The next day’s headline of the Pensacola Herald read, “Sheriff Calls Out Tabloid.” While I was dining with Bree, Sheriff Frost had attended a Save Our Pensacola rally. While he didn’t come out and fully endorse the petition drive, the sheriff did target me.
“Walker Holmes, the Insider, and his blog are cancers in this community, dragging people through the mud for the publisher’s twisted pleasure,” said Frost. “He claims that he cares about this community while he destroys families like Mr. Hines’ and my brother’s.”
According to the article, the sheriff asked Bo Hines to stand with him. He continued, “Mr. Hines has shared with me today that Holmes had told him that the Insider’s reports on his alleged theft of Arts Council funds never would have been published if Hines had agreed to buy ads in the paper.”
Bullshit, I thought.
Frost said, “That might not fit the legal definition of extortion, but it shows what kind of snake we have in this community. No more. No more fake news. No more deaths. No more Insider.”
The Herald reported that the crowd picked up the chant and repeated the “no more” mantra with Frost, Hines, and Wittman leading them. Wittman reportedly urged people to boycott businesses that advertise in our paper.
“The publisher of the Insider is an outsider,” said Wittman. “He has no roots here. It’s time he left. I’ll pay for the moving van.”
The person who threw the brick through my window last night was probably someone who attended that rally, I thought as I poured myself another cup of coffee. Big Boy had slept in.
But the Herald wasn’t finished with me. The daily newspaper’s editorial blasted me for being unprofessional and biased in my coverage of Sheriff Ron Frost, Sue Hines’ death, the upcoming trial of her husband, and the Save Our Pensacola petition drive. They said I had falsely claimed Sue Hines’ note was a suicide note. They blamed my irresponsible reporting for the death of Lieutenant Amos Frost and alleged our newspaper had nearly blown Operation Cherry Bomb by staking out Central Booking and reporting on the sweep before the press conference.
“Clearly Walker Holmes has personal grudges against Bowman Hines, Jace Wittman, and Sheriff Ron Frost, and he hasn’t hesitated to use his tabloid and blog to torment and punish his foes.”
Someone began banging on the door at the foot of the stairs. It was Tiny.
“Mr. Holmes, I heard you had some trouble last night,” he said, walking past me and up the stairs. He petted Big Boy, who had finally climbed out of bed to see what was happening. “Let me clean up for you.”
“Thanks, but I took care of it,” I said following him up the stairs.
He laughed. “Your cleaning and my cleaning are different things. Let the professional do the job. Where’s your broom?”
Tiny spent the next twenty minutes carefully removing every last pieces of glass. He swept the floor, humming to himself the entire time. Big Boy and I stayed out of his way and sat on the couch.
“There,” he said. “Now you can walk with bare feet and not worry about anything.”
I fished for a twenty in my pocket. “Tiny, thank you . . .”
He said, “Put your money away. I’ll take the dog for a walk while you write.”
Big Boy heard the word “walk” and ran to get his leash. The pair left. I could hear Tiny whistling as they traveled down Palafox.
The morning heat and humidity seeped through the open window into the room. When placed in a fight or flight situation, I’d always fought. I would fight this, but I needed to change my strategy. Waiting for the trial to redeem me wasn’t working.
I was tired of the beatings, threats, and broken windows. A man like me, destined to lose everything—and on the verge of doing so before we published the next issue—could be a dangerous man. I needed to stop being reactive and become more proactive. If this was the end of Walker Holmes, how many bad guys could I take down with me?
We needed the Hines trial to happen. Locating Pandora Childs and maybe finding others who might talk would ensure the state attorney followed through on the prosecution. Sitting on the windowsill from which Tiny had cleared of all the broken glass, I outlined a series of posts that I’d schedule to go live on my blog at regular intervals over the next two days. I would augment them with a running commentary on my interviews, meetings, and conversations over the same period.
I needed to create a sense that I was closing in on Hines. Maybe the other media would start asking questions of him, too. The key would be to get inside Hines’ head and force him to react. And maybe, just maybe, someone would come forward with helpful information.
Meanwhile, I should expect the state attorney to come after me more aggressively. Hines’ attorneys had probably already begun drafting the civil lawsuit against me.
One thing that worked in my favor was the Herald’s front-page coverage and editorial would drive readers to my blog. Pensacola would want to see how I responded to Frost, Hines, and Wittman and their assaults on my newspaper and my character.
Before Daniels arrived, I emailed a public record request to the City of Pensacola to review all the proposals for the site work at the maritime park and any emails or memos regarding the bid. If Hines and Wittman had a source inside city hall, they would get phone calls.
By the time Stan Daniels walked into my office at 7:20 a.m. I was ready for him. He looked like old money when he sat down in my conference room. His suit cost more than four full-page ads in my paper. Hell, his Rolex might buy an entire issue. His smile and handshake were warm. Before he sat, he took his jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair.
It was time I rattled his cage.
“We’re doing a story on your sister’s disappearance,” I said. “I need you to tell me what you remember.”
Ever so slightly, Daniels stiffened. The smile in his eyes disappeared, replaced with something hard and ice-cold. He ignored my question.
“Walker, it’s old news that no one cares to read,” he said. “Aren’t your hands full with more urgent matters?”
I pressed him. “I’m tired of how this town covers up its past. What you remember might help defeat the petition effort.”
“How could it possibly help?” Daniels asked.
