I delivered a heartfelt thank you to all; barely remaining
dry-eyed by remembering grown men were only allowed to cry at the end of Brian’s Song (and maybe Bang the Drum Slowly; for Robert
DeNiro’s cancer, not his cringe-worthy batting swing). Then everyone got down to mingling amongst the Boxes O’ Joe and
doughnuts Gladys had laid out. Max Lipper threw an arm around my neck and
pulled me close. His teeth so large and white next to leathery brown skin I
felt like I was staring into a row of urinals at Fenway Park.
“You see, bud, folks love you,” he said, gesturing in an arc
around the room.
“Who’d a thought,” I began, “or as my father said when I
graduated college ‘sometimes even a blind squirrel finds an acorn’…he was
tough, but fair.”
“We’re gonna help you figure out what went on with this
murder,” Max continued. “Then I figure we’ll have a fundraiser down at Pete’s and
collect money to get the paper back on its feet. How’s that sound, bud?”
It sounded pretty good, but as for how it looked, well, that
was another story. I knew going in we weren’t exactly going to amass the
faculty of Harvard at this get-together, but as I surveyed the room it seemed
we might have trouble rustling up even a community college adjunct among the
assembled.
To my immediate right I watched as Derf handled an emergency
sausage call before going back to looking up offshore point spreads on his
phone, all the while muttering, “How can I get anything done with all these
interruptions?” Further along the wall stood our intrepid reporting team. Sandy Molesworth had her iPhone on
speaker so she could talk and manicure her nails simultaneously. While next to
her photographer Charlie Grissom was performing origami on his comb-over, as our
octagenerian social columnist Mrs. Kleinschmidt nodded off on his shoulder over
a once-bitten cruller.
Amidst a gaggle of children I spotted my sister Amy chatting
with my reporter friend Glen Hubbard, Miss Iceland’s predecessor on the
Artfield beat. There were a couple of softball buddies, Bean and Tombs, that
weren’t going to crack any cases, but maybe a few heads if that type of thing
became necessary.
Just then Max Lipper elbowed me in the side and pointing past
Bean and Tombs asked excitedly, “Do you think they’re real?”
I followed his finger to Naomi…er, I mean Winnie, the
receptionist who was either planning on pitching in or had forgotten I let her
go. Had Derf known her he would most likely have been laying 3 to 5 on the
latter.
“Do you think their real?” Max repeated, wide-eyed.
“She’s only eighteen.”
“So what? There are seniors and even a couple juniors at the
High School that I would swear had ‘em done.”
“Sounds like you’re not exactly re-making Stand and Deliver over there,” I
started. “Besides why should I care if they’re real? Implants are like
professional wrestling…I know everything I’m seeing isn’t what it seems, but
that doesn’t mean I can’t just sit back and enjoy it.”
Max became transfixed like a deer in her headlights so I
continued to peruse the room. Then I grabbed him before he could dive headlong
at Winnie and pointed to a huddle in the back corner featuring the English
teacher Barton and two bespectacled sweater-clad men. “Who’s that with Mr.
Barton?”
“Two guys he recruited from the English Department to help out,”
Lipper tossed over his shoulder, trying to keep one eye on my ex-receptionist.
“Kind of a ‘Legion of Whom’,” I deadpanned. “Is it wise for
all of you to be out at the same time? Won’t someone at the high school ask
questions?”
“Naw…they can’t even if they wanted to. It’s called
tenure…and it’s a wonderful thing. Short of showing up drunk they can’t get rid
of us. Now where did Miss Knockers go?”
“Sounds like you might be pushing the envelope on that whole tenure
thing,” I surmised. “But I think she’s over talking with my staff…uh…my former
staff.”
Lipper bolted toward Charlie Grissom and the gang only to be
“knocker-blocked” by the mellifluous mu-mu of Miriam the smoky-voiced town
clerk who was staring down despondently at an empty donut box. Then eyeing up
the dozing Mrs. Kleinschmidt’s uneaten cruller she made a bee-line to my crew
with Max drafting behind her.
All things considered, though, I had to hand it to Gladys not
simply for the quantity of the attendees, but the eclectic quality as well.
