Black and White and Dead All Over
A Midlife Crisis Mystery
by
Marlo Hollinger
To my real life “Steve.” Thank you for always being there.
Chapter One
“So, here it is. What do you think?” My new boss, Jeff Henderson, looked around the newsroom as proudly as the father of quadruplets achieved without the help of any kind of fertility drug. “Pretty nice, huh? Can’t you just smell all the history that these walls have seen?”
Looking around, I felt my eyes widen in dismay and my nostrils crinkle in disgust. All I could smell was years and years of brown bagged lunches combined with endless cups of coffee and stale cigarette smoke.
What a dump! I thought, and although I didn’t actually say what I was thinking out loud as I stood in the general reporters’ room at the Kemper Times, I was positive that my face reflected what I was thinking. My husband, Steve, always says that whatever I’m thinking or feeling is right there on my face for the whole world to see, making me a particularly bad poker player, liar and person to ask if you want to know if your new jeans with the blingy pockets make your butt look big. With a major effort, I rearranged my face into more neutral lines and smiled brightly at Jeff. “Well,” I stalled, “it certainly is…”
I was stuck for the right word to describe the room that we were standing in other than “disgusting.” With dingy walls that I assumed had once been white but had cured to a shade probably best described as greige—sort of grey and sort of beige—and ratty looking cubicles that gave the entire room the feeling of a fly-by-night call center, the hub of the local newspaper was not at all what I’d expected. Granted, Kemper is a mid-sized town and I didn’t expect the reporters’ room of the Kemper Times to be on par with the New York Times or even the Milwaukee Journal, but this was pathetic. Where were the hustling reporters, pencils stuck behind their ears as they scrambled to write the next big scoop? Where was the gruff but lovable city editor, waiting to dispense words of wisdom and bucking up his employees with well-earned pats on the back and praise for their latest efforts? Where was the ink-scented, rolled up shirtsleeves ambiance that screamed truth, justice and the First Amendment?
Then again, if I was painfully honest with myself, the Kemper Times had just hired me as a part-time general reporter and Girl Friday, so it was pretty obvious that their journalistic standards weren’t on par with those of the New York Times, the Milwaukee Journal’s or even the National Enquirer’s. I have a degree in psychology that I earned over thirty years ago and my only experience writing has been of the volunteer variety for the schools my kids attended while they were growing up—reports on bake sales and plugs for local renditions of Our Town or Les Miz. Oh, and the Christmas newsletter I reluctantly enclose every year with our cards to friends and relatives (“Tyler is still looking for a job, our daughter Jane’s boyfriend turned out to be married, and we’re keeping our fingers crossed that we won’t have to replace the hot water heater this year since the air conditioner died in August.”).
If the Kemper Times had decided that I was general reporter material, well, let’s just say that it wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement for them. Truth be told, I’m not so sure that I’d hire me to write for a daily paper, but I wasn’t about to put up an argument. The powers-that-be at the local paper had offered me a job, I’d grabbed it, and now I was in the middle of getting the grand tour. I learned a long time ago not to look a gift horse—or anything with a steady paycheck—in the mouth.
“It certainly is what?” my new employer Jeff asked as we surveyed the empty newsroom side by side. He was a few years older than me, had a receding hairline and wore a brown cardigan sweater that reminded me a great deal of the one that Mr. Rogers used to wear on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. He seemed pleasant but a little on the slow side to be a newspaper publisher. I couldn’t picture him making a snap decision on whether to cover a fire at a daycare or a hostage situation in city hall. He struck me as far too ponderous to make any kind of snap decision other than if he wanted mustard or mayo on his sandwich.
Well,” I replied as I continued to search my mind for a tactful response, “it’s bigger than I expected.”
“Actually, the newsroom is a lot smaller than it used to be,” he informed me in an I’m-surprised-you-didn’t-know-that kind of voice. “We used to be down in the basement where there’s a lot more elbow room but over the years we’ve consolidated operations.”
“Consolidated operations?” I repeated.
Jeff shrugged. “You know—downsized. When someone quits or retires, we don’t necessarily replace them. It makes for more work for almost everybody but it keeps our overhead lower.”
I gave a little chuckle. “I’m glad you hired me if you aren’t doing much hiring.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see how that works out. You’re part time so if you can’t cut the mustard it will be no big deal to can you. Plus, we’re counting on you to fill the gaps of some of the people we’ve let go so it’s not like we’d go out of business if you don’t work out.”
Great. Ten minutes into my new career and my boss was already talking about firing me. I was not about to let that happen. No siree. This job was meant for me and I was going to make it work out. “I’ll make sure I do the best I can,” I promised, feeling like a Girl Scout who was trying to earn all of her badges at once.
“I’m sure you will. You came highly recommended.”
“I did?” That was news to me. “Who recommended me?”
“Well, no one actually recommended you but Kate Weston—the editor—read the writing samples you submitted and said they didn’t suck out loud. That was good enough for me.” He looked around the newsroom again thoughtfully. “I think it’s smart to have all the reporters together in the same room. It’s easier to keep an eye on everyone that way. You know—no goofing off. We can’t afford too many cameras or listening devices to keep tabs on employees everywhere but this way we can see what’s going on the old fashioned way, with our own eyes and ears. Oh, and, of course, we read everyone’s emails.”
