Authors: Elaine Orr
For the second time in a month, a South County News staff member has died. The body of Fred Simmons was first spotted by a pleasure boat approximately one mile south of Farmington. River's Edge residents had been looking for him since a sheriff's deputy found Simmons' car near the river at about five-thirty yesterday morning, May 17th.
Circumstances surrounding Simmons' death are unknown, but Sheriff Michael Gallagher has said that a note was found in Simmons' residence. Details have not yet been disclosed.
Simmons' death occurred just two weeks after that of Hal Morris, South County News publisher and editor, who was found murdered on the property of River's Edge resident Sylvester Seaton. County Sheriff Gallagher stated there is no immediate relationship between the two deaths, but he had been about to talk to Simmons to see if he knew more about Morris's whereabouts the night Morris was killed. Gallagher stressed that, at this point, Simmons is not a suspect in Morris's death.
[insert Shelton quote]
Sheriff Gallagher has said his office will continue its investigation with possible assistance from the Iowa Department of Investigation. Findings will be released as they are available. Funeral arrangements are pending.
Ryan had a separate article titled "box" that was a brief sketch of Fred's career.
Sandi whispered, "I was okay until I read about the funeral arrangements."
"It's very good," Doc Shelton said.
I hadn't realized he had come to stand behind Sandi and me.
Ryan walked toward us and looked at me. "What do you think, Mel?"
"Pertinent and to the point. I'm not sure I could have done as well today."
"Thanks." He met each of our gazes for a moment and then glanced at the front page layout. "I'm pretty drained. You care if I go home as soon as we're done?"
Sandi spoke, "Mel and I really only need to paste the text into the publishing software." She looked at Doc Shelton. "Done?"
He nodded and handed us a handwritten piece of paper, which Sandi and I scanned quickly.
Fred Simmons has been a stalwart member of the River's Edge publishing community since he edited the high school newspaper almost fifteen years ago. While he left the
South County News
for a stint at the Des Moines Register, he agreed to step into the role of interim editor and provided solid leadership during a trying time. He will be missed. The paper's Advisory Committee and staff extend its sympathies to Fred's parents, Harvey and Rose Simmons.
Sandi turned away, and I nodded. I might have added something about how Fred mentored all the new reporters but, really, nothing much mattered.
USUALLY I READ my articles when they are published, but I didn't even look at Friday's paper. I awoke feeling numb and nothing penetrated.
It wasn't until I was making a second cup of tea that I realized Mister Tibbs was sitting in front of the apartment door, so that I would take him out to do his business. I leaned down to pet him. "I'm not being a very good human to you, am I?"
His tail thump indicated disagreement, but a few days ago he was living under a wheelbarrow, so his judgment was skewed.
Sharon did not sound thrilled about staying in my guest room now that Mister Tibbs shared the apartment, but Ambrose laughed so hard about the mismatched name and sex that it made me more comfortable foisting the dog on Sharon.
I should never have taken the dog. I like having someone at the foot of my bed. And how much will I spend in vet bills?
Ambrose was able to get a neighbor to feed his cows for a few days and Sharon took off a half-day, so they had arrived in River's Edge about three-thirty on Friday. An hour later, Doc Shelton called to see if Ambrose could pick up Fred's parents at the airport Saturday. The friends Fred was closest to in high school weren't coming into town until late Saturday or Sunday.
That made Sharon cry, because Mrs. Simmons taught her math in middle school and she knew how Fred's parents doted on him, as she said. Ambrose, ever one to try to lift someone's spirits, wanted the three of us to drive to Des Moines to eat lunch and maybe visit the Botanical Gardens before going to the airport. I just couldn't, and he didn't push.
Before we finished our first cup of coffee Saturday morning, my mobile phone buzzed. Caller ID showed Doc Shelton's home number, and I flashed the phone at Ambrose before I answered.
As usual, he didn't let me finish saying hello. "Got a proposition for your Melanie. How would you like to be the temporary editor for…"
"No. Sir. Thank you, but no."
Perhaps it was my abrupt response, but he didn't try to persuade me.
"If you bring in someone and you want me to meet them or answer questions, I'd be happy to help."
We ended the call politely, and I looked at Ambrose. "Did you know he was going to ask me to be temporary editor?"
