Roots of Murder (15 page)

“I'm going to be doing more peering and poking stuff, checking all the tables to make sure I can dot the i's and cross the t's about sex and race. Then I'll write a report for the authorities. It's just possible one of my many, many grad assistants would assume it should be forwarded to the newspaper.”

Nell had to smile at her offer. “I'd appreciate any assistance your grad students could give me. For this first story, though, I'll be pretty bare bones—sorry, pun not intended. I won't go into your speculation about the cause of death for the second woman. Something along the lines of three skeletons, evidence points to homicide. I'll have a week to see if I can discover their identities. That might go a long way to proving or disproving your theories.”

“You're right. The more evidence you have the better. This one could buzz louder than a rattlesnake in a hornet's nest. I'll be here playing on the computer most of the day. Call if you have any other questions.”

“Thanks for all your help,” Nell said. She thought about asking to speak to Kate again but couldn't think of anything to add, or any polite phone conversation way to say please help keep my son safe.

After hanging up, she turned back to her computer screen and incorporated what she'd learned from Ellen into her story. Jacko came in, only long enough to leave a sheet of paper on her desk and grab the camera. The information he got from the morgue told her nothing that Ellen hadn't already given her, but still Nell recognized Jacko had done an intrepid job of finding a good source. She had to remember to compliment him on it.

The sheriff's office had responded only that they would release a report in the afternoon and would take any questions then. The spokeswoman added that they would be limited in what they could answer, as the investigation was ongoing.

Nell suddenly thought of someone else that she should call. She hastily looked through the campaign literature and found a phone number for Marcus Fletcher.

“Good morning,” he answered. Even on their short acquaintance, Nell was able to recognize his deep voice.

“Good morning, Mr. Fletcher. This is Nell McGraw from the
Pelican Bay Crier
.” She again cursed herself for being so formal, but that had been her role; Thom was the informal one.

“Mrs. McGraw, how pleasant to hear from you.”

“I'm afraid my call doesn't have a pleasant purpose. I'm sorry to tell you that you were right. There were three bodies. I was wondering if you had anything else you'd like to add, or if you'd like to make a comment.”

“Nothing on the record. At least not yet. Being a newspaper woman yourself, I'm sure you'll understand how reluctant I am to interject myself in the story.”

“At least not yet,” Nell echoed. “Would you be interested in hearing what I've written so far?”

“Most interested. Can you email me the story? Just because I'm an old man doesn't mean I haven't entered the modern age. ”

“Of course. But I'm on deadline, so if you have anything to add, it'll have to be soon.” She took down his email address.

“I'll look forward to reading it.” Then he added, “Even without a byline, I can usually tell which ones are yours.”

“That could be a good thing or a bad thing,” Nell replied.

“Very true. But in this case, a good thing. You're a talented writer, Mrs. McGraw. I can tell they're yours when I find very little to edit.” He added a goodbye and rang off.

Flattery or the truth? Or a bit of both? She again admired him for how much he'd gotten out of her and how little he'd given in return. She emailed him the story. He was playing her, but she didn't think it was simply because he liked pulling strings; rather, he was letting her prove she deserved his trust.

Her phone buzzed and Pam said into the intercom, “Nell, there's someone here to see you.” Pam's desk wasn't really far enough away to need an intercom; a projected voice could do as well, but a few years ago, Thom had decided they should be beyond yelling through the newsroom.

Before she had a chance to ask who it was, that who was at her door.

“Mrs. McGraw,” Aaron Dupree said to her. “I hope you don't mind my dropping in. I was in the neighborhood.”

She quelled the schoolgirl response of “you can come by anytime” and settled for a more professional “Not at all, Mr. Dupree. A newsmaker like yourself is always welcome in our office. Is there something I can do for you? Or did you just want to scope out the media?”

“A little bit of both. I've come up with some
thirty-day
, six-
month, and
one-year
goals if I'm elected mayor. I thought I'd give the mighty media a chance to incorporate them into stories. Even if the stories shoot them down,” he added with a
self-deprecating
smile.

Nell took a moment to note again how he was a handsome man, and a handsome man who had come to see her. Part of her hoped his attention was just a political ploy and he wouldn't become a complication in her life. Another part of her wished quite the opposite, that his coming by just used the election angle as a way to see her.

“Good, I've just loaded all the guns this morning,” she answered.

“I am yours to take aim at, ma'am,” he replied.

Nell didn't miss the possible double meaning in his words. Nor did she respond to it, save with a slight smile. Even if she knew she wanted to, and she was far from that, she was not about to openly flirt with a candidate for mayor in her workplace.

“How about a tour?” he continued. “I know this is one of the historical buildings in Pelican Bay, and it's been a long time since I've been here.”

“Sometimes I think ‘historical' is code for lousy plumbing,” Nell said.

“And my final request, before we embark on the tour of your historical lousy plumbing: this Saturday is the gala and silent auction for the Historical Preservation Society. My sister was going to go with me, but she can't. It's going to be quite the political show; I thought a keen observer like you might enjoy it. See us pols when we don't think we have to behave.”

Nell almost said “are you asking me on a date?” but she caught herself. As a reporter covering the election, she could go. As the recent widow of Thom McGraw being asked out, she should say no.

“Thank you for thinking of me, Mr. Dupree. Are you sure you want to give a reporter with loaded guns that kind of target?”

“I flatter myself to think I won't be the best target. Will you go?”

“I'll have to make arrangements for something vaguely adult to be with my kids, in a way that doesn't scream babysitting, but yes, I'll go.”

“My campaign is having an
envelope-stuffing
party that evening. Two young and energetic hands would be welcome.”

