Revised Bury the Lead Ebook Formatting Embedded Cover

by Bury the Lead (retail) (epub)

  What isn’t reported, what is reported as briefly as possible, is as deliberate and intentional as what is reported in full. So how does that figure into my little spider web of clippings? Should I leave blank spaces? Fill them in or let the reader?

  Or fill them in and let the reader think he is filling them in himself?

  So many choices.

  H.G. Wells had his little experiment. I have mine.

  Fifteen across: eleven letters, “Let me be straight with you”

  Country Star Nearly Loses Thumb

  It turns out there is no tolerance build-up for hangovers. To make matters worse, I’d been feeling hopeful enough when I got home last night that I had a couple of beers first, thinking just a mild buzz might be enough to get me through the night. It wasn’t, of course, so I had to break the cardinal beer-before-liquor, never-sicker rule to get any sleep. Sleep had come eventually, but broken and unrestful. I must have woken up, imagining I heard the buzz of my phone, at least a dozen times, but the phone was always mercilessly blank. I wished more than anything I could throw the thing away, but being disconnected isn’t an option in my line of work.

  Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

  Disconnected. Haha. Funny, that.

  But having Dayla in the office two days in a row meant two days of not having to make my own coffee. So survival was a definite possibility.

  The Shack Back On Bestseller List For 7th Week In A Row

  My reporters and I were going to have to scramble to launch our new initiative by this Sunday. That was a bit of a trick, since part-time reporters for weekly papers aren’t accustomed to actual deadlines. They usually have more lead time for their stories. Generally speaking, writing for The Herald was more along the lines of a hobby than a job. Thirty dollars a story wasn’t exactly balancing anyone’s bank accounts.

  After considering Dayla’s reaction to my new plan yesterday, I’d decided that my reporters didn’t need to know about the imbedded advertising. I’d give them the story, the contacts, and let it take shape organically from there. If the writers themselves didn’t know they were advertisers, how could the readers figure it out? It would be like giving medicine to a baby. Medicine hidden in a spoonful of honey.

  Now to keep Dayla from spilling the beans. That would require more finesse.

  I tried not to wince as she waved at me and sang out a good morning greeting. There was no avoiding the chime of the door over my ear, either. I waved wordlessly and headed straight to the coffeepot.

  “Another rough night, Jeff?” She clucked her tongue. “You’ve got to take it easy on yourself.”

  I nodded wearily. “I know. I will. Eventually.”

  “Nothing hurts worse than a broken heart. But a headache doesn’t feel too good, either. Here …” She opened her desk drawer, removed her bottle of ibuprofen, and tossed in my direction. I caught it.

  Grandmothers also liked to medicate. At least I’d gotten one of the modern sort. I much prefer pills to weird teas and ointments and herbs hanging from windows.

  I swallowed three with a gulp of coffee that scalded my throat. Sputtering, I tossed the bottle back.

  “I was thinking about our conversation yesterday, Dayla,” I said, ignoring her reference to Ada entirely. “And you’re right. Preserving our journalistic integrity is paramount.”

  She preened. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “But we have to up our advertising game, or Belichek will shut us down. And it would be a real shame for Brisby not to have a paper of its own. The whole community would suffer. So I think I have a compromise.

  “You and I will keep working on this embedded advertising idea from our end, but we won’t say a word about it to the reporters. That way, their stories can’t possibly be unduly influenced by the money. I’ll just make the assignments and let them write the stories as they see fit.”

  Of course, I would be doling out story ideas and contacts and most importantly, editing for content. But I didn’t think Dayla would catch onto the finer points of my plan.

  I was right.

  “Oh, that sounds excellent, Jeff. Now I won’t worry.”

  “Well, I don’t want you worrying. We will still be the paper that the town can trust. We’ll just be making enough money to stay in business at the same time.”

  “That sounds good. I’m glad you told me.”

  “All right, then. Mum’s the word.”

  Americans Eating Less Beef, A Positive Impact On The Climate

  By ten, I’d assigned all my stories and was working on background for my own while trying to ignore the fact that Andy hadn’t come in yesterday or today. His coffee break was part of his morning ritual. He liked to walk through town every morning, stopping in at almost every shop with open doors to chew the fat with whomever he could find. It was rare for even the most inclement weather to keep him indoors. In his former life, he’d told me once, he’d felt isolated and lonely. Surrounded by people and demands, but not belonging anywhere. When he’d moved here, he’d been determined to change that. A part of me had wondered why he had not changed it where he was, but I thought I understood. Once people think they know who you are, changing their perception is all but impossible. Humans adore labels and will cling to them in the face of almost anything.

  Little towns like Brisby might seem welcoming at first glance, but the truth is that they are as insular and distrustful as any uppity country club. Andy hadn’t let that deter him. He’d come here to change his life, and he wasn’t about to let our stand-offishness stop him. He’d started making his rounds almost as soon as he moved in. He was like that stray dog who believed he was one of the family, no matter how many times you kicked him. So we all gave up, stopped kicking, and accepted him as one of our own.