"Nope." He looked at Sharon. "You?"
She shook her head. "Our radar must be set wrong."
I shrugged. "Probably not. Doc kind of makes decisions and charges ahead."
Ambrose and Sharon looked at me as if they expected more.
"I just…can't. Everything bad that's happened in the last few weeks is centered at the
South County News
."
Ambrose started to say something, probably about a steady income, but Sharon cut him off. "Good choice."
By the time they left about nine on Saturday, Sharon had steeled herself so she could support Mr. and Mrs. Simmons. Much as I love Ambrose and Sharon, I thought the break in togetherness for a time was a good thing. Usually we're with each other to do something specific or celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas. Hanging out to wait for a funeral has its own stresses.
SUNDAY MORNING WAS overcast, and it seemed fitting. I checked the weather forecast for Monday, and thank God, it was going to be sunny. I figured I could handle the memorial service if it was cloudy, but didn't think I could make it through a trip to the cemetery in the rain.
Fred was being cremated, and his parents wanted to bury his ashes near the plot they had already bought for themselves. Sandi had heard that Stooper was busting his butt to have part of the stone inscribed for Monday. He could finish it later.
Ambrose, Sharon and I went to the ten o'clock Sunday service. It was almost like a party. About ten of their classmates were in town already, and most of them attended the Methodist Church. Reverend Patrick said it looked as if we were celebrating Fred's life in two services. Fred's parents weren't there, maybe because it would be too hard to accept condolences on two days.
After the service, we stood just outside the church for about twenty minutes as people shared Fred stories or showed each other pictures of their kids. I mostly listened. I was friendly with these people, but hadn't been close to any of Ambrose's classmates except Fred.
"So, Mel," an Irish brogue rose above others, "do you have any newspaper shenanigans to share about Fred?"
I kept a smile as I turned to face Patrick Brannon, the class clown of Ambrose and Sharon's senior year. What I wanted to do was scream that this wasn't a party, but instead said, "Gosh, where to start?"
"Ah, c'mon. You got something."
"Okay, you know how people in parades throw candy at the crowd watching them?"
"Sure," Patrick said, "and Hal kept writing that it was just an excuse for litter, right?"
"Yep. Fred would stand on the opposite side of the street from Hal and try to hit him with candy." This was true, and it was one of my most light-hearted memories of Fred. "Sandi and I each gave him a quarter every time he hit Hal."
This sent Patrick into hysterics, and I used this diversion to kiss Sharon on the cheek. "I'll catch you guys later this afternoon."
With Patrick's voice calling for more stories, I made for my truck. We had driven separately because Ambrose and Sharon were going to lunch with some of their friends and I was meeting Sandi. I hadn't seen her since Thursday evening at the paper, sort of an unspoken agreement not to meet in person unless one of us needed something. Sandi seems to need a car battery jump almost monthly, so I had half-expected a call.
THE DINER WAS packed, but it's the only eatery open on Sunday mornings. Sandi was already at a back booth, and with her was Ryan. Sandi's sunglasses were on the table within easy reach, and she looked nervous. I blew her a kiss and swung in across from them.
"So, how was church?" she asked.
Ryan rolled his eyes.
"Shorter than usual and actually nice." I told her about the story sharing outside after the service.
"Gee, I should have gone."
"Gee," Ryan said, "I told you so."
I shrugged. "It could have been maudlin. I only went because Ambrose and Sharon are here."
Ryan leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. "I want to get whoever killed Hal. As far as I'm concerned, he killed Fred, too."
Sandi put her sunglasses on, and I nodded. "It's all I thought of for two weeks, and Hal has hardly crossed my mind since, well, you know."
"Me, too," Ryan said, "but this morning I'm back on track."
I placed my purse on the table and pulled out the three by five cards. "These were my Thursday ideas."
Sandi drummed her fingers on the table for a second. "Can we order?"
I handed the cards to Ryan, and he went through them as we ordered from the Sunday food server.
When she left for the kitchen, I did a quick mental summary. Hal in the mulch, me on the hot seat, an unknown person who didn't want me to find the broom with mulch on it, and – because of his car's location – greater certainty that Hal was killed at Syl's.
That was it. No clear suspect, no evidence in sight beyond the car.
