The interstate was kept as hazard-free as possible; the roads were salted and plowed at frequent intervals.
“I wouldn’t want to see you in that kind of situation,” Walt agreed with Oliver. “In addition to the risk of traveling alone, there’s the added expense of putting you up in hotel rooms for a couple of nights, plus meals and mileage. This works out better.”
“What works out?” Emma turned from one man to the other. It was as if she’d missed part of the conversation.
“We’re giving advertising space to Hamilton Air Service and in return, he’ll fly you out to interview these three women.”
For one crazy moment Emma couldn’t talk at all. “You…want me to fly in that…little plane…with him?” she finally stammered. The last two words were more breath than sound. If she started to think about being stuck in a small plane, she might hyperventilate right then and there.
Walt nodded. He seemed to think it was a perfectly reasonable idea.
“I—”
“I’ve got a flight scheduled for Yakima first thing tomorrow morning,” Oliver told her matter-of-factly. “That won’t be a problem, will it?” His smile seemed to taunt her.
“Ah…”
“You have been saying you wanted to write something other than obituaries, haven’t you?” This was from Walt.
“Y-yes.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“No problem,” she said, her throat tightening and nearly choking off the words. “No problem whatsoever.”
“Good.”
Oliver stood. “Be down at the airstrip tomorrow morning at seven.”
“I’ll be there.” Her legs had apparently turned to pudding, but she managed to stand, too. Smiling shakily, she left the office. As she headed down to her desk, Emma looked over her shoulder to see Walt and Oliver shaking hands.
Phoebe was waiting for her in The Dungeon. “What happened?” she asked eagerly.
Emma ignored the question and walked directly over to her chair, where she collapsed. Life had taken on a sense of unreality. She felt as if she were watching a silent movie flicker across a screen, the actors’ movements jerky and abrupt.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?” Phoebe stared at Emma and gasped. “You quit, didn’t you?”
Emma shook her head. “I got an assignment.”
Phoebe hesitated. “That’s great. Isn’t it?”
“I…think so. Only…”
“Only what?”
“Only it looks like you’re going to be writing the obituaries on your own for a while.”
Phoebe gave her a puzzled smile. “That’s all right. I already told you I don’t mind.”
“Maybe not, but I have a feeling that the next one you write just might be mine.”
The first thing Emma did when she got home from the newspaper office that evening was check her medicine cabinet. Her relief knew no bounds when she found six tablets rattling around in the dark-brown prescription bottle. A few months earlier, she’d twisted her knee playing volleyball. Phoebe had conned her into joining a league, but that was another story entirely. The attending physician in the urgent-care facility had given her a powerful muscle relaxant. Her knee had continued to hurt, as Emma vividly recalled, but thirty minutes after she’d swallowed the capsule, she couldn’t have cared less. All was right with the world—for a couple of hours, anyway.
Knowing how potent those pills were, she’d hoarded them for a situation such as the one she now faced with Oliver Hamilton. For the sake of her career she’d accompany him in his scary little plane, but it went without saying that Emma would need help of the medicinal variety. If she was going to be flying with Oliver Hamilton she had to have something to numb her overwhelming fear at the prospect of getting into that plane. She clutched the bottle and took a deep breath. For the sake of her craft and her career, she’d do it.
Emma simply couldn’t survive the trip without those pills. One tablet to get her to Yakima and another to get her home. That left four, exactly the number she needed for the two additional trips.
Thankfully, Phoebe had agreed to drive her to the airport and then pick her up at the end of the day. Emma was grateful—more than grateful. Once she’d taken the muscle relaxant, she’d be in no condition to drive.
At six-thirty the next morning, Phoebe pulled up in front of the apartment complex. Carrying her traveling coffee mug, along with her leather briefcase, Emma hurried out her door to meet her friend.
“Don’t you look nice,” her landlord said, startling her. She was sure that was a smirk on his face.
Under normal circumstances Emma would’ve taken offense, but in her present state of mind all she could do was smile wanly.
Mr. Scott leaned against his door, this morning’s Examiner in his hand. He was middle-aged with a beer belly and a slovenly manner, and frankly, Emma was surprised to find him awake this early in the day. After moving into the apartment, she’d stayed clear of her landlord, who seemed to be…well, the word sleazy came to mind. He didn’t like animals, especially cats and dogs, and in her opinion that said a lot about his personality, all of it negative.
“Good morning, Mr. Scott,” Emma greeted him, making a determined effort not to slur her words. The pill had already started to take effect and, despite the presence of the loathsome Bud Scott, the world had never seemed a brighter or more pleasant place.
“It’s a bit nippy this morning, isn’t it?” he asked.
Emma nodded, although if it was chilly she hadn’t noticed. In her current haze nothing seemed hot or cold. From experience she knew that in three or four hours the pill would have lost most of its effect and she’d be clear-headed enough for what she hoped would be an intelligent interview.
“I don’t suppose you know anyone who needs an apartment,” Bud Scott muttered. He narrowed his gaze as if he suspected she wasn’t sober—which was a bit much considering she rarely saw him without a can of Milwaukee’s finest.
“I thought every unit in the complex was rented,” Emma said.
“The lady in 12B had a cat.” He scowled as he spoke.
He’d underlined the No Pets clause a number of times when Emma signed her rental agreement. Any infraction, he’d informed her, would result in a one-week notice of eviction.
“Mrs. Murphy?” Emma cried when she realized who lived in 12B, two doors down from her. The sweet older lady was a recent widow and missed her husband dreadfully. “You couldn’t have made an exception?” she asked. “Mrs. Murphy is so lonely and—”
