Sophie snorted in laughter.
Dana’s beautiful face softened with affection. “And she deserves it. I kid a lot, and Cissy has her problems, but she’s sweet. She lets me run this place like it’s my own, and she trusts me implicitly. I never had that in my family so Cissy is my sister, at heart. I like to boss people around, so let me distract myself until Eli proposes with helping Wally propose to Cissy in a way she’ll remember for the rest of her life.”
Sophie circled the cash desk and threw her arms around Dana, tears welling in her eyes. “You’re so much nicer than you pretend to be.”
“Don’t go mushy on me, Soph,” she said, squeezing and releasing, pushing Sophie away to arm’s length. “I am nicer than I pretend to be, and you’re smarter than you pretend to be. I heard you setting Brenda up. I’ll bet she’s doing a little investigation of Vince Nomuro right this minute!”
“I hope not; I don’t want anyone putting themselves in danger, or getting in trouble.” Sophie patted Dana’s shoulder. “And now I’m going to go and squeeze some information out of a college reporter who also thinks she’s smarter than me and everyone else, I suspect. How dumb does she have to be to sabotage me, and then try to use me as a source?”
Sophie drove back to Auntie Rose’s. Tara was already there. She was across the street with her camera, trying to get a shot of where the police were working, but they had constructed a tent in such a way as to block anyone’s view. As she watched, Tara snuck across the street, popped up over the barrier and snapped quickly. But she was not quick enough. Wally, behind the barrier, popped up too, grabbed her camera, and held it away from her while he scanned through and deleted the offending photo.
Sophie snickered. She was surprised by Wally’s swiftness and his proactive move, but pleased that Tara didn’t get the picture. “Tara, I’m here,” she said, motioning to the girl. “You can come back to the kitchen if you want to talk.” She then turned and strode along the lane to the kitchen door.
Chapter 15
Tara flung a few choice phrases at Wally, then followed to where Sophie stood waiting with the door open, and stomped in past her. The kitchen was empty, but Sophie could hear murmuring from the general vicinity of the tearoom. Maybe they had moved inventory to the gift nook. It also smelled like Laverne had lavishly sprinkled powdered rug cleaner throughout the tearoom.
“Have a seat,” Sophie said to Tara, who plunked down at the table and moodily scanned the photos on her digital camera.
“Jerk cop,” Tara muttered, her pale cheeks suffusing with red that spread down her neck. She yanked her windbreaker jacket off and flung it to the floor, her blond hair swinging free as she unwrapped a school colors scarf from her neck and plopped it on top of the jacket.
“The barrier was put up to keep the public out. Why did you think they’d let you take a photo and keep it? Or publish it?”
“Freedom of the press!” she sputtered, smacking the table. “We live in a free country, and they’re trying to keep me from exercising my rights.”
“Your rights? The right to take a photo of the corpse of a murder victim?” Sophie shook her head and examined the girl, the anger she felt from Tara’s article about Jason and her exposing him as the supposed cheater bubbling at a low simmer, ready to boil over. “Your rights. What about the victim and his family? What about their rights? What were you planning to do, splash it on the front page of the Clarion? Share it on social media? What kind of lies and misquoted words were you planning to go along with it?”
Tara stilled and glared at Sophie through narrowed eyes. Laverne popped into the kitchen.
“Oh, it’s you, honey. We’re taking inventory and tidying in the gift nook. It’s best to keep busy so we don’t think about . . . you know.”
Sophie took a deep breath, her godmother’s sweet, throaty voice reminding her that this was her happy place, and she would not bring anger into it. It was up to her to handle Tara in a way that calmed the girl and got what she needed out of her. “I’m making some tea, Laverne. Do you and Nana want some?”
“Not right now, honey. We’ll get some in a while.” She disappeared back into the tearoom.
“Who was that?” the Cruickshank student asked.
“That’s Laverne Hodge, my godmother and my grandmother’s business partner in Auntie Rose’s.”
