Furbee delivered bad news when Josh arrived at the office Saturday morning, deadline day for the River Days section: the Friends of Chief Cornstalk ad still hadn’t shown up.
“Maybe we can buy more time,” Josh said. “I could have some pizza brought in.”
“You’re missing the point.” Furbee pointed to the parking lot where a half dozen cars and her own low-riding Lincoln waited. “That ad’s the only thing standing between the production crew and the rest of their weekend. We have to finish pre-press today if we want to get this delivered before the festival kick-off Wednesday. Make the deadline or forget about sending any of the advertisers a bill.
“There’s a solution for the Cornstalk ad,” Furbee pressed. “I’ve talked to some of the staff. We’d like to put a full-page ad in the section—something where people could contribute money to help pay for saving Katie’s leg. I’d like to help myself.”
Until then, Josh thought he had done a good job putting up a brave front—largely for Katie. He had learned when she was a toddler, as every parent learns, that if he laughed when she fell off the swing, she would laugh and that if he showed he was afraid, she would cry. So he had tried to be brave.
But with Katie absent, he found bravery difficult. Her being away now was too much like her being gone permanently. It was a constant reminder of a joyless future, a preview of a nightmare. It took a moment before he could speak. “I can’t tell you how much that means, but we can’t use the newspaper for my personal crusade.”
“It’s not for you, it’s for Katie. We’d be paying for it.”
He was tempted. But if he were perceived by his readers as using the pages of the Winston News for personal gain, the newspaper’s credibility would be compromised. It would be his newspaper promoting his family cause, not that it hadn’t been done regularly by the most famous of publishers from William Randolph Hearst to Rupert Murdoch. No, the only way he could use the newspaper to raise the money for Katie’s operation was to sell it, provided that was still an option. He felt terrible keeping the secret from Furbee. Her life was the Winston News.
“Sorry,” Josh said. “Use a regular house ad to sub for Cornstalk.”
“Please,” Furbee pleaded. “I want to do something. You’re the best boss a person could ever have. And you’ve kept me on when some people would have turned me out to pasture. We all know how much you love Katie. We want to do something to help her, to help you.”
Josh felt her need. You had to feel like you were doing something. His phone interrupted. It was Allison.
“Thanks for doing the flyers.”
“It was the right thing to do.”
“Yeah, it was. Josh, another thing. I apologize for being a little forward yesterday.”
Josh’s heart sank. Was she sorry she’d done it? “It’s . . . fine.”
“Good. Clinic closes at noon. How about we grab lunch at the diner and I’ll fill you in on my research?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day.”
Josh could see the posters piled outside the newspaper’s front door when he got to the empty lobby. There were dozens, maybe hundreds, tattered, torn at the staple holes, trailing remnants of strapping tape and pieces of twine. A gust of wind plastered a half-dozen against the glass door. It took ten minutes to scoop up all of them. Allison was already seated when he walked in and dropped the posters on the table in the diner.
“These were stacked outside the newspaper’s front door.”
She groaned. “They’ll all be gone before the festival even gets underway. No one will get the warning.”
“No worries. I printed up three hundred extra on neon green paper just in case. We’ll put them up the day the festival starts.”
Owner Pete Kokenes arrived to take their order. Allison folded her menu. “That’s crazy. I thought the posters would be appreciated.”
“Well, I can tell you they’re not appreciated here,” Kokenes volunteered. “One showed up in my window. I’d have torn it down myself if someone hadn’t gotten to it first. We don’t need that kind of crap, not this time of year.”
“Pete, I put it there,” Josh said. “We have a public health problem. We’re trying to warn people.”
“Right. And they won’t come. Keep it up and you’re gonna kill attendance at River Days. That’s one-quarter of my annual profit.”
“I can’t figure out why whoever tore down the posters took them to the newspaper,” Josh said as they waited for their orders.
“Because you made them,” said Allison.
“Yeah, but who would know that? The newspaper’s name wasn’t on them. The only people who know we’ve been investigating the jewelry are the cops, your patients, Darryl Dunn and whoever they might have told. Spike’s on the run. We can’t find Candi and Darryl’s dead.”
