“That’s very interesting, Jane. Do you think I could contact someone at Kutrate about doing a story on the new product?”
“Mom! I just said that it’s a secret. Of course you can’t do a story on it. Not yet.”
“Will you tell me when I can approach your company about it? It would be great to be able to bring something like that to my boss.”
“Of course I will. I’ll do some digging and talk to Fritz.”
By the way Jane’s eyes lit up when she said Fritz’s name, my suspicions were confirmed. Jane was definitely interested in this Fritz person. “I’d love to meet him,” I said lightly.
“Now can we eat?” Tyler inquired.
“Yes,” I told my always starving son, “now we can eat.” After finishing my glass of white wine in a long gulp, I got up to get the casserole out of the oven as the conversation at the table turned to another topic.
“A spray that makes you skinny,” I said to Steve later that evening after Jane had gone back to her apartment and Tyler had gone out. Steve and I were in our usual spots in the family room in front of the television set, both in our bathrobes and respective recliners. “All you have to do is smell it. Doesn’t that sound amazing?”
“It sounds impossible to me,” he replied as he reached for the television remote. “Hey, Bullitt is on TCM! Let’s watch.”
“But if it did work,” I continued, “wouldn’t that be something? People are always looking for a fast, easy way to lose weight.”
“How do you know it would be fast and easy?”
“What could be easier then spraying something in the air and then not having an appetite? It sounds great to me.”
“It sounds like hogwash to me.”
Glancing over at Steve’s small paunch and then down at my own Jell-o-esque tummy, I silently disagreed with him. “Well, I hope it works,” I said.
“Me too but it doesn’t sound like it’s going anywhere. Fat loss in a spray? No way can that work.” Steve settled back in his recliner and turned his attention to the television screen. Although he’s seen Bullitt approximately three hundred times, he’s always transfixed whenever it plays. I looked at the screen too. It was the scene where Steve McQueen was telling Robert Vaughn to work his side of the street and Steve would work his own. I’ve always wanted to tell someone that.
Steve and I sat in companionable silence watching the movie. To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention. My mind was on two things: my new job and what Jane had told me. I so wanted to do well at the Kemper Times and what could ensure success more than coming in to work with a scoop about a painless, easy weight loss product that was going to be manufactured in our very own town?
“I wonder…” I said thoughtfully.
Steve pulled his eyes away from the TV. “What do you wonder, honey?”
“I wonder if Jane would introduce me to that chemist. Maybe he’d tell me a little more about that weight loss product so I could have some background information before the company is ready to go public.”
“I kind of doubt that. I’m sure Kutrate Kemicals is going to plan a huge publicity campaign. They aren’t going to want any leaks now.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I agreed. “I think I’m going to take a shower and then go to bed,” I said.
“You’ll miss the chase scene,” Steve said.
“I’ve seen it,” I replied, getting up and dropping a kiss on top of his head. “Many times. Don’t stay up too late.”
On my way out of the room I grabbed my laptop. I had a little homework to do after my shower and I couldn’t wait to get started. At the top of my list was the question: just how many fat loss plans were out there?
Chapter Three
In a word: thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands. Although I was certainly no stranger to diets, I’d always stuck with the boring counting calories plans that took forever to work but did, eventually, make my pants fit more comfortably—until I started eating more calories and wound up back where I started. After surfing the internet for an hour or so I fell asleep with my mind positively clogged with ways to lose ugly fat and become the skinny swan that purportedly lived inside all of us. Liquid diets, pills, fasts, high colonics, low colonics, calorie counting plans, candies, cookies, bars, exercise regimes straight out of Dante’s inferno—while I had always known that dieting equaled big business, I hadn’t realized quite how big a business losing weight truly was. That night I had a dream that I landed the story on Kutrate Kemicals latest fat loss technique and woke up just as Jeff Henderson was telling me that I was up for the Pulitzer.