Listening devices? Cameras? Reading emails? Was that even legal? Apparently so. “Do you work in here too?” I asked.
Jeff threw back his head and laughed heartily at my obviously ridiculous question. “Are you kidding me? This place would depress the hell out of me after about five minutes. My office is at the other end of the hall, right next to Kate’s. We’re management,” he added in the same you-should-know-that tone. “Management never bunks with anyone else. After all, rank has its privileges.”
At least he was honest. An elitist, perhaps, but honest. I looked around the room again and silently counted up the cubicles. There were twenty-four. “How many reporters are on the staff at the paper?”
“It fluctuates,” Jeff replied. “Journalism isn’t a high-paying career so we do lose a lot of our reporters when they find they can’t live on what we pay them.” His voice took on a self-righteous tone. “It takes good, hardworking, dedicated professionals to run a daily newspaper who are more concerned with putting out a quality product than making a million dollars. Journalism has never been about making money. It’s about performing a much needed community service. That’s why I’m so glad you’ve joined us, Debbie. I can tell that you have down-to-earth values and don’t worry about things like raises or benefits.”
Wondering how he thought he knew that I didn’t worry about raises or benefits since this was only our second meeting and al
so wondering if management was included in the low pay part of his speech, I gently corrected him. “My name is DeeDee.”
“Oh, right. DeeDee. Sorry. I’m lousy with names.”
“That’s okay. It happens a lot. Where are the rest of the reporters?”
Jeff shrugged. “Who knows? There really isn’t all that much of a reporting staff left, anyway. Just Bob, our prize-winning journalist, Frank, Ren, and Sam—our award-winning photographer. You’ll meet all of them in due time and I’m sure you’ll get along just fine. There might be a few bumps in the road to becoming a true team—there always are—but you’ll make it, DeeDee. I’m sure you will.”
I swallowed nervously. The people he’d just mentioned were names I recognized from reading the Kemper Times and they were all true journalists with actual degrees in journalism. How were they going to feel when they discovered that the newest reporter was completely inexperienced when it came to writing news stories as well as unpublished? “I certainly hope I will.”
“So, any other questions before you get started?”
“Um, what about Caroline Osborn?” I asked, naming the sole female reporter on the paper and the best writer of the bunch, in my opinion. “I love her articles. I always read her stories first when I see her byline.”
“Oh. Caroline.” His voice became flat. “I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.”
“She’s amazing. She really knows how to connect with the readers.”
Jeff raised a skeptical eyebrow. “If you say so but I’d have to argue that she only connects with middle-aged, female readers.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow since Jeff had just described me. “Oh?”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he hastily added, obviously realizing his faux pas. “Many of our readers are middle-aged and female. It’s just that Caroline has been told—repeatedly—that there are other people who read our newspaper and that if she ever wants to win an award like Sam or Bob has, she needs to get with it. Caroline is something of a rabble rouser, as I’m sure you’ll quickly discover, and I have no doubt that she’ll glom onto you since you’re also a woman. Just don’t pay any attention to her and never believe anything she says without checking with me or Kate first, all right?”
So much for team spirit. Not wanting to make a promise that I wasn’t at all sure I’d be able to keep, I said, “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I want to hear. Now let’s find a cubby for you and then you can get started.”
I followed Jeff to the back of the newsroom, still almost unable to believe that I was actually starting my first day as a professional reporter on a real newspaper. It was exciting and a little intimidating too. The Kemper Times office might look like a dump but I was sure that working there was going to be a highlight of my professional career. Being a reporter sounded so much better than being a self-employed caterer, my last job. Being a reporter sounded exciting and glamorous and successful, three things my previous job hadn’t been in the least. Actually, exciting, glamorous and successful were three adjectives that I’d never been able to apply to any portion of my life.
Jeff stopped before a cubicle at the back of the room and paused. “You can have this one,” he said in a voice that sounded like he was giving me a set of keys to a high-rise condominium overlooking Lake Michigan complete with wool carpeting, stainless steel appliances and a built-in maid. Eyeing the cubicle and the half inch of dust covering every flat surface, cobwebs filling up the corners and large jagged holes in the blue-grey burlap-esque fabric on the walls, I answered, “Great! I love it!”
Truly, it wasn’t all that hard to sound enthusiastic because I felt enthusiastic. My secret hope was that Jeff Henderson would be so impressed with the articles that I churned out that he’d offer me a column in the paper that would immediately become syndicated and that not only would I become famous, I’d also have some serious money to plop into Steve’s and my retirement account, something I’ve never been able to do as a stay-at-home mom. I was pretty sure that I had read that that was how Erma Bombeck had gotten started. She worked for a weekly newspaper and her boss arranged everything that needed to be done to get her syndicated. I read once that Erma Bombeck hadn’t even known what her boss was up to until it was a done deal. Maybe Jeff Henderson would do the same for me. I sure hoped so. Steve and I weren’t looking at a barren retirement but it would be so wonderful to be able to plump it up a bit and feel like I was finally pulling my weight, financially speaking.
