“Did you see any footprints on the path while you were jogging?”
“The ground was wet. Loads of puddles. Twigs. Pine needles. But I didn’t notice any footprints. I wasn’t looking down, of course. If I had been …”
“… you wouldn’t have tripped over Whitley,” Haver said. “Yeah, I gathered that much. Did you notice anyone else in the woods while you were jogging?”
“No. Things were quiet. It didn’t look like anyone went anywhere near those woods since last fall. There weren’t even candy wrappers from the kids using the path as a shortcut to and from the field. Isn’t that odd?”
“The season just started,” he reminded me. “Our team played Monday night and the Dodgers had a practice on Tuesday that ended at seven. There hasn’t been a game since then, and none of the other coaches held a practice this week. There wasn’t enough time for a good trash buildup.”
“If nobody used the path since the Dodgers practice, that would mean Whitley died sometime between late Tuesday night and this morning.”
Haver laughed. “No offense, but you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure it out. Jennifer Whitley called the Harbor police at three o’clock in the morning on Wednesday to tell them her husband never came home. She wanted to know if there were any accidents. She drove over to the high school and found her husband’s car parked in the lot—but no Jason.”
I jumped right in, intrigued by the possibilities. “Maybe he was kidnapped or killed during a robbery. You know, Sara says he always carries a briefcase, like he’s a corporate raider or something.”
“Who’s asking the questions here, Colleen?”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“You sound like you’re interrogating me.”
“I said I’m sorry. Jeez! Why wouldn’t I be curious about all this? After all, I did stumble upon the crime scene, so to speak.”
“Who said there was a crime?” Haver said.
He had me there. “You mean Whitley died of natural causes?”
“Suppose he had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Maybe he fell while he was jogging,” Haver teased.
“There wasn’t anything on that path he could have hit his head on. To my way of thinking, someone killed him and dumped him in the woods.”
“That’s your theory?” he asked.
“It’s a good theory. Were there any fingerprints on Whitley’s car? Any blood?”
“I’m not getting into this with you,” Haver said firmly.
I realized I must have sounded like Jane Marple on speed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to badger you. What else do you need from me?”
Haver looked uncomfortable. “I was wondering how well you knew Jason Whitley.”
“I know him from school. He’s Sara’s algebra teacher.” I paused. “Or rather, he was. Not much of a motive, unless you think I killed him because he’s robbing my tax dollars. Would that make me a suspect? Still, the mayor’s robbed us blind for years. What if he turned up dead?”
“We’d all be suspects,” Haver said.
I eyed the sandwich half Haver gave me. I took one more bite, enough of a base for my stomach. “I’m thinking about another gin and tonic. If we’re through, you’re welcome to join me.”
“I just want to go home and fall into bed,” Haver said.
“Too bad you’re so tired,” I said. “Dick is over at my parents’ house having dinner. If you’re still hungry, I’ll bet there’s plenty left. Either way, he’d love to see you.”
“I’ll pass on the food, but I haven’t talked to Dick in a while. Your boss hasn’t seen him since college.”
“Meredith Mancini is much older than she looks,” I said.
“You know I meant Ken Rhodes. The three of us served time at Rowan University. It’s a miracle we made it through.”
I hadn’t realized my brother knew Ken Rhodes. Dick was five years older than me, so we hadn’t paid much attention to each other’s friends growing up. Except for Ron Haver, I’d never known any of his college buddies. His friendship with Rhodes could present a problem. I could just imagine all the dorky kid-sister stories Dick had shared with Rhodes.
“So we’re all done here?” I asked. “No more questions?”
“None I can think of right now. I hate to ask you this, but do you have a number where I can reach Neil? I’ll be working tomorrow, and I need him to help coach the team in the morning. The assistant coach is more interested in his own kid’s batting average than if we actually win a game.”
“Stanley Da Silva? He still teaches over at the high school, doesn’t he?” I asked.
“Algebra I. Why?”
“I just thought he might be too upset to coach is all.”
“It’s baseball season, Colleen. Get a grip on reality.”
I led Ron Haver to the door. In all the excitement, I almost forgot how huge Little League was in the shore communities. “Give me your notepad, and I’ll write down Neil’s cell number. Don’t hope for too much. Neil’s not much interested in family-type things anymore. He’s barely spoken to the kids since he moved out.”
I waited a few minutes for Haver’s car to pull away from the curb before stepping out onto the porch for a breath of air. The block seemed unusually quiet. There were no rowdy teens just coming home from the mall, no barking dogs—not even seniors dragging their recycling bins out to the curb for the Saturday morning pickup. The temperature had dropped, and stars blanketed the clear sky. It could have been a perfect romantic evening, except my husband was in the arms of a woman ten years younger and twenty pounds lighter than me.
Rather than give in to depression, I decided my best course of action was to get that drink and find a good movie to watch.
I stepped inside and turned to close the door. That was when I spotted an unmarked county sedan parked directly across the street from my house.
5
Monday morning, I made my way through the maze at the newspaper office and stuck my head over Meredith Mancini’s cubicle wall. My features editor immediately looked up from her keyboard.
“Are you busy?” I asked.
