Chapter 17
Some lunch! Sam owed her more than a salad from Kroger's even if he had carefully selected each item, made sure he included spinach (to which he had an admitted personal aversion), topped it with shredded cheese and croutons, and smothered it in her favorite blue cheese dressing.
Jennifer stuffed another spoonful into her mouth and crunched into bean sprouts. Yum. And just because it was delicious—her tongue found a black olive to join the party of flavors—was no reason for Sam to think she actually liked eating outside in a park on a gorgeous spring day. She'd had something in mind like a thirty dollar entrée at one of Macon's exclusive restaurants. He owed her big-time for putting up with Moore, and she intended to see him pay.
Sam bit off a third of his hamburger, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and took a big slurp of the supersize cola that sat perched on the wooden park bench. "What's it like on the battlefront?"
Jennifer swallowed and took a drink of the flavored water Sam had brought her. Blackberry—the best. "I don't know how much I can find out. Moore seems to have only one thing on his mind when I'm in the room."
"I can understand that." Sam gave her an approving scan. "But then that means he's not suspicious of you. After all, he came to you, not you to him."
And you to me, she thought.
Jennifer made the mistake of looking him straight in those gorgeous eyes of his. She was angry with him, but she couldn't remember why.
"I want you to see if you can gain access to the files."
"I've got access. As a matter of fact, filing is one of the menial jobs they threw my way. They didn't even ask me if I knew the alphabet."
"Good. Go through them as carefully as you can."
"And find what? What am I looking for?" Jennifer asked petulantly. "And Edith seems cemented in her chair."
"She has to go to the bathroom sometime. Do it then. Look for notes on an investigative report that was never aired, one that happened during the time that Browning was at the station."
"I haven't exactly memorized Channel 14's news broadcasts, you know. But if you think we're looking for something to do with a news report, I think you're wrong. Moore's a reader, not a reporter. He messed around all morning and then at eleven-thirty, a young Jimmy Olson type came into the office carrying a script. Moore took it into the office. I could hear him reading through it."
"So you think Browning was a reader, too?"
Jennifer shrugged. "Who knows? But they replaced him with John Allen—that should be a big hint."
"Well, check the files anyway. You never know. Browning started out as a field reporter, but that was more than a few years ago. Also keep an ear out for who Browning socialized with."
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to start a conversation about a dead man's social life?"
"You've only been there a few hours. I have complete confidence in you."
"Do you, now?"
"Yeah, I do."
She shook her head. She didn't like the way her mind wandered when she was around Sam. She kept getting distracted by minor things like his teeth. They had character. And his chin, while strong, had just a hint of vulnerability…
"…to get a look at that roof, if possible," Sam was saying.
Why did men insist on talking? Jennifer drew her mind back to Kyle Browning. The man was dead. He deserved at least a bit of her attention.
Her characters never had trouble keeping on track. Maxie Malone was sharp as a tack—always. And Jolene, well, when Jolene met some guy, she just got it over with and never let it interfere with an investigation.
She stuffed a cracker into her mouth and mumbled, "Should have saved the picnic for tomorrow." Eating usually brought her mind back to reality.
"Why?"
"We could eat on the roof. If anyone catches us, it'll look like a romantic tryst."
Sam gave her a sly smile and slurped cola through his straw. "Sounds good to me. I'll bring the food; you bring yourself."
She hated how he did that, how he left her without a comeback, how he made her so acutely aware of her femininity.
"I'd better get you back to work. Moore will wonder what's happened to you. I don't want him getting suspicious. We don't know what part Moore may have had in Browning's death."
Jennifer got her big chance to search the files at four o'clock when a breathless, red-faced young woman came begging for help. A major paper jam had developed in the Xerox machine down the hall. Edith scurried off, leaving the files unguarded.
Jennifer had passed Moore in the hall on her way back into the building. He told her he was on his way out to lunch. He hadn't come back. She was alone in the office.
She immediately flew to the cabinet where she pulled each and every file and found… nothing. Nothing was in the files. Nothing except things like when and where Moore last spoke to the Woman's Club or Allen helped open a supermarket, and, of course, various flight schedules and trips.