Jumping out of bed, I felt more energized than I had in decades. This story had all but been delivered to me with a big red bow tied around it. I had to write it. It was meant to be. Now all I had to do was get the green light from Jane to talk to Fritz and I’d be good to go. I knew that it was too soon to approach the powers that be at Kutrate Kemicals at the moment but I was dying to cut my teeth on another story. Maybe Jeff would have my first assignment ready for me. Humming happily, I got dressed and did my hair and makeup in record time. The early bird catches the worm—or the story, hopefully.
“No, DeeDee, I don’t have a thing for you.”
I focused on the small blob of scrambled egg clinging to Jeff’s tie as I tried to hide my disappointment to Jeff’s response to my question about whether or not he had an assignment for me yet. Although a part of me was ready to slink back to my desk without arguing—the weak, scaredy-cat, completely chicken part––another part of me wouldn’t let that happen. Weak, scaredy-cat and chicken were not part of a true journalist’s persona. “Um…why not?” I questioned in what I hoped was a friendly but professional tone.
Looking up from the story he was editing, Jeff stared at me in much the same way he might have stared at a mouse who’d jumped onto his desk and questioned his judgment over the kind of cheese he’d put in his mousetrap. Pushing his glasses up with his forefinger, he said, “I don’t really need to give you an explanation. You work for me, remember? Besides, this is your second day on the newspaper. As I told you yesterday, I want you to get used to working in a journalistic environment before sending you out on a story. Now would you run and get me some more coffee? I don’t know what you did to that coffee maker but that coffee you made yesterday tasted like something from Starbucks. Nice job.” Jeff held his coffee mug out to me and waved it slightly in the air.
I reluctantly reached for his coffee cup. My hand stopped mid-air as I remembered Caroline’s warning from the day before. The one about the men who worked at the Kemper Times still being stuck in the Dark Ages when it came to women’s liberation and how I shouldn’t be doing anything as demeaning as cleaning out the coffee pot. I was pretty sure that Caroline would also see getting coffee for the boss just as—if not more—demeaning. Then again, as Jeff had just pointed out, it was my second day at work. Plus he was not only my boss but also the editor-in-chief of the newspaper and its publisher. I pretty much had to do whatever he wanted me to do. Surely after a few more weeks I’d be able to tell them that playing waitress was not part of my duties, not even as the newspaper’s Girl Friday, but until then it wouldn’t hurt to go along to get along. “Coming right up,” I said, taking the mug out of his hand. “I hope you’ll have an assignment for me soon, Jeff. I can’t wait to get started. I’ve been trying to think up some stories I could do and I might have a lead on something quite exciting…” My voice dribbled back down my throat as Jeff shook his head.
“DeeDee, there’s one rule at the Kemper Times that I’d like to make perfectly clear: you aren’t paid to think.” Jeff spoke so calmly, so matter-of-factly that for a few seconds I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We didn’t hire you to think. You’re here to do whatever else we tell you to do without questions.”
“Well, sure, but don’t you want my input?” In every television show that I’d ever seen about newspapers, every m
ovie, every novel, every single article about the world of journalism the reporters always tossed their story ideas into the ring and usually the editor barked at them, “Cover it! The truth must prevail!” Or something to that effect. Then, after the reporter trotted off after the hot lead, the editor would shake his head in admiration over the spunk that his reporter was showing.
“Not particularly,” Jeff said, scratching his jaw absentmindedly. Apparently Jeff Henderson and I didn’t watch the same television shows. “Leave the story ideas to the experts. That’s what we’re paid to do. Now how about that coffee?”
Knowing a dismissal when I heard one, I left Jeff’s office and headed for the coffee machine, hoping that I wouldn’t run into Caroline on my way. Since Jeff’s coffee mug was neon green with inch high letters that spelled out JEFF on the side, it would be pretty obvious to everyone within a hundred yards what my latest assignment was at the Kemper Times.
Halfway down the hall, I passed an office that had been empty when Jeff had given me the grand tour the day before. Glancing inside. I saw a petite woman sitting behind a battered metal desk that was a dead ringer for Jeff’s desk. The paper must have gotten most of its furniture at some kind of going out of business sale back in the 1960’s. The woman had light brown hair that she wore in a flip style giving her a Gidget Goes Journalist look. Smiling at her automatically, I continued down the hallway with Jeff’s mug.
