Epilogue

It was a Wednesday evening two and a half weeks later, and Brady had just concluded that, even with Ripley and Mrs. R. working beside him, he could not possibly have the dummy ready for delivery to the printer’s tonight. His assistants were both at dinner and he knew he would have to tell them when they returned. It would be the first time in its history that the Express had missed an issue and, after the stories of the last two weeks, people would be especially disappointed. They would not understand that one man could not do the job of several, especially when he was spending most of his time at the hospital, helping the woman he loved recuperate. He was contemplating his few options, when the front door opened and he heard a voice say, “What’s wrong, Brady? You look like you’re about to quit.”

His head shot up and his heart leapt. By God, it was.

“Kelly, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Baloney.” She moved inside, fastening the door and pulling down the shade. She was a few pounds lighter and had lost some of her tan, but she still looked so good he wanted to crush her in his arms.

She came over and threw her arms around him. “I didn’t need those damn doctors, Brady, I needed you.”

He put his arms around her, careful not to press too hard.

“Come on, Brady, give me a big one. I won’t break.”

A long time later, they pulled apart. “Will you forgive me for trying to make you jealous?” she asked. “I was a bitch.”

“No you weren’t. You asked if I was ready to make a commitment, and when I hesitated, you had every right.”

“What? To try to push you into something?” She shook her head. “From now on, no more of that. Cross my heart.” She traced an X on her chest.

“Who says?” he demanded. “I’ve had a lot of time to think I don’t think it’s such a bad idea.”

“Really.” She reached up and kissed him lightly again, then drew away. “I still have trouble thinking about Doc. He was such a good man for all these years. The idea that he killed Frieda and then Annabelle, and finally Michael MacBride and Dick Whiteside …”

“Well, the killing of Frieda was an accident,” Brady said. “He just went there to scare her, but she wasn’t one to be intimidated. He gave her a push and.… Once he began to see himself as a killer, it became easier to kill the others. After all, they were interfering with the happiness of people in his town.”

“But he’s always been such a good man.”

Brady nodded. “I know. But most good people are that way because it’s natural to them. With Doc it was a profession. He needed people to worship him. I imagine that’s why he came here to practice. He wanted a town where he could dispense happiness and be admired for it. He saw himself as the owner of everyone here. He took it personally when any of his people were hurt. He had to manage their lives. It’s a form of pride, what the Greeks called hubris, and it’s as destructive as Frieda’s calculated viciousness.”

“I guess so. You know, there are still a couple of things that bother me, though. I mean, if Frieda knew the truth about Cantrell, why did she keep it quiet all these years?”

“No reason not to and some reason to. She was a hoarder, the kind of person who collects pieces of information to use when the time is right. She hadn’t seen how it would profit her until Rowena asked for the land. Rowena was in love with Cantrell—with his memory, anyway. And love was something Frieda couldn’t abide. She had to try to put Rowena in her place. After all, Frieda had known Cantrell, really known him, and here was this upstart, this self-proclaimed expert, who was from an inferior family, to make things worse. I don’t think she’d have risked opening the can of worms, except that Rowena must have gotten insistent about the land, and so Frieda lost her cool and let anger take over.”

“Ummm. But I guess it really was the Judge’s people who tried to kill Matt Garitty’s father?”

“No. It was cantrell again. Matt’s father was trying to get something on Judge Troy. In the course of his investigations he realized Frieda was close to Cantrell, and he began to put things together about her marriage to MacBride. I suspect he asked one too many questions and Cantrell felt threatened. He couldn’t have his secret revealed. So he waylaid Garitty and, when the judge got blamed, it was all right with him. Things were getting pretty hot for him anyway, so he took off for the battlefront.”

Kelly shook her head. “Cantrell a murderer,” she said. “It’s still hard to believe.”

“I guess. But he had a violent childhood, remember? His father was accused of killing his mother, according to one rumor, and I suspect it’s true. He grew up highly intelligent, but with no self-control.”

“A real fourteen-carat phony,” Kelly said. “What a pity. The town needed a hero.”

“Well, it has several. There’s Matt’s father, for one. And there’s the real author of Epitaph for another—the man in the grave.”

“I don’t guess we’ll ever know who he was.”

“No. For a while I thought he was Cantrell, because of the bullet wound. But when I talked to Moon, he suggested that, given the man’s age when he died, he might have gotten it in the First World War. I kind of like that scenario. It makes sense. It makes him a real member of the Lost Generation.”

“So Troy loses an author and gains an unknown soldier. I’ll go with that,” she said philosophically. “And, anyway, we still have one Pulitzer Prize winner.”

“Not after tomorrow,” Brady told her. “Barring a miracle.”

“Well, I’ve never been called a miracle, but I know a hell of a lot about newspapers. I knew you’d never make it without me, anyway, so I decided to come give you a hand.” She picked up his efforts and scanned them. “Call up those two so-called assistants. I think among the four of us we ought to be able to put this issue to bed.” She turned and flames of mischief danced in her eyes. “Speaking of which, they say the old Bentley Hotel in Alexandria is a real experience, now that they’ve restored it.”

“Do they?” Brady asked dryly. “Well, maybe we’ll just have to put them to the test. Part of our consumer’s ed thrust, of course.”

“Of course.” She picked up one of his hand-scribbled sheets and made a face. “But this is going to have to be completely rewritten. You’re fine for the city, Brady, but you have to be folksy here. Then it has to be entered into the computer and printed out. Then we may have to adjust the layout and …”

Brady leaned over and kissed her softly behind the ear. She purred and drew away. “Time for that later, Brady. Right now we have a paper to get out. It’s going to be a long night.”