“I told you to hit the pavement and dig up some dirt,” Mama said, barely able to see above the steering wheel, “but nooo, you insisted on wasting your morning in gossip.”
“What? Visiting Vilnia was your idea!”
“Bubbles, Bubbles, Bubbles. When are you going to face the fact that you’re too soft for the big leagues. Unless you toughen up, honey, you’ll be writing fluff pieces about strawberry festivals and high school graduations forever. I can’t do your job for you, you know.”
I would have throttled her dog-collared neck then and there except she was driving. Mama had insisted, claiming that her old race-car boyfriend had taught her a couple of tricks, including how to peel out of a neighborhood and take a turn on two wheels. Otherwise, it was little old lady as usual.
“If you’re so perfect,” I said, “then how come Stiletto was at the mine and not on Roxanne’s couch like we’d left him?”
Mama turned a right onto the dirt road by the mine’s entrance. “Slipup in the operation. Genevieve needs to check with her Sominex supplier. The stuff must have been cut with sugar. Holy mackerel. Talk about competition.”
Ye gads! Monstrous white TV news vans with gigantic satellite dishes crowded the road in front of the exploded Number Nine mine shaft where I had frozen the night before. All were local affiliates of the major networks—Channels Three, Five and Six. There were so many reporters, in fact, that the lights from the cameras lit up the place like a county fair Ferris wheel.
“You’re late!” Mama exclaimed, idling the Rambler. “Good thing I floored it.”
Going forty miles per hour wasn’t exactly breaking the sound barrier, but I didn’t have time to argue.
“You want to come?” I asked, removing my reporter’s notebook and testing my pen.
“No can do. Genevieve and I need to talk.” Mama kept the engine running.
“About how come the Sominex dart didn’t take hold?”
“Right,” she said absently. “Now, this is what I mean about you being soft. Why are you here chatting with me about my schedule when you should be out there swimming with the sharks? Get going.” And she gave me a little push out of the car.
My steps were leaden as I trudged toward the collection of cops and reporters. Perhaps Mama was right. Perhaps I was destined to be no more than a fluffy feature writer. Sure, I’d uncovered one major scandal—Henry Metzger, the ruthless chairman of Lehigh Steel. For decades Metzger had skimped on safety measures in the steel plant to rake in more profits for his own personal gain. And though numerous workers—like my own father—had died because of his cool disregard for life, no one in Lehigh had had enough guts to probe his evil doings.
Until I found his one weakness.
But in the end what had it mattered? Metzger had flown off to Central America and died in a plane crash, and that was that. No prosecution. No compensation for his victims. Within weeks Metzger’s crimes were reduced to quaint, legendary tales. And somewhere my newspaper articles were yellowing with age, waiting to be committed to cyberspace and thrown in the incinerator.
Like they say in the newsroom, you’re only as good as yesterday’s story. Well, today was tomorrow’s yesterday and I had better shape up, like Mama said.
Already a press conference was underway. Dolled-up TV reporters with their severely plucked eyebrows, bright lips and impeccable hair faced Donohue and two men I didn’t recognize. One was in a navy blue windbreaker that read MEDICAL EXAMINER on the back. The other was a business-suited type.
I searched the crowd for Stiletto, but he was nowhere to be seen. The other reporters wouldn’t let me get closer to the podium, so I was forced to the back of the crowd where it was impossible to see or hear bupkis. Can you say loser?
“Loser,” said a nasal voice. “Those big-city reporters make me feel like such a loser.”
A reporter with curly brown hair, black glasses and a press pass that said MYRON FINKLE, SLAGVILLE SENTINEL was by my side. He was no taller than my shoulder and the sheen of his tan shirt, along with his baggy pants, indicated that the Slagville Sentinel didn’t pay very well.
He squinted at the press pass around my neck. “Lehigh News-Times? Where’s that?”
“About an hour or so from here,” I whispered, trying to catch what Donohue was saying. “Lots of folks in Lehigh come from Slagville. Steel and all.”
“Oh, yeah. The Lehigh Valley Railroad runs through town. Guess there’s a coal connection.” He lifted his chin toward the TV people. “We got TV reporters from Philly and New York here today. I bet they don’t even know the difference between anthracite and bituminous.”
“You can say that again.” Bituminous was an eating disorder. Even I knew that. “How did they find out about Price’s murder, anyway?”
