by Gayle Roper
Almost immediately the phone rang.
“You ready to come over and see my show? Come right now, and you can see it before the doors open.”
“Curt!” I looked at the clock on the wall. It was four-thirty, and I still had the Marten interview to write up. “Give me about an hour and a half, and then I’ll walk over.”
There was a small silence, and I guessed that he was unhappy, maybe feeling slighted. But I was reading him incorrectly.
“You can’t walk over here alone then. It’ll be dark, and with the snow the visibility will be very limited. It’ll be too dangerous.”
“Come on,” I said, last night’s fear lost here in the bustle and busyness of the office. “It’s only across the street to City Hall.”
“By way of the back parking lot. I’ll come for you,” he said.
“You will not,” I answered. “You can’t walk out on your own party. I’ll be there as soon as I can make it. Now go have fun.” I could give orders every bit as well as he could.
I punched off and stared at my keyboard. Concentrate! Or you’ll never get out of here!
I began to type.
“Murder kills more than the victim. It kills his family and friends too.”
With these words Elizabeth Marten, mother of murder victim Patrick Marten, tried to explain the inexplicable pain of the violently bereaved.
I wrote for some time, wrapped in the Martens’ pain. Suddenly the emotion of the story got too heavy for me, and I pushed back my chair abruptly.
“Yo, princess, watch it!” Mac Carnuccio said as I caromed into him. He grabbed my chair and rolled me back to my desk.
“I’m sorry, Mac.” Here was as big a change of pace as I’d ever find. “Where’d I hit you?”
He laid his hand on his chest. “Right in my heart, beautiful. From the first moment I laid eyes on you.”
I grinned at him and shook my head. “You can’t help it, can you?”
He grinned back, eyes alight, and asked innocently, “Help what?”
“The flirting,” I said. “It’s as natural as breathing, isn’t it?”
“Been doing it since I was in diapers, or so I’ve been told.”
“And nobody’s slapped you down yet?”
“Plenty have, believe me. But most enjoy the fun as much as I do.”
I believed him. He had the knack for making a girl feel special, not tawdry, and if you didn’t want him to go beyond his outlandish compliments, he sensed it and didn’t push.
“Mac,” I said, looking around to see how close listening ears might be. I was about to go after information with nothing more than curiosity as an excuse, and I didn’t want eavesdroppers. “Do you think Don had anything going with Trudy?”
Mac looked at me incredulously. “Are you kidding? Didn’t you see how cool he was yesterday handing out the assignments relating to her? He didn’t care a rip about her.”
“Didn’t you see how messy his desk was and how mussed his hair was? I think he was very upset.”
Mac shook his head. “He’s a cold fish, just like I said. He keeps people at a distance emotionally. You should have seen him when his wife died. Nothing.”
“Jolene thinks Don had a wonderful, storybook marriage, and he couldn’t have been involved with Trudy because he’s still grieving.”
“Maybe they did have a great marriage for all I know. About the grieving?” He shrugged. “Just remember, Merry, we’re talking Jolene here. She may be one of the prettiest babes in town, but I wouldn’t depend on her great mental acumen. And speaking of the devil…”
With a wave he moved off as Jolene rushed to my desk, eyes wide with shock. She plunked a watering can down on the edge of my desk.
“Oh, Merry! I just found out some terrible news!”
“What, Jolene?” I automatically stood and reached for her hands as her lily of the valley perfume reached out and grabbed me by the throat. I wondered if she had ever heard the word subtle.
“I just learned who the body in your car was,” she said, gripping my hands back. Her eyes were wide with shock.
“You just learned?” I looked at Jolene in wonder. “Don’t you read the paper you work for?”
She shook her head. “I don’t read anything if I can help it.” She giggled self-consciously. “I’m never interested in other people’s stories. I guess I’m too wrapped up in my own.”
The brazen and unconscious egotism of that comment startled me, and I let go of her hands rather quickly.
