the body in the trunk when I got the car at the garage? It must have been.
Who put it there? Mr. Taggart? A nice old man like him?
Why did someone put it in my car? Because he/she doesn’t like me? No one around Amhearst knows me well enough yet to dislike me. And no one’s ever disliked me like that my whole life.
Or maybe he/she doesn’t like The News? But who would know that my car was the car of a News reporter? There’s nothing written on the doors or anything.
Maybe it just happened because the car was handy? That means it was someone at Taggart’s, doesn’t it? Or was it someone driving by who happened to need a place to get rid of a body? It was dark even before I got there. Winter solstice approaching and all that. He could have just dumped Patrick and run. But how did he get the trunk open? My extra set of keys was locked in the car. Did the murderer lock the keys in the car after he left Patrick, and I just assumed Mr. Taggart put them there?
A huge yawn interrupted my note taking. I didn’t bother to smother it even when Whiskers looked at me askance.
I glanced at my clock—1:45 a.m. I groaned. Morning would be here all too soon. I turned out my light and lay down. Whiskers came to sleep in the depression between my shoulder and the pillow.
I closed my eyes and saw a man in a green jacket lying on cases of soda. Instantly I was wide-awake, afraid to close my eyes again. I stared unhappily at the ceiling and jumped every time Whiskers moved.
“Stay still, baby,” I said, scratching his ears. He purred happily and began grooming himself. The bed shook with each slurp.
I put my hand between his tongue and body. “Not now, Whiskers.”
He purred again and began licking my hand. I pulled away from the rasping wetness, and the cat continued on his paw without missing a beat.
I sighed. The sensible thing would be to kick the animal out of bed, but much to my surprise I felt a strong need for his warm presence.
I reached out and turned on my light. In the brightness, my shoulders relaxed, and the world righted itself.
I looked around carefully, finding exactly what I knew was there: nothing. I lay back and flicked off the light again. I turned it back on immediately.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I told Whiskers as he blinked at the brightness, “but we’re sleeping with the light on.”
THREE
Last night’s storm had indeed blown itself out to sea, leaving behind a thin coating of ice that caused a one-hour delay in school openings and a massive slowdown for morning commuters.
True to his word, Don picked me up and took me to arrange for a rental car. He solidified his place in my heart when he said, “Charge it to The News.”
“I need your piece on the murder by nine,” Don said as we left the car dealer. “Make it personal, real human interest. Mac will write a parallel news piece. You’ll both be front page.”
I nodded. The News was a twelve-to sixteen-page afternoon paper, which meant we scheduled news deadlines at nine, editing deadlines at ten, and it was printed and ready for delivery by noon. Don took personally any news that broke between ten and three because it couldn’t make the paper, yet readers expected to see it there.
“The Board of Education stuff?” I asked.
“Anything scandalous?”
“Just fighting over where to spend the money.”
He nodded. “So what else is new? Write it up for tomorrow. And don’t miss that interview with that artist.”
I groaned inwardly. A personality puff piece was the last thing I wanted to do now.
“Hey, his upcoming exhibit is going to be a big civic occasion.” Don apparently detected my mood. “Mayor McGilpin would be very unhappy if we overlooked it. Got to show Amhearst in a good light, you know.”
I nodded, grinning. “Especially after a murder.”
Don grunted. “And give me another human-interest piece for Friday about the murder. Interview the family. Find a wife or parents or brothers or sisters. Find out what a wonderful guy he was or what a louse he was. Is he local? If so, find teachers and old friends. If not, find out how he came to be here in Amhearst.”
I nodded again. Three angles or points of view, an old reporter had told me when I first started working back in Pittsburgh. For any human-interest story or information piece, find three perspectives on the story to give it enough depth. Parents, teachers, friends? Wife, employer, brother? His past, present and lack of future?
Of course, those interviews would have an emotional cost, both for those who had cared about Patrick Marten and for me, but I put that thought out of my mind as soon as it appeared.
I drove my rental to the office, thankful for a heater that worked quickly, because the sun, though shining brightly, had little warmth. I scanned the clear blue sky when the radio weatherman announced that another storm was due tomorrow. Chicago was already snowed under, he reported in the cheery voice of a committed skier, and the formidable flow of frigid Canadian air showed no signs of weakening before it reached the East Coast. I could practically hear him rubbing his hands together in anticipation of driving to the Poconos over treacherous roads for the thrill of throwing himself down mountains on strips of wood or whatever composites skis were made of these days.
I should live in Florida or Arizona so I need never be cold again. Even if I stayed in Pennsylvania, I had promised myself I would be intelligent about it and never, ever, ski.
Finally I settled down at my desk. Murder, I typed, is a distant crime that involves other people. Last night, to my utter surprise and distress, it involved me.
I looked at my CRT and reread my opening. Don was a stickler for a hard lead on news pieces, the traditional, journalistic inverted pyramid of who, what, where, when and why. But he seemed at ease with soft leads on special pieces like mine was to be. One thing was certain: he’d tell me if he was unhappy.
I had my copy on his desk before nine, and then I gave my mom a quick call. It was only a matter of time before she and Dad heard about last night, and I thought they should hear the story from me.
“Merry! Oh, Merry!” Mom was predictably distressed.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m absolutely fine. And safe. Believe me.”
There was a small silence, and I could hear her skepticism zip clearly across the miles from Pittsburgh to Amhearst.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” I said quickly. “I’ve got an important interview.” And I hung up.
Sighing, I forced myself to begin planning my interview with artist Curtis Carlyle. I could hardly resist smiling every time I said his name. It was too perfect to belong to anyone other than an artist or a movie star or some other arty, public person. Had his mother been prescient, or did she just like alliteration? Was he named after a rich uncle, or had he made up the name to create a persona?
As I jotted my notes,