“Are you kidding?” Myron pulled out a folded up newspaper from his back pocket. “It was in the morning papers all over the country.”
Myron opened to a lead AP story from that morning’s Slagville Sentinel. It was brief, but it delivered the essentials. Bud Price, who recently won unprecedented legislative approval to open a casino in Slagville, PA, was presumed dead after a portion of the Number Nine mine had exploded. Rescue workers were attempting to retrieve the body. No comment from Price’s family or company, except confirmation he’d been in the area on business.
“Shoot!” I said. “He beat me to it. Son of a gun.”
“Who beat you?” Myron asked, refolding the clipping.
“Steve Stiletto,” I said. My mind raced. It was impossible. To get the story on the wire early enough for the morning newspapers, Stiletto would have had to call it in by 2 A.M. And he didn’t get out of the mine until 2:30.
Or did he?
That dog. He must’ve found another exit after the cave-in and then somehow managed to get to a phone—a rescue worker’s perhaps?—before returning to the ambulance where I had been crying about him suffocating, blah, blah, blah.
“Bastard,” I hissed.
“Stiletto?” Myron said. “How do you think I feel? I’m the local cop reporter and I didn’t even know about the explosion until my editor got me out of bed this morning, yelling that we’d been scooped by a New York AP photographer and his girlfriend. Biggest story to hit this town in a century and a prize-winning reporter and photographer happen to be here on a romantic weekend. Is that bad luck or what?”
I blushed. “That’s nice of you, Myron, but I haven’t won any prizes. Not yet.”
“Not you,” he said, pushing up his glasses. “Esmeralda Greene. She used to be the regional AP bureau chief here and then got promoted to New York after her coal region series was nominated for a Pulitzer. Kick ass babe-a-lonia.” Myron stuck out his tongue like a panting dog. “That Stiletto is one lucky dude. Man, what I wouldn’t give to be in his place.”
“You mean Stiletto and Greene are . . . a couple?”
“That’s the rumor. Supposedly they keep it hush-hush ’cause they work for the same organization. You know what the AP’s nepotism policy is like.” Myron said this with importance, as though he were tighty whitey with the AP honchos. “Management gets a whiff two employees are sleeping together and it’s curtains. That’s her over there, asking a question now.”
A statuesque redhead towered above her colleagues. Even from the back of the press conference, I could tell that she was an arresting woman. Broad shoulders. Classic cheekbones. Her black suit lent a trim, stylish appearance and set off her shoulder-length, thick hair. She could have modeled more than women’s underwear. Esmeralda Greene was a stunner.
“Chief Donohue,” she said, her voice crisp and clear over the crowd, “what can you tell us about a former McMullen Coal employee named Carl Koolball whose car was spotted at the Number Nine mine entrance around the hour of Price’s murder? From what my sources tell me, he had made numerous threats against his former employer and against Price. And, as an engineer, he would know how to set off a mine explosion. Is he a suspect in this case?”
Showoff. No decent reporter would ask a lengthy question like that in front of other reporters. She had just handed the competition tons of information she’d dug up. Perhaps she was trying to impress someone—Stiletto?
Donohue stepped to the podium, flushed and sweating. He looked like he hadn’t had much sleep. “I am not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation with the press, Esmeralda. Suffice it to say that Carl Koolball is not a suspect. However, I would classify him as a ‘person of interest.’ ”
Person of interest. I wrote that down. What the heck did that mean? He was either a suspect or he wasn’t, right?
“Perhaps I can shed some light.” The suit walked up to the microphone. “Hugh McMullen, owner of McMullen Coal Inc.,” he said, removing a sheet of paper from his breast pocket.
My initial impression of Hugh McMullen could be summed up in three words: hungover Peter Pan. Although his wavy hair sported streaks of gray, it was boyishly (and, oh yes, expensively) cut and he had donned a spiffy pair of penny loafers. His posture was poor, he yawned as he prepared to speak and he seemed ill at ease, as though he were eager to return to the frat house.
The reporters crowded closer, shutting me out completely. No way I was going to miss McMullen. I expertly wedged my body between a Barbie and Ken from Channel Three in a move I like to call the “Bon Jovi Butt.”