Her giggle turned into a little sob. “It was Patsy! I can’t believe it! Patsy of all people! I’ve known Patsy since kindergarten. We always went to the same schools and rode the same school bus and sat near each other because of our names. I like Patsy!”
I felt lost. “It was Patrick, not Patsy. Patrick Marten.”
“Right,” she said. “That’s what I said. My maiden name is Luray, so I always sat next to Patsy.” She said her name with a heavy u, like Southerners say the Luray Caverns. “You know, Jolene Luray and Patsy Marten.”
“You do mean Patrick Marten?”
She nodded. “But the kids always called him Patsy. At least the boys did, and some of the girls. I called him Patsy from junior high on.”
“Why?” To me Patsy as a man’s nickname indicated a shamrock-in-your-face type of Irishness not usually found in America anymore and certainly not in Amhearst. Men named Patsy still lived back on the Auld Sod.
“He wasn’t the best athlete, especially as a kid. So they called him Patsy because he played like a girl. But he was so nice!”
I thought of Hannah talking about their plans to go skiing, skating and snowmobiling, and I thought about the picture of Pat with his mess of fish.
“I think he must have been athletic,” I said.
She looked at me like I had said something terribly ignorant. “But he couldn’t play football or basketball. He didn’t like team sports.”
I recalled the man on the Board of Education who wanted all the district’s monies funneled toward the schools’ sports programs instead of the academic ones. Now that I thought about it, the sports he kept mentioning were football and basketball.
“In Amhearst, they’re the sports the official jocks play,” Jolene explained. “If you’re not on one, better yet both, of those teams, you aren’t an athlete. Well, maybe if you played soccer or wrestled or ran track. But nothing else.”
“Did you know Pat’s fiancée?” I asked.
Jolene shook her head. “I didn’t even know he was engaged. I haven’t seen him in years. Probably some little mousy girl.”
“Hannah Albright.”
“Hannah Albright?” Jolene stared, amazed. “Are you sure? Beautiful? Perky? Head cheerleader?”
I shrugged. “I guess. I mean, how many Hannah Albrights can there be in Amhearst?”
“But she’s always gone with Andy Gershowitz.”
I looked at Jolene with interest. Who would have thought I’d find my own private information pipeline right here in the office.
“Tell me about Andy,” I said, pulling Edie Whatley’s empty chair over for Jolene. She sat down absentmindedly.
“Now Andy was a true jock. Football. Basketball. Track. That’s why he and Hannah were such a perfect couple.”
“The jock and the cheerleader?”
Jolene nodded. “And he’s so handsome and she’s so pretty.”
“Well, at the moment, she’s looking fairly un-pretty, and he’s wanted by the police.”
She didn’t seem too interested in that last piece of news. “You’re serious that Hannah was engaged to Patsy?”
I nodded. “They were supposed to get married in a couple of weeks at Christmastime. Needless to say, she’s very broken up about his death.”
“Why in the world did she pick Patsy instead of Andy?” Jolene looked at me with her wide eyes wider than usual. It was obvious that she was genuinely confused. The answer seemed just as obvious, at least to me.
“Ma
ybe you answered your own question when you said how nice Pat was.”
“Yeah, but he was so religious! He never cheated on tests and he never got drunk and he never made lewd remarks to the girls.”
“And that’s bad? Remember, you liked the guy.”
“Well, he could always make you laugh. He was fun even if he wasn’t fun, if you know what I mean.”
I nodded, somewhat disconcerted that she and I were communicating on an intuitive level.
“Now Andy,” she said. She reached for the cascading baby’s tears on Edie’s desk, transferred it to mine and began automatically pruning it with her nails. “He had a foul temper. He got so mad at this guy named Mark back when we were seniors that he ran him off the road. Wrecked Mark’s father’s new car and put Mark in the hospital.”
“Was Mark okay?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Jolene said with a wave of her hand. “He still limps a little bit, but not so’s you’d notice much. He married a real pretty girl he met at college, so he’s doing okay. Andy had to pay a huge fine because of the accident—which I think his father paid for him—and he got a suspended sentence. It was the first time he’d had an actual run-in with the law, though I think there were a couple of times when his father bought off people who could have filed complaints with the police. Oh, and he lost his license for a while, too. Not that it stopped him from driving.”
