by Jill Orr
“Not sure what I can tell you about Jordan,” Kay said as we reached her cubicle. “She was a hard worker. Ambitious. Always on time, didn’t complain. She was a junior reporter, which means she mostly supported the work of more senior folks, so she bounced around between departments and assisted with all kinds of pieces, from crime to lifestyle.”
As I stood in the newsroom, my mind went blank. Why had I wanted to come here? I guess I thought I’d get a sense of the woman Jordan turned out to be, something I certainly needed if I was going to write about her. But what did I think I’d find at her desk? I scanned her cubicle. I saw several pictures of dogs stuck to her bulletin board with brightly colored tacks, a picture of Jordan smiling along-side her parents on what looked like a golf course, a small statue of a lighthouse made of heavy wire, and a quote from Buddha that read, “There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth: not going all the way, and not starting.” Sitting on the edge of the desk was an engraved nameplate that read Jordan Blaise James. It was obviously not something company issued, and I wondered if it had been a gift from her parents, who were so clearly proud of their only child. I pulled open the single desk drawer and found nothing but a few pens, some sticky notes, and a blood-sugar test kit. The contents of her desk were efficient, practical, and responsible—just like their owner.
I felt Kay looking at me and tried to think of something to ask her so it didn’t seem like I was wasting her time. “Um, did she have a favorite department?”
“I don’t know.” She thought for a second. “She seemed to like writing the human-interest pieces—you know, the feel-good stuff. Pretty common for younger reporters. She was helping research a profile we’re doing on Juan Pablo Romero and seemed pretty into it.”
Juan Pablo Romero was a controversial captain of industry in Tuttle County. He was the proprietor of several Mexican restaurants in the area and had recently gotten into real estate development. About six months ago, Romero shocked the community by announcing he was planning to donate a huge plot of land to the Tuttle County Parks Department. He not only planned to donate the land but pledged to build a massive recreational complex, something we desperately needed, complete with playground equipment and a running/biking trail. The cost was estimated at over eight million dollars, and Romero reportedly planned to foot the entire bill himself. It was to be called Little Juan Park, after Romero’s only son.
The piece was scheduled to run next month, Kay told me. Will Holman was the senior reporter, and Jordan was assigned to help him.
Kay said, “You might want to talk with Holman. They worked together pretty closely. He might be able to help—” She cut herself off and looked at me, as if for the first time wondering who I was and what I was doing there. “What is it you’re looking for again?”
“Well…” I cleared my throat to stall for time. “Her mom asked if I would write her obit-”—too embarrassed to use the abbreviation in front of someone actually in the business, I finished the word after an awkward pause—“-uary. We were good friends growing up, but I haven’t seen her lately, so I just wanted to talk to some of the people she worked with to see what she was like.”
Kay’s eyes sharpened. She had the polygraph gaze of a seasoned reporter. “The sheriff said it was a pretty cut-and-dried suicide. You’re not chasing the theory that there was foul play involved, are you?”
“No!” I said, thinking of my mother’s similar accusation the night before.
“Because I’ve seen this before. Suicides are rough. People never want to believe their daughter/wife/husband/friend would do it. They look for alternatives.”
My face was candy-apple red, I was sure of it. “I’m not looking for alternatives. I just want to get a sense of Jordan’s life so I can write about it.”
“What’d you say your name was again?”
Damn. “Riley.” I left it at that, very much on purpose.
“Yeah, Riley, I got that part. Riley what-again?”
Here we go. I took a deep breath and said, “Ellison.”
As soon as I did, Kay Jackson’s entire face lit up. “You’re Albert Ellison’s granddaughter! You wrote that—”
“Yes, but—”
“Flick!” Kay’s loud voice rang out in the mostly empty newsroom. From the corner I heard the sound of shuffling footsteps. Double damn.
“What?”
