Yes, ma’am, the same Sam Sanderson who called earlier.” Sam could almost hear the sigh in the woman’s voice over the phone line as she recited her cell phone number. Again. “I’m with the Robinson Senators’ paper.” She deliberately left out the middle school part. Maybe if they thought she was with the high school, they’d respond more favorably. “I’d like to ask Mr. Hughes just a few questions.”
“I’ll give him both of your messages as soon as he’s available, Ms. Sanderson,” the woman said, and not in the friendliest of tones.
“I really appreciate it. I know how busy he is and thought it might be better for Mr. Hughes if I just called instead of dropping by the theater to ask my questions.” It wasn’t really a threat, because Mom always said threatening and intimidation wouldn’t help secure a source, but this was just trying to get past the theater owner’s personal assistant.
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that. Thank you, Ms. Sanderson. Goodbye.”
The click boomed loud against Sam’s ear, then the dial tone sounded.
She tossed her Bluetooth headset onto her desk and stared at her laptop screen. She paced the short space in front of her desk. The blog continued to get a steady stream of comments, all about Bobby Milner. The bombing itself seemed to get lost. She needed to get the focus back on the bombing itself. And the theater.
She needed a backup in case Mr. Hughes didn’t call her back.
Her legs trembled as she paced faster. They’d had quite the workout in cheer practice today. After practice, Kate’s mom had brought Sam home. Since Kate was on the squad, too, and only lived one block over, whenever they had practice and Mom was out on assignment, Kate’s mom was nice enough to bring Sam home. When there was no practice, Mrs. Willis, their next-door neighbor, picked her up from school.
Sam quickly texted Makayla and asked her to see what she could find on Frank Hughes.
Her smartphone sounded the text alert almost immediately.
Sam snatched it up and opened her text from Makayla:
No net research tonight. Mom watching over my shoulder. Grr.
Great. One more avenue closed off.
No, she couldn’t think that way. Mom always said, “Real journalists don’t accept closed doors. We find window-ways in.”
Chewy jumped off the bed, barking, scrambling toward the foyer. Dad had to be home.
Sam laughed and headed to the kitchen. She pulled out the salad mix from the refrigerator just as Dad came through the front door. His keys clanked into the wooden bowl on the entry table. Maybe she’d find her window-way in the press release Dad brought home. “Hi, Daddy,” she called out.
“Hi, Sam,” he said, his voice dragging. As usual, he went immediately to his room to lock his gun and badge. He came back and checked the chicken casserole in the oven. “Looks like it’s ready.”
She nodded. “Should be. I put it in the oven as soon as Kate’s mom dropped me off after practice.”
Dad grabbed the hot pads, then pulled the pan from the oven. When Mom was home, Sam would help her make up a lot of casseroles that were easy to freeze and store. That way, when Mom was gone, Sam and her dad always had home-cooked, easy-to-reheat meals.
Within minutes, Sam sat across the table from Dad, hot chicken casserole with ready-bake rolls and garden salad in front of them. Dad said a quick prayer over the food, then took a long sip of milk. Sam immediately shoveled in a bite of the casserole, then had to suck in air to cool it. Dad always picked on her about not being patient enough to let her food cool before she dug in. But he was silent now.
She studied him. Uh-oh. He wore his bulldog expression. And she hadn’t even asked him for the press release yet.
“About the article you wrote that was posted on the school’s blog today . . .” He paused, setting down his glass and meeting her stare. “About Bobby Milner and his past . . .”
Oh. So that’s what he was upset about. “Dad, his police report is public record. Anybody with a little determination can find that information.”
“The question is, how did you?”
She slowly swallowed the chicken casserole that now tasted like her pom-pom strings. “Did you know police reports are available online these days?” Not that she looked it up, but that didn’t change the fact that she could have. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t make anything up. I didn’t add anything to the truth. I exercised responsible reporting.” How many times had she heard Mom argue for her colleagues in the same way?
“I didn’t say you did anything wrong, Sam. But you didn’t give all the facts. Like Mr. Milner’s violent offense was dropped and he hasn’t had any further issue with the police,” he said.
She swallowed hard, heat already crawling up the back of her neck. “Dad, you’re the one who’s argued that domestic abusers are some of the worst kinds. Are you taking up for Mr. Milner?”
Dad shook his head. “Not at all. I’m merely pointing out that you didn’t give all the information you have. You can’t just pick and choose what you give the public.”
Why not? Isn’t that what news people meant by the phrase the slant? Each reporter had their own take on a story, and that take was how they slanted the tone and text of their article. Dad knew all that, so why was he acting like this?