And this was the guy she had thought was such a perfect match for Hannah. “What did this Mark do that made Andy so mad?”
Jolene thought for a moment, hands suspended over the plant, then nodded as memory returned. “You’re not going to believe this, but he made a pass at Hannah.”
“Really.” How interesting.
Jolene nodded. “Really. I wonder if Arnie will beat up the first guy who asks me out?” She shivered daintily and returned the baby’s tears to Edie’s desk. She seemed to like that possibility.
“So Andy could be violent enough to hit Pat over the head?” I asked, returning the conversation to its track.
Jolene nodded. “Oh, yeah. Maybe he didn’t plan to kill him beforehand, like premeditated, you know, but he certainly could have gotten mad enough to hit him on the spot.”
“How about shooting at me?”
Jolene looked at me with real confusion. “But why would he do that? You didn’t know Hannah or Patsy. And you keep saying you didn’t see anything at Taggart’s.” She turned suddenly sly. “Unless you’re holding back, hoping for an even bigger story?”
I sighed. If Jolene, one of the great intellects of the universe, thought I was playing games, why wouldn’t Andy Gershowitz think the same thing?
Suddenly she looked alarmed. “You know,” she said slowly, and I could almost hear her new idea unfolding, crinkle, crinkle, like tissue wrapping paper. And it’s bound to be about as substantive, I thought unkindly.
Her hands shook as she reached out and grabbed my arm. “I was with you when you got Patsy. What if Andy decides I know something, too? What if he decides to shoot me?”
“I don’t think you need to worry, Jolene,” I said. “He probably doesn’t even know you’re involved. Which you really aren’t.”
“Argh! I hate living alone! It’s so dangerous!”
“You’ll be fine,” I said soothingly.
“Hah!” she said. “You’re a fine one to talk with all the things that have been happening to you. Besides, you’ve never been married, so you don’t understand lonely. You’ve never had anyone care for you. You’ve never been protected. You’ve never been—” She paused, searching for the right word to nail my marital coffin more firmly closed than ever. “Cherished,” she said all soft and breathy, sounding just like Marilyn Monroe. “Arnie cherishes me.”
I sighed. A husband who was separated from his wife didn’t sound all that cherishing to me, but she was right in one respect. I didn’t know cherishing. Whatever Jack had felt for me, it wasn’t cherishing.
“Arnie and I may be separated, but he still cherishes me,” she said, just like she’d read my mind. Twice in one conversation we’d understood each other, a frightening idea. “I just know he does,” she continued. “I’m going home right now and calling Arnie to come protect me.” She grabbed her coat and swathed herself in layers of black leather and faux fur.
“You’d actually miss dinner with your mom?” I said, thinking that history was about to be made.
She stopped at this thought, glove half-on. “Well, I’d actually be safer at my parents”, wouldn’t I? More people. And when it’s time to go home, I’ll make my father take me. Or I’ll make Arnie come and get me. Yeah—I’ll make Arnie come for me. No Andy’s going to shoot me.”
“Where do you live, Jolene?” I asked. It just occurred to me that I’d assumed she was living with her parents since the separation.
“Those new condos over by the old Greeley farm south of town.”
I stared at her in amazement. They were gorgeous, all brick and beautifully landscaped, and they cost at least $250,000 each. Arnie must be doing pretty well. Or Jolene’s father. She certainly wasn’t making enough money at The News to buy a place like that.
I watched her scurry out into the storm, shook my head to clear it and turned back to my flat screen. I wrote a while longer, praying that the love and anguish of Liz and Hannah, Annie and the two boys would reach out from the page and grip people’s hearts. When I finished, I was spent.
I went to the coffee machine, poured the dregs into my mug and carried it back to my desk. I reread my copy, made some adjustments and pushed the button to send the finished product to Don. Not that he was there to receive it. I’d been vaguely aware of him leaving as I finished up my piece. But it’d be there for him to retrieve and edit whenever he wanted. Ah, the joys of modern technology.
