“Fourteen, fifteen…five more.”
Sophie raised her shoulders for the grueling stomach crunch and tightened her abdomen beneath an oversized T-shirt. The militant exercise instructor at her Tuesday strength class continued the count, momentarily drowned out when a floor mat and a set of five pound weights landed with a loud thud on the tired gym floor to Sophie’s right.
Bernadette plopped on top of the matt and whispered, “The other lawyers in my office loved your fluff piece on Duncan.”
“It wasn’t a fluff piece.” She inhaled and continued with the count.
“Oh, please. I’ll bet his Mommy taped the article to her fridge.”
Sophie rolled her head to the side, where Bernadette stretched her long legs, covered in tight black yoga pants. Sophie poked her arm. “The piece was fair. We’ll talk afterward.”
She tried to concentrate on the class, but Bernadette’s criticism badgered her. Writing the RGI article had pulled her in more directions than a wad of saltwater taffy. Her journalist’s ethics worked in overdrive, swerving from any possible bias.
They exercised hard for the next thirty minutes and finally finished.
“Jeesh, Bern.” Sophie stood and picked up her mat. “You’d already told me you weren’t thrilled with the story on Saturday. Are you done?”
“Sorry. Dan Sawyer nudged me all day yesterday at work. You should have heard him.” She deepened her voice. “You couldn’t even get your best friend to write anything bad? I think you’re wrong about this project.” Her voice returned to normal. “God, I can’t stand him.”
“He’s bugged you since ninth grade.” Meg lifted her mat and weights from the floor. “Let it go.”
“She’s right.” Sophie grabbed her weights. “Besides, the facts were pretty clear and didn’t lead to anything negative.”
“You could have pushed him about those bribes.”
“I asked. He said no. Jeesh, did you want me to use torture?”
Bernadette raised her brows. “You’d do that for me?”
Sophie chuckled, but Meg just shook her head. They put away their equipment and headed to their cars in the back parking lot.
Sophie zipped her sweatshirt and pulled her ponytail out from beneath the hood. She stopped near Meg’s slightly rusted Jeep. “There was something a bit odd, something I didn’t put in the paper.”
Several ladies from class hurried past so Sophie lowered her voice. “Remember at our girl’s night Veronica said a Jamieson had lived on the lake way back when? She thought they had a problem son?”
They nodded in unison.
“During the interview, Duncan mentioned they spent a couple of summers here when he was in middle school. He said we met at the tackle shop back then, but I don’t remember him.”
Meg stopped searching through her oversized bag for her keys. “Really? How could you forget a hottie like him?”
“He was around thirteen. I’m sure he looked different.”
Bernadette’s thumb and index finger swirled the tip of her layered brown locks. She stared off into the distance, blinking. Her gaze drifted to meet Sophie’s. “Do you think Duncan caused the trouble Veronica heard her parents discussing?”
“My Internet research shows he has a brother. I figured someone older than us might remember something.”
“Ladies.” Meg’s round face brightened. “I think this is a case for the Northbridge Nancys.”
Sophie warmed at memories of how one summer the close-knit gaggle of girls kicked off their Nancy Drew Marathon. Their over-active imaginations had stretched everyday situations into a mystery—the neighbor’s missing cat, an absent neighbor, or a newcomer around town all led to endless speculation. They’d baptized their group the Northbridge Nancys.
Sophie laughed. “I could use some help.”
“You know what they say.” Meg paused, like a comic waiting to deliver a punch line. “Great minds think alike.”
Bernadette beamed, always proud when Meg got a saying correct. “How about some of your contacts, Meg? Like Mr. Wilson.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. He’ll love the added attention.” She started to search her bag again then stopped. “I swear, ever since he retired two years ago, he still spends half his week visiting the office. He needs to find friends at the senior center or something. Our receptionist looked ready to kill him the other day when he sat around reminiscing about old times while she tried to work.”
Sophie glanced at her watch; she was falling behind schedule. “Guys, I’ve gotta run, but please keep this between us.”
Meg’s fingers touched her mouth in a turnkey motion. “Mum’s a word.”
Bernadette hesitated and Sophie waited for the correction. Instead, Bernadette made the same motion. “Yup. Mum’s a word.”