“She looks . . . I don’t know, exotic,” Tara said. “What’s her heritage?”
Sophie paused; the word exotic struck her as out of place. Laverne was not “exotic”; her family history was so deep in the Gracious Grove area, there were still places named for the Hodges. But she couldn’t think of a reason not to answer, even though it was none of Tara’s business. “She always says her family has a bit of every culture in it, but her ancestors are African-American and Seneca Indian, mostly. Why?”
“No reason,” Tara said. “My family is so bland. I wish it was more interesting, like yours. I looked up about you. Your dad is, like, mega-rich, right? And your mom is always on the society pages. I saw pictures; she’s gorgeous. You’re so lucky.”
Sophie put on the kettle and sat in a chair opposite the student, regarding her thoughtfully. She would not be deflected from what she had to say. “Tara, you talked about the freedom of the press, but don’t you have a responsibility, too? You can say and do whatever you want and label it freedom of the press, but freedom of any kind comes with responsibility. You should be fair. You should be accurate.” She paused. “And you should be human.”
“As reporters we’re not supposed to have feelings about an investigation; we’re supposed to stay neutral.” Tara blinked, then looked back down at her camera, scanning through her photos again. “It was such a big break, the tip I got about the Mac MacAlister grading alteration. I need more. I need to match that break or—” She shrugged.
“Or you’re just a flash in the pan? A one-off?”
Tara nodded.
“Where did you get that information?” Sophie asked suddenly.
“On the grade hike? Someone sent me a note.”
“Do you know who it was and just don’t want to say? Or was it an anonymous tip?”
“Oh, it was freaking anonymous, all right,” Tara said, bitterly. “It was written in all caps, printed off some computer and slipped in an envelope with my name on it. Jeez. If it had been a phone call or a message online, I might have had a chance to trace it. I have a guy who is into computer stuff, and he could have found out where it came from, but no, it had to be old school.”
“Which was the point, I guess. Didn’t you ever wonder why you were given the tip?” She meant that in two ways, she supposed; she wondered why someone exposed Mac’s grade hike, and why in particular to Tara Mitchells.
“No. Should I?”
“I thought reporters were curious about everything.” Sophie got up and found the containers of treats she had baked earlier, what seemed so long ago now. How could she say this without being insulting . . . or, in this case, was insulting what she wanted to go for? She turned and gazed at the girl. “I think you were given the tip because someone knew you were the type who would rush to publish the story without a lot of background checking.” Sophie had an idea that whomever was actually responsible for the grade scam was also the one who gave the newspaper reporter the tip about Jason. “The important thing is, didn’t you think there must be more? Why would just one athlete have his grade elevated? Isn’t that the story you want to tell? Expose the fraudster. Get to the bottom of it. That’s what a good journalist would do.”
Tara was silent, staring down at her camera, scanning through photos.
Sophie filled a plate with cookies. “Look, Tara, the problem is, I don’t trust you. You lied about what I said, implied awful things about Jason and sabotaged me. You took what I said about Jason’s youth and twisted it into something wholly different.”
The girl chewed the
inside of her cheek. “I won’t do it again.”
“Aaand we’re back to . . . why would I trust you?” There was iron in Sophie’s tone; she had learned, running her own restaurant, that there were times when being nice meant people saw you as soft. So you had to play the bad guy sometimes.
Tara’s mouth twitched, and her cheeks stayed red. The kettle whistled, so Sophie got up, found her current favorite blend, a black tea with mandarin peel, spooned some into a diffuser and popped it into the teapot, bobbing the diffuser up and down in the boiling hot water. As she did all that, she kept her eye on Tara. The girl was making a decision, it seemed to Sophie.
Finally, Tara said, her tone snippy, “I think it might be best if you and your grandmother took a more conciliatory approach to me, you know. I’m working as a stringer for a major New York newspaper that is interested in Dean Asquith’s murder.”
