I realized that I had thrown myself at my boss, a man with whom I had only the most superficial of working relationships, a man I had on a pedestal. Ever since I’d gone into journalism and realized what editors did in putting together a newspaper every day, I had been in awe of them. And here I was, hanging all over my editor like a Southern belle with the vapors. I pulled back in embarrassment but was glad when he kept a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“Don, there’s a body in my trunk,” I said.
“I noticed. Who is he?”
I glared at him. “Why does everyone think I know him?”
“It is your car.”
“That doesn’t mean I know him! I suppose you think I put him there, too?”
“Did you?” asked the policeman.
I blinked, my anger gone as quickly as it had come.
“You don’t really think I did, do you?” I could feel the handcuffs already.
The policeman shrugged. “Someone put him there.”
“Well, it wasn’t me.” I hoped I sounded confident. “If he were really my body, I’d put him in someone else’s car.” I looked from the policeman to Don. “That only makes sense, right?”
The policeman shrugged.
Don smiled.
I shivered. “I think I’ll go inside.”
I sat forlornly in my living room for a few minutes seeing the bright light from the generators through the tall windows. That was a nice thing about old buildings—tall windows.
Restless, I got up, went to my minuscule kitchen and put some water on to boil. People would be in soon, and hot drinks would be welcomed. Personally, I still wanted my Coke and Oreos, but there was no way I had the nerve to get a can from the trunk, even if they let me.
Ten minutes later, the policeman, whose name was Sergeant William Poole, sat carefully in my blue wing chair, his hair hanging damply on his forehead and his shirt gaping a bit about the belly. A mug full of coffee sat on the end table beside him, and he had a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. “All right, Miss Kramer, tell me all about it. In fact, why don’t you tell me about your whole day.”
I nodded. “Okay.” I cleared my throat nervously. “This morning I drove my car to Taggart’s garage for its annual state inspection. Jolene Meister, the secretary from work, picked me up at the garage at six forty-five.”
“Where do you work?”
“At The News.”
“Then he’s your boss?” Sergeant Poole nodded at Don Eldredge, who was sitting comfortably on the sofa.
“Yes, he’s my boss.”
“You been at The News long?”
“About three months. I started just after Labor Day.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a general reporter and feature writer.” Which sounded more glamorous than the gofer I often felt like.
“Have you lived in Amhearst long?”
“Since Labor Day weekend.”
“Where do you come from?”
“The Pittsburgh area.”
Sergeant Poole nodded. “Did you leave a family in Pittsburgh?”
“My parents and Sam, my younger brother, who’s at Penn State.” And Jack, I thought. And Jack.
“So you took your car to be inspected this morning. Why’d you go to Taggart’s?”
“The people at work recommended that garage. No huge bill for unnecessary work, you know?” I noticed I was picking nervously at my cuticles and forced myself to stop. “Lots of garages like to bleed single women, but they told me Mr. Taggart wouldn’t do that.”
Sergeant Poole nodded like he knew Mr. Taggart and agreed. “When’d you get your car back, Miss Kramer?”
“Jolene dropped me off on her way home. I hadn’t expected to be able to leave by five because of a late-afternoon meeting I was to cover and write up, but the meeting was canceled.”
I gulped some tea, then continued. “Mr. Taggart wasn’t around when Jolene dropped me off, but my car was waiting, the new inspection stickers on the window and the bill on the seat, just like we’d arranged when we thought I’d be late.” I shrugged. “I just climbed in and drove off. After dinner at Ferretti’s, I covered the Board of Education meeting at the high school. Then I came home.”
“Did you have dinner with anyone?”
I shook my head. “I ate alone.”
“You didn’t stop for those sodas sometime between picking up your car and coming home?”
“No, I bought them yesterday. I just hadn’t taken them out of the trunk.”
Sergeant Poole nodded. “Did anything else significant happen today?”
I realized that, in place of my cuticles, I was playing with the string from my sweatshirt hood. I tucked it inside so I couldn’t fiddle with it anymore and said, “I almost had an accident on my way home when some guy pulled out in front of me over on Oak Lane. But I didn’t.” I paused, thought, then shrugged my shoulders. “That’s it.”
Sergeant Poole chewed the tip of his pen for a minute, wrote something down, then asked, “Does the name Patrick Marten mean anything to you?”
“Patrick Marten?” I thought for a few minutes, then shook my head. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Why? Is he the man in the trunk?”
Sergeant Poole nodded.
Patrick Marten. I sighed. Was there a Mrs. Patrick Marten somewhere waiting for him to come home? Were there kids? Certainly there was a mother and a father. A girlfriend? Obviously there was an enemy.
By the time Sergeant Poole capped his pen and hefted himself to his feet, I was feeling more normal. I almost smiled as the gaps in his shirt slid shut. After all, I was used to talking with people in living rooms. It was just corpses in the rain that bothered me.
And I had finally realized that I was in the middle of the biggest story of my fledgling journalism career.
“I’m sure we’ll be talking again, Miss Kramer.” Sergeant Poole pulled on his still-dripping slicker. “Maybe tomorrow when you stop in to sign your statement.”
“Whenever you want, Sergeant Poole.”
He stopped and turned at the door. “By the way, we’re going to have to impound your car for at least a few days.”
I stared in consternation. “My car?” How could I investigate
