That day’s selections included a taxi driver from Connecticut whose hobby was growing large vegetables; a grandmother from Denver who had never cut her hair, not once in her whole life, and it was down to her calves when she died at age eighty-seven; and a once-famous violinist who lived in a small village in the English countryside who died after a long battle with Parkinson’s. After the disease robbed him of his ability to play, he offered free lessons to any child in his village who expressed a desire to learn. And I read about a woman from a small town in Oregon who once a month on Thursdays for over twenty-three years made homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and a green salad, and dropped it off at the local fire station. When she passed, more than forty firefighters, past and present, attended her funeral. I’m not a particularly spiritual person, but I like to think Mrs. Edith Westerson was looking down that day and saw how many lives she touched with her simple kindness.
Full up on perspective for the day, I walked into the office at just after 8 a.m. Gerlach Spencer and Bruce Henderson actually stood up and applauded as I walked in.
“The intern’s got skills,” Henderson said, as I set my things down at my desk. “That was quite a scoop you got last night.”
After I talked with Tabitha, I had logged an update to the story I’d written earlier, to reflect what Tabitha told me about the events leading up the Arthur Davenport’s death. I had to attribute the information to an “anonymous source close to the family,” but it was still a strong piece containing new information about a hot case. I’ll admit I felt proud of it, even if the story had just landed in my lap.
“Thanks. And I’m not an intern,” I said.
“Who’s your anonymous source?” Spencer asked, leaning against the side of my cubicle. “It wouldn’t be your buddy Carl down at the sheriff’s office, now would it?”
“Are you unclear about the definition of anonymous?” I said, allowing a little bravado to creep into my voice.
“Just because you and the new sheriff are old friends, don’t go thinking you’re going to get all the crime stories around here,” he warned. “This one shoulda been mine.”
I felt the stinging sensation in the base of my throat that always accompanied confrontation. I could feel the color creeping up my neck as I looked at Spencer, desperately trying to think of some witty retort. When the silence stretched on a moment too long, he said, “Oh, relax, kiddo. I’m only razzing you.”
I couldn’t tell if he had really been joking around, or if he had wanted to warn me for real but saw how freaked out I got and backtracked. Sometimes in a newsroom things could get competitive. I’d heard enough of Granddaddy’s stories to know that.
I managed to laugh it off, and Spencer went back to his desk. I took a few minutes to get it together before what was sure to be my next uncomfortable conversation of the day: telling Flick I’d been assigned the Davenport obit. My stomach churned with dread at the thought of it. I didn’t like to have any conversation with Hal Flick, let alone one in which I’d be telling him I’d gone over his head to get a plum assignment.
I hovered at his open office door. “Knock, knock.”
He grunted an acknowledgment.
I guess I was more nervous than I thought because when I spoke my voice sounded preposterously close to Helena Bonham Carter’s Bellatrix Lestrange—which is to say, comically aggressive (and inexplicably tinged with a British accent). “I was just coming by to tell you that Kay assigned me the obit for Arthur Davenport.”
He looked at me with the same expression he might have while looking at a talking oven mitt.
“I already have a file with a list of contacts and other stuff, so should I just get started on that and run it past you when I have a draft?”
More blank staring.
“Flick, did you hear me?”
“I heard you. But I’m writing the Davenport obit.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re forgiven.”
“Wait, what?”
“You said you were sorry so I forgave you. That’s how these things work.” Flick gave me his steely-eyed glare but behind his eyes I swear I saw a flash of something else.
“I was asked directly to write this obituary by a member of his family, Flick. It’s mine.”
“Dr. Arthur Davenport was a prominent member of Tuttle Corner. The whole county will want to read about him, especially given the way he died. You’ve written one obit in your life. You are not qualified to write this one.”
I glared back at him. I should have known Flick would try to take this away from me. “Kay gave it to me,” I said, defiantly. “Ask her.”
“Ask me what?” Kay appeared in the doorway to Flick’s office.
I hadn’t known she’d been walking past when I used her name or else I might not have been so cavalier about it. The truth was, I didn’t know what she was going to say. She might very well reverse course if Flick’s objection was strong enough.
“Riley says she’s writing the Davenport obit,” Flick said. “C’mon, Jackson. The kid’s a cub. She doesn’t have the experience—”
“How am I ever supposed