Sophie thought for a moment, considering all the problems with that statement. “Okay, not to be snide, but when you say ‘a major New York newspaper,’ I wonder; if it was the Times, you’d say the Times. Likewise the Daily News. I have a feeling you are, pardon the pun, trying to fool me with a second-string—at best—newspaper somewhere in New York State, not the city. And why the implied threat? I’ve already said I don’t trust you, and now I think I’ll make sure no one I know talks to you. No one!” She got her phone out and started writing a text blast for all her friends. “This is what I’ll say, and I’ll get everyone I know to send it on to all of their numbers.” She read aloud as she typed: “If contacted by blond, blue-eyed news reporter Tara Mitchells—or her by any other name—do NOT speak to her; she will twist your words and—”
“I’m sorry!” Tara looked horrified, eyes wide, body frozen to stillness. “I’m sorry! Look, I shouldn’t have done what I did, but I needed a hot quote and you kinda gave it to me, you know?”
“Keep talking,” Sophie said, as she rapidly finished the text and then started adding names from her contact list. Cissy, Dana, Julia, Eli, Wally, Jason and even Thelma.
“How can I get you not to send that? I promise I will report only what you say. I promise!”
Sophie shook her head. “Tara, I’m not an idiot . . . or only rarely. I can see all the loopholes in that. Even if you reported accurately what I say, you wouldn’t feel bound to keep to that with anyone else. No, I think it’s best if I warn everyone I know not to talk to you.” Her thumb hovered over the send icon as she waited.
“What can I say?” Tara wailed, clutching at her hair. “You won’t believe anything I say!”
Sophie nodded. “You’re right. That is exactly the problem! You might think that nothing you do right now will hurt you, but nowadays the stuff you do as a student can and will follow you. Nothing truly disappears in the digital age.” Sophie well knew that; one or two savage online reviews of her restaurant, In Fashion, had followed her. Though it wasn’t why her restaurant had ultimately died, it hadn’t helped matters any. “You twisted what I said and then lied, writing that I said Jason could easily have hiked Mac’s grade. Why?”
“I was . . . trying to open up a dialogue,” she said huffily, chin up. “The accusation was out there, so I had to give it a voice, you know, so it could be confirmed or refuted.”
“Horse pucky,” Laverne said, passing through toward the stairs. She paused and examined the young woman, who stared back uncertainly. “You don’t believe that. Stop trying to find an excuse, and admit you did wrong. Tell Sophie why you won’t do it again, then maybe she’ll believe you.” Laverne headed upstairs.
Tara was stone faced. She stood and grabbed her jacket and scarf off the floor. “I’ll go.”
“And I’ll send this text,” Sophie said, waggling her cell phone. “Or we could talk, and you could tell me if you noticed anything that night. If you want to report the real story, I’ll consider helping, but you have to show me what you’re going to write.”
Tara paused, eying her, then pulled off her scarf again and removed her jacket, slinging it over the back of her chair, this time. “Look, if we talk, will you not send the text?”
“I’m saving it,” Sophie said, hitting save. “If I hear from anyone that you’re badgering them, or if I get a whiff that you’re lying about what people are saying, it’s going out, and it’ll expand like a foodie’s stomach at a buffet.” She laid the phone down on the table. “I saw you hanging around last night. Did you go to each of the tearooms?”
She shrugged moodily. “Kind of. I mean, I followed the group, you know? I took photos.”
“So you saw the college registrar and assistant, and the dean and his wife and the coach and his wife.”
“And darling Kimmy, and Mac, and Mac’s parents; I saw them all.”
Sophie tried to think about what she needed to know, but she was so exhausted, thinking was becoming difficult. She squinted. Laverne came back downstairs and clapped her hands together.
“Is this young lady staying for lunch?”
Sophie shook her head, but Tara brightened and said, “Sure. What are we having?”