“You’ll never guess who’s here.” She winked at me, the whites of her eyes sparkling against her dark skin. Having lived here for only four years, she knew enough to know my granddad had been friends with Flick, but obviously not that my family didn’t speak to him anymore. My heart was beating fast now, and I could feel my pulse pound in my ears. But I didn’t move.
“What is it?” the growly voice said again, and I could tell he was getting closer. I steeled myself. Flick turned the corner of the maze of cubicles, holding onto the tops of the walls for balance. He looked old.
“Hi, Flick,” I said.
His eyes snapped up with an agility that I wouldn’t have anticipated, given his lumbering gait. He might have been old, but Flick was clearly still sharp. “Riley.”
I smiled, an automatic response. Flick did not. He looked at me, one eye squinted halfway down, as if he was staring at a big pile of manure that needed spreading. “What are you doing here?” He never was one for small talk.
Kay answered for me. “Riley was a friend of that junior reporter who killed herself. She’s here to gather info for the obit.”
“You’re writing obits now, are you?” Flick did that old-man snort-laugh perfected by character actors in old movies.
My face flushed again. “I’m just helping out her mom,” I mumbled without looking at him. I turned to Kay. “I’ve got to get going, but thanks for your help.” I gave Flick a look that I hoped conveyed my deep and thorough dislike before turning to leave.
“Riley,” Kay said. I stopped. She held out a planner, presumably Jordan’s. “Maybe this’ll help. And email Holman. He’s a bit of an odd duck, but he’ll talk to you.”
“Thanks.” I could feel the burn of Flick’s intense stare in my peripheral vision, but I didn’t look at him. I turned again to walk out.
“How’s your family?” His rough voice softened slightly at the word “family.”
I stopped again and turned, this time looking him squarely in his watery blue eyes. “Fine. We’re all fine.” We stared at each other for a long moment before I turned and walked away. I left with my heart thumping against my chest wall so loud I was sure both Kay and Flick could hear it.
Seeing Flick again after all this time made fresh the pain of everything I’d lost when Granddaddy died. Flick had been like a second grandpa to me back in the day, but he abandoned me when I needed him most and I’d never forgive him for that. In the quiet of my car it dawned on me that maybe my unfinished business with Hal Flick had been the real reason I’d come to the Times.
I promised my parents years ago that I’d let my suspicions about Granddaddy’s death go, and I had. They were worried about me, and maybe a little embarrassed after the op-ed. And so for five years, I had abandoned my research. I’d stopped interviewing his friends and co-workers, stopped making lists of people who could possibly mean that sweet old man harm. I’d done it for my parents, and for Ryan, and, if I’m being honest, for myself. It was easier and less painful to let it go. So I went back to college, came back to work at the only job I’d ever had, and made plans to spend the rest of my life as Mrs. Ryan Sanford. I convinced myself that moving on was what my granddad would have wanted for me. But I always felt Flick knew more than he let on about his best friend in the whole world’s sudden “suicide.” And his strange reaction to me now—his inexplicable acerbity—did nothing to convince me otherwise. I was the one who had the right to be angry, not him. He should have been glad, or at least pleasantly surprised to see me in that newsroom, but he wasn’t. I felt a flicker of curiosity, but then remembered my promise to my parents and
did my best to let it go.
CHAPTER 6
My hands were shaking as I fumbled for my phone. It had been four days since I’d had any communication with Ryan, and I knew I should not be initiating contact now. This was the longest we’d gone without talking or texting in maybe forever. It was one of the most dysfunctional things about our relationship—or rather about our breakup. Even though there was a part of me that hated him, we still talked all the time, still said “I love you,” and still told each other every detail of our lives. In fact, there were times I could almost convince myself that we were simply in a long-distance relationship and hadn’t really broken up at all. But that was part of the delusional thinking that had kept me from moving on, and I knew it needed to end. So as a part of my new life plan, I told myself I was not going to go running to Ryan every time I needed to talk. And I meant it. Except just this once. In that moment I really needed to hear his voice. There weren’t many people in this world who could understand my complicated relationship with Hal Flick, but Ryan was one of them. So like an addict who thinks she can just have one taste, I tapped his name on my phone, still in the top slot under Favorites.
