The phone rang in the newsroom while Jennifer and I sat watching Leona introduce the final story in the A block.
“Thurston,” Jennifer announced.
“Took him longer than I thought,” I said. The report of the news conference stating that Melissa committed suicide had been the lead item. He’d waited through nine more stories before calling.
“Probably didn’t understand it the first time. Had to replay it to get the big words. Should I answer?”
“No. The folks in the studio—” Leona and Jerry in the studio, plus Audrey and the others in the control room. “—should be in on the fun, too. Don’t want to keep it to ourselves.”
Jennifer muted the phone and we watched the rest of the Ten in peace.
As soon as Audrey and the others appeared, I nodded to her. She unmuted the phone and it immediately rang.
Jennifer looked at it as if she needed to find out who was calling.
“Thurston,” she announced again.
Several people swore. Barry scuttled out the front exit, a couple more people disappeared toward the back, leaving Jennifer, Audrey, Leona, Jerry, and me.
Jennifer gestured that she was putting the call on speakerphone, then answered, “KWMT-TV.”
“It’s about time. What have you idiots been doing? I’ve been calling and calling.”
“We’re sorry you’ve had to wait, sir. But we’ve been busy with the newscast. How may I direct your call?”
“How may you direct—? Do you know who this is? I will have your job—”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Who’s calling? Who’s calling? This is Thurston Fine, you idiot.”
“Oh. How may I direct your call, Mr. Fine?”
“Get me the person in charge — the person who thinks they’re in charge and if nobody else is there, I’ll talk to Leona.”
Audrey reached for the phone. Jennifer swatted her hand away.
“Everyone else has left, Mr. Fine. I can send you to voicemail or—”
“Voicemail? I demand to speak to someone now. Give me Leona’s personal phone number.”
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to give out personal phone numbers.”
“This is Thurston Fine!”
“Yes, sir. I heard that before. I have very good hearing and there is no need to shout.”
From the sound of his breathing, he might be hyperventilating.
Good thing, because even though his audience around Jennifer’s desk had hands over their mouths, that didn’t muffle all the amusement.
Jennifer drew in a deep breath to steady her voice. “I can take a message if you like, sir.”
“You tell Leona to tell the others that I will be back as soon as I straighten out the ownership. Now that those cretins in the sheriff’s department have finally realized it was suicide, as I told them all along, they can’t make any more excuses about—”
“Cretins is really rude,” Jennifer said.
“Cretins, morons. Those deputies deserve that and more.”
Thurston had to be part spider. Considering how often he put his foot in his mouth, then chomped down, he needed a spider’s ability to regrow legs — and feet — or he’d have run out a long time ago.
Jennifer didn’t relent. “Cretin is from a medical syndrome. Moron is also rude. You shouldn’t disparage people who can’t help it.”
It did not penetrate Thurston’s self-absorption. “I’ve always supported law enforcement—”
When it suited him.
“—but they must be held accountable. If this county still had a strong county attorney—”
A low-voiced groan rose at the reference to one of Thurston’s departed pals.
“—there wouldn’t be those people telling me not to leave the county. As if I would leave. I have newscasts to anchor. The mess you people have made of it left to your own devices, totally disregarding the needs of the important people in this community by leaving out stories—”
“Our own devices? What about our news director?”
“Les?” His voice skidded up, well out of mellifluous Anchor Voice range. “He ran today’s newscasts?”
“No. But I still ask, what about him?”
“If it weren’t for this ridiculous lawyer having the ear of the ownership, I’d be back on-air now. They can’t keep me off forever because some stupid woman killed herself.”
He clicked off the phone.
* * * *
“It was fun while it lasted,” Audrey said. “Now that it’s been declared a suicide, Thurston’s going to get back on-air, and that’s that.”
She started to turn away, but Leona grasped her arm. “Not so fast. If I’m any good at reading expressions — and I am — Elizabeth Margaret Danniher is not satisfied it was suicide.”
Audrey looked over her shoulder at me. “You’re not?”
“Don’t ask me,” I said rather testily, “Leona’s the one claiming mind-reading ability.”
She scoffed with huh.
“Why?” Audrey asked.
Jennifer interrupted. “If it’s not suicide, that could still mean Thurston’s a murderer.” A thought that clearly made her day.
Jerry masked a splutter of laughter with fake sneezes — more original than coughing.
“What about an accident?” Audrey asked with an air of someone who dared not dream too much.
“Nah,” Jennifer said. “Why would she get in the back seat of her own car by herself and hold a gun to her head? Who does that? But she would have to do that to set up an accident.”
Slowly, I turned to her. “That is an excellent question, Jennifer. Why would Melissa Oxley get in the back seat of her own car by herself and hold a gun to her head?”
“Well, I’d say she wouldn’t, because I say she was murdered,” Jennifer said.
“But the fingerprints — they said they were consistent with hers,” Audrey said.
Jennifer dismissed that with, “Preliminary. From Horse Creek County. Wait for the state lab to say.”
“How do you know that?” I asked her.
“I live streamed the news conference.”
“Does the sheriff’s department know?”
“The microphone was on the lectern, labeled Live Stream.”
In other words, no, they didn’t.
“Did you record it?” I asked.
“Of course. I’ll send you a copy. Diana and Mike, too.”
“And me,” Audrey said.
“Me, too.” We all looked at Leona. “What? I read mysteries, too. Besides, if it was her gun, her fingerprints should be on it. That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Good point, Leona.”
* * * *
The night belonged to Shadow.
I smiled at that notion as we walked silently through my neighborhood.
A note on the kitchen counter told me Tom and Tamantha had walked my dog earlier in the day, so we were not out for his needed exercise.
We were walking because of my restlessness.
Shadow hadn’t objected to accompanying me on a one a.m. ramble.
The dogs we’d had when I was growing up had been pals with all us kids, playing, chasing, wrestling, running, gamboling.
Shadow is not a gamboler.
Nor did he seem to crave games or excessive exercise. He’d been turned out by a hard-hearted person who was supposed to be his mainstay. I knew how that felt. Though I never went hungry or slept without shelter. However, for a time, while I adjusted to my new reality, my grooming left something to be desired, too.
At this stage in our relationship, I’d say Shadow was a companion. An equal.
He certainly qualified as neighborhood watch.
He picked up every sound, every sight, every scent. He was acutely aware of everything around us. And I had the notion it was beyond those things in this moment, but from earlier in the day, maybe longer ago. He didn’t take a snapshot of the moment, but rendered a 3D sensory recreation.
Me? I walked beside him.
I had questions — too many of them — in my mind. I let them tumble over each other, in and out of focus, like clothes appearing and disappearing in a dryer. Not trying to give them order or importance, just watching them roll, mix, separate.
But deeper than the mental dryer fluffing up my questions, I felt something else.
Tranquility.
Not something I had ever sought or craved, not something I ever felt I’d be good at.
Yet, I did achieve a measure of something very like tranquility when driven to these late-night walks with Shadow.
Even better, I think he felt the same.