It requires years of grandstand seating at Jon Bon Jovi concerts to perfect the Bon Jovi Butt, and the feat is not for the petite or polite. The trick is to resist the urge to say, “Pardon me.” Offers too much of a heads up. And once the butt is complete, never look back.
“Hey!” Barbie objected. I ignored her and kept my eyes straight ahead on McMullen.
“On Labor Day,” McMullen began, reading stiffly from a prepared statement, “it came to my attention that one of our top engineers, Carl Koolball, was suffering from mental health issues. Our company offered him a generous leave and medical help, which he refused. We had no choice but to let him go—for the safety of our other employees.”
I scribbled as fast as I could and recalled what Vilnia had said about Stinky being fired from McMullen. I sensed a plant. Esmeralda’s question had been too detailed and McMullen’s answer too pat to be a coincidence.
“Since then the Columbia County court has issued a restraining order barring Mr. Koolball from coming within fifty feet of the McMullen colliery and the Dead Zone, which we happen to be standing on right now. I’m not violating any confidentiality policies here. Everything I’ve just told you is in the public record. My primary goal is to be as upfront with you people as possible.”
In unison, reporters whipped out their cell phones and dialed rapidly. I predicted that within an hour the oblivious clerks in the Columbia County Courthouse would be flooded with news interns requesting copies of the restraining order.
And then it struck me like an anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote. The Dead Zone. We were standing on it and it was right next to the Number Nine mine. I wiggled past Barbie, who threw me a darting look, to the back of the crowd where Myron waited, fed up.
“I hate these reporters,” he said. “They’re so mean. They won’t let me get closer ’cause I’m from a dinky paper.”
“You’re not missing much.” I smiled sympathetically. “Listen, Myron, if this is the Dead Zone, then where is Price’s casino supposed to go?”
Myron pointed to a cluster of orange ribbons tied around a few trees. “There. Though the entire complex of swimming pools, hotels, theaters and a shopping mall will be much larger. Probably take up all two hundred acres.”
“Hmm.” I left Myron and hiked across the beaten grass, through the woods and over to the entrance of the mine, my heels slipping on the black slag scattered about. I was simply going to have to get new shoes if I was going to stick with this story. Nice if they made slingbacks with treads.
The exploded mine entrance was littered with burnt wood, rock and settled dust inside a perimeter of yellow police tape. Let’s see now. Stiletto and I had entered here and then—I envisioned our underground path—we stopped there. I imagined a spot about a hundred feet away. That must have put us in the Dead Zone.
I thought back to the article I had read in Roxanne’s bathtub. McMullen had sold the Dead Zone to Price because the coal company wasn’t permitted to mine under that land for safety reasons—namely possible encroachment by the Limbo fire. But what if McMullen had been robbing coal from underneath the Dead Zone and not documenting it, to escape state scrutiny? And what if Stinky had found that out and that’s why he’d been fired?
The wheels in my head spun. I needed to get back to Roxanne and convince her to let me break our pinky promise so I could track down what she told me about Stinky. This could be a big story, I thought, heading out of the clearing and toward the woods. Especially with Bud Price, owner of the Dead Zone, found shot through the chest in the Number Nine mine.
I scurried through the dappled light and around rotting tree trunks, my shoes not offering much traction on the fallen leaves. Which is why I nearly slid into a large figure who materialized in my path and grabbed my arm.
“Bubbles,” he said gruffly. “Bubbles Yablonsky.”
I caught my breath. He was a twenty-something man, tall, in a flannel shirt, jean jacket and a white baseball cap that sat on top of his ash blond hair. It was dark in the woods and I couldn’t see his face that clearly. He had caught me off guard so I had no option except to say, “Yes?”
“Right.” He let go and touched his finger to the brim of his hat. “Just wanted to know what you look like.”
He took a few steps back and it wasn’t until then that I noticed his hand had ever so slightly pushed aside his jacket to reveal a gun stuck in his belt. I lifted my eyes to his in total fright and comprehension of the message.
“Stay safe now,” he said, smirking.
I was going to say something, but as soon as I opened my mouth, I was speechless. He apparently found my shock and obvious fear amusing because he kept on smirking. And kept on staring at me, the branches of the bare trees clicking in the wind, reminding me that he and I were alone. In the woods. Next to a murder scene.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked.
