Front Page Teaser

you where it comes from.”

He’d wiped his boots thoroughly then, too. And he’d said, “I can sure use this coffee.”

And when Liz told him the crude-sounding expression was actually a sailor’s turn of phrase, he said, “That doesn’t surprise me. Sailors can turn the air blue with their cussing.”

“No, no! It’s not what you think,” Liz had said. “Sailors didn’t say that to be foul. On old warships, the ‘monkey’ was the platform that held the stack of cannon balls. It was made of brass. When the temperature was low enough, the brass monkey contracted, allowing the cannonballs to roll off it.”

“Yeah, sure!”

“No, really. Look, I’ll show you,” she had insisted, opening a well-worn copy of Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.

“Well, I’ll be! Are you some kind of professor?”

“No, I’m a reporter for the Beantown Banner. And I’m a word nut. That’s why I have all these dictionaries.”

Now, as the reporter and the billboard hanger laughed over the expression again, Tom said, “I’m sorry to tell you that expression about the brass monkey is just an urban legend. Cannonballs were never stored on deck like that. I saw it on the Internet.”

“I always believe a published reference book over the Internet,” Liz said. “In my line of work, I have seen too much misleading material on the Web. By the way, whose ad are you hanging over my head this time?”

“Maksoud’s,” he said. “The car dealership over on Needham Street. I hear they’ve got such an overstock, they’re practically giving cars away. I guess old man Maksoud wants to drum up some business quick. Hey, look, you’d better get going. Didn’t you say you had to get over to Worcester this morning?”

“That’s right,” Liz said, tucking a fresh reporter’s notebook into her purse. “I’ll see you out.”

Chapter 4

Liz made the fifty-minute drive without incident and arrived at the Worcester Public Library with time to spare. That meant she could take a look at the Boston World. Passing through the etched-glass sliding doors that formed a pleasing entry to the large building, she went straight to the Periodicals Room. Fortunately, the library stocked several copies of both the Banner and the World. While every copy of the Banner had been snatched up by readers, three copies of the competing paper remained on the rack.

The World was a well-named publication, since it prided itself on its international coverage. Its lead story’s headline read, “No Room at the Inn for Bosnian Refugees.” Apparently, the World’s editors did not even think their lead story deserved full upper-case type. The article at the bottom of their front page bore an even more reserved headline, “Newton Police Mull Missing Mother Case.”

The Banner’s big, bold “COOKIE MONSTER” headline had done a better job of grabbing readers. Still, Mick Lichen had reported a fact that Liz and Manning had missed.

“Ellen was not the only thing missing from the Johansson household. Her newly purchased Honda Civic was also gone from the drive of the family home in this low-crime neighborhood,” Lichen had written.

“Hey, aren’t you the gal in this picture?” an elderly reader asked, looking at Liz over the edge of the Banner.

“That would be me,” Liz admitted.

“How come you’re way out here in Worcester?” the old man inquired. “Do you think you’ll find a body in the library?” he chuckled.

“Maybe not a body, but information about it,” Liz said, looking at the line-up of conference guests that was posted on the Periodical Room’s bulletin board. Apparently, mystery writers used more than their imaginations to turn out their thrillers. On the roster were Mary Higgins Clark, mystery writer; Dr. Cormac Kinnaird, M.D., forensic pathologist; Pamela Nesnarf, private investigator; and Maurice E. Bouvard, Boston World literary editor. Not for the first time, Liz wondered whether it was World muckety-mucks or Maurice himself who decided to term Bouvard “literary editor,” instead of endowing him with the more prosaic title “book review editor.”

“Ah, the lovely Liz Higgins,” Bouvard said as she entered the reception room where the Friends of the Worcester Public Library were serving coffee and homemade cookies to conference participants. “I see the Banner’s bookworm Rose Morgan is not here to dazzle us with her literary insights. Such a pity.”

“Alas!” Liz said, playing along. “Our book review editor is not among the speakers. But I have no doubt you will wow the crowd, Maurice.”

“Too bad your editors will eschew using any reports you might wish to make upon my words of wisdom.”

“Verily, they may. But surely the World will quote you at generous length.”

“Ah, there’s the rub. They’ve got everyone working on that breaking news in Newton. The missing mom, you know.”

“May I have your attention!” library director Vickie Nichols said. After some words of welcome, she led a bevy of bookworms, aspiring authors, and mystery writers into the assembly hall. There a well-dressed smiling Mary Higgins Clark recounted the story of her many rejections when she began to try her hand at writing short stories to her incredible multi-million dollar contract for her most recent books. The author’s caution to beginning writers was to never give up, and her freely given advice about how to write variations of the woman-in-jeopardy situation won a standing ovation.

“Always, always look for the overlooked domestic detail,” Clark advised, before adding, “I’d love to stay and hang out with you for the rest of the day, but I’m scheduled for a reading in Hingham at noon. Great to be with you. Cheers and may the cash registers jingle for all of you one of these days.”

Liz followed the author out of the assembly hall. “Ms. Clark,” she said. “Have you read about the missing persons case in Newton?”

“Yes, I have. It’s very sad.”

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Liz Higgins, reporting on the case for the Beantown Banner.”

“I read your report, and I thought a number of things in it were suggestive.”

“Yes?”

“I do have to get on to my next reading. But why don’t you walk me to my car?”

The two put on coats and left the library.

“What is your read on the mystery, Ms. Clark?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, call me Mary,”

“All right. If you’ll call me Liz.”

“I’d take a long look at that front-page photo, Liz,” Clark said as she got into her car. “Good luck to you.”

Liz returned to the library, hung up her coat, and returned to the Periodicals Room. Fortunately, a copy of the Banner had been left on a table there. Scrutinizing DeZona’s Page-One photo of Ellen Johansson’s kitchen, she saw again the blood-splattered baking ingredients lined up on the countertop. Above the counter was a blackboard. On it, written in chalk, was a list. The first three items were spelled out neatly. They were also crossed out.

MMs

Choc. chips

Coconut

The fourth item was written in a hastier hand. And it was not yet lined out.

“FORGET ME NOT,” it read.

Back in the assembly hall, Dr. Kinnaird was sending shivers through the mostly female audience with a slide