Killer Headline

by Debby Giusti

  “Did Micah tell you about Jen Davis, who might be in danger?”

  “Jen Davis? Young woman, green eyes, Witness Protection, Montana, and currently unaccounted for? Yeah, Micah called me after you and Violet met with him this morning. Sounds like it ties in with the two Montana murders.”

  “There’s another problem.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Someone broke into Violet’s house and ransacked her office area. Her laptop’s gone.”

  “Sounds like the mob’s found her for sure. If they’ve got her laptop, they must have the information she collected for that story she wants to write about the Martino family and the Montana murders.”

  “The mob will sit on the information, but if someone else stole her laptop, we still might see the story in print.”

  “Is there something you haven’t told me, Clay?”

  “Duplicate files about the Mafia were deleted from her computer at work. We had talked about the mob having a go-to guy in Missoula. Probably the man I chased from her house the night I arrived. There’s a lot of back-and-forth movement of people through the newspaper office. Violet’s desk sits in a corner by the elevator. I walked in this morning, and everyone was tied up in a meeting.”

  “I’ll call the paper’s editor and have him send me a list of the folks on staff. Wouldn’t hurt to check them out.”

  Exactly what Clay had planned to do until Violet objected.

  “What else is she working on? Any other stories that might play into the mix?”

  “Other than the Mafia story? She’s doing a feature on the local police force.”

  “I hope she paints the cops in a good light.”

  After her reaction to Chief Howard, Clay wasn’t sure how Violet would slant the story.

  “Is she safe tonight?” Jackson asked.

  Clay glanced into the dining room. “She’s okay for now. Tomorrow she’s having new locks installed on her house. I plan to stay around for a few more days.”

  “Good man. Keep me updated.”

  “Will do.”

  Clay flipped his cell closed as the back door opened and Bernice breezed into the kitchen. “I’m home.”

  She slipped her coat from her shoulders and hung it in the closet. “The program was wonderful.”

  “And your new friend?” Violet asked as she rose from the table.

  “Leonard? Such a gentleman.” Bernice glanced at Clay. “He reminds me of you. Older, of course. But a good man.”

  The same words Jackson had used. He’d never thought that particular phrase applied to him. Determined. Dedicated, maybe. But good?

  Being with Leonard had added a new bounce to Bernice’s step and an enthusiasm in her voice Clay hadn’t noticed earlier. He hated to spoil the moment by telling her about the break-in. “Maybe I should meet this guy and check him out.”

  “You’d like him for sure. It’s his inner goodness that attracted me to him in the first place. That’s the part that reminds me of you, Clay.”

  She called into the dining room. “Violet, don’t you see that goodness in Clay?”

  “You’re right, Bernice.” Violet’s eyes twinkled. “There is goodness in Clay, although I doubt he realizes how much.”

  Usually he could control his expressions, but his face burned with embarrassment. “How was the program?” he asked.

  “A sad story with a triumphant ending. A man whose adult daughter had been murdered. He’d finally been able to forgive the murderer who was eventually brought to justice. The father felt the Lord’s healing forgiveness. He went to the jail and talked to the young man about Christ’s mercy and has written a book about how God changed both their hearts.” Bernice pulled a small paperback from her purse and laid it on the counter. “He autographed a copy for me.”

  Clay glanced at the book. He’d never forgotten how Eloise, back at the foster home, talked about God taking the bad part of our lives and making something good come from it. The story of the father’s forgiveness sounded like an example of the way Christ worked.

  Violet stepped into the kitchen. “Care for some coffee and dessert, Bernice?”

  “I’ve already had more than my limit following the program. A number of the ladies baked. But let me cut the cake for you two.”

  Bernice busied herself preparing two plates, while Violet refilled their coffee cups. As they ate, Violet and Clay told Bernice about the break-in and stolen laptop.

  “You have to be careful, dear.” Bernice patted Violet’s shoulder. “I’ve worried about you being alone. Sometimes I don’t think you use enough caution, coming home late like you often do.”

