Part 6 (1/2)

”Curtis isn't up yet,” she informed me, still sounding like her usual cheerful self. ”I promised to make breakfast for him this morning because Oren wanted pancakes. Should I wake Curtis?”

I hesitated. ”No. But have him call me as soon as he gets up. Thanks, Sunny.”

Sleeping in is not a sin. I'd do it myself if I had more opportunities. But I wondered if my new reporter was a bit lazy. While I waited for him to reach a conscious state, I called Milo's cell phone.

”Are you at work?” I asked in response to his gruff greeting.

”Yes,” he replied. ”How come you didn't ignore my warning and run off to see Lover Boy in Seattle?”

I realized that Milo had seen my home phone number come up on his caller ID. ”That's really none of your business,” I snapped. ”What does concern you is that I'm a.s.signing Curtis Mayne to the Platte investigation.”

”Curtis is twelve,” Milo responded. ”Are you crazy? You didn't let Scott Chamoud take on a big story like this until he'd been working for you at least five years.”

”It wasn't that long,” I countered, although it had definitely taken me quite a while to let Scott handle a touchy a.s.signment. ”This is different. I'm concerned about my objectivity.”

”Yeah, right, okay,” Milo said grumpily. ”It's your call. But I don't want to have to hold this twerp's hand.”

”That's how he'll learn,” I declared. ”Naturally, I'll edit his copy closely.”

”d.a.m.ned straight you will,” Milo shot back. ”I don't want some punk fresh out of college making me look like an idiot.”

”Of course not,” I said. ”Is there anything new on the case?”

”It's not your story,” Milo retorted. ”I'll keep Curtis up to speed when he gets here.”

There was no point in arguing with the sheriff when he was in one of his ornery moods. ”You'll see him soon,” I promised and hung up.

But noon came and the clock kept ticking. I'd gone outside to work in the garden, taking my phone with me. By one o'clock I'd filled a plastic bag full of weeds, leaves, and branches, taking out my increasing annoyance with Curtis by yanking up the English bluebells that were crowding out my summer-blooming plants.

I stood up, brushed the dirt off my old slacks, and surveyed my handiwork. As usual, I couldn't see much of an improvement. My front yard is relatively flat, but out in back of my log house the property slopes upward and is shaded by tall evergreens. I confine my greatest labor to the front, where the garden gets more sun. The rainy climate encourages growth, and for some perverse reason it seems to have a more positive effect on weeds and other undesirable flora than on the flowers and shrubs I've spent my hard-earned money on. I don't have a truly green thumb, but I try. At the moment, I felt as if I was a better gardener than an editor and publisher, given my inability to keep track of my reporter. I went back inside, washed my hands, and called the Rhodes residence a second time.

”Did Curtis ever wake up?” I asked Sunny.

”Yes,” she replied. ”He came into the kitchen about ten minutes after you called. I told him you wanted to talk to him, and he said he'd call, but after he ate his breakfast, he left. Maybe,” she added hopefully, ”he's coming to see you.”

”Maybe.” I sounded far less hopeful. ”Thanks.”

I dialed Curtis's cell phone again. This time he picked up on the third ring.

”Wow,” he said with what sounded like feigned amazement, ”would you believe I was just about to call you?”

”No, I wouldn't,” I snapped. ”I've been trying to get ahold of you for almost two hours.” It was an exaggeration, but I was mad.

”Sorry,” he said breezily. ”I didn't realize I was still on the clock. I thought this was a Sat.u.r.day.”

”Journalists are always on the clock,” I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. ”News actually does sometimes happen on a weekend, even in Alpine. Where are you?”

”Uh...Starbucks. Mrs. Rhodes doesn't make lattes.”

I couldn't resist sarcasm. ”That's a shame. Poor you. Bring it with you and be here in five minutes.” I hung up.

It took Curtis almost ten minutes, but he arrived in his aging Nissan just before one-thirty. He wasn't carrying a paper cup, so I presumed he'd finished his latte at Starbucks.