Nell calculated for a moment. Lizzie, having been dazzled by Aaron Dupree at her school assembly, would go. Josh wouldn't think it a great evening. They could always go to their grandmother's and get Nell some points for letting the grandkids come visit. She'd decide when it got to the point of having to make a decision.

“You politicians are all alike. Now I see the real reason for your offer—a slick plan to trap my children into an evening of free labor to further your political ends.”

“I'm abashed at how easily you see though me.”

“As long as we know the terms. Now, why don't I show you our historical plumbing?”

The building tour was perfunctory and didn't include any actual plumbing. The real purpose of his visit, beyond what had happened in her office, appeared to be for him to meet the staff without handlers at his elbow. Nell had to admit it was an astute move, to drop by and establish connections with the staff on the local paper.

Jacko came upstairs just as Aaron Dupree was listening to Ina Claire recall him being a young high school boy. He discreetly laid several
print-outs
of the photos on his desk,
face-down
, and shook Dupree's hand with a coiled excitement Nell recognized. There were some good pictures there and he couldn't wait to show them to her.

When Ina Claire had finished her story, Aaron Dupree seemed to sense a shift in the room—or perhaps he had other places to go. He said, “I've taken enough of your time and I'm sure you've got better things to do than listen to me.” The truth was he'd been doing most of the listening and her staff had been doing most of the talking, from both Ina Claire and Dolan remembering the younger Aaron Dupree to Pam discussing cleaning up the beach.

Nell walked him to the front door.

He turned to her and said, “The gala starts with cocktails, so for us to arrive properly late, I should pick you up on Saturday around seven.”

“That'll be fine,” Nell agreed, and Aaron Dupree gave one final wave to the
still-gathered
staff and headed down the stairs.

“Saturday at seven?” Dolan asked, arching an eyebrow.

“To a political function only,” Nell answered. “Good Lord, Dolan, I'm not ready to … I'm not … He just had an extra ticket and all the candidates will be there.” Dolan wasn't the only one who had overheard and they were all watching her. “Should I get an extra ticket and have you come along as a chaperone?” Immediately she regretted her words and quickly added, “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I guess I'm … touchy on this.”

“It's your paper, Nell. You get to run it how you want to,” Dolan said, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “And it's your life, same rule applies.”

“I'm not ready for … anything other than going to an event explicitly as a reporter,” she replied softly, wondering if it was as true as she wanted it to be. “And we all run this paper. I just pay the bills.”

Dolan nodded, then allowed himself a slight smile. Meeting Nell's eyes, he said, “Maybe I'm a little overprotective of Thom's memory.”

“I can't stop being a woman. And I'm going to have to deal with a lot of men.” Nell wondered if she should remind Dolan that one night ago she went by herself to a political rally. Had he not been worried because the men she was with were black? On the other hand, none of those men had picked her up and escorted her there.

Whatever else she might have said was cut off by Carrie showing up. On seeing everyone in the newsroom and all of them watching her, the young woman mumbled, “I was off working on a story.”

In your dreams, Nell thought; Carrie's puffy eyes clearly revealed what she'd been working on. “Do a quick
write-up
of what you've got. I have a few gaps that need to be plugged,” Nell told her, although there were certainly no gaps she expected to fill with what Carrie was putatively working on. Her real purpose was to call Carrie's bluff. “Then I need you to cover the Harbor Commission meeting that starts at two this afternoon.” Nell also knew that covering bureaucratic meetings was scut work Carrie despised. The Harbor Commission was going to have a
fun-filled
afternoon on the problem of dumping oil and trash fish in the harbor. “When you're done with the Harbor Commission, come back here. We may have
last-minute
chores to make sure the paper gets out.”

Carrie had a habit of leaving for a meeting and not coming back to the office. It was one of the unspoken rules of the Crier: if a boring meeting ended around four, you didn't have to come back. But Carrie had pushed the rule; if she left for anything after one o'clock, she didn't return. Thom had even had to go to the extreme of talking to her about it.

Nell turned from Carrie, gave Jacko a nod, and returned to her office. He followed her in with his stack of pictures. He didn't say anything, just spread the
print-outs
across her desk and pointed out the pictures he thought were the best.

Nell took her time slowly studying them. Jacko did have a good eye and had picked several dramatic shots: a
close-up
of the skull with the bullet hole clearly showing; one of Ellen holding up a skull, her expression sober and focused, sad around her eyes. Another photo showed one of the graduate students almost prostrate on the ground, digging out a femur.

Nell took a long time looking at the pictures. I have to make this decision, don't I, she thought. In the past, even when she decided, it had never been her sole responsibility. Sometimes the best picture was obvious and if it wasn't. Thom was always there to second her or point out something she'd missed. Jacko was good, but he wasn't Thom. He didn't—and couldn't—know the town the way Thom did, or have years of shared sensibility like she and Thom had.

She finally chose the shot of the graduate student. It was dramatic, although the shot of Ellen and the skull was even more so. But the student's face was turned away from the camera and Nell's instincts told her it would be better to keep anonymity for this story. The other picture she picked was a wide view of the dig, a good shot of the site but not the best. It just showed the most turned backs or side views.

“These two,” Nell finally said, and she pointed them out to Jacko.

He gave her a puzzled glance.

“You've got a good eye, and the others are nice shots. But Ellen gave me a great scoop and I think she'd prefer not to have her face and name all over the paper. Yes, we could leave her name off, but it would seem odd with such a clear and distinct portrait. Although go ahead and print a couple, I think she'd love to have copies and it's a good way to say thank you. The grad student has his face away from the camera, so we don't have to name him. We're probably going to be running this story for a while, so I want to save the skull picture. And part of the story is about the land and who it belonged to, so I wanted a picture that gives a sense of location.”

“And you choose the one where no one is facing the camera,” Jacko observed.