  She stretched her other hand toward Clay. “Nice to know Clay’s here to keep you safe.”

  Violet smiled at him. She didn’t counter Bernice’s comments. Instead, she winked, sending a buzz of energy rippling through him.

  “I’ve got a third bedroom, Violet,” the older woman continued. “You’re staying here until all this calms down.”

  “I’m having my locks changed in the morning, Bernice.”

  “I won’t take no for an answer.” After chatting for a few more minutes, Bernice said good-night and headed for her bedroom.

  Clay took a sip of his coffee and glanced at Violet over the rim of his cup. “You know when I first arrived in Missoula, I felt we were working on opposite sides.”

  “I did seem a bit anticop back then, didn’t I?” Violet admitted.

  “Because…?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a long story. What about you? Did you follow in your dad’s footsteps?”

  Was her comment telling? Reading between the lines, Clay wondered if her negative feelings toward law enforcement had something to do with her dad. A subject he’d explore at a later time. Right now he needed to answer her question.

  “My dad worked construction. Mom waited tables at a local restaurant. They were hardworking folks, trying to survive.”

  “I’m sure they were proud of you, Clay.”

  He shrugged. “They died when I was thirteen. Don’t know if I’d done anything to earn their pride by that point.”

  “Then you went to the foster home where you met Eloise.”

  “That’s right.” He glanced at the doorway through which Bernice had just passed. “Eloise talked about the same things Bernice did tonight. God’s mercy and love. Forgiveness was the stumbling block for me. I questioned why God had allowed my parents to die. Folks said He’d called them home. For a kid, it’s hard to rationalize why a so-called loving God would leave a kid orphaned.”

  “Forgiveness is always hard.” Sounded as if Violet struggled with that virtue, as well.

  After loading the dessert plates into the dishwasher, Violet returned to the computer while Clay checked to ensure the doors were locked and added another log to the fire. Soon the wood crackled, warming the room from the winter chill.

  He picked up the book Bernice had brought home, pausing occasionally as he read to glance at Violet. She focused on the computer, pounding the keyboard and scrolling through the files she accessed with her flash drive. Opening her purse, she pulled out a few typed pages and referred to them occasionally as she worked.

  Clay was deeply moved by the story he read. The author recounted turning his heart to the Lord and, at long last, forgiving the man who had killed his only child.

  “Do me a favor.” Violet rose from the table. “Read what I’ve written and tell me what you think. Please?” She moved to the couch and sat near the fire, her hands outstretched to the warmth.

  Clay placed the paperback on the coffee table near the Bible Bernice read each afternoon. Walking to the laptop, he sat in the chair Violet had just left and read her article.

  Thought provoking and well written, the piece called for the city to fund additional monies to pay for an increase in police manpower. Violet made a good case for the need for more officers and outlined each person’s civic responsibility to support their men in blue.

  Her words warm
ed his heart. She had taken on the cops’ cause and defended their standing in the community. Clay started to praise her work aloud when he realized she’d put her head on the arm of the couch and was sound asleep.

  Violet’s papers were scattered around the table. He noticed a story dated a few days earlier. Stu had scribbled See me followed by his last name on the upper margin.

  Clay read the text. Again, Violet made an excellent point about the growing incidence of crime and the interstate and intrastate crime rings that were increasing their influence throughout Montana. She presented the facts in an orderly, convincing manner. Clay appreciated the points she made about needing more police coverage and the reasons for increasing the city budget. The only problem he found was when she mentioned the chief of police. At that point, her levelheaded reporting seemed skewed and so opposite what he’d read in the other sections of the feature.

  His eyes glanced at the pile of papers, and he noticed a draft of another story. This one focused on the two women in Witness Protection murdered by the mob.

  Clay’s neck muscles tightened. If the story ever went to print, Violet would be at the top of the mob’s most-wanted list. Surely, she still wasn’t trying to sell the story to her editor.