  Now his absence ate at me. It felt like disapproval. And sensible or not, I wanted Andy’s approval.

  That sounded pathetic. I don’t want Andy’s approval. I just like having it, I told myself. That’s better.

  Oh, what difference did it make? So he didn’t like what I’d done in Sunday’s paper. Not that I was admitting I’d done anything at all. I still maintained I wasn’t responsible for the harebrained actions of other people. It was still my paper. And it was my town first. If I wanted to find out exactly who these people were, what they were made of, that was my prerogative. I couldn’t make them do anything they didn’t want to do themselves, deep down, anyway. And wasn’t it better for any society to know exactly what it was capable of?

  This was the real truth-telling.

  I pushed down the unease until it coalesced into contempt.

  Rare Cancer Linked To Breast Implants

  Delores came blowing into the office a little after lunch. She and Dayla were about the same age, but they couldn’t have been more different. Where Dayla had thoroughly embraced her role as grandmother and caretaker, Delores kept her grandchildren as accessories of slightly less importance than her perfectly painted eyebrows and ever-present red high heels. She wore those things with skirts, blue jeans, capris, whatever. She was a realtor, but that job didn’t take much time around here. Listings were sparse. I suspected she mostly kept her realtor license for all the gossip it afforded her. She was the first to know who died, who got divorced, who got a big-city job. At any rate, her connections were a boon for me.

  Town’s Sex-Offender Laws Ruled Unconstitutional

  “All right, Jeff― Whoa!”

  She’d spotted my wall. Shaking her head, she settled her hip on the front edge of my desk and peered down at me pityingly through her false lashes.

  “Oh, honey. You have gone off the deep end, haven’t you? Do you really think that little artist is worth all this?”

  I grimaced. “How do you know about Ada?”

  Her red lips curved saucily. The flirtatious effect was somewhat diminished by the makeup cak
ing in the lines around her eyes. “I’m a reporter, remember? Besides, everybody knows. I can’t believe she up and left. It’s not as if she stands a chance of making it big. Another little girl with a paint set whose mommy told her she could be whatever she wanted. And Ada believed her. And that blood stuff she did … ugh!”

  She shuddered delicately. I trained my eyes on the computer screen in an effort not to kill Delores with a look. I’m sure she thought I would be gratified to hear someone scoff at Ada’s dreams, but I was not. For whatever it was worth, I had to believe that Ada was real. That her art was real. That her dreams had substance. Otherwise, she’d thrown us away and lost everything for nothing at all. And that was more than I could accept.

  I drew a steadying breath.

  “Okay, well, this project I’m working on has nothing to do with Ada. Has nothing to do with your assignments for the week, either. I don’t know if you checked your email yet, but I’d like you to do a story on some of the most remote and untrafficked hiking spots within, say, fifty miles of here. It’s spring, people are looking to get back outdoors again. And I need a story on the housing market here as the season changes. In fact, you can highlight the Western Slope Realtors, if you like. Interview your boss. Talk about what benefits there are to hiring a realtor versus going it alone.”

  Behind Delores, I saw Dayla giving me a big thumbs-up. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

  As I’d predicted, Delores perked up at the opportunity to bolster her own business. “Oh, those are excellent story ideas. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Good. Because I need them completed for Sunday’s edition.”

  “Oh.” She seemed taken aback. Like I said, deadlines are kind of a new concept for my reporters. “Okay. That’s a pretty quick turnaround. What about the story on Hailey Anderson’s missing parakeet?”

  “If it’s done already, that’s fine, we’ll find room for it in tomorrow’s edition. Otherwise, it can wait. The other stories are your priority.”

  “It can wait? I’m not sure the parakeet would agree.”

  “Look, either a hawk has already carried the thing off, or it will be an even better story when she finds it. Hailey already has posters up on every lamp post around town. I don’t think the creature’s chances are going to diminish any based on whether your story runs this week or next.”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll see what I can do.” She reached for my hand, but I grabbed my empty coffee cup with it and pretended to take a drink. “Would you like to go out for dinner? Let me cheer you up a little? It’s probably not good for you to spend too much time alone these days.”

  I think Delores had probably been a bit of a femme fatale in her day. Maybe it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know that her day was over. And she had no age requirements, young or old. She was an equal opportunity flirt.

  “That’s kind of you, Delores, but I’m swamped, to be honest. Dayla and I have started a new advertising venture, and we’ve got our hands full. But I appreciate the thought.”

  She nodded, slipping off my desk with a wiggle before heading to the door. “If you change your mind, you have my number. A man’s gotta eat.”

  Right now, after enduring that display, I couldn’t imagine stomaching much of anything.

  Twelve across: ten letters, slab o’sheep

  Lawmaker Shot Dead: Ukraine Points Finger At Russia

  Dayla’s shoulders were shaking.

  “You might as well let it out,” I told her drily. “You’re not hiding your amusement very well, anyway.”

  Choking sputters became outright guffaws. “Do you think she will ever realize what a fool she makes of herself?” Dayla asked, after she’d straightened up. Somewhat.

