Rosemary Herbert - Front Page Teaser

The Brookline number, which Liz dialed first, seemed the most promising. “You have reached the infernal machine of Dr. Douglas Mayhew. Please speak loudly after the beep,” the voice-mail message announced. Liz left a message and went on to phone the others. Luck was with her. The first Mayhew of Boothbay Harbor, Maine, said he knew the other, in Port Clyde, since both were in the boat business. Neither of the Maine Mayhews, he said, had ever headed “any school, anywayuh.” The Worcester Dr. Mayhew was a dentist. Finally, Douglas Mayhew of Cape Cod was not in. His message began with a segment of the rock group No Doubt’s song, “Spiderwebs”: “Sorry I’m not home right now / I’m walking into spiderwebs / So leave a message and I’ll call you back.” It finished with a young man’s voice saying, “Hey, I’m not home. So leave a message.” It was hardly the message of a retired headmaster, but Liz left a message anyway. The young man might have a relative of the same name who was the headmaster’s age.

Waiting for replies, Liz looked in her purse for coffee money. She hadn’t been to the bank in such a long time that she was down to a few dollars. Hoping to find change at the bottom of her bag, she dug deeper, only to have her fingers encounter a plastic bag filled with something soft: the cigarette butts she’d collected from the taxi. Scolding herself for forgetting about them, she immediately phoned Cormac Kinnaird.

The man might be unreadable when it came to personal interaction, but he was unreserved in his enthusiasm to get his hands on this evidence. As the two were about to arrange a meeting time and place, Jared Conneely stopped by Liz’s desk. Noticing she was on the line, he wrote on a scrap of paper, “I regret to inform you that you are on the ‘New Year’s resolutions of the rich, famous, and infamous’ beat today. Stop by the city desk at your first convenience.” Liz silently mouthed “OK” and continued her conversation with Cormac

“I’ve just been assigned a story I can at least begin to work on in the newsroom,” she told him. “And I’m hoping I can linger here to receive a return call from a potential source on the Johansson case.”

“Say no more. I know where the Banner ’s building is. If I can park in your lot, I shall stop by and pick up the stuff on my way to Northeastern. I’ve got to meet with a student at two-thirty, so I’ve got some flexibility. If you have a minute, we could have coffee. If you’ve got more time, I could take you out to lunch in Chinatown.”

“By the time you get here, I’ll know more about my schedule. If you don’t mind winging it regarding my availability, that would be great.”

After hanging up, Liz noticed the light flashing on the phone, indicating a call had come in while she was on the line. Actually, two calls had come in. One was from the young Cape Codder who said, “Hey, it’s Doug Mayhew. Are you gonna put me in the pay-puh? Cool. Call me back.” And he left his number.

The other was from the much more gentlemanly Dr. Mayhew of Brookline. “Hello, Miss Higgs. This is Dr. Douglas Mayhew, former headmaster of the Wharton Alternative School, responding to your message.” He left his phone number.

Down at the city desk, Jared Conneely was making exaggerated waving signals, urging Liz to approach the desk. Liz raised one finger to indicate she’d be there in a minute. Then she dialed the Brookline telephone number.

After introducing herself, Liz quickly realized why the headmaster had referred to her as “Miss Higgs.” He was hard of hearing. While Jared changed his wide-armed signal to a one-fingered, schoolmarmish scolding motion, Liz said loudly, “I’m writing an article about New Year’s resolutions and whether they actually lead to a genuine kind of resolve in young people. I thought I’d call on you, hoping your years of experience with troubled young people would help to anchor my article.”

“I’m flattered that you ask. I suppose I could make myself available, but I’m not good on the phone. I’m going deaf, you see.”

After arranging to meet Dr. Mayhew in two hours, Liz phoned Father James, Department of Youth Services chaplain, and set up an interview and photo shoot of the girls in his care for an hour after that. Then she rushed down to the city desk.

Before Jared could whine or Dermott could bark at her, she told the city editor, “Thanks to Jared, who gave me a heads-up about the New Year’s resolution piece, I’ve already gotten a jump on the article. I’ve arranged to talk to a long-time teacher of troubled teens. Then, I’ll interview a group of adolescent girls who are Department of Youth Services detainees to get their take on whether New Year’s resolutions are a setup for failure or the occasion for truly resolving to take charge of some aspect of living.”

“But we had in mind a celebrity piece. Didn’t Conneely tell you?”

“Great idea for a sidebar!” Liz exclaimed. “And a byline for Jared, if he can afford the time,” she smiled, knowing how difficult it was to get celebrities to respond to such questions on short notice. “I’m sure the ‘Here’s the Buzz’ gals or the society editor would be glad to give him some contact info.”

Like every editorial assistant in the newsroom, Jared lived for such opportunities. While he might have been the first to admit celebrity chasing was not his cup of tea, a byline was not a thing to turn one’s back on, and he knew it. Even his customary pallor disappeared as, smiling broadly, he piped up, “I’m on it!” and made a beeline for the Buzz gals’ office before Dermott could object.

Returning to her desk to write up photo assignment sheets, Liz found her phone ringing. The caller was Olga Swenson. “I’ve gotten my hands on Ellen’s book list,” she said. She sounded shaken. “There’s something else I should tell you, too. The police have had the walls in Veronica’s room stripped.”

“Stripped?”

“They’ve taken down the wallpaper.”

“Did Erik tell you when they did this?”

“No. I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday morning. I’m sure he would have mentioned it if it had occurred before then.”

“Then, how do you know it was done?”

“I’m here at the house now.”

“May I meet you there in about three quarters of an hour? I’d come sooner but I’m waiting for another person to help me with the case.”

“I don’t like to sit here alone. It gives me the willies. I feel so useless, Liz!’

“Don’t be silly. Think about all you’ve accomplished today. I have an idea. You know where the copy shop is in Newtonville?”

“Yes.”

“Take that list there and make a couple of copies of it. Then I’ll meet you back at Ellen’s. You could wait in the car if you like and we could go back in together.”

Olga agreed and ended the conversation just in time for Liz to turn and see Cormac Kinnaird, sporting a visitor’s badge, enter the newsroom. He was carrying a ribbon-wrapped vase filled with red tulips.

“I didn’t know if the newsroom ran to vases,” he said, giving Liz a peck on the cheek. He picked up the plastic bag of cigarette butts.

“Not a very fair exchange,” Liz said, smiling. “I’m afraid I can’t take you up on the lunch offer,” she said, and told the doctor about her appointments with Olga and Dr. Mayhew. “But I could offer you a very quick cup of coffee in our cafeteria.”

“You have too much on your plate. You go take care of those appointments and tell me about them this evening at dinner. We’ll make it on the late side, so you have time to dress up. I’m taking you to a rather nice place, if that’s all right with you. Do you know the restaurant, Upstairs at the Pudding? Shall we meet there at eight?”