“Sophie made a lovely soup yesterday, a cream of cauliflower harvest vegetable with smoked gouda. I think I’ll heat that up and we’ll have some of those cheese biscuits you baked in the middle of the night,” she said, squeezing Sophie’s shoulder.
Minutes later they all sat down together at one of the tables in the tearoom. Nana and Laverne exchanged glances.
“So, Tara, what are you attending Cruickshank for?” Nana asked.
“Communications and journalism,” the girl said, then spooned up the soup, rolling her eyes at the flavor. “This is out of this world,” she muttered, then buttered a cheese tea biscuit and dipped it in the soup, eating more.
“Everything’s so different nowadays,” Laverne mused. “With the Internet and cable TV, and mobile devices. Folks get their news from so many sources. My niece Cindy spends half her day online, between schoolwork and socializing. Who knows what to trust online.”
“I heard one person at the tea stroll talking about that,” Nana said. “She said something about trolls and I thought she was talking about fairy tales, but I guess that’s something online?”
“That’s people who purposely stir up trouble online. They may even lie or misrepresent things to get folks fighting,” Sophie said. Tara was paying attention, she thought, even if she was eating. Time to inject a little pointed reference. “That’s the problem; who do you trust? I think that’s where news organizations need to step in and become a trusted source.”
Laverne snorted. “Hmph . . . too many reporters want to stir things up, not report on the facts. Insert themselves in the story, muckrake, fake quotes, don’t do the research.”
“Now, Laverne, I’m sure there are good reporters out there,” Nana said. “And maybe the new generation will realize that personal ethics are all we have left in this world. Each person has to make a choice as to what they’ll do that day, tell the truth or cast slurs and aspersions.”
Tara stopped and eyed them all. “I get it. I get it! You’re all ganging up on me,” she said, and threw her spoon down, folding her arms over her chest. “Fine. I’m the bad guy here.”
“You were when you lied in print,” Laverne said. “Who will hold you to a higher standard if you don’t hold yourself to it? You have in your hand the power of the truth. If you don’t choose to use that power, if you prefer lies, then what are you?”
“A novelist,” Nana said, with a chortle. Laverne chuckled with her friend.
“All right, enough,” Sophie said, smiling at her godmother and grandmother. She had an out-of-body moment, brought on by too much drama and not enough sleep, probably. For a moment she saw herself through Tara’s eyes, a grown-up, an adult with responsibilities, lecturing a teenager at the dinner table. It was weird. “Tara, I don’t want you to feel you’re being ganged up on, but they have a point a
nd you know it. One thing is true; you have a choice to make. Are you going to be the kind of reporter people can trust to tell the truth, or are you going to make stuff up to sell papers? I know it’s not that simple, but it could be. It should be!”
Tara nodded and ate the rest of her soup. She put her spoon down finally, and wiped her mouth. “That was good, thank you. When my mom comes to town to pick me up, I’ll bring her here for lunch.” She looked at each one of them. “I’m going to be deadly honest for once. Sophie, after I wrote the piece and it was published, I . . . I was sorry. Honestly. I tried not to be sorry, but I was.
“It’s one thing to type it, but then you see it in print, and hear people talking about it, and I got that the words . . .” She paused and sighed. “The student editor doesn’t care; he doesn’t take the Clarion seriously, not like I do. I want his job next year. I was looking to cause a controversy, get people talking, but I realized too late that the words I wrote changed how some people saw Mr. Murphy. They took every word I wrote as the truth and didn’t even question it. I had already decided never to do that again, but I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” Sophie said. “Apologize to Jason.”
“I will.”
Maybe she was being a naive idiot, but she believed Tara. However . . . she’d still be careful what she said to her. “So did you see anything last night?”
“A few things. At some point it seemed like everyone was fighting. Even Professor Dandridge . . . she was upset at something the dean said.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She was crying.”
Sophie grabbed her phone and texted Julia a note, asking about Tara’s assertion. The professor hadn’t said anything about that at their meeting that morning. “Anything else?”
The Grim Steeper Page 16
