husbands won’t be able to say no.”
“You’re right-that’s the way to do it.”
“Of course you’ll want to get the men in the photos. Ties off. Feet up.”
“Of course.”
I pretended to have a sudden brilliant thought. “You know who you should get to shoot it? Chuck Weideman.”
Louise’s eyebrows disappeared under her bangs. “Weedy?”
“Absolutely. He’s been shooting the city’s bigwigs for a million years. He wouldn’t be the least bit intimidated by them or their wives. I bet he’d get some terrific candids. They might even start your story on Page One.”
Louise was not exactly known for her hard-hitting journalism. I’m sure she could count the number of Page One stories she’d had on one finger. “You think he’d do it?”
“He just might,” I said.
We reached the newsroom. I felt like a skunk. A very happy skunk. “If you do go ahead with the story,” I said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Gwen it was my idea. I wouldn’t want her to think I was taking advantage of our friendship.”
Louise gave my shoulder an empathetic squeeze, like it was a fresh roll of toilet paper. “Of course, Maddy.”
An hour later I slipped back to the photographers’ studio, the windowless bunker where the paper’s photographers pretend to work. Weedy was busy playing solitaire on his computer.
Weedy has as much professional integrity as anyone else at The Herald-Union. He’d also sell his own grandmother into white slavery if it meant a Page One photo credit. And of course that’s why I put that bug in Louise’s ear about him.
I sat on his desk and spun his monitor around so he’d pay attention. “Weedy,” I said, “you know I’m not the kind of woman who wallows in frivolity.”
“Indeed, I do.”
“Or plays bullshit games.”
“If you say so.”
“So if I were to give you a tip-as murky as it sounded-you’d take my word for it?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Good. Because if Louise Lewendowski asks you to shoot a story for her, I would strongly recommend that you don’t try to pawn it off on somebody else.”
Weedy winced. “And why’s that?”
“Just happily accept the assignment and keep my name out of it. Okay?”
He studied my face. “Okay.”
I handed him the Post-it I had pinched between my thumb and index finger. “And should you by chance find yourself in a room with a mantel full of trophies, discreetly see if there’s one with this engraved on the front.”
He read the Post-it aloud: “First Place, State of Ohio Collegiate Debate Tournament, Columbus, 1956-57.” He put the tiny square of sticky paper in his shirt pocket. “Not to sound like the glory grubbing bastard I am, but what exactly might I gain from this despicable act of subterfuge?”
I allowed myself a grin. “Either nothing-or just maybe the most important photo you’ve ever taken.”
Thursday, June 21
When I got to work I found a big sack of kolachkys on my desk. Good gravy! I could have danced around the morgue like Ginger Rogers. I divided the kolachkys into three piles. Six for me, six for Eric-a necessary bribe so I could enjoy my six-and twelve for Weedy. I headed straight for his desk with his share.
“Good news for Morgue Mama?” I asked, dangling the bag in front of his face.
Weedy did have good news for me. The features editor had given Louise the go-ahead and he’d been assigned to do the photos. In fact he was going to do two of the shoots that afternoon: Mayor Flynn in his den. Rollie Stumpf in his. I dropped the bag in his waiting hands.
The rest of the day was absolute torture. I marked up that morning’s paper. I had lunch at Ike’s. I dug out the files Doneta Deetz needed on the 1927 Apple Creek Bridge disaster-the county engineer was warning it could happen again if commissioners didn’t come through with the budget increases he’d requested-and I watched the elevator for Weedy and Louise.
Finally they appeared, at ten minutes after four, carrying big red cartons of McDonald’s French fries, giggling like a couple of fifth graders returning from a field trip to the local mental hospital. I wanted to charge at Weedy like a bull, screaming “Well? Well?” Instead I got busy clipping meaningless squares out of the sports section with my black-handled scissors. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Weedy flirt his way through the newsroom. With Carol Voinovich. With Cheryl Presselo. Even with Margaret Newman. I watched him wash down his fries at the water fountain. I watched him turn toward the morgue. I watched him wipe his greasy fingers on his pants. Reach into his shirt pocket. He finally reached my desk. He smiled and handed me the Post-it. He headed for the men’s room. I pulled my reading glasses to the end of my nose, lifted my chin and read. Scribbled below the inscription I’d given him were these three words: No such trophy.
I didn’t know whether to be delighted or depressed. I did know that I needed more information before going to Detective Grant. “Eric,” I said sweetly, “how about I buy your supper tonight?”
Thirty minutes later we were sitting in my Shadow outside the office building in Brinkley where Rollie Stumpf had his insurance agency. I had a fish sandwich inside of me. Eric had a Whopper inside of him. He was still protesting.
Right at five the three women who worked in Rollie’s office hurried out to their cars and drove off. “I’m not good at this kind of thing,” Eric whined.
“Nobody is,” I assured him. “Now go!”
So Eric went inside. My instructions to him couldn’t have been clearer: Under the guise of seeking information on insurance rates for his pickup, he was to scour every desk, table and shelf for that debate trophy.
Eric was back in fifteen minutes with a thick stack of brochures. “And?”
“No debate trophy,” he said.
“You look everywhere?”
“He’s got plaques and awards all over the walls. Couple hundred of them. All for selling lots of insurance.”
“You’re sure you didn’t tell him you worked at the paper?”
“I’m sure.”
“Anybody else in there besides Rollie Stumpf?”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t give him any reason to be suspicious?”
“I just looked like an idiot looking for cheaper truck insurance.”
“And no debate trophy?”
“Not unless he keeps it in the bathroom.”
“You didn’t look there?”
“Maddy. Get a grip.”
Chapter 24
Monday, June 25
Detective Grant and I started up the pathway. The brown matted grass that covered the hill when I was there in March had been replaced with a thick growth of green sprinkled with yellow buttercups. It wasn’t any easier passing the spot where Gordon was killed than it was three months before.
We followed the rim of the landfill to the old dump. It was only eight in the morning but Andrew J. Holloway