Mrs. Kleinschmidt notwithstanding she had culled the best of the Review staff. Charlie Grissom was a
professional journalist, Sandy Molesworth merely competent but with connections
in high places and Winnie the receptionist possessed attributes that, Lord
knows me or, in lieu of me, Max Lipper, would find something to do with. My
sister gave us a link to the police through my brother-in-law and Miriam, if
adequately supplied with grazing, would be our eyes and ears at Town Hall. Of
course the teachers gave us a strong presence at Artfield High not to mention
Barton also knowing Ted Sheehan in the…er…biblical sense (Queen James Version, I
assume). And thankfully we had Glen Hubbard, a real investigative reporter who
just might be able to pull this whole shit show together.
Oh, and there was also Miss Iceland. Surprisingly, I’d
almost forgotten her. Now I spied her standing in the back corner near a small
closet that had become home to our fax machine, non-digital cameras, answering
machine and a small mountain of folding maps. Gladys referred to it as "where technology goes to die”. She was looking so washed-out and willowy I could practically
hear Procol Harum’s “Whiter Shade of Pale” playing in my ear. And I was about to "trip the light fandango" over there as soon as I figured out what that meant.
Gladys sidled up beside and caught me eyeing Miss Iceland up.
“So, I never knew you were into blondes. I thought you went more for the dusky
Latino type.”
“Why? Cause you caught me in here watching Sabado Gigante one night?”
“It wasn’t the ‘watching’ part that made me think that…”
“You’ll never let that die, will you? But if you must know I
lean in the other direction. Sex with an albino?…Now that would be something.”
“You’re disgusting,” she stated, rhetorically.
“Tell me something I don’t know. But if you must inquire I
think my taste developed the same way it did for most guys of my generation,” I
philosophized. “While watching reruns of Petticoat
Junction.”
Gladys raised a quizzical eyebrow so I clarified. “They had a
blonde, a brunette and a redhead of reasonably equal attractiveness. I always
picked Billie Jo…big Meredith MacRae crush, there and on My Three Sons as well.”
“Fascinating,” she spat, obviously unimpressed with more of my
oddball ontology. “But are you gonna stand here talking about mediocre sitcoms
or go talk to the girl? I tracked her down for a reason you know…”
She gave me a shove in the general direction, but it wasn’t
that easy. For starters I wanted to make sure I let Miss Iceland know I was
interested, but I have no game, no opening line. Back in the day my routine
move was to scour the ATM garbage before hitting a bar or party, find a receipt
with an abnormally large balance then write my number on the back and surreptitiously
slip it to a single girl who caught my fancy in hopes she would be intrigued enough
by the “mysterious rich guy” to call. Obviously that wasn’t going to fly now. And come to think of it didn't fly too well then either.
The other problem was ordinary men, like me, looking to step
out of their league need one of two things: money or a willingness to commit. I have
neither. With the former an average looking guy could dazzle his way into a hot
girl’s pants. With the latter he could grind her into submission. Either way it
sounded like a lot of work on my part.
“Just go over and be yourself,” insisted Gladys, noticing my
hesitation.
“Yeah, that’s never worked,” I lamented, but lacking any
other option I sallied forth to my humiliation.
I kept my eye on her as I tried to circumnavigate Miriam and
fend off well-wishes from Bean and Tombs. Not knowing anyone she hadn’t
ventured far into the room. Her back was to the rear window with the blind that
was perpetually higher on the right side than the left no matter how I
manipulated the drawstring. She wore a blue hooded sweatshirt that read “Rice
Owls”; great academic school, but all I could think of was the old University
of Texas cheer…
UT Cheerleaders: What comes out of a Chinaman’s ass?
UT Fans: Rice!
I decided I wouldn’t open with that.
The jeans and sweatshirt look was
putting me at ease and when, just before I addressed her, I remembered her real
name was Karina, thereby allowing me to ditch the catastrophic “Hey girlfriend”
opener I was entertaining, I did feel things were looking up.
“Hey Karina..,” I nonchalantly started,
getting the name out the way early. “Did you go to Rice?”
“No, it’s my ex-boyfriend’s,” she
said just as Miriam stepped on the foot of one of my sister’s kids who let out
a blood curdling yell.
“I’m sure she said ex…yeah ex…ex-boyfriend
right,” is all I could think as the commotion died down.
“He moved back to Texas and left me
this and his collection of Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys cassettes,” she
added, dropping my heart rate back into the normal range.
