Cody jumped up on the bed and situated himself in the curve behind Frank’s knees. I laced my fingers into Frank’s hand, and fell asleep.
12
I WAS ALONE in bed when I woke up the next morning. Frank had awakened a couple of times during the night; his sleep had been troubled. I supposed that at some point he had given up on it. I stretched and got out of bed. Maybe he had already left for work. I looked at the clock and realized that I had almost slept until noon. I didn’t feel as if it were a case of sloth, though. Just catching up on my sleep.
I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, finding evidence that Frank had not only been up before me but had also been to the store and back. I was quite pleased that I would not have to test the “seven-day freshness” guarantee on the older milk carton.
There was some fresh bread as well, so I made a grilled cheese sandwich for myself. When I got to the table with my plate and milk, I saw the note he had left for me.
“Irene — Thanks. Please be patient. Frank.”
Please be patient. Translation: Please don’t ask me what’s wrong, please be ready for me at the drop of a hat, please put up with my moodiness. The damnable thing was, I would try to do just that.
He had also brought the paper in, and I was fortunate he didn’t leave it in the kitchen, or I probably would have lost my appetite. The front page was splashed with the Fremont murder story, and the headline made my stomach tighten. “Shelter Founder Murdered by Satanists?” A question mark to cover a multitude of reporting sins. The byline was given to Dorothy Bliss. In the newsroom, our private saying was, “Bliss is ignorance.”
Although the story itself was couched in careful terms that as much as admitted this was a guess based on the drawing of the goat on the door, by the end of the day most of Las Piernas would undoubtedly be convinced by the headline. While I wasn’t sure Mrs. Fremont hadn’t been murdered by Satanists, somehow seeing it in print brought about a reaction in me, making me want to find the flaws in the assertion.
Mark’s story on Jerry Tanner and the harbor shooting didn’t get the play it deserved, but it was reasoned, clear, and balanced. It’s a good thing I saw it, because the next story I laid eyes on didn’t make me feel any pride in working for the
Not two inches away from the Fremont story, another headline proclaimed “Henderson Denies Son is Satanist.” It was my story all right, but the part that best defended Jacob was cut down to nothing and buried in the back half of the first section. I hadn’t expected any of it to go page one and saw that being placed as it was would only make Henderson appear to be defending against a connection to the murder.
Damn Wrigley’s miserable hide. This had his signature all over it.
I got dressed and made the most of what was left of Friday by working until about midnight, covering speeches and setting up interviews. Frank got off work about the same time I did, and stayed the night with me.
Saturday and Sunday were twin days. With the election so close, there was no such thing as a day off. There was a lot of work to be done, and Stacee actually proved to be of help. She and I ran around between various campaigns and political organizations, putting in long hours. Brian Henderson staunchly defended Jacob, but slid down in the polls as if they were greased.
Next to the Satanism charges, the big news was that definite physical evidence had been found in Tanner’s home to link him to the murder of the Gillespie child. I thought that might have made a difference in Frank, but it didn’t.
Sammy didn’t call back.
I came home exhausted each night, fed Cody, and crawled into bed with Frank, who still hadn’t said more than ten words to me. But he held me close, and I was too tired to need more. At least he was sleeping better.
On Sunday night — or technically, Monday morning — I lay asleep in his arms when the phone rang just after one o’clock. It was Pete. I handed the phone over to a drowsy Frank. He had the phone in his hand about five seconds when he yelled “What?!” and sat up in bed, moving his feet to the floor. He ran a hand through his hair. Every one of his muscles tensed. After a minute he said, “Why?” He listened in silence to the reply. He thanked Pete for calling and hung up.
I was sitting up by now. He was facing away from me. He sighed and said, “Monty Montgomery’s daughter walked in a couple of hours ago and confessed to murdering Mrs. Fremont. Pete just found out about it.”
“Julie?”
He turned and gave me a piercing look.
“Frank, she didn’t do it. She’s trying to protect someone.”
The look didn’t waver.
“It’s true, Frank, she talked to me Thursday. Not about the murder, but about her boyfriend.”
“What?”
I struggled for a moment with the problem of breaking Julie’s confidence, but decided if she was going to do something as stupid as confess to a murder to help Jacob, I would face the consequences of telling Frank what I knew.
“She and Jacob Henderson are seeing one another. Secretly. She’s been agonizing over the flyer her father sent out saying Jacob is a Satanist. She’s doing this to get back at her father or clear Jacob or both.”
“Pete says she claims that she’s a Satanist. That she was given the mission of killing—” His voice broke and he looked away.
I waited. I resisted the urge to touch him. “She didn’t do it,” I said calmly.
“I’ve got to call Pete.”
He made the call, telling Pete all I had told him. On a hunch, I caught Frank’s attention and said, “Ask him if there was anyone from the
He did, then waited while Pete asked one of the detectives who had been there. Frank listened, then said, “Mark Baker was there fifteen minutes before she showed up. He said he got an anonymous tip that there was going to be a big break in the case, that someone was going to confess. She walked in and announced her