Jeff seemed pleased as well as a little surprised by my enthusiasm. “I like your attitude, DeeDee.”
“I’m happy to be here,” I assured him.
“All right, then. You get settled and once you get your bearings, how about if you make a fresh pot of coffee? I’ve got a killer hangover so make it strong. And make sure you scrub out the pot first. No one’s cleaned it in ages.”
Making coffee and scrubbing out coffee pots obviously fell under the Girl Friday portion of my job description. But I wasn’t complaining. Making coffee was one skill that I truly excelled at. “Um, where is the coffee pot?” I asked.
“In the break room.” Jeff gestured vaguely toward the doorway. “You can’t miss it. It’s right down the hall.” Giving me one last encouraging smile, Jeff began to walk away.
I stopped him in his tracks with another question. “Jeff, do you know when I’ll get my first assignment?”
“Your first what?” A quizzical expression covered his features.
“Writing assignment. Story. Article. For the paper?” My heart sank a little bit beneath the blue cotton sweater I was wearing. Oh, dear. I hoped I hadn’t heard wrong when Jeff had offered me the job. He had hired me as a general reporter as well as a Girl Friday, hadn’t he? Or had I, in my shock on hearing a job offer, heard him say reporter when he meant something else altogether? Like cleaning lady or customer service rep? But he wouldn’t be giving me a cubicle if I wasn’t on the reporting team, would he? “You do want me to write for you, don’t you?”
Still looking puzzled, Jeff stared at me for a long moment before answering me. A little unwillingly, I tried to imagine how I looked to him: early fifties, light brown hair, blue eyes, a few extra pounds around my hips, an all-too-eager expression on my face. Something about the blank look in his eyes told me that he wasn’t seeing Diane Sawyer or Barbara Walters while he stared at me. A light bulb finally seemed to snap over his head. “Oh, right! Sure. Of course, I want you to write for us, DeeDee, and I’ll have an assignment for you in a day or so but right now I want you to get used to being here and take care of a few other things––housekeeping things––and then we’ll see where we stand, okay?”
Patting me on the arm, Jeff started to leave the newsroom once again. He paused before he was all the way out the door. “When the coffee’s done, bring me a cup, would you? Black with two sugars. Thanks, hon.”
Feeling a little deflated, I waited until he was gone before turning back to my new home away from home. Before making the coffee I wanted to clean up my cubicle. In a nearby supply closet I found some paper towels and Windex and set to work. The whole cubicle really was pretty disgusting. The dust was so thick that it was hairy and there were mysterious and very sticky stains on my new office chair. As soon as I got my first paycheck I’d have to go to Office Max and pick out a new chair for myself. After ten minutes of fairly intensive spraying and wiping, my cubicle sparkled. It didn’t look new—it hadn’t looked new since 1975—but it looked a lot better. It would look even better once I pinned some pictures of Steve and the kids on the walls and maybe brought in a plant or two. A geranium, perhaps, or a jade plant. Satisfied, I threw out the paper towels, filling the trash basket to the brim. Now on to tackle the coffee pot.
No one had come into the newsroom since Jeff had left but in the break room I finally found another human being. Sitting at an old Formica table was a man reading a dog-eared copy of Cosmopolitan and talking to himself. He seemed to be rati
ng the merits of the models in the magazine, but I couldn’t tell for sure as he was talking very quietly, mumbling more than anything else. Not wanting to surprise him, I shuffled my feet a little, cleared my throat and bumped into the door on my way into the room. “Hi,” I said brightly once I made it all the way into the break room.
The man stopped his mumbling monologue and eyed me suspiciously. He was in his early fifties and had graying hair, heavy jowls and an annoyed expression on his face that looked permanent. “I thought you were supposed to clean on Sundays,” he barked, his voice a gravelly mess from what had to be years and years of tobacco and alcohol abuse.
“I’m DeeDee Pearson,” I said. “I just started working here today.”
“The cleaning people always work on Sundays when nobody is around so that you don’t interrupt our creative flow.”
“I’m not with the cleaning crew,” I replied. “I’m a reporter.” My, how good that felt to say!
The annoyed expression morphed into something far more menacing. “Since when are we hiring reporters? Every single time I’ve asked for a raise for the past three years I’ve been told that there are no raises because the paper is too broke. So how could anyone have hired the likes of you? What are they paying you with, Monopoly money?”
“I don’t know…” I began before he interrupted me.
“Who hired you?”
“Jeff Henderson.” Jeff had said it would take a few days for me to feel like a part of the team but if the rest of the staff was like this guy, it was going to take more than a few days. A few decades would be more like it.
Mr. Gravel Voice looked me up and down, taking in my blue cotton sweater, khakis and Avon jewelry in one long, condemning gaze. Even a blind person would have been able to read his thoughts at that moment: Soccer mom. Cupcake baker. Housewife. “Where’d you go to J school?” he questioned.
“Excuse me?”
Long sigh. “Journalism school. I’m assuming that at some point in the last century you attended journalism school and that’s why Jeff hired you.”
Black and White and Dead All Over: A Midlife Crisis Mystery (Midlife Crisis Mysteries) Page 1