”So what's happening?” he asked after I indicated he should sit in an armchair by the fireplace.

I sat rigidly on the sofa. ”You've heard about Dylan Platte's murder, I a.s.sume.”

Curtis nodded. ”It's all over town. He's the guy who wanted to buy the paper, right?”

”He and some other family members,” I said. ”I'm a.s.signing you the story.”

His blue eyes widened. ”No kidding! That's great. Byline and all, huh?”

”That's right.” I relaxed a little. ”Of course I'll go over your copy. This is a huge story, and it has to be handled carefully. Ordinarily, I'd do it myself, but in effect, I'm recusing myself because of the angle about the buyout proposal.”

”Oh, yeah.” He'd taken a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and was chewing on it. ”Gotcha. Touchy. Kid gloves, right?”

”Yes.” I leaned forward. ”By the time the paper goes to press, a lot of things may've happened, including an arrest. You'll be dealing primarily with Sheriff Dodge, who will tell you only what he thinks you ought to know. How have you gotten on with him so far?”

Curtis shrugged. ”Okay. I haven't seen him more than twice. He's usually in his office when I stop by to check the log. I talk mostly with Lorna, the receptionist, or to one of the deputies.”

”Her name's Lori,” I said, beginning to realize that Curtis seemed to have trouble remembering people's names. ”Lori Cobb. Be sure you take plenty of notes and use your recorder.”

”Sure. It's a good one. I got it as a graduation present, a Sony ICD-MS515 Memory Stick Recorder.” He grinned at me. ”This should be a kick.”

”A kick?” I was appalled. ”Murder isn't a cheap thrill. This isn't TV, it's real.”

Curtis shrugged again. ”Sure-like reality TV. Hey,” he continued before I could say anything, ”newspapers are part of the media, and the media is all about entertainment. The problem is, print journalists don't get it. They're still living in the past, where they were the big sources of information. Then we got the Information Age, one big explosion of ways to communicate instantly, and meanwhile, editors and publishers and reporters are still back in the Dark Ages. Who wants to wait to read the news? So what's to do? Entertain, just like TV and movies and the rest of the media. How many of those handsome and beautiful people on TV have ever dug out a story on their own? The closest they come to real reporting is to stand in the middle of a hurricane and announce that it's really wet and windy. Even a moron can figure that one out.”

”My, my,” I said dryly, ”I don't recall you giving me this philosophy when you interviewed for the job.”

”You didn't ask.” Curtis leaned back in the armchair and stretched his legs. ”Besides, I thought maybe you already knew all this.”

”You have some good points about the media,” I allowed, ”but I believe in journalistic integrity, which means you can't go off half-c.o.c.ked and not take a story-any kind of hard news story-seriously. You also have to remember to treat your sources with tact and consideration. In a small town, reliable spokespersons are few and far between. Alienating any of them can dry up your sources forever. These people don't tend to forgive and forget.”

”Small town, small minds,” Curtis said under his breath. ”Okay, I get it. I'm off to see the sheriff. He is at work today, isn't he?”

I shot Curtis a reproachful glance. ”He was there a couple of hours ago, when I told him you'd stop in almost immediately.”

”Got it.” He popped out of the armchair and headed for the door.

For the rest of the day, I tried to shake off my misgivings. I even told myself that Milo and Curtis deserved each other. On the rare occasions when I'd allowed Scott Chamoud to deal with the sheriff, my former reporter's good manners and amiable disposition had set well enough with all of the county's law enforcement employees. Curtis Mayne was a different type-c.o.c.ky and opinionated. But maybe that meant he was also determined and aggressive. Time would tell.

In the early evening, Vida called. ”So you stayed on in Alpine,” she said in an approving voice. ”I thought you might go to Seattle after all.”

I explained why I'd decided against the trip and concluded by saying that I'd a.s.signed the story to Curtis.

Vida exploded in my ear. ”Are you quite mad?” she shrieked. ”He's an infant! You've sent a boy to the mill!”

”I didn't have much choice,” I argued. ”I didn't feel right about handling the coverage directly.”