“If he’s got They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore in there I’ll take it off
your hands.” She rolled her eyes and I realized our musical tastes may not
exactly mesh and tried a different tack. “So where they have you working?”
“They have me on the School Culture
beat,” she said and I winced visibly knowing that on any decent sized paper
this was the lowest a reporter could go. “They’ve got me lined up for more
Middle School Spring concerts than should be legally allowed. I attended one
last night and I gotta say I had no idea how many Oriental kids attended the Admiral Dewey Junior High in Rutland till I saw their string ensemble.”
I needed to towel off the sarcasm it
was so dripping and for a second I thought I might be falling in love. "I didn't know Dewy was a Vermonter," I began, wondering if 'Vermonter' was even correct. 'Vermontan'? 'Vermontite'? Then I
returned to my senses and asked the burning question, “So what brings you here
anyway?”
“You’re co-worker Gladys tracked me
down, told me what was going on and I figured I’d get to work with the great
Glen Hubbard so I dropped everything and rushed right over.”
That seemed like quite the kick in
the ass, but as I turned, hopes reeling, toward Hubbard I felt her slap me in
the back in the head. “Hey Dumbo, I didn’t come here to work with Hubbard I
came here to work with you. Something’s up and you’re not the only one getting
jerked around so let’s figure it out together.” I flushed, feeling stupid, but
in the end chalked it up as physical contact and a pet name. Or based on my
usual interactions with women…impressive progress.
As I was regaining my composure and
half straightening my hair, half feeling if I had a bald spot working yet
Gladys approached in her usual efficient mode. “Press conference, town hall,
ten minutes,” she said, verbs be damned.
“Crap,” I blurted out and not just
because I’d forgotten the presser in the morning’s activities. I’d also
neglected to contact Curly Carson’s ex for whom I had several more questions.
Her relation to the other two victims would round out the team Gladys assembled
nicely. At this point I didn’t even know where to find her number, but figured she knew where Town Hall and would want to hear the Artfield PD's theory so we would catch up to
her there. “Let’s go,” I said to Miss Iceland in 70’s TV detective series
style. Then I fumbled for my keys feeling like Jim Rockford, but probably looking
more like Cannon or Barnaby Jones in her eyes.
“Uh, that’s OK,” she said reaching
into the pouch pocket of her sweatshirt and producing her own keys. “I’ve seen
your car. I got this one.”
She made for the backdoor, but I
lingered next to Gladys momentarily to watch her walk away. “Nice girl…” “Great
ass…” we muttered though for the life of me I’m still not sure which one of us said
which.
Miss Iceland artfully negotiated the
local streets at limit-busting speed, but as we pulled into a spot near the
center of town I noticed we needn’t have worried about ticketing. Two police cars were parked
in front, as well as, the Chief’s Chevy Suburban which, I noticed, was loaded
with fishing gear. Since the town only owned two cruisers momentarily I debated
knocking over the Krauszer’s Convenience Store while things were left
unattended, but in the end realized I wouldn’t get far on the meager
scratch-off lottery and take-out coffee receipts in the register. So I groaned
my way out of the Volks and we jogged across the street and up a wide flight of
concrete stairs.
The Artfield Municipal Building is a
square, white-washed, brick building that appears like a giant snowdrift, winter or summer. Entering through one of the huge double
doors one is met by a bland lobby with paneling that looks like it was taken off my Dad's old station wagon. From there one is presented with three options as if one was a contestant on the world’s worst episode
of Let’s Make A Deal. To the right
were the huge oak doors of the Municipal Court where Mayor Wes Willard’s buddy
and investment partner Clem Nielsen self-importantly presides once a fortnight over matters
stupid and small. Straight ahead behind a simple, plasterboard door was the
domain of Miriam the town clerk who made sure nary a dog went unlicensed or a
shed went up un-permitted. To the left was our destination, the Council Meeting
Room where the press conference was being held.
The Council Meeting Room was the
site of the twice monthly meetings that decided property taxes, building
approvals, school budgets and civil service salaries along with more picayune
concerns. It was the preponderance of the latter that made attending and
reporting on these sessions such a chore. When the housing development near
where Ted Sheehan lived was proposed and the outside developers came in to make their
pitch I stopped sending Charlie Grissom or Gladys to cover these and began
attending myself. Like most folks I enjoy a good ball-busting, as long as it’s not
my nuts being roasted on an open fire, but when things went surprisingly
smoothly I gave up the ghost and turned to reading through the minutes that
Miriam supplied.
