Diane Pershing - Whispers and Lies

“It is that, but the backroom maneuvering is pretty fascinating.”

She picked up a French fry, dipped it in ketchup and bit into it. That was when Will noticed that Lou’s plate was nearly full. Before he could comment on it, she said, “So, tell me, what’s this Lincoln DeWitt like?”

“He’s got the morals of an alley cat,” he said with a smile. “The man has a huge ego, drinks way too much and, to tell you the truth, I kind of like him. You can’t help it. He’s so up front about what a bad boy he is.”

“Does he know you’re writing the article?”

“Are you kidding? He’s cooperating, one hundred percent. The man loves the limelight.”

Lou offered a mirthless laugh. “Everyone wants to be famous. Not me, thanks. Give me a small, settled life, and I’m a happy camper.”

“Good for you. Better that way.”

So, she really didn’t know, Will realized. Had not an inkling, he was sure of it.

When she took a small bite of her corn and then set it down, again his attention was brought back to the fact that she’d hardly eaten a thing, and he felt concern for her, more concern than was his business.

Not for the first time, he wished he didn’t have two agendas for being here with Lou tonight, the personal and the professional. As a reporter, the two were often linked, and tonight was no exception.

And although he didn’t believe in coincidence, that was exactly what had happened back in D.C. this past Tuesday night that had led to this meeting….

The DuPont Circle neighborhood bar hadn’t been very crowded as, somewhat early for his appointment with Lincoln DeWitt, Will had been catching up on a back issue of the Susanville Courier. His little sister, the paper’s managing editor, always faithfully sent them to him.

He was glancing at the obituaries when a slap on the back told him the man himself had arrived. Lincoln slid onto the stool next to him, saying, “Hey, Will, heard this one? Old geezer is having bed trouble with his old lady. You know, no staying power? Goes to his doc for some hot new meds. Doc tells him there are possible side effects: dizziness, high blood pressure, nausea, even death. Guy shrugs and says, ‘Hey, she dies, she dies.’” Lincoln followed the punch line with one of his big, hearty laughs.

As always, his mirth was contagious, and Will chuckled. “And good evening to you, too, Lincoln.”

DeWitt was a handsome man in his early sixties, with a straight nose, high forehead and a full head of silver hair. But his gut protruded over his belt and there were lines of dissipation around the eyes, a reddened nose, sunken cheeks. Hard living had taken its toll.

After Lincoln ordered his usual double scotch on the rocks, his gaze drifted to the newspaper Will had spread out in front of him. A deep frown creased his patrician forehead as he stared at the Courier’s back page.

Will noticed his reaction. “What is it, Linc?”

The older man grabbed the paper and brought the page that had captured his attention closer. From his vest pocket, he removed reading glasses, put them on and studied the picture. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s my hometown newspaper. Susanville, New York.”

“Janice McAndrews,” he muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“This woman, this Janice McAndrews,” he said, pointing to the page, still frowning. “This is her obituary. Did you know her?”

“Janice McAndrews,” Will said, thinking. “Let me see.”

He peered over Linc’s shoulder and read. There were two pictures, one of a much younger woman—say, twenty years earlier or so—and another more recent one, taken at the age, reported to be fifty-three, when the woman had died of cancer. One survivor, Louise McAndrews, DVM.

“Oh, yes,” he said, remembering now why the name was familiar. “I knew her daughter. Well, kind of knew her. She was one of my sister’s friends.”

“Hmm.” And with that, Linc handed the paper back to him, grinning once again. “So, what’s up? Did you interview Gretchen? And does she still disapprove of me?”

Will wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. “How do you know Janice McAndrews? What is she to you?”

Linc gave an offhand shrug, that good-time twinkle was back in his eye. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Then why the reaction?”

“She reminded me of someone, that’s all,” he answered easily. “But I was wrong.”

“Linc. You’re BSing me.”

After a momentary pause, during which the older man probably realized he wasn’t going to win this one, he said, “Yeah, I am.” He offered another smirk. “Okay, I think, well—” he winked “—I may have been, shall we say, intimate with the lady? Only that wasn’t her name…I think. I really don’t remember for sure. There were a few years back there in the seventies when I was experimenting with all kinds of potions and mixtures. The whole thing’s kind of fuzzy.”

“And that’s it? You sure?”

He splayed his hands. “Hey, I’ve come clean about all the ladies I’ve been with, at least all the ones I remember, haven’t I, Will?” That he had, and the list was long and possibly libelous—the Times’s lawyers would be sharpening their pencils, Will had no doubt.

“Okay, yeah.”

So, he’d let it lie. For the moment.

But Linc’s reaction had been too big for his explanation. Will had a sixth sense for what his interview subjects wanted to hide, and Lincoln DeWitt was hiding something. So later that night, back at his home office, Will had turned on his computer and used Google to search the Internet for Janice McAndrews. He got some references to a classics scholar living in Madrid, several more to a financial adviser based in Chicago. A few single hits referred to school reunions, recipe queries and even more mundane things, but nothing about a Janice McAndrews of Susanville, New York. He might have picked up the phone right then and called Lou, but he knew he would be going home for his sister’s wedding.

Now, here he was, three days later, sitting at Lady Jamaica’s, across the table from the woman he’d hoped might shed some light on what Lincoln DeWitt was hiding.

Light had been shed, but Lou herself was completely in the dark.

“All of us here in Susanville are pretty impressed at how well you’ve done, career-wise,” she said.

He shrugged, tossed it off. “I’ve been lucky.”

“Lucky and talented.” She smiled. “Fifteen years climbing the reporter’s career ladder, and now the New York Times. Everyone always thought you’d be the one to take over the Courier. But I guess the wider world outside of Susanville called to you.”

“That it did.”

“And how was it?”

“The world?”

“Yes.”

There was a flippant answer Will could have given, but instead he found himself taking the time to actually think about it. A series of images flashed in his mind like slides on a screen: bodies being blown up in Iraq; more blood-soaked corpses strewn over the wreckage of a train crash in Spain; large-eyed, hollow-cheeked, diseased children in Sudan. “It’s pretty rough out there,” he said somberly. “I got burned-out. There’s a lot of pain in the world, and way too much violence.”

“So I hear.” Compassion shone from her eyes, followed by a soft smile. “And burnout happens to us all.”

He shifted his attention to her full plate. “Hey,” he said. “Come on, you have to eat something.”

Lou was surprised by the change of subject, then she too looked down. Will was nearly done with his dinner and she’d hardly touched hers. She took a bite of her garlic bread, but could barely chew it. For weeks, her appetite simply hadn’t been there. It was as though her taste buds had calluses on them. Yes, sir, that new weight-loss gimmick—grief.