What was I waiting for? I slipped past him and ran as fast as I could, leaping over fallen branches and ducking tree branches, until I emerged in the clearing back at the press conference. I headed straight for the crowd of cameras, tape recorders and shouting journalists, Bon Jovi Butting my way with gusto, ticking off any number of people as I rudely bumped the coroner and kept on going.
I beelined for a satellite truck and turned the corner so that I was hidden by the open rear doors. My heart beat fast and I remembered that I didn’t have wheels. Now how was I going to get back to Roxanne’s?
“What was that about?” asked a woman’s voice on the other side of the van door. There were footsteps on the gravel. Reporters leaving the press conference. “Did you see that crazy blonde in the low-cut number?”
I stared down at Roxanne’s suggestive funeral dress.
“Who was she?”
“You don’t know?” replied a different woman. “That’s Stiletto’s flavor of the month. Bubblegum. She’s a hairdresser who goes around pretending to be a reporter.”
Pretending? Why I’d . . . the two women had stopped just outside the van’s doors. I remained statue still.
“A reporter? Where?”
“Some shopper called the News-Times on the Jersey border.”
For her information, the News-Times was not a shopper.
“You’d think Stiletto would have matured beyond the sex kitten phase,” the first woman said. “Anyway, he’s too good to waste on a woman like that.” A soda can popped open. There was a slight fizzing sound.
The other woman took a gulp. “It won’t last,” she said, burping slightly. “He just likes the conquest. That’s all Stiletto has ever loved is the conquest.”
My cheeks felt hot and I was tempted to turn the corner and give them a Liberty High School locker room special when the woman’s friend said, “So how come he hasn’t conquered you, Esmeralda?”
Esmeralda? Esmeralda Greene?
“He is damned good-looking, isn’t he?” Esmeralda giggled. Funny. I hadn’t pictured her as the giggling type.
“Are you kidding? And you know he’s always had a thing for you. Remember that time when you two were assigned to cover the war crimes trials at the Hague and you had to share a hotel room?”
“That’s not the kind of night I’d forget.”
“And he had to—”
“Shhh,” Esmeralda stifled her. “Here he comes.”
“Hey, Esmeralda. Patty.” Stiletto’s voice was calm, coolly casual.
I rounded the van door.
“Bubbles.”
Esmeralda and Patty’s faces dropped to the basement. But while Patty’s was pink with embarrassment, Esmeralda’s remained as cool as her Clinique sand foundation. Her skin was strikingly flawless, not a blemish or dark spot on her face. She was a perfect porcelain doll.
“Have you guys met?” Stiletto asked. “I think you’d really like Bubbles. She’s got a hell of a news streak in her.”
Esmeralda and Patty smiled weakly, an expression Stiletto obviously took for kindness. God. Men were so off the planet half the time. Did they have even a spark of intuition?
“Uh, we better get back to New York, Steve,” Esmeralda said. “The national desk wants us for the afternoon meeting. And, as it so happens, I’ve got the car.”
“Aww shit,” Stiletto said. “Bubbles, what are you going to do? You don’t have a way to get into town.”
“No problem,” I said, hooking my arm in his. “You can drop me off at Roxanne’s on the way. If that’s all right with you, Esmeralda?”
“Hmmm. I don’t know. It is a Miata and there’s not much of a back seat.” She frowned as though so very disappointed at not being able to help.
“Not to worry,” I said. “I’ll squeeze in. Just like a brand-new kitten.”
Esmeralda’s Potato and Green Tea Compress
Esmeralda may be a former model and big time New York City journalist, but she’ll always be a Slagville girl at heart. Which is why she knows that sometimes the best beauty secrets involve potatoes. In this one the raw potato removes dark circles under the eyes while the moistened and cool green tea reduces the swelling—for that perfect porcelain doll look.
½ russet potato, grated raw
2 green tea bags
1 drop glycerin
2 pieces of cheesecloth, approximately 6 x 6 inches
2 rubber bands
Soak tea bags in cold water while you grate potato into bowl. Remove tea bags from water and shake off excess moisture. With scissors cut off top of tea bags and empty contents into potato mixture, along with glycerin. Stir.
Divide mixture in half and spoon each half onto center of cheesecloth. Scrunch up cheesecloth and secure with rubber bands. You should have two pads of potato and green tea in cloth. Place on closed eyes and relax for a few minutes.
Hint: For extra cooling and faster results, chill finished cheesecloth compresses overnight.