was better for Mickey, because they could put their two razor sharp, competitive minds together, and apply the results to each of their respective fields, instead of pitting them against each other in the same sphere.
Of course, these mastermind conversations had to happen early in central daylight time, because England, where Rowan lived, was always six hours ahead of central standard time in Kansas.
Mickey liked to stroll through Rigby Park on his way to work. It was the only exercise he ever got, and really, the only exercise he could stomach. He’d had a cross trainer and treadmill installed at home, but he just couldn’t keep up the motivation to use them. He pulled out his phone and called Rowan.
“You’re going to have to come up with one of your flashes of brilliance,” Mickey said, as soon as Rowan answered his phone.
Mickey could hear the change in Rowan’s breathing as his brother, thousands of miles away, grinned down the line. Ingenious ideas were a lot more compelling to them both rather than pleasantries. “My pleasure. Shoot,” Rowan said.
“It’s that guy, Chance Nelson,” Mickey said, screwing up his nose like there was a bad smell. He could easily have convinced himself that there really was a nasty odor lingering around whenever he heard or said that name.
“Oh, what’s the Perfectly-Tanned-and-Talented saint up to now?”
“You’re not going to believe it, but his paper won a Pulitzer Prize.”
Rowan paused. It took a lot to shut Rowan up. “What?”
Rowan’s amazed reaction annoyed Mickey all the more, and it only served to emphasize the gravity of the situation. “Yes. Mr. Perfect Pulitzer had to make his team go Superman on the Lawrence shooting story, and all of a sudden they’re bathing in glory.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the reporter was a decorated veteran for a start. How can you beat that?”
Rowan clicked his tongue. “You can’t.”
“Right? So, there was that shooting at Lawrence Elementary School. Some white supremacist Nazi nut decided to shoot up a school with an AK-47 because he was having problems with his girlfriend. The school was full of a bunch of innocent little kids.”
“You know, as a person might casually decide to do,” Rowan said sarcastically.
Mickey’s pace had picked up with his anger, which he soon realized as he struggled to get his breath. He paused and leaned against a tree for a moment. A woman with a dog on a leash gave him a strange look and wide berth as she walked past. He waited until she was out of earshot before continuing.
“Obviously I sent my best people, news guys, photographers, etcetera, down there, and of course, Chance did the same. The only problem was, since they were closer to it, they get there first. They were able to break the story the next day with incredible images. Plus, his poisonous little wife got excellent footage. I mean, she was right there, literally in the moment. Bottom line is they were able to capture the terror and the essence of it all,” he said bitterly.
“Scum,” Rowan said.
“And another thing,” Mickey continued, “their main guy is a veteran who did time in Iraq. He returned to Iraq as a journalist later on, and he’d just gotten back. And you know what he did?”
Rowan gasped. “Oh my gosh. This is that story, isn’t it? I don’t look much at the news these days, but Helen mentioned it. He single-handedly captured the shooter, didn’t he?”
“That he did,” Mickey said darkly. “And what do you know? Mrs. Nefarious Nelson captured it all for her television station.”
“Ouch. A veteran saving a bunch of little kids from a shooter, when he’s only supposed to be reporting the news. I don’t think that’s beatable. That’s heartwarming news take it to the bank gold.”
“I know it is, and I have to beat it,” Mickey snapped. “Because that Chance Nelson is riding off with all the glory, and his paper just got the darned Pulitzer. His little poisonous wife has been nominated for some television award for her coverage, too.”
Rowan paused for a moment. “Well, I suppose the good thing is that at least no kids got hurt.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey said, not in the mood to listen to any good news about the situation.
“Okay, I hear you, Mr. Humanitarian,” Rowan snickered. “But you seem to be overreacting about this. Sure, it’s annoying, but you’ll do just as well one of these days when the next story comes out. There’s plenty of time for you to have your golden shining moment and capture your very own Pulitzer Prize.”
“That’s what you’re not getting. There is no more time,” Mickey snapped. He took a deep breath and looked around to see if there was anyone nearby. Joggers tended to zigzag through the park early in the morning. They usually had earbuds in, but he still didn’t want to talk about the subject if he thought anyone could overhear what he was about to say. The subject matter was far too embarrassing to him.
A light covering of dew glistened on the grass and a squirrel scampered up a tree trunk, but apart from the woman and her dog in the distance, there was nobody else in view.
“Go on,” Rowan urged. He knew Mickey like the back of his hand, and it was obvious to him that Mickey was holding something back.
Mickey checked over his shoulder. Once he was satisfied there was no one around, he swallowed and said in a steely voice, “The ‘big boys’ say if I let our paper get overshadowed like that again, they’ll have my job.”
“Who?” Rowan’s voice hardened. “Are you talking about Frost?” he asked, referring to the media holding company that was the parent company for the Topeka Tribune.
“Yes,” Mickey said.
“Let me guess. Did Bellamy come over and ream you out?”
“You got it,” Mickey said again, feeling his blood pressure rise. Bellamy was the regional manager for the state of Kansas. Privately, Mickey thought of him as a slippery, manipulative snake of a man who smiled and never said what he meant, although he could always be counted on for having bad intentions. “He told me there were plenty of young, fresh journalists who would love to have my job, and he’d have no trouble finding one to shake things up at the paper.”
“Huh. If anything, you should have his job,” Rowan said.
“Right,” said Mickey. “But for now, I’ve got to focus on keeping mine, and I’m not going to just scrape by. I’m g
oing to make the Tribune the best paper in the state. I’ll redesign how newspapers operate, if I have to, but I will not allow Mr. Peace-and Love-Nelson and his little rattlesnake wife make me lose my job.”
Rowan laughed outright at that. “Flattering description of them, Mickey. Nice.”
“I could say a lot worse.”
“I’m sure you could. Might as well lay low right now. Since he’s the current Golden Boy of journalism, you’ll be swimming against the tide. You know how it is, reputation always colors perception. He could crank out nothing but mediocre pieces over the next few weeks, and everyone will swear they’re the best journalism printed since the invention of the printing press by Gutenberg in 1440. Similarly, you might produce something dazzling, and it would get lost under the radar. Humanity is fickle, Mickey, but you know that.”
Mickey sank down onto a nearby park bench. Every cell of his body felt heavy. “So what you’re essentially saying is he’s got me backed into a corner.”
Murdered by News Page 4
