In Plain View

I followed him over to his standard issue, rusty pickup. “Mr. Lowe?”

He climbed in the cab and slammed the door shut before he answered. “Yeah?”

That one meant, don’t push your luck, lady.

“No camera. I’m just wondering, do you have any idea who alerted the authorities about the body? Could it have been your neighbor?”

“No. Had to be someone before that,” Lowe said. “Sorry.”

I said, thanks, but it bothered me. Usually, it was easy to find the person who’d tipped the authorities on something like this. Even if it was a random bystander, they generally had an emotional stake in telling the story again. The thirty-second hero was an easy interview to bag.

“One last thing-have the police identified the body as Tom Jost?” I didn’t want either of us getting into trouble for not passing along important information.

“Oh yeah.” Lowe hooked a hand over the steering wheel and his mouth registered a nasty-tasting frown. “They know.”

Questions started popping in my head, but Lowe slipped the truck into gear and revved the engine.

I nodded and he returned the gesture. With the big bill on his cap, it looked like he was tipping his hat to me; a move that registered as perfectly midwestern, formal and yet familiar. I bit my tongue and stepped back to watch the truck drag a line of dust into the air as he cut back onto the road.

“Keep it rolling,” I told Ainsley. “I want the truck.”

Jenny popped her head out of the door. “How much longer?”

I started to say we were done, when I noticed action up at the Jost farmhouse. Somebody had come out to gather the laundry. A pair of little girls and a boy were dodging between sheets draped in rows, playing at hide- and-seek as the wind flicked the bed tails. If I strained to listen, I could hear the squeals as they popped in and out.

“Shoot it,” I ordered Ainsley.

He looked around, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Those kids playing?”

“Yeah.” And this one meant, trust me. “Quick, College. Before it’s gone.”

He zipped the camera off the tripod and propped it on his shoulder for the shot. I had a sinking feeling that we’d lose the image because he wasn’t used to shooting hand-held, or worse, he couldn’t see the picture I wanted. Sometimes that happens. They just can’t see.

“How much longer, Aunt Maddy?” Jenny whispered.

I was startled to find her right there, at my side all of a sudden. “I don’t know. Not long.”

“Oh man!” Ainsley finished all his maneuvers and turned to face us, the camera still resting on his shoulder. He sounded pumped. “This was great. What next?”

I wanted to walk up to the farm and knock on the door, but Jenny was quietly pulling my sleeve to check my watch. I took the hint. “We better head back to the station. Check in with Gatt. And we’ve got to drop Jenny on the way. At school.”

“Sure,” Ainsley assured her with a smile. His sandy hair seemed to change color to suit his environment. In the morning sun, he was blond as a prom date.

“I’ll help strike.”

“No. I’ve got it.”

I admit I was itching to help wrap the equipment. You learn to pack fast when the aftershocks are bringing the building down around your ass. Unfortunately, Ainsley’s progress was about as urgent as the seasons changing.

By the time we delivered Jenny to school, then found a gas station with a quick mart, the best part of the morning was gone.

This is another thing I wasn’t used to in my new life-the dead weight of other people’s needs. On my own, I’d have a story half in the can already. It took my college boy twenty minutes just to fill the gas tank and buy us a newspaper.

“What the hell took you so long?” I crabbed when he finally returned.

“Not much of a morning person, are you?”

“I’m a busy person, College. Busy, busy, busy.”

Ainsley shrugged the obvious. “Had to take a leak.”

“Pee on your own time. When I’m waiting in the car, tie it in a knot.”

“Easy there, Boss. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” College tossed the newspaper onto my lap. “Take a look at page three.”

Don’t get your knickers in a twist? Bold talk. That was promising.

Above the fold on page three of the Clarion was a quarter-page reprint of the photo I’d left Melton: tree, ladder, rope and a crowd of men in uniforms. Most of the body was blocked by the ring of men. The caption read, “Unidentified man in Amish clothing was found dead yesterday in a field just south of Route 59. Police and fire department services were brought to the scene by an anonymous phone caller.”

“Wonder if anyone else picked it up,” I said.

“We could call the station. Ask them to check the wire and keep an eye on the noon news until we get there.”

“Good thinking, College.” My congratulations should have included letting him make the phone call. Reception put me straight through to Gatt.

“Where the hell are you?” my new boss blared.

“In the van, with Ainsley ‘Life Is A Journey, Not A Destination’ Prescott. You remember, my partner?”

“Cut the crap and get your fanny in here now.”

“My what?” I cracked a grin. I hadn’t had a fanny since I was ten.

“You heard me, O’Hara. I got some township sheriff sitting in my lobby threatening to get a subpoena and trash my office.”

“Sounds like Curzon read the paper this morning,” I reported aloud for Ainsley’s benefit. “What’s he want?”

“Photos of a crime scene. I thought Ainsley told me you didn’t get any video on that suicide.”

“We didn’t get any video.”

Gatt wasn’t an idiot. The silence hung between us like a bad smell. “Just get in here and deal with him.”

“On the way. Hey, Gatt? Remind me again, how’d you get tipped on the story yesterday?”

“Phone call,” he spouted. “Civilian asked for me, so I assumed he’d called the network hotline and they’d put him on to me as the local contact.”

“Weird.” It made sense network would call the crew that was closest to look into the story. But no network hotline on the planet turfed a call that fast-Ainsley and I had arrived within twenty minutes of the cops. Which meant Gatt had gotten his call within minutes of the authorities. This reminded me of Ainsley’s homework assignment. “Later, Gatt.”

“Sooner, O’Hara.”

“Right, right.” I pressed the button that made him go away. “What’d you find out about Sheriff Curzon, College?”

“Not much,” Ainsley said. “I asked around but nobody knows why he might be shy about reporters.”

“Shy? I’d call it hostile. Who’d you ask?”

“Guy I know on the city council.” He shrugged his bony shoulder. “And my mom.”

“Your mom? You called your mother to ask about Curzon?”

The tops of his ears turned red. “Yeah. I had to talk to her anyway, you know, about Mr. Lowe.”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Come on. It’s not like that guy agreed to be interviewed because he wanted to be on television.” Ainsley snarfed. “I asked Mom if she’d, you know, vouch for you. She knows a lot of people. She’s been involved in town politics for a while.” He paused and seemed to think better of what he was going to say next. Which is why I was surprised to hear, “Oh, and she and Curzon’s ex-wife go to the same hairdresser.”

“Same hairdresser. Right. Stop there. You’re scaring me.”

Ainsley gave another friendly shrug to say, whatever. He concentrated on singing along with the radio for the rest of the drive while his ears cooled back to their normal color.