Ryan interrupted my thoughts. "What about the guy you're working for? I've dug up background. He looks like a geek. I don't find any record of him even owning a gun."
I raised my eyebrows. "You've been at it."
"You don't have to sound so surprised." His brief grin said he hadn't taken offense. "But Mel, I have to ask. Did Fred leave you a note or talk to you more?"
I shook my head. "If he'd left me one, I'd share." I looked at Sandi.
"He wouldn't even talk about the case with us. Why would he have left a note about it?"
I noticed she didn't say Fred had not left her a note.
Rather than a funeral home visitation, Fred's parents received friends in the church for the hour before Monday's memorial service. Ambrose, Sharon, and I arrived promptly at ten a.m., because they wanted to be sure to greet Fred's parents. I had proposed a later arrival, hoping not to. I'd written them what I hoped was a considerate note.
As the three of us moved forward in line, I glanced at Fred's parents several times. Mr. Simmons shook hands with vigor. Mrs. Simmons was perched on a short stool and rarely stood. She was seldom teary, but her soft handshakes seemed to take all of her energy.
An urn with Fred's ashes sat on the same table that had held Hal's photo less than two weeks ago. When I saw that, it made me too choked up to speak, so I shook Mr. Simmons' hand and kissed Mrs. Simmons' cheek. She was wearing a lot of perfume, and I stifled a sneezed as we walked toward a pew.
People chatted quietly, and eventually Sandi and Ryan arrived. They were friendly at the paper, but as far as I knew didn't spend time together outside of work. For now, Sandi seemed glued to Ryan's side.
After ten minutes of somber greetings with mostly Ambrose and Sharon's classmates, I realized some of them thought I dated Fred. At least I inferred that from the emphasis on certain words as they spoke to me.
"How are
you
doing, Melanie?
So glad
Ambrose and Sharon could be with you, Mel."
When a woman I remembered as Student Council president in their year walked away, I looked at Ambrose and whispered. "Why do they think I dated Fred?"
"You can thank Mrs. Keyser," he whispered back.
Crud
. I'd have to set her straight.
The service was grueling. Every time someone rose to the pulpit to share a story about Fred, they would end with, "If only I'd known," or "I would have done anything to help Fred."
After the service, I waited on the sidewalk while Ambrose and Sharon said goodbyes to friends who were leaving town that afternoon. Sandi and Ryan walked up to me, and it was the first time I had a good look at Sandi.
Her back dress was stylish, like you might wear to dinner at a fancy restaurant in Des Moines. She wore a simple silver cross, but what was most striking was that her eyes were glassy.
"So, Mel, we made it by…I mean through it."
She's had a sedative or something.
After Hal's innumerable staff meetings, Ryan, Sandi and I had learned to telegraph non-verbal opinions to one another. Mostly insults aimed at Hal. This time I gave Ryan a questioning look, and he did the barest nod.
I was about to ask Sandi if she felt okay (as if any of us did), when Doc Shelton made a beeline for us. With him was an African American man about fifty-five. I didn't recognize him, which meant he was likely from out of town. There are more Hispanic residents in River's Edge all the time, in large part because of the meat packing plant. I doubted there were more than ten black families.
"Good morning, crew," Doc said.
We returned the greeting, and I resisted telling him I was not on the paper's crew anymore.
Doc gestured to the man. "This is Scott Holmes. He's active in Lions, too, and he just retired as an assistant editor of the Iowa City Gazette.
We shook hands. Given Doc's call about me being temporary editor, I figured this was who he had gotten. Sandi and Ryan couldn't hide their surprise as Doc told us, but they recovered quickly.
Sandi asked, with only the briefest slur, "So will you work from Iowa City or move here for a while?"
"My wife and I have driven down a couple times to see the colors in October. This will be a great chance to get to know life along the river."
I took in Scott Holmes, as Doc assured Sandi and Ryan that Holmes would be a steadying hand and they would enjoy working with him. Holmes was almost six feet and trim, something not all sedentary reporters can say.
I said good-bye to Sandi and moved toward Ambrose and Sharon. Just beyond them were Sheriff Gallagher and his wife. I felt myself getting flushed. I wished I had told what Fred said about seeing Hal's body.
Why did I leave that for Fred to tell him?
If I told him now, he'd think I had some ulterior motive or, worse, arrest me for withholding information.