Rosemary Herbert - Front Page Teaser

Although the article revealed no more than could be found in news archives—the accidental drowning of Ellen Johansson’s father—the unearthing of old news was apparently enough to raise the ire of Olga Swenson, who phoned Liz moments later.

“It was only a matter of time until those old press clippings would be dug up. You know that, Mrs. Swenson,” Liz said. “They’re a part of the public record, after all. This is what happens when there are no new leads on a case that has gripped the public’s imagination.”

“All right, all right,” Olga Swenson said. “I understand what you’re saying, but it’s painful, nonetheless. Now that it’s out there in big type again, I’m wondering if anything I told you is getting you any closer to bringing my daughter home to me.”

“Not directly,” Liz said. The desperate, pleading tone of Mrs. Swenson’s voice caused the reporter to feel apologetic. Even though it had only been a few days since she’d learned about the boy from the school for troubled teens, she felt remiss in having no ready answers for Ellen’s mother. “But you can help me put to rest one item.”

“Oh, here’s Veronica,” Mrs. Swenson said. “It’s Christmas morning, after all, and we must open gifts. Let me meet you a little bit later. I shall need to walk Hershey.”

“Could we make it somewhere other than the topiary garden, please?” Liz asked.

“All right. I’ll meet you in two hours at the Wellesley College faculty club parking lot. We can stroll around the campus.”

“Assuming my editor okays this, I’ll be there. I’ll phone you only if the editor says no.”

“And, Liz?” Olga Swenson said.

“Yes, Mrs. Swenson?”

“Thank you for devoting your Christmas to this.”

“You’re welcome. May your day be the best it can be, under the circumstances. Please give my love to Veronica.”

“Yes, of course.”

Olga Swenson’s call gave Liz the opportunity she’d been looking for to design her own Christmas Day assignments. If she were given the okay by phone, she would not even have to drive in to the newsroom until the afternoon. Fortunately, Esther O’Faolin was ruling the roost. And she was in better spirits than usual.

“Gobble, gobble,” Esther said. “Cute turkey piece in today’s paper. Not that anyone will read it. Sales are close to zero on Christmas Day.”

“I may be onto something that will give us some news for tomorrow’s paper, when everyone picks it up for after-Christmas sales ads,” Liz said, telling Esther she had an exclusive opportunity for a Christmas Day conversation with Mrs. Swenson.

“Go for it,” Esther said.

Liz realized Esther must not yet have read the World , since she didn’t point out how that paper had scooped the Banner on Karl Swenson’s drowning death.

With more than an hour of free time before she would have to set out for the Wellesley rendezvous, Liz looked about for a way to enjoy the unexpected at-home stretch of Christmas morning. It was time to give Prudence her gift, a carpet-covered little cave that looked just the right size for the cat to cuddle up in. Hoping it would help attract the cat, Liz put the catnip mouse from Tom inside the structure. Standing up and stretching her front legs luxuriously, Prudence approached the gift as though it was the Trojan horse. After examining it for a good few minutes, she decided to ignore both the cozy interior and catnip mouse. Instead, purring loudly, she climbed on top of the structure and perched herself on it proudly, like a sentry.

Liz was laughing when she picked up the ringing phone.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Tom said, sounding piqued. “You didn’t even leave your name when you called.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you’d want your lady friend to know about me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The gal on your answering machine.”

“I can explain that.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“But—hey listen. I thought you said you’d be working today.”

“I will be, in a little over an hour.”

“Are you busy until then?”

“Very! Drinking coffee and playing with Prudence.”

“Can I come over and play with you two, too?”

“Oh, all right. But make it snappy!”

“Bah, humbug! See you soon.”

Liz applied a touch of make-up and lipstick and dressed in flannel-lined jeans, a heavy Irish-knit sweater, and thick wool socks. This time, she would be prepared to walk in wintry Wellesley. She was about to pull on her insulated boots when Tom arrived at her door. Still in stocking feet, she stood aside as he entered bearing two Styrofoam containers of coffee and a battered cookie tin.

“From my ‘lady friend,’” Tom grinned, handing Liz the cookie tin. When she said nothing, he said, “Well, aren’t you gonna open it?”

The tin contained two circular pastries, filled with currants.

“Eccles cakes,” Tom said. “Mind if I sit down?”

Liz swept her hand in the direction of her armchair. “Be my guest,” she said. But she remained standing.

“I gather you’ve never had Eccles cakes before. Well, they’re always a treat, but these are better than most. My cousin Caroline makes them every year. Most of the time, my relatives in Swanage—that’s on the south coast of England—get to eat them. But this year, she’s with us for the holidays. I’d have brought her to meet you, but she’s home with my folks.”

“Is she living with you?”

“Just for a few weeks. She’s a student at BU, lives in the dorms. She’s with me while the dorm’s closed for Christmas vacation.”

Liz bit into the pastry and smiled. “Delicious,” she said.

But Tom was quiet, looking at the ice bucket full of flowers.

“I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other,” he said.

“That’s for sure. But, oh my God, I’ve got to run! I’m supposed to be in Wellesley in under a half-hour,” Liz said pulling on her boots and grabbing her reporter’s notebook. She was glad the car keys were stowed in her jacket pocket, for once.

“That’s cutting it close,” Tom said, wrapping up her Eccles cake in a napkin and carrying it and the coffee containers to the door. Following Liz to her car, he handed a coffee and pastry to her before she slammed the door shut. Rolling down the window, Liz leaned out and said, “Thank you, Tom, for the treats. Merry Christmas!”

As she drove away, Liz took a sip from the coffee container and grimaced. It was loaded with sugar. Tom had handed her the wrong one.

By the time she reached the Wellesley College faculty club parking lot, it was almost twenty minutes later than the appointment time. And there was no sign of Olga Swenson. Cursing the cold and sickeningly sweet coffee, Liz got out of her car and scanned the scene. With the snow washed away by the rain, it was pointless to look for footprints. And, she reasoned, if she walked around the faculty club building to look for Mrs. Swenson and Hershey coming or going along the campus path to the lakeshore, she might miss their approach on foot—or by car if Mrs. Swenson was also late and had chosen to drive to the meeting place.

Deciding it was worth a quick look at the campus path in any case, Liz ran as fast as she could in her heavy boots and rounded the building. Olga Swenson could be seen, back bowed, returning along the path towards the lake. When Liz called out, Hershey bounded in her direction.

“I’m so sorry to be late, Mrs. Swenson,” Liz shouted.

Turning to face Liz, Ellen Johansson’s mother lifted her shoulders and straightened her posture, but her facial expression remained crestfallen.

“Still no word,” Liz spoke for her.

“And it’s Christmas,” the older woman said.