I opened to the prom pictures in the two yearbooks. Two very different proms. One photograph, just for the parents, had Celeste with four other girls in candy-colored dresses; the other prom photo was, “Let’s have our picture taken before we get drunk and end up in a pile on the beach.” With her golden hair piled up high and a violet, backless gown that matched her eyes, Celeste stood out in both photos.
I said, “Celeste went to both school’s senior proms—one with Hines, the other with Wittman. A freshman dating two popular seniors is unusual. I need to know more about her, Stan.”
“So you can drag another dead woman’s reputation through the mud?” Daniels asked. His cheeks reddened. I’d struck a nerve in the unflappable attorney.
“No, I believe we can find out what happened to her, but I need more information. Trust me. Someone out there knows the truth about her disappearance.”
Daniels slumped in his chair. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? After my legal career took off, I had private investigators dig, posted pictures in newspapers all over the country, even offered a $25,000 reward. Nothing.”
“What kind of person was she?”
“Beautiful, bright, full of life, and a wild force of nature. When she turned fifteen, she thought she could do anything she wanted, which drove my parents and the Sisters of Mercy crazy.”
Daniels got up and stood by the window, staring out, tapping into the buried memories of his kid sister. His aura of self-confidence had dissolved.
“It was a different era and mindset. The Vietnam War was winding down. People were so full of passion and rebellion and had the desire to change this city and make things better. Women were claiming their sexual freedom and demanding more than marriage and kids. And Celeste was ahead of her time.”
He sat back down and took a long sip of his coffee. I didn’t say a thing. Daniels had been transported to another time, a time before Rolexes and custom-tailored suits were a part of his life.
“She wore her dates with Bo and Jace like badges of honor. She wasn’t like other freshman girls who sat home watching David Cassidy in The Partridge Family on Friday nights. Celeste enjoyed going to the Firehouse Drive-In with upper classmen and was proud to be asked to both proms.”
Daniels turned and faced me. His face had softened.
“Bo was the sought-after football star at Washington High. He had already been awarded a college football scholarship to Florida State. Jace wasn’t a bad athlete either and was debating several college offers. Celeste enjoyed pitting them against each other and teased me about it. She loved how it put her on my level.”
Daniels seemed to like saying her name, something he might not have done for years.
He paused, picked up the Catholic High yearbook and thumbed through the pages, stopping every few pages. I left the conference room and him with his memories while I poured both of us more coffee.
I imagined his mind was tumbling with images . . . of the beach in early spring before tourist season when it was quiet . . . of a girl in bell-bottom jeans, laughing wildly like nothing bad was ever going to happen to her. . . . How could it ever? She was so full of life. Wild with the beach wind in her hair, driving down Pensacola Beach far too fast.
When I returned, Daniels seemed to have aged ten years. He said, “I went to both Bo and Jace when Celeste went missing. They knew nothing. Bo helped me search all over town for her. Jace seemed frantic when I told him she had disappeared.”
I said, “We didn’t see either of their names in the police report.”
“Bo’s grandfather made sure they didn’t appear anywhere,” he said. “My parents didn’t believe the boys had anything to do with it. They came from fine families. There was no need to drag their names into it.”
“Who can I talk to that remembers those high school days?” I asked. “Are there any teachers still around?”
“Jacob Solomon. He taught Latin at both Catholic and Washington high schools back then,” Daniels said after pondering my question for a few minutes. “He’s in his nineties, but still sends me newspaper clippings and notes of congratulations. He’s invited me over for tea several times, but I never can find the time.”
“Stan, what do you think really happened?” I asked.
Stan took a deep breath. His eyes flirted with something in the distance and then settled again, cold and dark, on the floor.
“She’s dead,” he said. “There is no way Celeste would run away and not contact us. Her disappearance killed the souls of my parents, completely drained their marriage and faith. Every time the phone rang, they expected it to be her. My mother refused to leave the house, not wanting to miss a phone call. My parents didn’t attend my high school graduation, never went to one of my college football games. Both died before I graduated from Florida, simply quit wanting to live.”
He looked up at me and voiced the question I wanted to ask.
“How did I cope with it?” He took a deep breath. After all, he had told this part of the story before and was used to telling it. “I turned to alcohol. Avoided, by the grace of God, any DUIs but totaled two cars before I hit thirty. My wife stood by me. Eventually, I became a friend of Bill W.”
I asked, “Bill?”
“A member of Alcoholics Anonymous. I’m a recovering alcoholic, haven’t had a drink in twenty-seven years. Bill W. is Bill Wilson, one of the founding members of AA.”
Stan Daniels was human after all. He put the yearbooks down, picked up his jacket and headed for the door.
“Where do you expect to take this?” Daniels said as he shook my hand, more perfunctory than warm this time. “Why dig up painful memories?”
I said, “I don’t know if Hines and Wittman had anything to do with your sister’s death, but I will talk to Mr. Solomon and see what he remembers about all three of them.”
He stood there half silhouetted by the sun in the skylight and said, “I wonder what our world would be like . . . you know . . . if she were here.”
Yeah, I thought, sometimes a person’s absence goes on like a living thing, still affecting the living.
Daniels looked out the window down Palafox Street and continued, “Don’t use my sister to save your hide.”
“I won’t,” I said as he shut the door, knowing that was exactly what I had to do.
I am an ass, I thought.