Authors: Mimi Johnson
“Jack?”
She didn’t make him spell it out. “He’s in Des Moines for the day. He went before the grand jury this morning.” Sam winced. “And he’s got a three o’clock interview there. He won’t be back until after six at the earliest.”
“Will that Komodo dragon he keeps in the office let me look through them?”
“I doubt it, but I will,” Tess inclined her head toward the gathering. “We’ll go over as soon as I finish here.”
They walked on toward the crowd. “What the fuck is going on here?” Sam whispered as they came to the corner lot where everything that had once been inside the neat, two-story house sat out on the front, back and side yards. Crowds of people stood about, combing through the items, chatting and laughing. A group of cheerleaders had set up a soft drink stand near the front door, and there was a table where cookbooks were for sale, hung with a banner that read, “Band Mothers."
“It’s an estate auction,” Tess said, pulling out a camera and checking its settings.
“Like the Kennedy kids had at Sothebys?”
Tess giggled. “Not quite, but it’s the same basic concept. The grown Gustafson children are selling off the stuff from the family home, now that the folks are gone. I want to get some pictures of the good women in the Methodist church booth in the back yard. They’re selling baked goods.”
Sam frowned, picking up an auction bill and looking down at it. “And this is some kind of odd, country social event?” He read the name on the bill. “Poor old Elin Gustafson dies, and the whole county gets to rifle through his things?”
“First, Elin was a woman, not a man.” Sam smiled at his mistake. “Second, yes, it is a bit of a social event. Everyone turns out, and it makes for great people-watching. And third, I need to get a few more shots of some rural church women because I just signed a contract with Little-Brown for a book of pictures on the subject. You saw one of the pieces, the ladies serving the funeral lunch?”
His face broke with a huge smile, and she looked delighted. “That’s great, Tess!” His arm went around her, and he hugged her tightly. “My god, that’s something you’ve always wanted.” Neither noticed several onlookers turn to watch them, as he whispered, “I’m happy for you.” When he released her, she was blushing and he said, “You go on and get what you need here. I’m going to try looking up this Thurman McPaul. How about if I meet you at the
Journal
in about an hour?”
She nodded, and he went back against the crowd toward downtown.
Jack’s head was pounding when he pulled into his parking spot at the
Journal
around four o’clock that afternoon. He didn’t ever remember not wanting to see the evening’s paper, but today he had to fight to keep from just going straight home. It should just be hitting the streets, and he tried to recall what stories were supposed to run.
When he came in the front door, he realized with a sinking feeling that the floor was vibrating, which meant the press was still running. “I hope to hell that’s not tonight’s paper on the press,” he said loudly, even though his jaw was clenched. Tom came hurrying from the back.
“No, it’s next week’s color inserts for the Furniture Barn.” Tom gave him a questioning look. It wasn’t like Jack to snap to unpleasant conclusions.
“Good.” Jack turned toward the bay, muttering, “I’d have had your ass if the paper was late.”
“Tonight’s paper is on your desk,” Tom replied defensively and turned to go. But glancing back toward Jack, he saw him pull an aspirin bottle from a desk drawer. “You OK?
Shaking out four, Jack sighed, “Sorry, I’ve got a lousy headache.” He swallowed them dry. “Where is everybody?”
“Laramie is getting some pictures at the high school baseball practice. Amber went out to get some desk supplies for when the new person starts, and Thel’s downstairs with some guy Tess brought in.”
Jack looked up hopefully. “Tess is here?”
“She was, but she left about an hour ago.” Watching Jack frown and sink into his desk chair, Tom asked, “You need anything?”
Jack shook his head, and picked up the evening paper. “Just tired,” and then added sheepishly, “Thanks for getting this out.”
For a few minutes he looked through the paper, which was pretty unremarkable. Then, slumped in his chair, he picked up his office phone to check his voice mail, listening to the messages dully, scribbling notes and numbers to return calls. But before he got through them all, he suddenly sat up.
