C Corwin - Dig

Dale pulled into his slot on level three. He swiveled toward me. “Make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll let you read my story before I zap it to the desk. And if there’s any little thing you can amplify a bit.”

I pressed my shush finger across his eager smile. “I’ll make you a deal. You write your little story and after it runs, I’ll personally see it gets filed away in the right morgue file. How’s that?”

And that’s how it ended. We took the elevator to the newsroom without saying a word. Dale went to his desk. I went to mine.

There was no guarantee the plan I’d cooked up with Detective Grant would work. But at least it was finally in the works: That night TV21 would dutifully report that the Hannawa police had identified a mysterious object that might link the two murders. The story Dale was writing for tomorrow’s Herald-Union would certainly get a big, black, above-the-fold headline. Charlie Chimera would be pissing and moaning about the police department’s ineptitude all afternoon on the radio.

The police meanwhile would go to work on Rollie Stumpf. They’d put him under surveillance. They’d visit him at the office. They’d hint that they had more than they did. What Rollie would do was anybody’s guess. Maybe he’d confess. That was our hope. Or maybe he’d panic and do something foolish that gave him away.

I did know what I’d be doing. For the first time in four months I’d be doing absolutely nothing.

Wednesday, July 11

The week that followed was simply torture. Detective Grant didn’t call me once. Andrew hadn’t returned my calls. Dale was paying me back and enjoying it. Every time I asked him how things were going with the murder investigations he’d shrug and say something smart like, “Maybe there’ll be something about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

So I was out of the loop and you can just imagine how I felt about that. Then on Wednesday morning Gwen called me at the paper. “I just felt like giving you a buzz,” she said.

“Well, I’m glad you did,” I said.

She rattled my eardrum with a huge, over-rehearsed sigh. “I just hope you’re having a better summer than I am,” she said.

“Things not going well?”

She told me about the wrong shade of blue on the Tuscan tiles she ordered for her guest bathroom. About the trouble she was having with her maid service. About her ongoing search for a pet therapist who understands the delicate temperament of dachshunds. “Then there’s that business with the police,” she said.

“About Gordon, you mean?”

“Yes-and that silly stuff about David Delarosa. They’ve talked to us three times in a week. Me once and Rollie twice.”

I commiserated. “They’ve talked to me about it, too.”

Her second sigh was better. “I don’t know what they think we can tell them. Rollie wasn’t even here that night.”

This was not the time for me to tell Gwen everything I knew about Rollie’s early return to Hannawa, or David’s letter to Gordon. This was the time for me to play dumb and listen closely. “That’s right,” I agreed. “He and Lawrence were in Columbus at the debate tournament.”

“And you and I were with Gordon and Chick at Jericho’s.” She hesitated. “That was the same night David and Sidney got into it over you, wasn’t it?”

I told her it was.

Now she confided in me. “You know how worried I’ve been, Maddy. That maybe Chick had something to do with Gordon’s death. Because of the way they fought at the Kerouac Thing.”

“We’ve all had that worry,” I said.

“But now that the police think there’s a link to David’s death, well, who knows, maybe it was Sidney after all.”

“What about Effie’s alibi for him?” I asked.

“Maybe Effie had no choice,” Gwen said.

Sunday, July 15

The concept of Sunday morning, unfortunately, means nothing to James. He whimpered me awake at seven, as he did every day, demanding that his breakfast be served immediately. I filled his bowl with nuggets and sprinkled the top with stinky liver treats so he’d eat it. Then it was my turn. I put a mug of water in the microwave for my tea. I poured a bowl of cereal. I retrieved my Sunday paper from the driveway while the pieces of petrified bananas and strawberries softened up in the skimmed milk.

We’d finally run Louise’s feature story. On Page One, too. There was a big photo of Mayor Flynn lounging in a big leather chair, surrounded by his collection of Democratic donkeys. Below the photo was this headline:

Where City’s Movers And Shakers Get Away From It All

I read Louise’s predictable cutsie-wootsie lead -Even the Energizer Bunny has to recharge its batteries once in a while -and then turned to the jump page to see if they’d run a photo of Rollie Stumpf. Boy did they. It was a huge, three-column shot of him standing in front of his mantel full of trophies. He was flashing a forced jack-o-lantern smile. I could just see Gwen on the day of the shoot standing behind Weedy screeching, “Smile bigger, Rollie! Smile bigger!”

“I bet he’s not smiling this morning,” I whispered to myself.

I scanned the story for the part about Rollie’s den. He got several paragraphs, right after Worldstar Hydraulics CEO Vernon P. Welty. There was this self-effacing quote by Rollie:

“Sometimes I can’t believe it’s mine,” said Stumpf, the son of a steelworker who today runs one of Hannawa’s most prestigious insurance agencies. “It’s bigger than the entire house I grew up in.”

And this rather sad quote from Gwen, which I’m sure she spent a week of rehearsal getting just right:

“My husband is the busiest man in the world, so he doesn’t get to spend as much time in here as he’d like,” said Stumpf’s wife of 48 years, Gwendolyn Moffitt-Stumpf. “But I’ve made sure he absolutely loves the few precious moments he does get.”

After breakfast I took James for his walk. It was one of those July days you dream all winter about but hate when they finally arrive. It was only nine o’clock but the temperature was already pushing eighty. When we got back to my bungalow, James went straight to his rug for a nap. I took a shower and put on the worst tee shirt and jeans I could find.

I had big plans for this particular Sunday. My backyard is a disaster. It has been since Lawrence and I bought it over forty years ago. The lawn has more dandelions than grass blades and the flowerbeds are solid clay. For years I’ve been dreaming of turning it into one of those beautiful English gardens you drool over in the magazines. In my mind I can picture the cobblestone walkways and serpentine beds of perennials. I can picture a comfy teakwood bench beneath a vine-covered trellis. I see roses. I see zinnias, and marigolds, and bright yellow mums. I can hear my imaginary garden, too. A trickling fountain. Tinkling wind chimes. The buzzing wings of hummingbirds. I figured today was as good as any to start.

The first thing I did was get my kloppers from the garage and go to work on the dead limbs hanging from my pin oak. When that was finished, I scrubbed out the crud in my bird bath. When that was finished, I de-thistled my day lilies. When that was finished I made myself another mug of tea and curled up on my new glider. Gardening is always easier between your ears than on your hands and knees.

While I was busy deciding where my future herb garden should go, the phone rang. And rang and rang. “Damn it,” I growled at the unknown caller, “can’t you see I’m not here?”

The ringing continued. I gave in and trotted inside. It was Detective Grant.

“I figured I’d better tell you before you saw it on the news,” he began. “Rollie Stumpf overdosed on drugs this morning.”