“No, I’m not busy. Don’t you ever answer your cell phone? I’ve been trying to reach you. I finally called your house and left a message with your son.”
At twenty-five, Meredith radiated a deceptive innocence. Her short, sassy haircut and huge brown eyes masked her wicked habit of verbalizing whatever happened to pop into her head at the moment.
“I never answer my cell phone when I’m driving,” I told her. “You’ll just have to forgive me for being so elusive. I’ve had a tough month.”
“Because of Whitley, or the thing with Neil?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you at least have a good lawyer?” she asked.
“Lucinda Maynard,” I told her.
Bev Thompson had dragged me into Lucinda’s office the day after Neil walked out on me. As the veteran of three divorces, she had the lawyer’s home number on speed dial. Lucinda saw us at once and allowed Bev to sit in and take notes. The way my mind was working at the time, I knew I’d probably only absorb about half of the lawyer’s instructions.
I sized up Lucinda Maynard the minute we sat down in her office. Tough. Smart. No-nonsense. She had no-fuss, blunt-cut black hair, wore no makeup, and favored severely tailored business suits. Her amazing hawk-like nose held up black-framed glasses. Lucinda looked like the kind of woman who knew how to handle cheating husbands.
“Hit the bank as soon as you leave here and withdraw everything but a hundred dollars from each and every account,” she told me. “Don’t let them give you a check unless the balance is huge—and even then, ask how much of it you can get in cash. God only knows how long Neil’s been dipping into the family finances to fund his little romp. When you get the money, go straight to a different bank and open up an account in your own name. Until we work out temporary support payments, you’ll need that money t
o pay the bills.”
Bevin brought along a notebook and wrote furiously. I leaned forward, paying strict attention to Lucinda’s every word.
“You need to go through drawers and boxes at home. I want every single paper pertaining to finances, and I mean everything. Neil could have accounts you don’t even know about. He’ll probably have some form of pension. You’ve been married how long?”
“Eighteen years,” I said.
“Do you have any pensions? Anything like that?” she asked.
“Nothing at all.”
“Start looking for pay stubs—old ones and new ones,” she advised me. “We need to establish income before he gets the chance to fool with his company books. I want every document that involves the house, the cars—every paper you were afraid to shred because it looked important. Give them to Bevin for safekeeping as soon as you find something. You don’t want Neil dropping in to see the kids and getting his hands on the papers we need.”
“There’s little chance of that,” I said, considering Neil seemed to have forgotten he even had kids.
“Do it anyway. It’s best not to take chances. Neil will have to produce his own papers in the future. We’ll need proof to refute his pleas of poverty.”
“But we’ve never been poor,” I explained.
“When we go to court, you’ll see firsthand how this poor ex-husband has suddenly become the most destitute man on the planet.”
I sighed. “I’ll start looking as soon as I get home.”
“Another thing. You might want to check your jewelry box. You’d be surprised how many of my clients have had their most expensive pieces go missing. If that’s the case, call me right away, try to find receipts, and get pictures.”
“How do I get pictures if my things are gone?” I asked.
“Comb through old photographs. You’re bound to come up with a few of you wearing the jewelry.”
I had come away from the bank with four thousand dollars and change from the checking account, but hadn’t been able to get my hands on the savings and CDs. Those were in Neil’s name alone. My jewelry was just where I’d left it, in the small armoire in the bedroom. Apparently my most treasured pieces weren’t worth that much.
“The Nut Cracker’s your lawyer?” Meredith asked.
“The what?”
“She always represents women in divorces, Colleen. Think about it.”
I laughed. “How appropriate!”
“If you need more work to take your mind off Neil, let me know,” Meredith said.
“Good idea. I guess I should try to keep my mind occupied.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Ken Rhodes said. He was standing just outside his office, a fairly good distance away. Either the guy had superb hearing, or Meredith and I were being loud.
Meredith blushed. She had a major crush on the executive editor. I’d once pointed out that Rhodes wasn’t much younger than her own father. She didn’t seem to mind the age difference.
“Oh! Hi! Colleen … um … just dropped in for … um, ah … what did you drop in for anyway?” Meredith stammered.
“Just needed to get out of the house,” I said.
Ken Rhodes gave me the once-over. I wished I’d worn something more professional than sweatpants and a pullover.
“Have you done much jogging lately?” Rhodes inquired.
Meredith laughed.
This time I blushed. “I gave it up temporarily. I got tired of tripping over bodies.”
“Good idea. Make sure you stop by my office before you leave. We need to talk.”
Rhodes took off down the aisle, and Meredith jumped out of her chair to watch. My eyes followed too. Neil had shattered my heart and soul, yet I wasn’t immune to the executive editor’s obvious physical assets. His body rippled with muscles, and his face creased in all the right places. He stood about six three; his height both imposing and quite an enticement, and his dark hair had streaks of pure silver.
“I’ll bet he was a hit man before he came to the paper,” Meredith said, her eyes riveted on Rhodes.
I thought his present occupation might be a little too high profile for that. “He probably has six kids at home.”
“No kids,” Meredith said. “No wife either. What do you think he wants to talk to you about?”
