Front Page Teaser

“Hey, Dick,” Liz called out, seeing the reporter crossing the room with a cup of coffee. “Nice follow-up on the handyman and daycare provider.” It was nearly Christmas, after all.

“Just part of the job,” he said, but smiled and added, “Thanks, Legs.”

Liz turned her attention back to the ATEX terminal where the message “Lines are up!!” flashed across the top of the screen, alerting reporters they could find out how much space they had for their stories. This was a throwback to a much earlier time in the news business when type was set line by line by compositors. Now, reporters were actually given their assignments in column inches, which were measured at the press of a button by the ATEX machine. Similarly, the term “slug,” referring to the name for each story file, harked back to the days when type was set in trays for printing and lead slugs were used to identify them.

As Liz typed in her byline, another message flashed on her ATEX terminal. “Cut to 8 inches,” it read.

Sighing, she made a quick phone call to Laura Winters. Fortunately, Laura was in.

“Listen, Laura, do you have the impression that Mrs. Johansson is a neat freak? I’m asking because my colleagues in the press are jumping to the conclusion that her fingerprint-free countertop is evidence that a criminal tried to wipe down the scene.”

“Yeah, I saw those reports. But it doesn’t surprise me at all that those countertops were so clean. She’s the type to take a sponge to anything in reach—even doorway moldings—when she’s talking on the phone. And I’ve seen her, on more than one occasion, wipe the counters off before starting a cooking project. Come to think of it, she usually did that while wearing rubber gloves. I wouldn’t call her a neat freak. It’s more like she is in the habit of being tidy.”

“Do you have any idea why she would have an empty teacup with a stranger’s fingerprints on it in her kitchen sink?”

“Sorry, I don’t have a clue on that one.”

“Any word from the Johanssons?”

“To me? ‘’Fraid not. With Veronica at her grandmother’s, I wouldn’t expect they’d need me to babysit. Maybe they’ll call on me after Veronica comes back to aftercare.”

Laura was eager to hear the latest news on the case, but Liz had to say good-bye in order to write it. After filing her story, she phoned her friend Molly Trowbridge at the reference desk at Harvard University’s Harry Elkins Widener Memorial Library, the largest of the well-endowed institution’s ninety-six libraries. When Molly informed Liz that their specialist in Middle Eastern languages and literature had gone home and would not be back until after Christmas, Liz pressed the librarian to help her find a faculty member who could help her translate the Arabic words she’d seen squiggled on the back of the cabbie’s grocery list.

“I’ll give you the phone number for the faculty office of the Middle Eastern department, but you should be aware that the university is closing for Christmas break as of this evening. Too bad, because normally it wouldn’t be hard to find a grad student who could help you. If that doesn’t pan out, you might try a book dealer the library buys from—he’s originally from somewhere in the Middle East but has a shop in the vicinity of the Cambridge courthouse. Or, as a last resort, you could contact Finn Peter Translation Services in Central Square. I say ‘last resort’ because they mostly deal with Western or European languages, but they may be able to point you in the direction of an Arabic translator—if they haven’t closed shop for the holidays.”

Liz took down the librarian’s information. Sure enough, both the faculty office and Finn Peter Translation Services were closed. But the phone answering machine message at Turkoman Books was somewhat more promising. On it, a pleasant male voice announced the shop’s address, noted hours for the weeks of December 17 and 24, and invited inquiries. In case a mention of her newspaper would alarm the book dealer, Liz decided not to leave a message. Instead, regarding the blinking light on her own answering machine, she retrieved her messages.

Two of them grabbed her attention.

“Hello, Ms. Higgins,” a female voice said. “My name is Nadia and I’d like to talk with you. Since you’re not in, I will call you again.”

Liz pressed *69 to find out where the call had come from, but a recorded message informed her that the caller’s number could not be identified.

The other message was short but sweet. “It’s Cormac. Call me. Please.”

