Monday, April 4
9:00 a.m.
Elise looked down at her notebook, at the story suggestions she’d jotted down before bed. They were all good, solid ideas. But there was one that excited her more than all the rest. One that would enable her to explore a piece of local history that had been kept secret for so long.
“What’s shaking, missy?” Dean dropped into the seat across from her and propped his feet on the conference table. “Mitchy home safe and sound?”
“Nothing. And yes.”
“Oooohhhh. Aren’t we in a snippy mood. Things amiss in the love nest?” The photographer leaned back in his chair, resting his head in his hands and studying her through narrowed eyes.
She reached down to the bag held in place by her knees and pulled out the blue package, careful to keep it hidden from his line of vision. “Things are wonderful, thankyouverymuch. I was simply answering your questions. Nothing is shaking. And yes, Mitch is home safe and sound. How is that snippy?”
Dean rolled his eyes then stopped, his nose lifting in the air, his ears seeming to prick forward. “Hold it. Hold it. There’s food in this room.”
She giggled.
“Elise? What do you have?” He dropped his feet to the ground and reached across the table, patted her left hand with his own. “What’s your other hand doing?”
“What other hand?”
“The right one. The one that’s under the table making occasional crinkling noises.”
“This one?” She set the package on her thighs and raised her hand above the table. “It’s not doing anything, see?”
Shrugging, he pulled his arm back and started to lean back in his chair again but dove under the table instead. She tried to move fast enough, but it was no use. Dean Waters was one fast dude when food was at the finish line.
“Aha! Is that a package of Chips Ahoy! cookies I see?”
“What? These?” She pulled the package from her lap and set them on the table, laughing at the loud thump that followed. The site of Dean climbing back into his chair and rubbing his head added a snort to her reaction. “Do you like chocolate chip cookies, Dean? I didn’t know that.”
His hand paused mid-rub as he straightened in his chair and met her gaze. “Wow. Who taught you how to play hardball, missy?”
“You.”
“Okay. Yeah. That makes sense. Because you’re getting better at it all the time.” His words grew somewhat muffled as he hoisted his camera bag onto the table and unzipped the front pouch, removing a Caramello bar with a slow, theatrical hand. “Whoa. Would you look at this? Seems such a shame to let chocolate and caramel go to waste, doesn’t it?”
She licked her lips and shifted in her seat.
“You okay, missy? You’re starting to foam around the mouth.”
Damn. When was she going to remember there was no tangling with the beast?
Focus, Elise. Focus.
“Would you like some cookies, Dean?” It took every ounce of willpower she had to force her gaze from the candy bar to the photographer’s face.
“I don’t want some. I want the whole package.”
Her gaze drifted back to the Caramello bar. “Wait a minute. That’s my candy bar, isn’t it? I have one of those stashed in my desk for an emergency.”
“Had. You had one of those stashed in your desk for an emergency.” Dean ran his fingers across the wrapped bar, his lashes batting ever so sweetly in her direction. “But I believe it is in my possession now, is it not?”
“You fink!”
“Now, that’s not any way for a nice young lady like yourself to talk, is it? Would Uncle Ken approve?”
Her mouth dropped open. First Aunt Betty. Now Uncle Ken? What in the world was he blabbering about?
“Your mouth hanging open like that, love, is not one of your better looks. Trust me.” Dean bent his fingers inward and began filing his nails with the wrapped candy bar, his face void of expression.
“How do you know my Uncle Ken?”
“Great guy. Helluva photographer too.”
Her nostril flared.
“I take it that package of cookies was meant to be a bribe of some sort? So what were the stakes? I’m curious.”
“Um, I uh—”
“Good morning, you two. Where’s Tom and Karen?” Sam walked into the conference room, set his binder on the table, and glanced at his wristwatch. “Oh, crap. My watch is dead.”
Dean extended his right arm in the boss’s direction and tapped at it with the candy bar. “It’s nine fifteen.”
“Wow, Dean, that’s a real beaut. What’d that set you back? Twenty, maybe thirty bucks?” Sam walked back to the doorway and popped his head out, looking down the tiny hallway in both directions before returning to his spot.
Pulling his arm inward, Dean busied himself with the candy bar. “Yeah, probably,” he mumbled as he began flying the candy through the air in front of him, bringing it closer and closer to his mouth.
Looking from Elise and her cookies to Dean and the candy bar, the balding man simply shook his head and raised his palms upward. “I’m not even gonna ask.”
“Hey, guys.” Tom Miller breezed into the room, claiming a chair to the left of Elise. “Great sweater, Elise. Very pretty color on you.”
Just when she thought the day couldn’t get more bizarre . . .
“Thanks, Tom.” She ran her free hand across her cheeks, felt them warming beneath her skin. Catching Dean’s brief look of surprise didn’t help. Especially when he traced the shape of a heart on the table with the edge of the candy bar.
The grand entrance of Karen Smith—or prima donna of the print world, as Sam fondly referred to the society reporter—was a welcome diversion in a room that had suddenly become stifling. Elise turned in her seat and greeted the platinum blonde with an uncharacteristic rush of enthusiasm. To which she received a raised eyebrow in return.
Dean’s lips simply twitched as he slowly unwrapped the Caramello bar. “Mmmmm . . . I’m hungry this morning.”
