The Game Changer, стр. 69

Chapter 26

Chief Henderson took Wilma Louise away in his car. But not before yelling at me for a solid two minutes about staying out of police business and obstruction of justice and having a good mind to take me right in with her.

“I’m really sorry I accused Paulie,” I said. “Like, really, really sorry.”

He launched into a rant about big city media and how it was ruining the country.

“I’ll issue a full, public retraction on our next episode,” I said. “I promise.”

He lectured about rights to privacy and slander laws, and then laid into Brooks for not getting rid of me like he was supposed to.

“I’ll bake you your own pumpkin roll,” Daisy said, swooping in and linking her arm in the chief’s. She whispered, “My signature pumpkin buttercream will change your life.”

His yell turned into a grumble and then a mumble and then he let Daisy walk him to his car, talking the whole way about pumpkin muffins and pumpkin cakes, and a special secret recipe pumpkin tiramisu.

“What would I do without her?” I said once they were out of earshot.

“Probably go to jail,” Brooks said. “Or at the very least listen to him go on for another half hour or so.”

“He’s not my biggest fan,” I said.

“No,” Brooks said. “He’s not. I don’t think apologizing to Paulie on your podcast is going to help any.”

“No, probably not. But I’m still going to do it.”

“You should just lay low for a while. Do stories on housewares stores.”

“You never needed a toaster, did you?” I asked. He chuckled at his feet. “I didn’t think so. And you didn’t radio the chief back at the ice cream place, either.”

“I radioed him.”

“Not the question.”

He grinned. “I wanted to give you the chance to see this to the end.”

“Thanks,” I said. I reached over and pinched his arm lightly. “That was nice of you.”

“I keep telling you I’m a nice guy. How did you figure out it was Wilma Louise? We suspected her, but couldn’t find anything to back it up.”

I shrugged. “A good reporter never reveals her sources. But maybe a good egg drop soup could talk it out of me.”

“Deal.” The electricity came back and we got silent. It wasn’t a terrible feeling, if I wanted to be honest with myself. Finally, Brooks broke the tension. “I know you’re bored here.”

I looked around. The neighbors had begun to come out and gather round. Someone brought a lawn chair. Someone else brought lemonade. It was a party, and everyone was invited.

“It’s not the worst place in the world.”

“I like to hear that,” he said. “Makes me think you’re going to stick around.”

Trace popped into my head. He’d found me a job. He’d come all the way down to Parkwood to try to get me back. He’d even brought Tink, and I knew how much Trace hated letting Tink in the car, because the dog hair made his allergies act up, plus camel hair coats were fur magnets.

I could go home to Chicago. I could see my mom and Aunt Ruta, let them yell at me that I was letting my hair get split ends and my thighs get too jiggly. Listen to them argue in person. Let them meddle in my life in their adorable old lady way.

I could go back to a big, busy newspaper. Could eat lunch in the company lunch room with Pulitzer winners and their famous friends. I could follow murderers every day, looking for that big scoop, that unique angle that nobody else had. Hot dog rollers could come and go by the thousands and I would never even know about them.

That was what I’d been hoping for. It was what I’d wanted since I arrived in Parkwood. And Trace had offered it to me on a silver platter.

It was my time.

I leaned over and shut Wilma Louise’s truck door, then bent to pick up the spilled shopping bag. “I should get back to the office,” I said. “Mary Jean will be wondering what happened to me.”

Chapter 27

“Where have you been?” Mary Jean asked as soon as I came in the door. “The biggest story we’ve seen in a decade and you were out to lunch? I had to send Ernie to the police station to report on the public statement.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her Ernie was elbows-deep in giblet gravy over at the Hibiscus.

“I’m sorry, Mary Jean,” I said. “I had to…pursue something.”

“I certainly hope it was worth it,” she said, setting off a huge coughing fit that knocked her back in her chair.

“It was,” I said. I could feel Joyce’s eyes—and her questions—boring into me. I snaked my hand around to my back and gave her a thumbs up.

“Well,” Mary Jean said, recovering, blotting her sweating forehead, “I have a lead for you. The superintendent got new paneling in his office. I need you to cover that.”

“Paneling?” I asked, deflated.

I’m sorry, Mary Jean, I’ve been offered a job back home in Chicago, and we would never do a story on paneling, because nobody wants to read that. So you’ll have to do your own superintendent story. I’m out.

I wanted to say that.

But I didn’t.

Because I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Because as much as I hated to admit it, Mary Jean and her uninspired stories had grown on me without my even knowing it—the same way all of Parkwood had.

“It’s quite controversial,” she said, then blew her nose.

“Too much taxpayer expense?” I ventured. “Misapropriated funds?” This had potential.

“No, no.” She blew again, then tossed the tissue. “Too golden pecan.”

“Huh?”

“The superintendent’s office has always been mahogany. He’s replacing it with golden pecan. His receptionist says she has to wear sunglasses indoors from all the reflection. It’s a real hullabaloo over in the district office. People are drawing hard lines in the sand over