* * * *
Sophie trotted to the Gazette’s front entrance ten minutes late. She wrapped her corduroy blazer tight, the brisk air seeming colder than the forty degree temperature reported on the thermometer outside her kitchen window, not chilly enough for a real coat by her standards. The day her fingertips turned ice white marked the official start of winter.
An old metal mailbox hung on the siding next to the front door of the old colonial. Sophie opened the rusted lid and removed a manila envelope. Large block letters spelled out “S. Shaw,” with no address or return information.
She went inside and tossed the envelope on her desk, going straight to their single-cup coffeemaker in the kitchen. Popping in a pod of pumpkin-spice roast, she grabbed a thick ceramic mug from the cabinet, set it down on the small coffee tray, and pushed the button.
“Morning, Sophie.” Cliff hollered a few seconds later from his upstairs office.
“How’d you know it was me?” She yelled back, waiting for the cup to fill.
He didn’t answer so she prepared her coffee then took it upstairs to Cliff’s office.
Cliff held up the newspaper, folded to the sports page. He looked over the rims of his reading glasses. “I knew it was you because an old newsman like me notices the details.” He flipped his dark frames to his head and lowered the paper. “When Gabby arrives, she starts her computer before doing anything else.”
“Remind me never to underestimate you.” She sat across from him. “Anything happening today?”
“Nope. Just the way I like my job during Thanksgiving week. What are you working on?”
“The elementary school has their annual Indian-Pilgrim show.” She sipped the fresh brew, breathing in the spicy autumn scent. “Bart’s joining me to take photos.”
He crinkled his nose. “I hate those flavored coffees.”
“I know.”
“By the way, I got an early morning call from Duncan Jamieson. He liked your piece. Good work. We had a nice chat.” He picked up his newspaper and lifted a hand to the rims of his glasses.
“Really. What’d you chat about?”
Cliff stopped and left the glasses on his head. “Well, he hoped to work with you more.” He stared at her, blinked a few times then pressed his lips tight.
“That’s a chat?” Cliff was a man of fewer words than most men. Gabby always said the task of pulling details from him required more dragging than her rake got during foliage season. Sophie rolled her hand several times for him to continue.
He sighed, lowering the paper to the desk. “We discussed his move to Northbridge.”
“And…”
“We said we’d do lunch one day to discuss some ad revenue from the resort. Overall, he seems like a decent guy.”
Sophie snorted. “Seems like an optimistic guy. They haven’t approved the zoning changes yet.”
“Oh, and Duncan asked for you to call him. Wants to thank you personally. Said you have his number.”
She stood. “You betcha. I’ve got his number all right.”
Cliff grinned. “Let’s hope he’s got yours.”
On the way to her desk, she had second thoughts about her strong defense of Duncan with Bernadette earlier. Somehow, both Sophie’s professional and personal feelings on this assignment had been dumped into the same pot then stirred into an inseparable mix. Did this issue influence her ability to report without a bias? Especially since her instincts warned that Duncan’s intentions in Northbridge came with a secondary agenda. She’d need to up her guard around him.
Confident or corrupt, which was he?
Sophie went to her Rolodex for the business card Duncan had given her with his direct line. At least she no longer had to be channeled through Carl Hansen.
She dialed. The phone rang while she tore open the thin manila envelope left in the mailbox. Sophie removed two sheets of paper.
The phone clicked into a recording of Duncan’s familiar voice. She compiled a response while glancing at the words on the paper, but the written message made her freeze and she hung up.
* * * *
Sophie’s adrenaline worked overtime as she sat inside her car and waited for the Northbridge Library to open. The mother lode of leads had been dumped right at the newspaper’s front door. By whom or their reason why was unclear. Again she studied the contents of the envelope left at the Gazette offices.
The first of two sheets contained cut-out letters from magazines and newspaper clippings that spelled out a warning:
The Jamiesons are corrupt. Both now and in the past. Question the gunshot.
She flipped to the second sheet, a printout from the July 1981 edition of the Blue Moon Gazette. Yellow highlighter marked a story under the police blotter section with the lead-in, “Shots Fired at House.” She reread each word.
On July 26 at 8:05 PM police were called out to the house of Daniel “Buzz” Harris, 32 Lakeview Circle, after neighbors reported hearing gunshots coming from inside the home. When police arrived, Mr. Harris said he’d inadvertently pulled the trigger on his gun, believing the safety was on, while he cleaned it.