“Okay, guys. Times a wastin’. Let’s get this show on the road.” Their fearless leader took his place at the head of the table and opened his binder. “Great paper yesterday, everyone.”
Sam eyed Elise first. “Your story on Hannah Daltry’s murder was well done. You did a great job getting the facts as we know them into the story, yet refraining from needless guessing.”
Dean was next.
“That photograph of the body being carried out was very tasteful. We knew it was there, could sense the gravity of the situation without it being crammed down the reader’s face. Excellent.”
Dean patted himself on the back and took a slow, deliberate bite of the chocolate, dramatic moans and groans accompanying each chew. “Mmmmmm. Elise. You would lllooovvve this candy bar. Love. It.”
She’d always prided herself on the fact that she was a nonviolent person. A strong believer in communication as the best solution to a difference of opinion or a disagreement. But not today. In fact, if she didn’t think it would ruffle a few feathers, she’d climb across the table and wrap her fingers around the photographer’s scrawny little neck.
Correction.
The photographer’s scrawny and chocolate-flecked neck. Uggh.
Sam shook his head and continued. “Tom, I heard some scuttlebutt at my men’s group meeting last night. Seems St. T’s is looking at bringing in a coach from northern Jersey instead of going with one of McMahan’s assistants. You heard that?”
The sports reporter pulled out his notebook and started jotting notes, his face tensing as he wrote. “No, I haven’t. But I will find out now.”
“Karen. Fun piece on the spring fling at town hall. I always knew those folks could party but had no idea just how much.” Sam looked down at his notes and then back up at his staff. “Now, what do you all have for me? How are we going to make this next paper even better?”
“I could get a picture of ’Lisey’s perfect pout over there. Put it next to Councilman Robert’s mug and we’d have a matched set.” Dean crammed the last of the candy bar into his mouth and burped.
She debated on whether to make a face or return a clever retort. But Tom beat her to the punch.
“Lay off, Dean.”
Uh-oh. Now he was defending her. Not a good sign.
Dean looked from Elise to Tom and back again, his lashes batting all the more furiously at Elise as he pursed his lips.
Embarrassed beyond belief, she forced herself to ignore the empty wrapper clutched in the photographer’s hand, willed herself to find another reason for Tom’s protective reply than the one that was becoming most clear. “Um, I’ve got some ideas for this week. One of which I’d really like to get on right away.”
She looked up at Sam, felt the pleading in her gaze. If she could distract Dean long enough, she could get her assignment and spend most of the day away from the office. Far away. An important ingredient if she was going to be spared a manslaughter charge.
“What do you have, hon?” Sam folded his hands and waited.
“I’d like to change up the basic murder story a little by delving into the victim’s past. In particular, an aspect that many people may remember but have no clue she was tied to.”
Dean quit fiddling with the wrapper and leaned forward, his curiosity piqued along with Tom and Karen.
“The robbery?” Sam asked.
She nodded. “Yeah. I want to bring in the way the police hold back certain aspects of any crime and why. I want to bring in how children work through traumatic instances . . . talk to a child psychologist.”
“I like it. A lot. It’s different. It’s something we have an inside track on thanks to your participation in Hannah’s class. And the different aspects you just mentioned could turn this into an extended news feature. Several stories all pulling together into the main one.”
“What’s the deal? What robbery? What does that have to do with the victim?” Dean asked.
“Thirty-five years ago there was a bank robbery in Paleville. Hannah Daltry, then seven years old, hid under a desk during the entire thing—unnoticed by the suspects as they went about robbing the bank.”
“Why would a little girl be in a bank alone?” Karen tsked, her face contorted in disgust. “Some parents just never cease to amaze me.”
“It wasn’t like that, Karen.” Elise turned her head and addressed the rigid woman at the other end of the table. “Her mother was there. And so were other people. They were locked in a vault the entire time.”
Dean whistled under his breath. “Interesting. Can I get in on this? Take some pictures of the bank?”
Oh, how she’d love to tell him to shove it. But she couldn’t. First, the accompanying photographs would be sensational. Especially if they could illustrate the hiding place of the little girl. But more than the benefit to the paper, she simply couldn’t stay mad at Dean. He was certainly quirky, annoying and totally obnoxious. No one would dispute that. He just happened to be fun to hang around with as well.
Besides, she still had the cookies to hang over his head while she tried to figure out his motives for contacting her loved ones . . .
“Most definitely. Pictures would be great. Just let me do the legwork first so we know what direction to go with. Okay?”
Surprisingly, he agreed. Easily.
“Why don’t you talk to Hannah’s mother? She could probably give you a whole different perspective on what the child went through after that event. And how—if any—it affected her into adulthood.”
It was exhilarating when Sam jumped into a story idea with both feet. His instincts took over and his suggestions were always outstanding. Today was certainly no exception.
“I love it!” Elise began to write the contact name down, then stopped. “But do you think it would be too upsetting? It’s only been a week.”
Sam leaned over his chair and pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Here is Mrs. Daltry’s address at the assisted living facility in Paleville. I talked to her over the weekend to explain about the paychecks she’d be receiving from my work at the college. She’s heartbroken, of course. But I think she was buoyed by the opportunity to talk about her daughter. If you handle this in the gentle and classy manner you always handle these kinds of stories, you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Sam.”