“Hey! You! Stop!” She had a squeaky voice that instantly made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Backing up a few steps, I peered into her office again. “Are you speaking to me?”
“Damn straight I am! Who are you? What are you doing here?”
My eyes dropped to the brass nameplate on her desk. KATE WESTON. This must be the infamous Kate Caroline had mentioned the day before. This was also the woman who’d liked my writing samples enough to recommend me for the job. “I’m DeeDee Pearson.” I waited for her to recognize my name.
Apparently, I hadn’t made that big of an impression on her because she looked at me blankly. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrowed as they dropped to the mug I was holding. “And isn’t that Jeff’s coffee mug? What are you doing with it?” She sounded like I was planning to pour rat poison into Jeff’s coffee just like the secretary did in 9 to 5.
“I work here. Jeff asked me to get him a cup of coffee so I was on my way to do that.”
“You work here? Since when?”
My feelings were beginning to get a little hurt the way everyone at the paper sounded so surprised upon learning that I was on the staff. “Since yesterday morning.”
“As what?”
“Ummm, as a general reporter.” Kate Weston was the editor so it seemed to me that she should have been aware of the fact that there was a new hire on board but apparently I was wrong about that. “You’re Kate Weston?”
A pleased look passed over her small features. “You’ve heard of me?”
“No, I read your nameplate,” I said, gesturing toward the nameplate on her desk.
Kate looked disappointed. “Oh. Well. I’m the editor and as such, I’ll be the first one to read your copy—you do know what copy is, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. The last fool we had in here didn’t have a clue as to what I meant when I asked for his copy. He thought I wanted him to copy what other reporters had written. Can you believe that?”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Is he still working here?”
“Of course not! We have very high standards. If you aren’t good enough, wham!” Kate made a whacking movement with her hand against the top of her desk. The metal vibrated loudly when she hit it. “You’re out of here.”
“You fired him?”
“You bet I did!”
“So where is he now?”
“How should I know? The last I heard he was working at KFC but I don’t know how long that gig lasted and I don’t care.”
My dream of retiring from this job was starting to fade. It was late August and I was starting to think that I’d probably be lucky to last until the holidays were over. “So what does an editor do?” I asked. “Forgive me if that’s a silly question but I want to learn everything I can about the newspaper.”
She shook her head, making her flip bounce. “Are you kidding me? I do everything around here. Mainly, I write brilliant editorials. I have a column too. I’m sure you’ve read it.”
Here was my chance to mention my idea of writing a column. Taking a deep breath, I plunged in. “I’ve always wanted to be a columnist. As a matter of fact, Erma Bombeck is one of my heroines––”
Kate interrupted me and continued as if I hadn’t responded. “I think my best column was the one when I wrote about my nephew graduating from kindergarten. It took my sister forever to make sure his little robe fit just right and then he blew everything by wetting his pants. Well, I wrote about that day in detail and then had the column framed so he’d remember his big graduation fiasco forever. I try to write with a lot of pathos but also with a great deal of wit. I think I really nailed it with that one.”
I somehow doubted that her nephew would agree. “So how does that work having two columnists on the paper?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s you and Bob Meredith. How does that work out—isn’t there a lot of competition?”
Kate raised her eyebrows and a smug smile curled around her lips. “Competition between Bob and me? I suppose there could be—if he was anywhere near as talented a writer as I am. Besides, he writes humor and I write a more slice of life type of column. They’re quite different. Plus he appears on Saturdays, and Sundays are all mine. Sunday is the big day in newspapers, FYI. That’s why I always get Sunday for my column. Rank has its privileges.”
Jeff had said the exact same thing to me the day before and it was obviously a motto that management at the newspaper lived by. I held up Jeff’s coffee mug. “I guess I’d better get Jeff’s coffee for him. I don’t want to get in trouble with the boss on my second day at work.”
