Rosemary Herbert - Front Page Teaser

“You know, it’s not as foolish an errand as it first appears, Cormac,” Liz said. “Yes, I’d love to have been trusted to handle a more obviously important assignment, especially breaking news. And in the context of longing to devote all my attention to Ellen Johansson’s disappearance, it was intensely frustrating to have to interview those girls today. But I took away some real insights from what one girl told me, which I shared with our readers in my story. Even if those words do not change one moment of any other reader’s life, the fact that they are reported will have an impact on the girls I quoted, who may have some pride as a result and, perhaps, one day use the article to support a job or college application. In addition, it’s good for the Department of Youth Services to have such good press. It might be useful when funding time comes around, and, God knows, those girls need all the assets they can get. It’s also good for the Banner to be a force in the community.”

“I wouldn’t have thought of all that. What you say makes me reconsider my attitude towards lifestyle pieces.”

“There’s no doubt there’s much more bang in breaking news—and there’s no doubt I’d rather cover it—but I like to think soft news has its own kind of impact,” Liz said, pausing to savor the cassoulet. “This is wonderful,” she enthused. She told Cormac about the afghan made by the DYS crocheting group. “Often when I’m frustrated about covering the community news beat, I feel better about it at the end of the day when I cover up with that afghan. It reminds me that what I do is important to somebody. In fact, it was that beat that brought me in contact with Ellen and Veronica in the first place.” Liz filled in the details of the Santa and Newton City Hall hora assignments for Cormac, explaining how her report caused the wallpaper stripping and admitting she didn’t examine the walls when she had a chance because she was too busy comforting Olga.

“Is it a good idea for you to become so personally involved with your sources? Of course in my forensics work, I must guard against emotional involvement. It would ruin my judgment, I’m sure.”

“Well, you’re right, of course. I blew it today because I was too concerned with Olga Swenson’s emotional state. But it is hard, for me, at least, to separate passion for my work from passion for its ‘sources,’ as you call them.”

“Well, if I may be considered one of your sources, does that mean you have some passion for me?”

“Ah, that depends upon many factors. Which makes me wonder, have you any news for me?”

“Not at the dinner table, my dear. Say, how about taking a look at the dessert menu? Please don’t behave like all women and say you ‘can’t possibly.’”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Liz said, drinking the last of her wine.

“This time, you order for us. Don’t worry, I could happily consume anything on the menu.”

Liz passed over the light sorbets and flan in favor of a slice of bourbon and pecan pie and a chocolate sponge cake. “Complementary flavors, so we might share them,” she said after she ordered.

Cormac ordered two more drams of single malt whisky. “Unlike the Lagavulin we consumed earlier, which, I’m sure you noticed, had a smoky, malt taste, the Macallan we are about to imbibe is a sweeter affair, with strong hints of vanilla and spice,” he instructed Liz, with the air of a bon vivant.

“You spoke of remaining detached in your work. Do you ever worry that it carries over into the rest of your life?”

Cormac considered the candlelight that shone through his drink. “Touché,” he said, lifting his drink to his lips.

“Good fencing makes good neighbors,” Liz parried.

“I get your thrust. Or perhaps that should be your line.”

“Hah! Do you dare risk the unkindest cut of all?”

“A woman’s scorn? Not when I can cut and run at will.”

Liz looked Cormac straight in the eyes. “I wonder—” she began.

“What’s in this package?” Cormac finished for her, taking a gift-wrapped box from his inside jacket pocket. “The contents might be pretty to the eye of one beholder. Now, don’t say, ‘You shouldn’t have!’”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Liz said again.

While the pianist played “A Foggy Day,” she carefully untied the golden cloth ribbon and undid the thick wrapping paper, patterned in burgundy and cream swirls reminiscent of an old volume’s endpapers. The box might have contained a bracelet or perhaps a necklace, but Cormac’s choice was more original than that. The present was a Montblanc fountain pen.

“Oh, golly!”

“For the writer in my life,” he said, reaching across the table to place his hand over hers.

“For the musician in mine,” Liz said after a moment, taking the four little packets from her purse and passing them across the table to him.

For the first time that evening, Cormac Kinnaird displayed his true, boyish smile as—feeling with his fingers the coiled wires through the gift wrap—he realized what the packets contained. Looking up at her, and intently, if briefly, meeting her eyes, he said just two words.

“Oh, Liz!”

Then, as quickly as his eyes shied away from hers, he seemed to lose his urbane air in favor of his familiar taciturnity.

Jekyll and Hyde , Liz thought, and requested an espresso.

Only when the coffee came did Liz dare to ask about the forensic news again. At this juncture, the doctor grasped at her question as a conversational lifesaver.

“I am the bearer of some significant news,” he said, lapsing into formal tones and word choice and speaking softly because of the subject matter. He leaned across the table towards Liz. “We already knew the blood type of the drop of blood found on the poinsettia does not match the blood type reported to be Ellen’s in the papers. Nor does it match that of the chief suspect, Erik. But it looks like it does match the blood type of your cabdriver: B-negative.”

“Does it match the DNA on the cigarette butts I retrieved from the taxi?”

“No, no, Liz. I think that test should be run, but those results will take at least eleven weeks to come back. I tested the blood I found on a scrap of tissue I found among the cigarette butts. Looks like your guy nicked himself shaving and threw the tissue in the ashtray once he was in the cab.”

“That’s marvelous news!”

“Not really. If—and remember, it’s a big if —the scrap of tissue is from your cabbie, it only proves he had the same blood type as the unknown bleeder in Ellen’s kitchen. We need the DNA test to prove it was the same person. For that, we can test the blood on the tissue and the saliva on the cigarette butts, too. But, as I said, that will take about eleven weeks.”

“Eleven weeks? It takes that long? That’s awful!”

“Actually, that’s extraordinarily quick. For the police, it ordinarily takes a few months. We have an advantage in that I can run the samples in a teaching lab and don’t have to wait in a line for priority.”

“Wouldn’t this high-priority case take precedence for the police, too?”

“Yes, and no. The violence in Ellen Johansson’s kitchen suggests foul play, but if she’s dead, her life is not on the line. Police labs are also at work on testing samples from death row inmates. It’s usually the case that there’s a bit of a backup in police labs.”

“I don’t like relying on a lead time of only a week or so. Fortunately, I wasn’t planning to give them the information at this stage anyway.” Liz set down her espresso and picked up her unfinished single malt. Raising it to her companion she took a long sip, and then blew Cormac Kinnaird a kiss across the small table.