Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Michaela Thompson
Tags: Women Sleuths, Mystery, female sleuth, San Francisco mystery, murder mystery, mystery series, cozy mysteries, historical mysteries, womens mystery
more. He flashed me a grin that had once been photogenic and held out his hand. “Kenneth MacDonald, Channel Eight. Pleased to meet you,” he said heartily. Before I could reply he dropped my hand and meandered from the room.
Once he made it out the door Betsy turned to me. “Sorry about that.”
“I see what you mean about the outpatient clinic.”
“You don’t know the half. Poor Ken. He was way too much of a lightweight to hold his own with Larry.” She folded an airplane from one of the papers on her desk and sailed it toward the window, where it crashed against the glass. “What a drag, right? Was there anything else you needed for your story?”
At last. I pretended to think for a moment. “The only other thing is, I thought it might add depth if I could say which stories Larry was working on at the time of his death. Give the feeling that his work must continue, and so on.”
Betsy shook her head. “It’s not a bad idea, but you’re talking to the wrong person. Larry played close to the chest. Totally. It could be that nobody knew, because that’s the way he was. If anybody had an idea, it would be Andrew Baffrey, and he’s gone out.”
I wilted. I had dragged myself down here, skipped my morning pill, sat through a tirade by a drunken former television commentator, only to run full tilt against failure. “Would he be willing to talk with me?” I could hear the tightness in my voice.
“I doubt it,” said Betsy slowly. “He’s taking over the paper, and he’s also very upset about Larry’s death. He’s going to have a lot on his mind.”
I told myself I had known it wasn’t going to work out, that it had been stupid ever to think it would. Ever to think anything would. I closed my notebook and stood up, leaden with disappointment. “Thanks anyway.”
Betsy looked at me. “You’ve
got
to have that one detail?”
“I just— just thought it would add the right finishing touch. I’d planned it that way, and I sort of described it to my professor…” My voice was heading into the upper registers. I prayed it wouldn’t actually crack as I gabbled through this pack of lies.
I could see the decision on Betsy’s face before she said, “Oh rats. I’ve had enough emotional trauma in the past few days to last a lifetime. Come in tomorrow morning and I’ll try to shoehorn you in to see Andrew for a few minutes.”
The rush of relief I felt almost overwhelmed me. I gushed my thanks and she accepted them nonchalantly, cautioning me only to leave my phone number so she could reach me if she had to reschedule.
I was standing in the doorway thanking her once again when a woman pushed me aside to get into the room. Her long brown hair was windblown, her face a deep pink. She wore jeans, boots, and a heavy zip-fronted sweater with a pattern of gray llamas on it. She stood in the middle of the room and said, tremulously but carefully, enunciating each word, “Betsy, I cannot stand it any longer. People have
got
to get off my back. I cannot stand it—” She broke off and bowed her head. I heard her emit a little squeak.
Betsy was beside her in a second, putting an arm around her and leading her to the couch. Before they reached it, the woman was sobbing convulsively.
Whether or not Betsy had had enough emotional trauma, she was obviously going to have more. She sat next to the woman, saying, “What happened, Susanna? Did somebody do something to you?” but the woman only wailed louder, her face clenched like a child’s, stray hair clinging to the wetness of her cheeks and lips. Betsy said, “Maggie, there’s a water cooler back in the newsroom. Bring a cup, would you?”
Susanna? Susanna Hawkins, Larry’s widow. Heading in the direction Betsy indicated, I began the search for the water cooler.
Four
“Newsroom” seemed an extravagant term to apply to the collection of ramshackle desks, jerry-built tables, and dented filing cabinets I found down a short hall. The typewriters
Once he made it out the door Betsy turned to me. “Sorry about that.”
“I see what you mean about the outpatient clinic.”
“You don’t know the half. Poor Ken. He was way too much of a lightweight to hold his own with Larry.” She folded an airplane from one of the papers on her desk and sailed it toward the window, where it crashed against the glass. “What a drag, right? Was there anything else you needed for your story?”
At last. I pretended to think for a moment. “The only other thing is, I thought it might add depth if I could say which stories Larry was working on at the time of his death. Give the feeling that his work must continue, and so on.”
Betsy shook her head. “It’s not a bad idea, but you’re talking to the wrong person. Larry played close to the chest. Totally. It could be that nobody knew, because that’s the way he was. If anybody had an idea, it would be Andrew Baffrey, and he’s gone out.”
I wilted. I had dragged myself down here, skipped my morning pill, sat through a tirade by a drunken former television commentator, only to run full tilt against failure. “Would he be willing to talk with me?” I could hear the tightness in my voice.
“I doubt it,” said Betsy slowly. “He’s taking over the paper, and he’s also very upset about Larry’s death. He’s going to have a lot on his mind.”
I told myself I had known it wasn’t going to work out, that it had been stupid ever to think it would. Ever to think anything would. I closed my notebook and stood up, leaden with disappointment. “Thanks anyway.”
Betsy looked at me. “You’ve
got
to have that one detail?”
“I just— just thought it would add the right finishing touch. I’d planned it that way, and I sort of described it to my professor…” My voice was heading into the upper registers. I prayed it wouldn’t actually crack as I gabbled through this pack of lies.
I could see the decision on Betsy’s face before she said, “Oh rats. I’ve had enough emotional trauma in the past few days to last a lifetime. Come in tomorrow morning and I’ll try to shoehorn you in to see Andrew for a few minutes.”
The rush of relief I felt almost overwhelmed me. I gushed my thanks and she accepted them nonchalantly, cautioning me only to leave my phone number so she could reach me if she had to reschedule.
I was standing in the doorway thanking her once again when a woman pushed me aside to get into the room. Her long brown hair was windblown, her face a deep pink. She wore jeans, boots, and a heavy zip-fronted sweater with a pattern of gray llamas on it. She stood in the middle of the room and said, tremulously but carefully, enunciating each word, “Betsy, I cannot stand it any longer. People have
got
to get off my back. I cannot stand it—” She broke off and bowed her head. I heard her emit a little squeak.
Betsy was beside her in a second, putting an arm around her and leading her to the couch. Before they reached it, the woman was sobbing convulsively.
Whether or not Betsy had had enough emotional trauma, she was obviously going to have more. She sat next to the woman, saying, “What happened, Susanna? Did somebody do something to you?” but the woman only wailed louder, her face clenched like a child’s, stray hair clinging to the wetness of her cheeks and lips. Betsy said, “Maggie, there’s a water cooler back in the newsroom. Bring a cup, would you?”
Susanna? Susanna Hawkins, Larry’s widow. Heading in the direction Betsy indicated, I began the search for the water cooler.
Four
“Newsroom” seemed an extravagant term to apply to the collection of ramshackle desks, jerry-built tables, and dented filing cabinets I found down a short hall. The typewriters
Readers choose
Melissa de La Cruz
Jeffery Deaver
Samuel Jarius Pettit
Tiara Bosh
Anita Mason
Walter Dean Myers
S.M. McEachern
Jenika Snow
Carrie Mac