Liz dialed the doctor’s number, only to receive a recorded message. This one gave no particulars of his whereabouts.

Before exiting the newsroom, Liz accomplished three more tasks. She photocopied both sides of the grocery list she’d found in the New York City cab. She retrieved another manila envelope bearing her name from Rene DeZona’s cubby. And she read her e-mail messages. Amid a slew of public relations pitches and several holiday wishes from far-flung friends, Liz noticed five messages sent from as many different e-mail addresses, all bearing the same one-word message: “Blister.”

“At least it’s not another ad for Viagra,” Liz thought, exiting the e-mail system. It was too late to take time for personal messages, except for perhaps one. Reentering her password, she replied to an old message she’d saved from Cormac Kinnaird.

“Tidings of comfort and joy,” she wrote, and signed the message just “Liz.”

Out in the Banner’s parking lot, the snow was heaped in discolored mounds. But the windows of Ho Tong Noodle Company, across the street, were illuminated later than usual. Perhaps the staff was enjoying a holiday party, or working late to produce products for the New Year.

“No, no,” Liz chided herself. After three years working in this neighborhood, how could I forget Chinese New Year does not fall on January 1st? I must be tired. And no wonder, she thought as she drove past the Banner’s outdoor Christmas tree, strung with multicolored lights as if to compete with the bright hues of neon signs shining nearby in the windows of Asian restaurants.

In contrast, Liz had lost her glow. As she turned the Tracer onto the turnpike, she found herself peeved by Kinnaird’s brief message. Or perhaps it would have been more accurate for her to admit annoyance at herself for how much it mattered to her. On the one hand, he’d referred to himself as Cormac. Surely it was a good sign that he’d dropped the last name and the title “Dr.” But then the message was so uninformative. He could just as well be seeking her for personal reasons as for business. Here it was, the last night before Christmas Eve, and Liz hadn’t acquired a gift for anyone other than her plow driver and her cat. Even she and Molly Trowbridge had failed to set up a time to exchange gifts, neglecting a tradition that went back many years for them.

Liz had to bypass her house and its billboard before reaching a turnpike exit that would take her in the direction of Gravesend Street. As she approached the billboard, she wondered for the umpteenth time why the company that handled renting it did not arrange for messages to be hung on both sides. Surely that would bring everyone involved double the income. But this was not the time to inquire.

As the structure came into sight, Liz was taken by surprise. The ad-free side of the billboard was strung with lights forming the letters, MERRY XMAS LIZ.

The message in Christmas lights was not the only thing Tom Horton had arranged to brighten Liz’s holiday. Walking up to her house, Liz noticed a fresh-cut Christmas tree leaning against her front door. And beside her stoop, she found a cardboard box wrapped in a garbage bag. A note was taped to this package: “Tom Horton, at your service.” A Christmas tree with a star on top was sketched beside the message.

Laughing with pleasure, Liz moved the tree aside and leaned it against her house. She and Tom had never celebrated any occasion before this one. Not only had they never been on a date, they’d not even shared coffee together anywhere but at Liz’s house. Overcome with surprise at Tom’s attention now, Liz picked up the box, unlocked her door, and entered her small abode. Even before taking off her coat, Liz tore open the box. It was packed with five strings of lights, a multisocket adapter to plug them into, and four more gift-wrapped items of varying shapes and sizes. Intrigued, Prudence climbed into the large box and purred contentedly while Liz looked up Tom’s phone number. The address listed was Tip Top St., Brighton. Now Liz realized why that street name had seemed familiar to her. Tom must have mentioned it at some point. Smiling, she dialed his number.

“I’m on my way,” he said, with unguarded warmth, when she invited him over.

“Wait!” she said, and heard herself giggling. “You have to wait an hour before setting out. There’s something I need to do.”

“Please, don’t feel like you have to give me a present!” Tom said. “I know I surprised you with mine.”

“Well, I want to surprise you, too,” Liz said.