“The real problem is we still don’t know where Dunn got his metal and how much of it is out there,” Allison said. “There’s got to be some other way we can find out about Dunn’s metal dealing.” She told Josh about the chilly reception she’s received after tracking Dunn’s pickups and deliveries to the plant. “Do you think they’re hiding something?”
“Nah,” Josh said. “Security types are usually cop wannabees who didn’t make the grade. They get off on power. Besides, it makes sense that Dunn would deliver scrap to the plant. That’s what they do. Half the town owes their paycheck to that place.”
Josh saw Allison’s disappointment. He put down his fork. “We could go to the paper after lunch and make some phone calls. I used to play poker with the plant’s PR guy. Maybe he knows Dunn.”
“I walk with the woman who runs information technology.”
Furbee met them at the door with news of an attempted ad cancellation in the River Days section.
“Because of the posters?” Allison asked.
Furbee shrugged. “No reason given. People get upset. You won’t believe this, but someone actually threw a fish wrapped in a copy of the paper through our transom yesterday.”
“Fish-wrapper. Clever. Any explanation?”
“No,” Josh said. “That’s the weird thing.” He showed her the catfish in the freezer.
“That things got problems,” Allison said. “Look at those lesions behind the gills.”
“I should probably toss it.”
“I’ll take it. I know a guy at state fish and game who’ll want to see it.”
Josh called his old poker buddy. He hadn’t seen Jerry Baker in years—his seat in the Thursday night games had passed to someone else when Sharon got sick. Baker answered on the third ring.
“Jerry! Josh Gibbs. Long time, no see. You still drawing to those inside straights?”
He waited for a snappy comeback, Baker’s trademark. Instead he heard, “Hello, Josh. I didn’t expect to hear from you.” Baker sounded a bit formal, Josh thought.
“Hey, Jer, I’m hoping to get back in the game someday—win back some of that money you bluffed out of me—but I’m calling because I’m hoping you can help me out.”
Silence.
Josh plunged ahead. “Jerry, did you know that guy who got killed the other day? Darryl Dunn? Trucker who maybe delivered to your place.”
“I’m sorry, Josh, I can’t talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Because they—look, I just can’t okay?”
“Jerry, consider me a journalist asking the PR man. The guy may have been involved with some contaminated metal.”
“I have nothing to say. Not now.”
“How about I email you a few questions in case anything changes.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Jer, what’s going on? You know you can trust me.” He tried a light touch. “I promise I’m not bluffing.”
Silence.
“Okay, Jer. Hey, great talking to you. I’m emailing the questions now. And I’ll give you a call when I can come to the game.” Josh hung up. He turned to Allison, surprised and troubled by Baker’s response. “Stonewalled.”
“Let’s try the in-person approach.”
They took the Jeep and Allison was relieved to see Sara Cline’s BMW in her driveway when they arrived. Josh hung back as she rang the bell. No one answered. She pressed against a window, straining to see inside. Josh saw the rustle of curtains in an upstairs window. Allison knocked. And knocked again. They left after five minutes when no one came.
“Someone was upstairs,” Josh said. “Why would anyone be bothered that we’re asking about Dunn?”
“Maybe the problem’s not Dunn,” Allison said. “Maybe it’s me.”
“How so?”
“Think about it,” Allison said. “Does anyone who works for Vince Bludhorn want to be seen cooperating with his crazy ex-wife?”
“Like he’s going to fire them or something?”
“You don’t know Vince.”
There was pain in her voice, and something else.
“I’m serious. You have no idea what he’s capable of. Last week he broke into my house, took Hippocrates for a day, then broke back in and put him back.”
“Why?”
“To prove that he can still get to me. To show he’s still in control.”
Josh raised an eyebrow. “That sounds—”
“Paranoid?” Allison asked. “Maybe so.” Over time, she’d come to understand that it was easy to blame her ex for all her problems, including ones that were not his fault. “But as I said, you don’t know him like I do. Whatever the case, I’m out of ideas on what to do next.”