I glanced at the clock. Five forty-five. I’d finished more quickly than I’d expected, especially taking into account the Jolene interlude. It was time to go to City Hall.
I pulled on my coat and wound my scarf around my neck one and a half times, tucking the ends into my coat front. Then I put on my wool tam, turned up my collar and yanked on my gloves. I was glad I’d worn my boots, though the spike heels and the suede wouldn’t do well in the snow. Still, I ought to be able to make the trek through the parking lot, across the street and up the long walk to the old mansion that served as City Hall without too much difficulty.
When I walked outside, I was surprised at how thick the snow was, both on the ground and tumbling out of the sky. I looked at the light that was supposed to illuminate the parking lot, but the swirling snow reduced it to a mere halo, a ten-watt bulb taking on a gymnasium.
The one thing I’ve always liked about a heavy snowfall is the way it blocks all sound. Standing at the edge of The News’s back stoop, I listened—and I heard nothing, absolutely nothing. I knew that not far away was a road and across that road was a busy City Hall with lights and people and noise. But I could see and hear nothing but the soft whisper of little wisps of frozen water. I turned my face up and stuck out my tongue.
I jumped as an impudent flake found its way into the minuscule opening between my scarf and my neck. So cold!
As I plowed through the snow, I marveled at this amount falling so early in the season. What would February and March, the notorious snow months, be like? As I pulled even with my rental car, I had a thought: did a window scraper come with the vehicle or would I be wiping snow away with my sleeves, freezing my arms and hands in the process?
Curious, I opened the right front door and took a quick peek at the floor and in the glove compartment. No scraper. I made a sort of harrumph noise. Just because I had ruined one of his cars was no reason for the rental man to give poor service. I pushed down the lock and shut the door with a muted slam and backed out between the cars. Maybe there was something I could use in the trunk.
I slid the key in the lock and only hesitated a minute. After all, what were the odds of finding two bodies in your trunk within a wee
k? I turned the key and the lid popped up on an empty trunk. Completely empty. No bodies. No snow scrapers.
I reached up to pull the lid shut. But before I even touched it, there was a sudden pressure on my throat so unexpected and so violent that I couldn’t defend myself.
ELEVEN
I grabbed at my throat, trying to pull away whatever was choking me. But through my thick gloves, I could find nothing to grasp. All I knew was that I was being strangled, and that in an amazingly short amount of time, I was seeing the traditional stars—red, they were—as well as whirls and flashes behind my eyelids.
Something that felt like a knee was pressing into the base of my spine, bending me backward at the same time it pushed me forward and into the pressure around my neck. Once again my face was turned up to the falling snow, but this time in fear and pain.
Andy Gershowitz? But why?
I flailed about, tearing at my neck, but all I seemed to do was pull my own scarf out of my coat. My legs could no longer hold me, and I fell to my knees in the snow. The pressure on my neck lessened for an instant to adjust to my new position, but it quickly tightened, if anything with renewed vigor.
God, help!
The peaceful quiet of the snowy night became a roaring waterfall in my ears, and I knew I was losing consciousness. My lungs ached for oxygen, and my head was heavy on my shoulders. Just as I slid into the black waters that preceded terminal sleep, I heard a faint whistling.
Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along.
Surely celestial choirs sang more spiritual anthems than that!
When I was next aware, I lay on my side, cold and shivering in spite of the burning, searing agony in my throat.
I’m not dead, and I’m not dying! Oh, God, thank you! Thank you!
I gasped great drafts of icy air, each glorious one scorching its way to my lungs. I clawed at the material about my neck, pulling it away as if air on the outside would mean air on the inside. Oh, how wonderful to breathe!
Slowly my need for oxygen leveled off and a more normal inhaling/exhaling replaced my panting. My head ached fiercely, and I realized that I was going to have a sore throat to rival any tonsillectomy patient.