He sighed. “Since I’m the lead detective, when you write something like that, people assume your information comes from me. I can’t tell you how many people asked me if Bobby Milner was my prime suspect.” Dad shook his head. “Even my captain.”
“Just tell them that I do my own research. I find my own story slant.” Couldn’t people understand she was quite capable of forming her own opinion and finding her own story details? She was getting mighty tired of everyone treating her like she was some little kid.
Dad sighed again. “It’s not that easy, Sam.” He finally shoved a forkful of the casserole into his mouth and chewed.
“I didn’t even use the answers you gave me in the interview. Well, except for the no comment part,” she said, her fork hovering over her plate. Her own hunger had disappeared faster than Chewy after a squirrel.
“I just wish you’d let someone else handle this one.”
What? Give away her one decent chance at making editor? So not happening. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I can’t.” She wouldn’t. God, please don’t let him make me give this up!
He took another bite, this time chewing so hard the little muscles in his jaw danced.
She had to make him understand how important this was to her. “It’s part of my job on the school paper. You’ve always said I have to build strong work ethics, right?”
“This isn’t what I meant, Sam,” he said.
“Isn’t it?” She let her fork clatter to the plate. “Daddy, I might only be in seventh grade, but you know I want to be a journalist when I grow up. Being on the school newspaper is a way of building toward my career goal.” At least, that’s how Mom said it when she bragged about Sam wanting to become a journalist.
“And this is a good story, real news, not some ‘teacher tips’-type article. Something important.” She hated that it sounded like she was begging for his permission. She wasn’t.
He and Mom had agreed she could be on the newspaper. Surely he couldn’t change his mind now.
Man, I wish Mom was home.
“I understand that, pumpkin, I do.”
“Then what’s the issue?” she asked.
He pressed his napkin to his mouth. “Because it’s my case, everything I do is under scrutiny. Especially a case as important as this.”
“But that’s just it, Daddy. What you do. Not what I do.”
“I’m sorry, but in this case, because you’re my daughter, what you do is under scrutiny, too,” he said.
Her heart pounded against her chest so hard. “So what are you saying, Daddy?” she asked. Her stomach cramped, like the chicken casserole she’d choked down wasn’t going to stay down.
“I’d like you to not report on this anymore. Let someone else take this story.”
No way! She’d fought Aubrey too hard to get the assignment to just give it back. Sam’s mouth got drier than Mom’s sense of humor. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Daddy. It means too much to me.” Boy, did it ever!
Neither said anything for a moment. A very long moment. Finally, Dad took a sip of milk, then set down his glass. “I won’t tell you that you can’t report on it. At least, not now. But, Sam, please understand the position I’m in.”
Would he order her to give up the story? She wanted to scream and rant but knew — all too well from past experience — that wouldn’t work to her advantage. Instead, she took a deep breath. “I do respect you as the detective on the case, Daddy. I just ask for the same thing—respect as the reporter covering the case.”
He smiled, the little lines at the corners of his eyes deep, like his eyes were weighted down. “You’ve got a deal, Ms. Sanderson.”
The press release was a joke!
Sam reread it for the third time. Nothing she didn’t already know was in the statement. She balled up the paper and tossed it into the trashcan. What a waste of a perfectly good press conference.
She checked the state newspaper’s blog, but nothing really new had been posted about the bombing. The latest headline was about the Arkansas Razorbacks’ upcoming first game. Really? She was a huge Hog fan and all, but football ousting a bombing on the news page? How messed up was that?
Her cellphone rang. She jumped, then laughed at herself as she answered. “Hello.”
“Sam Sanderson?” a man’s voice asked.
“This is she.”
“This is Frank Hughes, returning your call.”
He’d called back! Sam reached for her iPad with her questions as she slipped onto her bed. Sitting cross-legged, she said, “Thank you for getting back with me. I’m with the Robinson Senator newspaper, and I have a few questions for you.”
“Of course.”
How nice was he? Her fingers poised over the iPad’s keyboard. “Mr. Hughes, how long have you owned the Chenal 9 Theater?”
“Well, we opened in 2008, under the Dickinson Theatres’ ownership, me being the manager. Two years later, they allowed me to purchase the theater as a franchise.”
Sam typed furiously. “A franchise? How, exactly, does that work?” she asked.
“A franchise is a business system where a bigger and established company gives a person or a smaller business the rights to sell its products and to operate under its brand name. The smaller company, or person, has to operate under guidelines of the bigger company to protect the brand name.”