“Look,” Kate assured me. “I’m your boss too and if I want to talk to you, Jeff’s going to have to wait for his coffee. Have you gotten an assignment yet?”
“No…”
“Some old broad is retiring from the library and this is her last day. You could cover that one. It would take a real moron to screw up a story like that. Blah blah blah. Knows the Dewey Decimal system by heart. Blah blah blah. Can’t wait to spend time with the grandkids. Blah blah blah. I could write it in my sleep.”
“I would love to write that story,” I told her.
“Well, we’ll see. If Jeff hasn’t given you anything yet there must be a good reason.” Kate picked up a coffee mug off the top of her desk and held it out to me. “As long as you’re headed that way, fill me up, would you? Just a splash of creamer. Just a splash. I’m watching my figure.”
Since she had a figure like a skinny twelve-year-old that didn’t seem necessary but I silently accepted her empty cup. “It was nice meeting you,” I said.
“Ya, you too, DeeDee.” Kate smirked. “That’s a funny name. So old-fashioned. How old are you?”
Was this woman for real? “Ahhh…old enough to know better than to answer that question,” I said.
“I’m guessing that you’re pushing fifty pretty hard, right? I can always tell by the eyes and the neck and both of yours are starting to look a little baggy.” She squinted at me through over-sized eyeglasses. “I use Crisco on my neck,” she confided. “Keeps it as smooth as a baby’s patootie. Sometimes I cover my whole body with Crisco, climb into a pair of flannel jammies and get into bed, all greased up like a chicken about to go under the broiler. I heard Doris Day used to do that with Vaseline but I prefer Crisco. Goes on easier.”
“Isn’t that awfully messy?” I tried to picture Steve’s face if I got into bed covered in Crisco but could
n’t do it.
“Not really. It’s mostly absorbed by the morning. Doesn’t matter though—I don’t do the laundry. That’s hubby’s job. He does all that stuff—cooking, cleaning, laundry. All the boring stuff.” She snickered. “He makes a wonderful wife. That’s why I married him—he takes good care of me.”
It was beyond the power of my imagination to drum up what kind of man would marry a woman like Kate Weston but apparently there was one masochistic enough out there to have done it.
“How about you? You married? Any kids?”
“Yes, I’m married and I have two grown children, Jane and Tyler.”
“They live in town or have they flown the coop?”
“They live in town. Jane works at Kutrate Kemicals and Tyler’s between jobs right now.” He’d been between jobs for about three months, but I didn’t see any reason to share that with this woman. Frankly, I was surprised she’d asked me anything personal at all. Five minutes into our relationship and she didn’t strike me as the kind of person who was interested in anyone else, especially not the help.
Kate’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, “you’re the one who submitted the Christmas letters as your writing samples. I remember you now. I said you’d probably be okay at this job so in a sense I got you hired.” Kate laughed loudly. “You owe me, kid!”
“I’ll remember that,” I said weakly.
“See that you do. I always call on people I’ve done favors for.”
“I’ll get your coffee,” I said, wanting to get out of her office in the worst kind of way. “How’s that for a favor?”
“Miniscule. Make it snappy,” Kate ordered. “I’m like that old commercial with David Niven. I hate to wait. I’m sure you remember that one, DeeDee. It’s from the good old days, just like you.”
Giving her an extremely small smile, I exited Kate’s office. Steve had always told me that I had the gift of being able to get along with anyone. Walking through the newsroom where my new colleagues—all half a dozen of them—were sitting hunched over their computers, heads down and eyes glazed, I had the distinct impression that getting along with the people who worked at the Kemper Times was going to be pretty much a challenge along the lines of fitting into my junior prom dress without the assistance of a tub of some of Kate’s Crisco and a spatula or some of that miracle weight loss spray that Jane’s company was going to put out. Maybe that would change over time. I hoped.
Black and White and Dead All Over: A Midlife Crisis Mystery (Midlife Crisis Mysteries) Page 4