Miss Iceland and I pushed through
one of the large double doors and found ourselves in what I assumed for a
second was a Yoko Ono poetry reading. Chief Bowden stood at a podium flanked by
the two on-duty officers, but he hardly needed the protection. There was one
tiny tripod camera manned by what looked like a couple of bored students from
UVM, a handful of only slightly older “stringers” from the Boston Globe and the more local papers, and Wes Willard sitting,
arms folded, in a chair next to the podium looking like he was pissed at being
there or just sucked on a lemon or quite possibly both.
Looking to the left I noticed Bowden
had set up a genius display of distraction along the wall. A long table filled
with coffee, juice, bagels, bacon, pastries and assorted other breakfast fare
stood beckoning and from the heaped plates in the reporter’s hands it had been
liberally visited. Having once been an underpaid novice in the industry I knew
finding free food during working hours was a never-ending quest. I could still
recall working the overnight sports desk at the Globe and fanning out with my counterpart in obituaries to find
leftovers from meetings earlier in the day. Once found we’d page each other in
code over the PA: “The eagle has landed in Sector E” equaling turkey sandwiches
in the Editorial Department. If pride comes before a fall they’ll probably have
to bury me standing up.
It was obvious in this atmosphere
that the Chief would get off easy so it was lucky that Miss Iceland and I had
arrived just in time. We took two of the dozen or so chairs set up in two rows
in front of the podium just as Bowden stepped forward and began to read a
prepared statement. Old habits die hard so I kept peeking to the left to see if
they had lox to go with the free bagels as Bowden sped through a statement so
bland it could’ve been shredded and sprinkled on the meals served to ulcer patients.
“…and having examined phone records,
ballistics and the coroner’s report this office has determined Mr. Carson shot
both Mr. Sheehan and Ms. Carson in a fit of alcoholic infused rage before
turning the gun on himself. Therefore this matter has been deemed a
murder-suicide, case closed. Are there any questions from the press?”
I raised my hand from the second
row, but Bowden pretended not to see. The college kids were already trying to
negotiate their camera back into its plastic case as the young reporters, happy
to get of town with most of the day ahead of them, dumped their plates in the
garbage and went to grab one last cup of coffee and Danish for the road.
I stumbled through the chairs,
pushed past the kids at the buffet (there were no lox I sadly noticed…hey, I
can multi-task when need be) and confronted Bowden and Willard as they made
their way to a side exit. The two officers, younger guys who I didn’t know,
stopped short. They obviously had mistaken me for someone important and had
inadvertently blocked Bowden and Willard’s path.
“I have a question, Chief,” I said
as authoritatively as someone of my meager self-esteem could muster. In fact, I
had several questions and no idea which to lead with, but Bowden saved my
already overloaded brain from having to parse and pick.
“This conference was for press
only,” he stated, condescendingly.
“I’m press,” I replied,
unconvincingly, my voice cracking like Peter singing on The Brady Bunch.
“Not as of yesterday according to
Riley Chase and Green Mountain Bank.” It was Wes Willard chiming in; his face
breaking into a smile that seemed painful.
This was obviously splitting hairs,
but I was too sober to argue. Thinking fast I turned and pointed at Miss
Iceland. “She’s with the press. Karina, uh…um… (here I coughed out something
that sounded like ‘Schmedberg’ then continued) of the Burlington Bee.”
Chief Bowden chuckled mirthlessly
then indicated with his head over his shoulder. “We’ve already spoken to the
reporter for the Bee and as
far as I can tell he has no questions.”
I followed his gesture to the right
front corner of the room where for the first time I noticed Curly Carson’s ex
talking to a hair-gelled, horn rim glasses, bow tie wearing hipster nerd who
appeared to be making love to an iPhone with his thumbs.
When
I turned back, mouth agape, I saw Wes Willard’s bony ass slipping through the
exit and heard a faint “dumbass” waft in with the slamming door. Man, I
thought, and not for the first time, nothing’s ever freakin’ easy…