Marcella Johnson.
“Even him,” Ali said with a smile.
“And what reason did they give?”
“Taking the news team in a new direction is what the news director said. Going after a younger audience.”
“With three old guys and a new babe?” Marcella scoffed. “Give me a break.”
“That’s what I thought,” Ali told her.
Marcella removed a slim tablet PC from her briefcase and began scribbling notes with a stylus.
“Cliff Baker is the new news director. He’s the guy they brought in to fix the ratings, which, as it happens, are still broken.”
“I suppose you were alone when he said this.”
“Actually, I wasn’t,” Ali answered. “There was a security guard there, Eddie Duarte. Edward actually. Baker brought Eddie along to look over my shoulder while I cleared out my desk and to escort me out of the building when I finished.”
“Having a witness is fine, but a security guard?” Marcella asked. “Those heavy-hitters from the station will mow him down so fast he’ll never know what hit him.”
“I don’t think so,” Ali said. “Eddie told me he’d testify if I needed him to, and he will. He and his wife, Rosa, are friends of mine. So’s their little boy, Alonso.”
Marcella looked intrigued. “You really do know them?”
Ali nodded. “Yes, I really do.”
“Their names again?”
Ali pulled her Palm Pilot out of her purse and reeled off Eddie’s address and phone number.
“These kinds of cases take years, regardless of whether you settle or go to court,” Marcella warned.
“I know,” Ali said.
“And since I’m very good,” Marcella added, “that means I’m also very expensive.”
“Then it’s a good thing I brought along my checkbook,” Ali said.
“In that case,” Marcella told her, “lunch is on me.”
And it was a good one. Ali had the heirloom tomato and mozzarella salad. Marcella had the Ahi tuna nicoise. They both had a glass of wine-a Pinot Grigio, which would have been far too lowbrow to measure up to Paul’s sophisticated taste buds. Still, wine and all, it was definitely a working lunch. Marcella asked questions and took detailed notes the whole time they were eating, and while they were drinking coffee afterward as well.
On the way home, Ali called Paul’s number. He still didn’t answer. Why did he carry the thing around with him if he wasn’t going to pick up? This time, though, she left him a message, letting him know what she had done. She knew he wasn’t going to be thrilled about it, but she wasn’t going to sneak around about it, either. After all, her career was on the line. She wasn’t about to let it go without a fight.
“Didn’t want you to be the last to know,” she said. “I’ve retained an attorney. I’m going to file a wrongful- dismissal suit based on age and sex.”
Back at the house she found that Charmaine still hadn’t shown up, but someone-Jesus most likely-had brought in the mail and left it on the entryway table. She went through the envelopes, sorting out the junk from the real stuff. At the bottom was a greeting-card-shaped envelope with no return address, but it took only a single glance for Ali to recognize Reenie Bernard’s flamboyant script that was only a smidgeon beneath calligraphy. That had always been Reenie’s style. When other people had resorted to e-mail, Reenie had relied on snail-mail to stay in touch. She always seemed to have a supply of just the right note cards readily at hand.
Maybe I’m right, Ali though hopefully. Maybe Reenie’s just gone off somewhere to think things over.
The postmark on the envelope said, “Phoenix, AZ Mar 10,” but that didn’t mean much. Yes, it was the day Reenie had gone to the Phoenix area. The envelope could have been mailed from there, but it could also have been sent from Sedona or any other small town in central Arizona. Ali knew that mail from smaller towns often wasn’t postmarked until it reached a more centralized processing center in one of the larger cities. Still…
Eager to read Reenie’s message, Ali tore open the envelope, leaving behind a jagged edge of paper and a tiny paper cut on her index finger. Inside was one of those black-and-white greeting cards, the ones that feature little kids in old-fashioned clothes. This one showed two cute little girls, a blond and a brunette. Four or maybe five years old, the two girls sat side by side, with their arms slung over one another’s shoulders and with their smiling faces aimed at the camera. Inside the card said, “Some friends are forever.” Written on the opposite side of the card, again in Reenie’s distinctive penmanship, were the following words:
“I think I’m in for a very bumpy ride, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I’ll call you next week. R.”
A bumpy ride, Ali thought. Only Reenie, wonderful Reenie, could look at something as appalling as ALS and call it a “bumpy ride.” But then, studying the note more closely, she noticed subtle differences between this and Reenie’s usual handwriting. Here the letters were rushed, and a little sloppy, but then maybe she had been in a hurry. Putting aside the note, Ali checked her land line answering machine. There was no message from Reenie, but there was one from Chris.
“Hi, Mom,” he said. “I read your post, and I can’t believe it. Is it true Reenie’s sick and missing? Call me on my cell and let me know what you’ve heard. Oh, and by the way. I looked at the number of hits you’re getting on your site. For a brand-new blog, there’s a lot of traffic.”
Traffic on the blog didn’t seem very important right then. Instead, Ali picked the card back up and studied it again. When her mother had first told her about Reenie’s diagnosis, Ali had been hurt that Reenie hadn’t told her directly. Knowing that she simply hadn’t been ready to talk about it made Ali feel better, but it hurt her to think of Reenie going off on her own to wrestle with her situation. Rather than dealing with it alone, wouldn’t she have wanted to be with her family, with Howie and the kids?
Ali’s cell phone rang just then. The number in the display told her that the call was coming from the Sugarloaf Cafe. Ali knew that by now the customers would be long gone and Bob and Edie and their waitress in chief, Jan Howard, would be cleaning up the restaurant in preparation for the next day.
“Ali?” her father began as soon as she answered.
That was unusual. Generally speaking it took an act of God to get her father to talk on the phone at all. He preferred conducting his calls by relaying in formation through his wife, a habit that drove Edie to distraction.
“What’s up, Dad?” Ali asked warily. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes, baby, it is,” he said. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your mother wanted me to make the call because she doesn’t want to make a fool of herself on the telephone.”
Ali’s heart skipped a beat. “It’s about Reenie, then?” she asked.
“They found her car late this morning,” Bob Larson said. “She went off Schnebly Hill Road probably during that snowstorm we had the other night.”
Ali walked as far as the leather chair in the family room and sank into it.
“She’s dead, then?” Ali managed.
“Yes,” Bob returned sadly. “Yes, she is. She was thrown from the vehicle as it fell. They don’t know for sure yet, but they’re assuming she died instantly. That’s what we’re hoping, anyway. They found the car this morning long before they found her. I talked to Detective Holman at lunchtime. You remember Dave Holman, don’t you? Wasn’t he in your class?”
A vision of a tall scrawny kid passed through Ali’s head. Dave had been a year older than she was, and a big man on campus due to his being smart and an all-around athlete as well, lettering in football, bas ketball, and baseball. She’d been such a nobody by comparison that she doubted they’d ever exchanged so much as a word.
“A year older,” she said impatiently. “But go on. Tell me about Reenie.”
“Her SUV was white, so until some of the snow up there melted this morning, it was impossible to spot. It had also rolled so far and so hard that it’s mostly nothing but a ball of smashed sheet metal. Besides, no one thought to look for her up there. I mean, what the hell was she doing on Schnebly Hill Road in the middle of a snowstorm? What was that girl thinking? The gates on Schnebly Hill were closed at both ends, so she must have opened and closed the upper gate behind her.”
Schnebly Hill Road was a treacherous eleven-mile dirt track, barely one car wide in spots. Narrow and sometimes studded with rocks, the road clung gamely to the cliff face as it threaded its way down from the top of the Mogollon Rim and into Sedona far below. Back in Ali’s day, driving up and down Schnebly Hill had been a