Several markings on the bottom of the printout proved the story came from the Northbridge library microfiche and showed the date it was printed. She hoped Veronica, who’d been director here for the past ten years, arrived early and had time to help her find out who unlocked the microfiche cabinet the day this paper printed. Then she might know who wanted her to have this information.
Before she’d left the paper, Cliff called a buddy who worked in the Land Department to confirm when the Jamiesons sold their house. The 1982 sale date confirmed they’d owned it at the time of the gunshot. Whether or not they were physically here was another matter.
The pieces of a trail were beginning to fall into place. This note gave some credibility to the rumor Bernadette made public at the hearing. It didn’t have to do with the current land deal, but it suggested the Jamieson brood had a history of corruptness.
Some of the control Sophie had lost over her future when RGI barged in and flashed their money at the Tates now seemed within her grasp. A little digging might uncover just enough of the truth to make RGI uncomfortable hanging out in town. Maybe they’d pull their offer. Otis and Elmer would be at her door begging for her family’s offer to resurface. She could even renegotiate a lower price to make up for all her troubles.
The front door to the hundred-and-fifty-year-old white clapboard house-turned-library finally opened. Sophie hurried straight to Veronica’s corner office. “Surprise!”
Veronica glanced up from her computer screen, looking classy in a black cashmere sweater, a scarlet polished finger wrapped around pearls. “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you today. What’s going on?”
“Take a look at this. At the bottom.” She handed Veronica the printout of the gunshot story. “This came off the fiche machine here, right?”
Veronica nodded. “Indeed it did. Five days ago, at two-o-seven in the afternoon, from printer number two. Why?”
“Any idea who manned the back desk that day? I’d like to find out who requested the old Gazette microfiche.”
Veronica clicked a few keys on the computer. “Mrs. Payne. She’s there now. Go and ask. A word of warning. She can recall the name of every single student over her forty year career but forgets things that happened five minutes earlier.”
Sophie headed to the rear of the library where the eighty-seven-year-old former elementary teacher stretched on her tiptoes trying to shelve a book. Her arched back appeared to make the act quite difficult.
Sophie hurried over. “Hi, Mrs. Payne. Let me do that.”
The older woman smiled and a smudged spot of ruby lipstick showed on her teeth. “Hi, Sophie. Thank you for the help.”
The brown curls she’d worn years ago had made way for white, thinned waves showing glimpses of her pink scalp.
“You’re welcome. I’m wondering if you can help me. I have a microfiche printout and hoped you might remember who asked for the Gazette fiche for nineteen eighty-one last week.” She offered the paper and pointed to the date.
Mrs. Payne studied the print off and blinked. “Yes.” Her head bobbed. “Oh, what’s her name?” She folded her hands in front of her bright red sweater, the same way she used to do in class. “Oh my. I can’t remember.”
Sophie considered offering a quick dose of ginkgo biloba to jar the volunteer’s memory. Heck, she was almost half her old teacher’s age and there were days when her recollection was challenged.
“Heavens. I can picture her. Round face. Glasses.”
Sophie waited, the description too generic to even take a guess.
“Fiddlesticks, the name just escapes me.”
Sophie patted her shoulder. “Thanks anyway. If you remember after I leave, can you tell Veronica?”
“Certainly, dear.”
Sophie returned to Veronica’s office “I asked her to let you know if the name comes back to her.”
“Let me see that article again.” Veronica held out her hand. Sophie stood quietly while she reread it. “That gunshot at Buzz’s is news to me. Do you remember this?”
“No. Perhaps a visit to the selectman’s office is in order.” Sophie returned the papers to her bag. “How exactly do I ask Buzz if he knew the Jamiesons back then?”
“Carefully.” Veronica’s mouth pinched. “Remember his temper at this year’s town budget meeting when I went to the microphone to complain over cut library funds.”
“Yeah. He needs anger management classes.” The large clock on the wall told her she had an hour before picking up Tia at the high school band practice. The town’s municipal offices were only a short walk from here. Maybe she could catch him before town offices closed for the Thanksgiving holiday. “Zoning might pass RGI’s request any day now. If there’s dirt on the Jamieson clan, I plan to find it. Let’s hope Buzz is available.”
Veronica flashed the thumbs-up sign. “Godspeed, my friend.”