“I see,” she said, but she really didn’t. She needed clarification. “So, it’s kinda like you own a branch of Dickinson Theatres, but you have to operate under their rules?” she asked. At least she learned something new today.
“Right.”
“That must cost a lot of money. To buy a franchise, I mean.”
He didn’t answer. Silence filled the phone connection. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Just how much money did he stand to lose?
“Could they, if they had a legitimate reason, make you give back the franchise?” she asked as she popped her knuckles.
“Well, there are some very specific guidelines I must adhere to. If not, then the short answer is, yes, they could demand their branded name back.”
“But you’d get to keep the theater itself, right?” she asked. Or would he lose everything?
“If I could afford it.”
“Um,” she scanned her list of questions. “How has this bomb affected the theater’s business?”
“As you can imagine, some people are leery of coming to the theater, but I want to assure everyone that we are 100 percent safe and secure. I’ve hired additional security, who conduct hourly sweeps of the entire building, and we’ve installed video surveillance for the entire theater.”
“That’s a lot of expense, isn’t it?” she asked.
“You can’t put a price on people’s safety, and I want everyone to know that,” Mr. Hughes said.
Price on safety? Hmm. “Mr. Hughes, had this bomb detonated, what would have been the outcome with Dickinson in regards to your owning a franchise?”
“I don’t know exactly, but don’t you worry none. I carry good insurance to cover my investment.”
Maybe so. Time to flip points. “Mr. Hughes, do you have any idea who would want to put a bomb in the theater, set to detonate when a private showing had been scheduled?”
“I’ve given all that information to the police,” he said, his tone changing to more formal-sounding. “I feel quite confident they’ll find who did this and see that justice is served.”
“How’s that?” she asked. Had he gotten some inside information from the police that Dad hadn’t shared with her?
“Excuse me?” Definitely a more formal tone.
“What makes you so confident? Did you give the police leads on who you believe is responsible for placing the bomb in the closet by the ladies’ restroom?”
“Um,” he paused. “Well, I just believe our police will do everything in their power to find who did this and see justice served. I’m sorry, I need to go now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hughes, for calling me back,” she said just before he hung up. Last year, she’d asked Mom to share her little tidbits of how to be a great journalist. One of the things Mom told her was to always be polite and thank people when they took the time to answer questions, even if they didn’t answer the way she wanted.
Sam set her phone down on the desk, staring at the notes on her iPad as if her article direction would jump up at her. She glanced up to the digital frame with Mom’s articles and replayed the conversation in her mind.
Inspiration struck. She moved to the ergonomic chair in front of her desk and quickly ran an Internet search on average cost of business security systems. The search engine threw up over forty-six million results. She clicked on the first one that looked legit, then rubbed Chewy behind her ears while she waited for the page to load. From the informational page, she went to a pricing page for video surveillance systems and was surprised. The prices for a decent system ran anywhere from $4,000.00 to $15,000.00.
Mr. Hughes was serious about security. And that amount didn’t even include the cost of paying for security guards. If he was paying out this kind of money, he really wanted people to feel safe at the movies.
Well . . . now that she thought about it. Sam pulled up the website for the theater, then opened the calculator app on her iPhone. Regular ticket prices were $9.25 each. On a Saturday, they ran about forty movies, not counting the special — and higher priced — IMAX showings. If just twenty people showed up for every showing, which was kind of a low estimate in Sam’s opinion because she’d never seen it that slow, that was eight hundred tickets. Eight hundred at $9.25 each was $7,400.00 a day. That was a lot of money.
No wonder Mr. Hughes wanted people to feel safe enough to come back to the theater.
But she couldn’t forget he hadn’t commented when she’d asked about the cost of the franchise. Nor could she forget his comment about having insurance.
What if Dickinson was about to demand the franchise back for whatever reason? He said if that happened, he could only keep the theater open if he could afford it. What if he didn’t have the money?
Sam plopped back onto her bed, laying on her back and staring up at the ceiling fan. Chewy jumped up and licked her face. Sam laughed and rubbed Chewy’s tummy. An idea flitted across her mind, then screeched to a halt. She bolted upright.
What if Mr. Hughes knew Dickinson was about to demand back the franchise and he couldn’t afford to lose the money he’d invested — his word, not hers — so he needed to claim the insurance? Something would have to happen to the theater itself for that to happen. Sam chewed her bottom lip. What if the bomb was only meant to set fire to the theater?
She sat back in front of her desk and ran another search. This time on arson statistics.