  He glanced at her sleeping on the couch. How much did he know about Violet? She’d earned a journalism degree and had excelled at UMT, winning the prestigious internship with the Chicago Gazette. A few folks on the paper had been forthright about Violet’s need to prove herself and her desire for a permanent position on staff that never came through for her.

  But Clay knew nothing about her family or what her life had been like growing up. Chief Howard had started his law-enforcement career in Violet’s hometown. Clay checked the Missoula Police Department’s home page and pulled up the chief’s bio. His first job was in Granite Pass, a small town, two hours from Missoula.

  Clay searched for a local Granite Pass newspaper and found a county publication that fortunately archived their issues. Following the prompts, he uncovered a list of articles.

  The first he opened was a short piece about Everett Kramer, Violet’s dad, graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in Education from the University in Montana. Clay did the math. Violet had been a kid, probably about seven years old.

  The next article made his heart pound as he read the headline: Kramer Last To See Murdered Girl Alive.

  Clay scanned the text. A high school senior’s body discovered in a wooded area near the school…Everett Kramer had tutored the girl after school…person of interest…

  Clay’s fingers hit the next listing.

  Second Victim Found…Lettie Kramer Dead.

  Violet’s aunt.

  …body uncovered in shallow grave near highway…no suspects…Kramer family grieving…police questioned Everett Kramer through the night…no breaks in the case…

  From what Clay pieced together, the police lacked enough evidence to level charges against Violet’s dad. No other arrests. Both cases remained unsolved.

  Clay glanced again at Violet. Hard for a kid to go through life having her father suspected of being a murderer. Tongues wagged in small towns. Innocent until proven guilty wouldn’t have prevailed.

  Clay understood a little better why Violet pushed to protect the women in danger from the mob. She’d experienced firsthand the heartache of having a family member murdered. She’d probably had to prove herself, as well.

  He unfolded the afghan Bernice kept on a nearby footstool and laid it over Violet. She snuggled down into the couch and sighed as he tucked the crocheted blanket around her shoulders.

  Her curls spilled over the arm of the couch. His fingers touched the silky strands and smoothed them back in place. Her lips twitched into a smile, and in that instant, he knew he’d do anything to protect her.

  Clay had read the author’s words about forgiveness and a higher cause and how he had to embrace life with love and acceptance, but Clay hadn’t let himself be free from the past. He’d guarded a part of his heart that had been broken when he was thirteen. The loss of his parents had affected him more than he’d ever allowed himself to realize.

  Eloise had been a lifesaver when he needed something to hold on to lest he drown in his own pain, but she’d been only a temporary stopgap. He thought Sylvia would fill the void. But she’d had her own problems, and they’d been young. Neither supported the other constructively. Sacrificial love? Not at that time of his life.

  If only he could have been more aware of her insecurity. She’d turned to drugs, which had been a crutch when she was a teen, before they’d met and married. He’d known she’d been in rehab, but they both believed she wouldn’t slip back into addiction.

  His long work shifts and the stress of having a husband in the line of fire was her excuse for needing pills to get through the day. At some point, she needed more than prescription drugs.

  He’d encouraged her to go into rehab again, but she never found the strength to seek healing. Instead, she’d left him for a path of darkness and despair.

  Clay’s gut tightened at the memory of seeing her on a street corner one cold winter night. He’d stopped to help her. Spaced out on the drugs she’d bought with the money she earned selling her body, Sylvia had thought he was another john and started to get into his car.

  When recognition lifted the cloud of her existence and she saw him clearly, Sylvia had run away into the night.

  Clay never saw her alive again. His last memory was her face staring back at him from the morgue when he’d been called in to identify her body.

  He dropped his head in his hands, trying to close out the memory. His gaze rested on the Bible and paperback, lying side by side. He’d just read about a father’s mercy and the way forgiveness can heal the most hardened hearts.