Just as Jennifer was slipping the last folder back into place, John Allen walked through the door. She slammed the drawer shut.
Allen stared at Jennifer, looked back toward the hall, and then back at Jennifer. "Do I know you?" he asked, screwing up his face as though he were looking into the sun. He was dressed in a Bulldogs T-shirt and walking shorts.
"Jennifer Marsh," she said, offering her hand. "I'm your new assistant."
His grip was mushy.
"Yeah, well, the turnover is pretty big around here. Most of you don't last long enough for me to remember your names. But you look kind of familiar…"
"Happens all the time," Jennifer insisted. "It's the face." She pointed at herself. "Very common face." She didn't want to deal with his recognizing her as the caterer at Moore's party, but it didn't look as if she'd have to. No flashes were going off in that dull brain.
"Did they bring my clothes?" he asked, running a hand over his chin and ruffling through his hair.
Jennifer nodded. "A jacket, shirt and tie. I hung them on the back of your office door."
"Did they bring cuff links? Last time they sent French cuffs without any links. I had to use safety pins. I spent the whole newscast trying to keep the sleeve of the sports jacket from riding up too high."
Poor baby. This news business was tough. "No cuff links and no French cuffs."
"Any mail?"
"It's on your desk. Two fan letters." (She assumed business letters didn't come with red heart stickers and a big red lipstick print over the seal.) "And a credit card bill."
Allen mumbled, went to his office, and shut the door behind him.
Jennifer let out a sigh. She had one more place she wanted to look before Edith got that copier machine back in order.
She slipped behind Edith's desk and pulled out the file drawer on the bottom right. Neatly arranged one after the other were unlabeled manila folders. Jennifer pulled out the first one. Inside were all sizes of scrap paper with handwritten notes, all having to do with Channel 14 and the news department. A few names caught her eye, including Steve Moore and Kyle Browning.
"Don't use that kind of paper. Throw it away if you can't keep it out of the stacks with the regular stock." Edith's voice echoed down the hall.
Jennifer dumped the folder back into the drawer and flew to her own desk as Edith came through the door.
"I don't have time this late in the day to become a maintenance supervisor. Has he come in yet?" She motioned toward Allen's door.
Jennifer nodded.
"The clothes here?"
Again, Jennifer nodded.
"I'll give him a few more minutes. He has to be inspected before he goes down to makeup. The man doesn't even know how to knot his own tie."
Edith sat down behind her desk, pulled open the lap drawer and extracted a pack of cigarettes and some matches. She lit one with shaky hands, and turned a steely stare at Jennifer. "I'm smoking this here and now, and I don't give a hoot what you or any regulations say." She took a deep breath, burning down a good half
inch of the cigarette, and flicked the ashes into an ashtray inside the drawer.
Jennifer hated cigarette smoke—she got enough of it at the private parties she and Dee Dee catered—but Edith obviously needed something to calm her nerves. She looked to be in a dangerous state.
After two more puffs Edith's hands stopped shaking, and some of the misery seemed to drain from her face. She stamped out the butt and shut the drawer.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm working in a nursery school. I have two big kids I've got to get dressed and made presentable five days a week." She laughed bitterly. "Some job, huh?"
A thought crept into Jennifer's mind. Did she dare say it? "Did you ever want to be part of the talent?"
Edith hesitated a moment, considering. "I started out as a journalist. I worked for a newspaper for five years. It folded, and then I thought, why not try TV? I should have looked in the mirror first."
It wasn't that Edith was unattractive. She had good features and nice hair if only she'd do something with it. And she'd have to lose those horrible, thick-framed glasses. She might actually be quite pretty—in person. But she'd never have that star quality, that charisma that had to make itself felt across the long cable from studio to TV set.
"If that's why you're here…" Edith gave her a long, appraising look. "Oh, hell, go for it. I'd be the last one to discourage anyone from going after their dreams."
"Do you still write?"
Jennifer had hit a nerve. She knew it as soon as she said it. That cloudy anger rose back up, close to the surface of Edith's features.
"Why would I write? Just what do you think someone like me would have to write about?"