He picked up on the fifth ring. “Hey, Riles,” he said. “Whass up?” His words were soft around the edges like watercolor paint. “Where you been lately?”
“Hi.” I paused, wishing I hadn’t called. “Have you been drinking?” I knew better, but I couldn’t stop myself. A snort erupted from his throat, and then he started giggling.
Ah. Not drinking, smoking. “Whatever,” I said. “I was just calling because I thought you might like to know that Jordan James died yesterday.”
“Oh, man,” he said, suddenly sounding richer and more lucid. “What happened?”
I gave him the quick version, then told him I’d be writing her obituary.
“That’s great. I mean, obviously not about Jordan, but I think it’s great you’re going to write the obit. It’s your calling, babe. Always has been.”
His words washed over me, comforting me and melting away some of my earlier anger. I was still annoyed at how high he sounded, but I needed a friendly ear. I opened my mouth to confess how overwhelmed I was feeling after seeing Flick again when I heard the faint sound of laughter in the background. Girl laughter.
“Who is that?”
“Who is what?”
“Ryan, are you with someone right now?”
I heard the laugh again, this time it was louder, throaty, and devious. “Oh yeah, Ridley is here, and we’re working on a—”
I punched the end button on the steering wheel so hard it made the car veer slightly to the left. White-hot anger bubbled up inside me. Ridley was there. Of course. Ridley, Ryan’s new “friend” whom I’d come to think of as the bizarro-me because she was my exact opposite in every way. First of all, her name was Ridley. I mean, seriously? Riley/Ridley. It was laughable. Plus, she was also twenty-four years old but had white-blond hair and ice-blue eyes, was super athletic, and was, according to Ryan, “totally laid back and cool.” This was all in sharp contrast to my dark hair and eyes, upper-body strength of an anemic kitten, and tendency to worry about, well, everything.
“She’s such a badass,” Ryan gushed to me a month ago. “Did you know she was part of the Junior Olympic snowboarding team in Sweden?” He actually asked me that! I mean, why would I know that? It’s not like I followed Swedish snowboarding. And lately it seemed he tried to work her into every conversation we had. Ridley showed me how to do a one-eighty on my board. Ridley has a tattoo of a wolf on her ankle. Ridley sprouted wings and flew to Mars where she was crowned Queen of the Badasses. It was pathetic the way he worshiped her.
Riley Ellison, twenty-four, perished on Main Street, when her Honda Fit spontaneously caught fire upon hitting a speed of more than 120 mph. Ellison was distraught over a recent conversation with her ex-boyfriend, which caused her to lose control of her vehicle. She is survived by her parents, an unfinished obituary for an old friend, and a half-eaten block of Manchego cheese in her refrigerator.
I made myself slow down. There was no point in crashing my car over Ryan’s stupid obsession with stupid Ridley. After all, if I died, how could I gloat when he came crawling back to me? Which I was still sixty-seven-percent sure he was going to do.
As I got my breathing back under control, I realized it was a mistake to have hung up on him like that. I should have played it cool and subtly dropped the hint that I too was seeing someone new. I mean, that was sort of true, wasn’t it? Maybe my date with Ajay257 hadn’t exactly been the stuff of romance novels, but still. I had gone out on a date with a cute, gainfully employed man. And before the roller coaster, we actually had a pretty nice time. He was funny, as I recall, and smart. Had it not been for the vomiting, who knows where it might have led?