“Jack, it’s Thurm. Listen, that Waterman guy, the reporter from Washington who interviewed you and Swede last winter, he came by here this afternoon. He was asking if there had ever been a fire that was connected to Carl Erickson in some way. In fact, he seemed sure that there was one where someone, or maybe even a few people, might have been hurt. Suggested it might have been at the Corner Grocery Store.” Jack’s heart took a sickening drop. “Anyway, he was pretty frustrated when I told him that nothing like that ever happened in Lindsborg, not that I could recall, anyway. So, I was wondering if it rang any bells with you. I don’t know that we have to help this fellow out. I guess he ruffled Swede’s feathers and maybe yours a little too. But I thought I’d run it past you. If I’m mistaken, I sure hate to steer anybody wrong. He left me his card, so if you remember anything about a fire like that, give me a call, will you? Thanks.”
Jack hit the replay and listened to the message again. Then he hung up the phone, staring straight ahead. Waterman knew. At least, he knew something about a fire. But he was looking in the wrong town, the wrong Corner Grocery Store. For a second Jack thought he was going to be sick. Then the phone beeped under his hand.
“
Journal
,” he answered absently.
“Jack?” Thelma’s voice made him wince. “Tom just came through the break room and said you were back. You sound like you’re sleeping up there.”
He shook his aching head. “Are you calling from downstairs?”
“Yes,” her voice was aggrieved. “I’ve been down here riding herd on your wife’s friend for the last hour or more. She came in and plopped him down here, then took off like she likes to do. I didn’t think it was right to just give him the run of the place, so I’ve been stuck with him.”
Jack rubbed the back of his neck, only now remembering Tom saying that Tess had come in with someone. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Thelma snorted. “Well, it’s Tess’s doing, so don’t blame me.”
“Blame you for what?”
“She brought in that guy; you know the one that was here in town before, who talks so funny and writes for that fancy Washington web site. I know she used to work with him, but I don’t see why that should mean he can dig around in our back issues …”
Jack stood up. “Waterman? Sam Waterman is downstairs with you? Right now?”
“What do you think I’ve been talking about? He’s going through the back issue books. He’s looked at every front page back to the 1990s, and is still going. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but he hasn’t found it, and he’s not happy. How long is this supposed to go on, Jack? Because I’ve got a hair appointment, and if he’s going to look at every single front page …”
“I’ll be right down.”
Jack met Thelma in the break room where she’d used the phone. She would have gone right past him toward the storage room, but he caught her arm and asked softly, “Thelma, did he say what he’s looking for?”
“I told you I don’t know,” her voice was loud in the quiet room, and he shushed her. She pursed her lips and lowered her voice. “I said I’d be glad to help him if he would just tell me what he wanted, but he told me not to bother; that he didn’t want to keep me from my work. Well, that cut no ice with me, let me tell you. I’ve been down there the whole time …”
Jack held his hand up against the onslaught. “OK, OK, did Tess say why …”
“Tess,” Thelma’s voice shot up an octave, and Jack shot an anxious look at the door. “Tess acted like she owned the place. I tried to tell her that it wasn’t right, but she just turned up her little nose and took him right past the front desk. And let me tell you, Jack, I’d already heard from my friend Millie that the two of them were over at the Gustafson sale …”
He shook his head, trying not to show his panic, and went to the door. “Let’s just get him out of there.”
They went down the short flight of stairs and turned into the tiny, thick-walled room where Sam stood with his back to them, his sleeves rolled up, his sport coat heaped over a stack of books he’d already gone through.
For Sam, the frustration of the day hadn’t eased with the search. There were so many books. Scanning the front pages had yielded nothing. If he just had the year, or even the decade of the fire to go on, he could have been more thorough. He'd tried Googling 'Lindsborg, fatal fire,' from his iPhone, but nothing came up. Searching quickly, he knew he was running out of time, and Sam couldn’t shake the awful feeling he was missing something.
He heard the footsteps, figured the watchdog was coming back, and didn’t bother to turn around, tossing another volume aside with a thump.
“How’s it going?” At Westphal’s voice, he froze. Dropping his eyes, Sam looked at his watch and saw it wasn’t quite 4:30. Either the guy’s Jeep was now rocket-propelled, or he’d ditched that afternoon interview.