  Who did Clay need to forgive?

  Sylvia? He’d done that already.

  Cameron Trimble, the pimp who’d used her and abused her? The drugs he fed Sylvia had caused her death.

  Forgive Cameron? Clay had had a different reaction when he’d seen him, yet vengeance wasn’t cathartic or freeing. The beating meant Clay had more to forgive. Now he had to forgive himself. Sometimes that was the hardest thing to do.

  What about God?

  Clay shook his head. Old habits were tough to break. Clay had been mad at God for so long, he didn’t know how to change his feelings.

  If God were all loving, wouldn’t He be the first to offer forgiveness? Until then, Clay would continue on the path he’d walked for so long.

  Once again, he looked at Violet. Was she a gift from God? Or would she be taken from him like his parents, like Eloise, like Sylvia? His track record wasn’t good.

  No matter what had happened in the past, Clay had to protect Violet and keep her from publishing the article on the mob killings.

  Clay’s hand slipped to the Bible resting on the coffee table. Not knowing whether God was listening, he whispered, “Help me, Lord. I need to keep Violet safe.”

  TWELVE

  Violet awakened on her neighbor’s couch. Clay had kept the fire blazing and hunkered down on the overstuffed chair nearby, his nose glued to the book Bernice had bought at the church program.

  He was the first person she saw this morning, smiling at her through tired eyes as he offered her a cup of coffee. A day’s beard darkened his jaw and his tousled hair softened his expression. For once, he didn’t appear totally in control and on top of things.

  After a huge breakfast Bernice insisted on serving, Violet scurried home for a shower and change of clothes. She’d arrived at work ten minutes early, half-expecting to see Clay hanging around in the hallway. She’d told him she was working from the office all day and would be safe. Evidently, he believed her.

  The first thing she did was send Stu an electronic copy of the article she had written on the police department. A hard copy now waited in his in-box. She made some corrections to the piece on the women in Witness Protection and saved the revisions to her flash drive. Hope
fully, she could change Stu’s mind, and he’d accept that article for publication, as well.

  Gulping down the last of the bottled water Bernice had tucked in her lunch, Violet glanced at the photo on her desk of Aunt Lettie and her dad. Someday, she hoped information would come forward about the person who had taken Lettie’s life.

  For so long, she’d pushed and struggled to find answers. Maybe it was time to hand the case over to God. No doubt, He would deal with the killer whether He allowed Violet to know what had happened or not.

  The phone on her desk rang. She pulled the receiver to her ear. “Kramer.”

  “Violet, it’s Stu. Come to my office. I want to talk to you.”

  Not good. Stu usually wandered through the work-place and personally asked reporters to see him. Using the phone wasn’t the way he routinely beckoned people to his office.

  Violet grabbed a notepad and pencil, slipped her feet into the heels she’d discarded earlier and scooted her chair back from her desk. The sandwich she’d just devoured sat like a lump of coal in her stomach.

  How bad could it be? Stu had counseled her on more than one occasion. He could fire her. Not an option she chose to embrace.

  Focused on Stu’s door, she didn’t see Jimmy standing outside Quinn’s cubicle.

  “Everything okay?” he asked as she neared.

  She tried to smile.

  “You look a little pale, Violet. Are you sure you’re all right?” Jimmy’s interest was questionable. She detected a smirk of satisfaction under his inquiring gaze.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. Glancing into the cubicle, she spied Quinn at his computer. He, too, looked worried. Did he know something she didn’t? And had he told Jimmy?

  Her steps echoed in the now nearly silent newsroom. She felt a kinship with Marie Antoinette marching to the guillotine. Suppose Stu did fire her?

  She could always move home and work on the country paper. Or perhaps talk to Ross Truett about getting a job on the Yellowstone County Reader.

  Then she’d be back at square one. Low man in the stringer pool, writing fillers about ladies groups and men’s clubs and hunting and fishing and all the other human-interest pieces that filled the local rags.