Dear Ms. Ellison:
I am delighted (and I’ll admit, a little surprised) to inform you that Ajay257 has accepted your invitation for another date! I think we can assume he didn’t think you were a “complete psycho” as you suggested. #hotmessisthenewblack
Before your date, I’d like to make you aware of a service provided by Click.com. In addition to our Romance Concierge service, we offer highly trained Date Preparation Specialists. These specialists can assist you with everything from wardrobe concerns to hair-styling solutions, as well as give you personalized conversation starters and even help you find just the right wording when telling your new love interest about past relationships, money problems, past incarcerations, etc. No matter what your situation, our DPS have got you #covered! #safetynet
To give you an idea of what they can do for you, I’ve contacted Gemma T, from our DPS division, who had the following advice for your upcoming lunch date: Avoid choosing a thick cut of meat. You may need to spend extra time chewing, and this could lead to some unflattering moments—or the fallout from an unexpected piece of gristle. Instead, she suggested choosing a nice, flaky white fish. #noflossnecessary!
This is exactly the kind of useful and insightful information that could be yours for an additional $12.95/week. Please let me know if you are interested in upgrading your package to include your personal DPS! #opportunity!
Best,
Regina H, Personal Romance Concierge, Click.com
CHAPTER 7
When I arrived at work the next morning, Dr. H was again in his office with the door closed. I still had about half the bio section left to catalog but decided instead to get started on sorting books for the Friends of Tuttle Corner book sale coming up next week.
It was an average morning, patrons flowing in and out in a steady pattern and just enough work to keep me busy but not frantic. Just before noon, the library was empty when I heard a loud popping sound come from Dr. H’s office. It sounded like a firecracker exploding. Then I heard a crashing clatter of broken glass. Terrified, I flung open the door to his office and saw Dr. Hershel Harbinger holding a pistol, looking even more dumbfounded than I was.
“I—I’m sorry, dear.” He looked down at the gun in his hand as if it had just magically appeared there. “Um, I’m not quite sure what happened.” He was in shock. His potted orchid lay in ruins on the ground by his desk.
“You shot your plant, that’s what!” I rushed toward the paralyzed Dr. H and took the pistol from his hand. I held it with two fingers so the business end was pointed at the floor and dropped it into the small waste basket by the door. I was not comfortable around guns, even though Ryan had taken me to the range a few times. A sad excuse for a date, but not entirely uncommon in small-town America. “What the heck were you doing?”
Dr. H shuffled to his chair and sat down, his eyes glued to the flowerpot in pieces on his floor. “I, well, I was just…I wanted to see if the old thing still worked, I guess.…” He put a hand to his forehead. His fingers trembled with shock.
I softened my tone. “It’s okay. No one got hurt.” I knelt and started to pick up some of the jagged shards on the rug.
“But my orchid�
��”
“We’ll get you another.” I peeked out front to make sure nobody had come in during the commotion. It was all clear. I walked back in and sat down across from him. He rubbed his forehead with one hand but said nothing.
“Dr. H?” I asked. “Is everything okay?” This was a stupid question. The man just assassinated an orchid by discharging a loaded weapon inside a library. Clearly, everything was not okay.
He took a deep breath in and regained some of his usual composure. “Well, no, Riley, everything isn’t okay. But it will be. I can assure you of that.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble? Because I’ll help you if you are!”
“Dear girl.” He looked at me with his warm, crinkly eyes. “You are so sweet. But I don’t want you to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
I started to argue, but he cut me off. “Would you mind terribly grabbing the dust pan from the back?”
“Dr.—”
“Thank you, Riley,” he said in a firm tone he almost never used with me. His eyes locked onto mine directly. “That’s all.”
After spending another hour in his office with the door closed, Dr. H emerged like nothing had happened. He made small talk, helped me with a purchase order I was working on, walked over to Landry’s, and brought back another arching white orchid, which he placed on the corner of his desk exactly where the other had been. No one but us would ever know it wasn’t the original.
I was distracted the rest of the day. I had no idea what was upsetting Dr. H, but I knew in my gut it was something big. I didn’t buy that line about wanting to see whether his old gun worked, but because he seemed both fragile and resolute in his desire not to talk about the incident, I didn’t press him. I just wished he’d let me help.
