I dragged myself into the newsroom the next morning. Noreen hauled me into her office to wave a copy of my contract in my face and quoted certain sections involving “moral turpitude” and “public disrepute.”
No one else knew what to say to me; I tried pretending their pity didn’t bother me, but while I’m a good reporter, I’m not a good actress. Different tools, except for the voice.
But then Clay stood up, addressed the whole newsroom, and said I ought to be proud I took a stand against that “gossip rascal.”
“I’ve only been here a few days, and he hasn’t written anything nasty about me, but from what I can tell, that man is wolverine mean.”
Everyone applauded, more for Clay than me. But I started feeling better about myself and the new hire.
“You’re right,” I shouted. “Sam Pierce got what he deserved!”
My voice mail light was flashing on my desk. Various messages from other news organizations wanting to know how I felt being compared to garbage. A message from the front desk telling me I had a package. And a message from my parents wanting to know what they could do to help.
That last one was tough; my folks didn’t seem to understand that I’d outgrown the kind of help they could provide. I looked at my watch and figured they were at daily Mass, like clockwork, praying for my salvation. So, knowing I wouldn’t have to be drawn into complicated explanations, I called the farm and left word telling them I was fine and not to worry.
I ignored the media messages. No way was anyone getting quotes from me.
Then I went to the front desk, where a spectacular wild-flower bouquet was waiting, and I found myself thinking of Nick Garnett … and how a bouquet might be a reasonable substitute for a beau. But when I opened the card accompanying the flowers, it contained no professions of love. The handwriting was feminine, the message anonymous.
I couldn’t be sure whether it was congratulatory or caustic. “Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip.”
I crumbled the note, dropped it in the garbage, and headed back to the front desk to ask where the flowers had come from. A woman, was all the receptionist remembered. No real details.
Heading to the back door, I got the security guard to pull up the lobby surveillance camera. Channel 3 hadn’t upgraded the system since it was first installed more than a decade ago. The only money spent on cameras these days was for on-air cameras. Even convenience stores had better-quality security technology than the station. The black-and-white image of a woman carrying a child and my bouquet resembled those grainy shots of bank-robbery suspects that seldom get identified.
So the mystery woman remained a mystery.
I wasn’t even sure if she was the actual author of my note or merely handling the delivery duties. She appeared to be in her midtwenties, had a dark pageboy haircut, and was dressed in an upscale sweater and jeans. She carried the flowers in one arm, a toddler in another. I couldn’t be sure whether the child was a boy or girl.
I made three copies of the image, leaving one at each station entrance, with instructions to call me if she returned. I pinned the last one on the bulletin board over my desk. I supposed it was possible we’d met. But she seemed a stranger, with no obvious reason to want to creep me out. Though she certainly appeared to bear a grudge against Sam.
Retrieving the note from my wastebasket, I smoothed the paper and pinned it next to her photo. “Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip.” Clearly, she wanted to send me a message—not an overt threat, but not best wishes, either. I was certainly curious about what “disturbing information” she was referring to. She must have calculated the note would be more likely, or perhaps faster, to reach me via flowers than the post office. Or maybe she just liked creating a scene.
I inhaled the blooms, but the fragrance was not overwhelming. Seasonal, they might have come from the remains of a home garden or backyard. Dried milkweed pods teased me with dreams of orange and black butterflies traveling south.
I carried the vase toward Noreen’s office. My motive? Twofold: I no longer wanted to look at them, as the sender’s intention seemed dubious; and regifting fresh flowers appeared a prime boss suck-up move for a reporter with a suddenly shaky platform.
“They’re beautiful.” Noreen stretched her hand to fondle a red-colored berry on a twig. “But I can’t imagine what either of us is celebrating. Especially not you.”
My news director seemed to have settled down; at least the morals clause of my contract wasn’t dribbling from her lips. So while Noreen was in a semisympathetic mood, I started whining about how Sam’s order for protection was going to interfere with my life—professionally as well as socially.
“Just stay away from the guy,” Noreen said. “Then you won’t have any problems.”
“Look at it from my point of view,” I said. “Our newsrooms are less than a mile apart. How am I supposed to know where the jerk is going to show up? I’m going to have to give up the turkey special at Peter’s Grill. I’m not going to be able to check criminal records at the cop shop.”
Then I thought of the worst scenario of all. “What if we both show up at the same news event? Am I supposed to leave?”
That possibility got Noreen’s attention. I could tell by the suddenly stern management look in her eyes I’d have been better off keeping the rumination to myself.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “Benny’s going to fix this. A thousand feet is unreasonable; maybe he can change it to a hundred feet.”
I flashed my news leader an optimistic thumbs-up and raced back to my office to call my attorney and plead for results. Benny didn’t pick up, so I left him an urgent message saying, “We need to talk.”
“I hate ‘Piercing Eyes,’” I muttered to myself, slamming down the phone.
I tried thinking of an out-of-town story that would take my mind off the gossip columnist and take my body away from any chance of violating the order for protection. But all that came to mind was Mexico.