Slowly, he turned to see Jack’s solemn face, the dragon lady smirking behind his shoulder. “Long day,” Sam said. “It’s been hard to catch a break.”
“Yeah,” Jack nodded. “Me too.” He pointed to the books, which Sam had stacked haphazardly. “Need some help?” Sam shook his head. Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “Looking for something specific?”
Sam was still shaking his head. “I figured as long as I was in town, maybe I could find some background material, so I asked when I ran into Tess …”
“Nearly everyone in town saw them run into each other,” Thelma’s buzz-saw voice seemed to echo in the small room, but neither man looked at her.
Jack raised his eyebrows, and Sam sighed. “I guess I’m done here. I’ll just put these back.” He turned back to the stacks. Quickly sorting the books by the dates on the bindings, Sam tried to think of something plausible to explain what he was looking for. Then he noticed the open book with the front-page story of Carl Erickson’s obituary, which he’d carefully read earlier, and picked it up. “Hey, could I get a copy of this? The dates and the stuff about the family business, it’d help me out.” He looked over at the tall man who stared back impassively. “If it’s too much trouble, I can get the
Record’s
off Nexis.”
“Make a copy for him, Thelma,” Jack knew that Sam was hoping to pass the obit off as something he’d come looking for. But he also knew, having written it himself, that there was nothing in it to point Sam in the right direction.
“I have to charge for it,” Thelma snapped.
Sam looked at her with an edgy half smile and reaching deep into his pocket, handed her a pile of change. “Take whatever you need.” Thelma took the book and huffed out to the stairs.
Stepping up to the shelves, Jack hefted some of the books himself and began re-shelving them. When he got to the volume with the story about the Sheffield fire, he watched Sam carefully. The man just kept working, sorting books and putting them back. Jack was fairly certain he’d missed it, and was faintly glad that he’d buried the story inside the paper after all.
“So,” Sam broke the silence, “how’d it go with the grand jury?”
“No problem.” And then Jack shrugged, “Not for me anyway.”
Sam laughed softly. “I’m sure it wasn’t.” He glanced over. “I doubt I’ll be able to say the same.”
Jack’s mouth turned up very faintly at the ends, “Yeah, that’s a pity.”
Sam stopped sorting, and stepped over to the heap that was his jacket, digging into the side pocket and pulling out a cigarette. “I can see it really breaks you up, prosecutors hosing the First Amendment.”
Hearing the flick of Sam’s lighter, Jack turned and said, “Don’t.” He shoved the last book into place. “Smoke in here, I mean.”
“Sorry,” Sam hadn’t lit it yet, and tucked it back into his jacket. “I’d better get moving.”
They went up the stairs together, walking silently until Sam asked, “You going to California next week?”
Jack shook his head. “No. I’ve got something going here. You?” They’d reached the counter in the front office.
Sam nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be out in the clusterfuck. Think Erickson will take it?”
Jack looked at him sharply. “Do you?”
“Who knows? Anything might happen between now and then.” Jack nodded. “Well, thanks,” Sam held out his hand, anxious to make his escape.
Jack didn’t take it, saying instead, “What about the copies?” Sam looked blank. “The obit? Isn’t that the ‘background material’ you wanted?”
“Oh, shit, yeah,” Sam stammered.
“Let me see if she’s got it.” Jack walked back into the production room and from there to the little cubby with the copy machine. Thelma was counting out Sam’s change.
“I had to try four different times to get it set just right to make a decent copy. And then there was the jump. I’m charging him for all of them.”
“Don’t charge him at all,” Jack sighed.
“Don’t charge him? Jack we’re not running a charity. Oh for heaven’s sake, this isn’t even a coin.” She held something up. “I wouldn’t have taken him for Catholic.”
“What?” Irritated with the woman’s meanderings, Jack just wanted to go home and put an end to the day.
“Catholic,” she held out her hand.
In her palm was a battered St. Francis de Sales medal. Just like the one Tess wore the night Jack first made love to her. Just like the one she’d put around his neck the day of his accident. Just like the one he was wearing under his shirt right now. Reaching out, he took it from Thelma’s hand and just stared at it.