3:30 p.m.
Her hands flew across the keyboard as she wrote her article on Hannah Daltry. The initial news story about the woman’s death had proved basic facts about the crime. But this story would be different, this story would bring a depth to the murder that few people would see any other way.
Spending the morning with Genevieve Daltry had been poignant. The woman’s pain was visible in so many ways beyond the ever-present moisture in her eyes. Yet she’d been eager to share her daughter’s life with Elise, the ups and downs that normal people face. People like Elise’s readers.
The photo album and writing booklet that Hannah had assembled during her life showed a woman who treasured her childhood and the people in it—a woman who dreamed of being a writer at a very young age, saving her earliest work as a sort of snapshot from her journey. It was that same woman that Elise wanted to introduce to her readers as a reminder of just how senseless crime can be.
And not just for the victim of a murder. Seemingly lesser crimes impacted victims on so many levels. One only had to read Hannah Daltry’s writing sample to know that.
Genevieve had granted permission to have her daughter’s work published in the paper, but Elise hadn’t decided if that was the route she would take just yet. Simply telling the story and using bits and pieces of the essay might be powerful enough. She’d have to wait and see as the story unfolded beneath her fingers.
She poised at the keyboard for a moment as her eyes scanned the paragraphs she’d written so far. It was coming together nicely. Thought-provoking, yet not sensational. A separate article would look at the original crime from the viewpoint of the Paleville Police Department, as well as routine procedures followed by authorities when it came to protecting witnesses.
“So, when do I get to take the pictures?”
Elise pulled her gaze from the screen and looked up.
Dean.
Her hands jumped from the keyboard to the top drawer of her desk, a preemptive strike against any rummaging the photographer might try. “Pictures?”
He pushed a strand of stringy blond hair off his eye and picked at an imaginary piece of lint on his Kiss T-shirt. “You’re not the brightest bulb in the box, are you, missy?”
“Wait.” Elise carefully removed one hand from the front of the drawer and pressed “save” on her keyboard. “Okay. Pictures. The ones on my Hannah Daltry story, yes?”
Clapping filled the newsroom, prompting Tom and Karen to lean around their computer monitors to see what they were missing. Elise could feel her face warming as she waved them off.
“Yes. Those pictures,” Dean said, yawning.
Elise moved her free hand from the keyboard to the information she had jotted down specifically for this reason. “Here. Hannah’s mother—Genevieve Daltry—has agreed to allow you to visit. She has a photo album that Hannah had given her last Mother’s Day, as well as a booklet she’d put together as a child with her writing projects. I’d like you to get some sort of a shot with those. You’ll know it when you see it.”
Dean looked at the note she handed him and nodded. “Okay. What else?”
“The second notation on there pertains to the robbery from thirty-five years ago. I’m not sure how I’m going to play the writing sample Hannah wrote just yet, but I’d love it if you could illustrate the more vivid images of this piece for me.” Elise handed him one of two copies she’d made of the teacher’s work before leaving the assisted living facility that morning. “I leave the choice of how to illustrate it up to you. Just be aware that I’m not sure how I’ll be using them at this point, if at all.”
He nodded again then raised his right hand in mock salutation. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, and Dean?”
The photographer stopped mid-bag-hoist and studied her. “What?”
“Try to refrain from adding Genevieve Daltry to your email barn, okay? It is okay to find some friends of your own, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
Elise turned in her seat, her back pushed against her drawer. “What’s with you sending email to Mitch’s Aunt Betty and my Uncle Ken? How’d you get their email addresses in the first place?”
He shifted foot to foot then began walking toward the front door, his words tossed over his shoulder like a pinch of salt. “I responded to that email you forwarded. I guess they liked my answers and emailed me in return. The rest is history.”
Okay, that made sense. She shrugged to herself then spun back to the computer, her hands poised to begin typing once more. Only . . .
“Wait!”
She jumped up and headed in the direction Dean had gone, the front door shutting just as she reached Debbie’s desk. Darn.
“He thinks I’m his personal slave or something. Next thing I know, he’ll be bringing in his laundry for me to iron.”
Elise eyed Debbie as she shoved a stack of Ocean Point postcards into the outgoing mail sack, the humor of her coworker’s words making her chuckle. “What are you talking about?”
“Dean. The guy can’t even pop a few pieces of mail into the sack on his own.” Debbie chewed her gum with vigor, her face contorted with irritation. “You try looking after him—you won’t find it so funny. Trust me.”
She held up her hands in peace. “Oh, trust me. I wouldn’t be wild about his demands either. But you’ve gotta admit that what you just said was funny.”
Debbie stopped popping her gum and stared at her, dumbfounded. “What? What’d I say?”
It was even more funny as she recycled the words through her own mouth. “You said the next thing you knew, Dean would be expecting you to iron his clothes. Iron his clothes. Think about it.”
Seconds later, Karen and Tom were leaning around their computers once again. Only this time it wasn’t Dean’s clapping that interrupted their work. Debbie’s snort-filled laughter echoed off the walls as she slapped her desk with her hand, tears rolling down her cheeks as she held her stomach.
“What’s so funny?” Tom asked from behind his desk in the middle of the newsroom.
Debbie exhaled slowly, counted to ten silently with her fingers in an attempt to maintain enough composure to answer the sports reporter. A composure Elise was sorely lacking in the throes of her own shoulder heaving. “Two words. Dean. And an iron.”
Karen’s prissy voice emerged from behind her computer. “That, ladies, will be the day hell freezes over.”