I grabbed a piece of paper off her desk and borrowed a pen. “The way I’m dressed, he probably wants me to clean his office. Hurry up and give me my assignments. I’ll let you know what he says later.”
“We’re doing a Cinco de Mayo theme,” Meredith told me. “Have you ever been to Domingo’s Enchilada Palace?”
I groaned. Restaurant reviews almost exclusively appeared in the Weekend Fun pullout. I didn’t feel up to a writing a fun-filled, family-oriented piece.
“Come on. It’s not a bad place. I ate there myself a few nights ago. They make great margaritas.”
“I could use a few,” I said.
“Meanwhile, I’ll try to scare up some more assignments. Now go see Rhodes and don’t forget to call me with the juicy details.”
Once I was standing in front of Ken’s office, my curiosity disappeared. Over the past few weeks, I’d come to the conclusion that nothing in my life was going right. I’d probably get canned.
I poked my head through the open door. “You wanted to see me?”
“Come in and shut the door, Colleen. Have a seat.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“It’s nothing like that,” he said. “I’ve been giving Jason Whitley’s death a lot of thought. We can use this to our advantage.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“It can increase our circulation.”
Like all newspapers, the Crier had experienced a significant drop in circulation in recent years. Residents of the shore towns preferred to catch headlines on the eleven o’clock news or online. For local news stories, they often checked the web edition instead of opening up an actual paper. Advertising was down—businesses wouldn’t buy space in newspapers nobody read.
“How, exactly, does a dead man increase a newspaper’s circulation?” I wondered.
“By having the reporter who tripped over his body write about it.”
I could see it. Embarrassing comments posted after the story appeared online. Letters to the editor about klutzy reporters. I’d be a laughingstock.
“Will I ever live that down?” I asked.
Rhodes grinned.
“I have to admit, I wouldn’t be surprised if something like that did increase circulation. If I wasn’t the clumsy oaf who tripped over the body, I’d sure want to read the firsthand account. Very clever. I may never forgive you for this.”
“Oh come on! Where’s that famous sense of humor I’ve heard so much about?” he asked.
I couldn’t imagine who furnished Ken Rhodes with that bit of false information. I never really had much of a sense of humor. I had always relished absurdity, sarcasm, and the ironic, but I was never a laid-back, easygoing girl who saw hilarity in daily life—especially when it came at my own expense.
* * *
There were comments posted online after the story ran, though they weren’t nearly as cruel as I had expected. Most readers were horrified at my ordeal. Some were blasé, as though tripping over the newly dead was no big deal. Then there were a few snarky posts, from the mild two left feet references, to one particularly nasty suggestion that I was an incompetent reporter. I brought my concerns to Ken Rhodes late the following Tuesday afternoon, but he shrugged them off.
“The website got flooded with comments,” Rhodes informed me, sitting behind his desk and looking smug. “And letters to the editor came in the mail. People are talking about your story, Colleen. They’ve told their friends to read it. Advertising picked up. That’s the icing on the cake.”
“One guy said I was incompetent,” I complained.
“You’re not incompetent, but you are thin-skinned.”
Okay, I thought. Thin-skinned. I’ll just add th
at to my growing list of faults.
“I have a proposition for you,” he continued. “What would you say to a weekly column? On a trial basis, of course.”
“Do I have to continue writing about Jason Whitley?” I asked.
“Jason Whitley’s a great topic, especially with the ongoing investigation. Let’s face it, it’s personal for you. People need to be informed. You’d be writing about what’s happening for the Tranquil Harbor edition. You’d build a following. It could strengthen your position here at the paper.”
“It might work,” I agreed, realizing the column could lead to better things. But I didn’t have time to discuss it just then. Bobby had baseball practice at six o’clock, and there was still homework to check and sandwiches to be made. I stood to leave.
“I want you to cover Jason Whitley’s memorial service at the high school on Thursday,” Rhodes told me.
I sat back down. “You want it for the column?”
“I’m betting someone Whitley knew fairly well killed him. I’m also betting you’re at least on speaking terms with the killer. And you’re one of those annoying, chatty people. You can get them to open up to you—tell you things you can use in your columns. Remember, you’re building a following.”
“Right. My fans. My public,” I said, smarting at the chatty reference.
Rhodes reached over and rifled through a pile of old editions of the Town Crier at the edge of his desk. “There’s also this story Margaret Allen did last month on the Tranquil Harbor Teacher of the Year award. Two teachers up at the high school were nominated. Jason Whitley was one. Stanley Da Silva was the other.”
“Who else is up for the award?”
“One middle school teacher, three from elementary—all different schools.”
“And you think the award has something to do with Whitley’s death?” I asked.
“Possibly. Maybe not. Jason Whitley hasn’t exactly endeared himself to many people. Just ask his wife.”
“He wasn’t much of a teacher,” I told Rhodes. “My daughter’s failing his class, and she’s usually a wiz at school.”
“Then your kid must have a mental block. Whitley’s students tend to excel year after year. There’s a twenty-thousand-dollar bonus awarded to the Teacher of the Year, not to mention bragging rights. And it benefits the high school. If you go to the Department of Education website, Harbor Regional’s school performance report will blow you away.”
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