  “I hope not,” I admitted. “You can’t make people like that up. Larger than life, oblivious to everything, but it’s not like she’s malicious. She means well. And she always gets her stories in on time.”

  “I suppose,” Dayla conceded. “I bet she was a real menace when she was young.”

  “Didn’t you know each other then? I just assumed you went to school together.”

  “Honey, this may be a small town, but it’s still a town. Delores and I never ran in the same circles. Still don’t. You’re our only point of contact.”

  “Hmmm. I like it when you put it that way. Maybe instead of the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, we can play Six Degrees of Jefferson Paine.”

  Dayla snorted. “I can see you’re feeling better.”

  “Nothing to cheer a man up like having a well-kept zombie come on to him first thing in the morning.”

  “Okay, well, I’m going to let you get to work now. I can see you aren’t going to be serious, and I do have work of my own.”

  I smiled as Dayla spun back around in her chair. She was right about one thing: I did feel a little better. Work was always good for what ails you. Now if I could add some Alka-Seltzer to my ibuprofen and coffee regimen, I’d be in business.

  You cannot have it both ways. If the world is meaningless, then so are we; if we mean something, we do not mean alone. – C.S. Lewis

  I wondered if Sami or Jack would be dropping by also. I’d sent them both emails letting them know that this week’s assignments would be on a tighter schedule than usual. Sometimes as much as a month could pass without them coming into the office. I usually saw more of Jack than Sami. Jack was retired, but Sami was always rushing around between school and her real job.

  Guilt struck me. I didn’t even know what Sami’s real job was. Was she a waitress like Ada had been? A grocery stocker at night so she could make it to classes in the morning? I wasn’t sure if I felt guilty because I didn’t know or because I didn’t care. Maybe I didn’t feel guilty at all. Maybe I just thought I was supposed to.

  “Hey, Dayla, do you know what Sami does for work?”

  “She helps her dad with his landscaping business.”

  “Oh.” Okay, not even on my list of guesses. Now I could feel guilty because I didn’t know her dad owned a landscaping business.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason. I just wondered.”

  “She’s a good girl. I don’t think she has time not to be.”

  I hoped that Sami had already found time to go see that dog movie before I’d given her new assignments. For the first time, I realized that her review assignments―books, movies, the odd theater showing or gallery opening―were probably the closest thing she had to recreation.

  Oh, well.

  Nervous energy thrummed along my veins, pushing out any lingering discomfort from last night’s overindulgence. I was beginning to believe that this new absence, this emptiness that somehow possessed a terrible weight of its own, was going to prove impossible to escape or shake off. That somehow without was going to become my new identity. Ada’s absolute silence seemed unbearably cruel, but perhaps it was a sort of kindness after all. If she were gone, gone with no possibility of ever returning, then a voice even beyond the grave would be greater heartache than even this bare without. Still, I felt wherever Ada was, she would approve of my new distraction.

  Artists, at their core, were oracles. Always searching for a fresh and generally indecipherable means of telling some truth. The beauty of what they did lay in the singularity of their perspective, whatever that was. They could tell a minuscule piece of the story in a way that completely distorted the larger picture, but as long as they told that piece well, they were lauded and damn near worshipped. I was taking it one step further … piecing together those minuscule bits into what a lazy observer could mistake for a cohesive whole. If he wanted to.

  Didn’t even God say something about sending the people lying spirits because they wanted to be deceived?

  School No Longer An Option For Many Afghani Children

  My email had just alerted me to Sami’s movie review dropping into my inbox when the door ch
imed and Jack came in. I liked Jack, but then, I figured everybody did. I wasn’t sure if he actually reminded me a little bit of Robin Williams’ character in Dead Poets Society, or if I had superimposed that image on him. Either way, he didn’t seem to mind the comparison. He did have a tendency to quote poetry from time to time. It didn’t generally have the same inspirational effect as Robin Williams.

  “Sorry I didn’t make it in earlier, Jeff. The wife wanted to get some plants for the garden.”

  Another point of non-interest: I don’t know the name of Jack’s wife. To be fair, he always refers to her as “the wife.” Since he apparently dotes on her and spends all his spare time with her, though, I think that might be his nod at maintaining some semblance of distance.

  “No worries.” Clicking on Sami’s attached file, I saved it to my desktop for review. “I’m glad you came in. This week’s deadline is a little punchy, but I’ll get new assignments to everyone by tomorrow so that next week can be a little more relaxed.”

  Jack dumped the burnt coffee and set a new pot to perking. “So what would you like from me this week?”

  Geez. I didn’t know why I’d bothered emailing the assignments out. I thought I’d been pretty clear.

  “Honestly, most of it can be just background information, internet research, that sort of thing. We can’t be as timely as a daily, but that means we can be more in-depth. The usual stuff―the games and school awards, the society circuit―will still be our backbone. But we need to stay relevant. Tackle some bigger issues. Give people a reason to pick up the paper on a Thursday or a Sunday.”

  Jack nodded. He filled a Styrofoam cup with fresh black coffee and came to sit across from me.

  “’Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.’”