Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 Read Free

open the Wednesday morning Clarion . Images jostled just below my conscious focus on the headlines.
    BOMBS EXPLODE NEAR SPHINX
    Bougainvillea cascading in splashes of crimson over golden hacienda walls in Cuernavaca.
    VOLUNTEERS AID LOST WHALE
    Richard and Emily and I decorating Bobby’s grave on the Day of the Dead.
    REPUBLICANS, DEMOCRATS WRANGLE
    Richard hunching over his Olivetti, typing so furiously the undercarriage rattles against the desk.
    And then I reached page 4 and the boxed quarter-page ad.
    ----
    If You Know Anything About
    Howard Rosen and Gail Voss
    Candace and Curt Murdoch
    Darryl Nugent
    WHAT HAPPENED? WHEN? WHY?
    Call 330-9800 immediately.
    All replies confidential.
----
    I reached for my cordless phone, punched the numbers, listened to the recorded message:
    â€œ Hello, I’m Maggie Winslow, a student at the University. I’m writing an article about three famous unsolved crimes in Derry Hills. If you know anything about those who were involved, please leave a message after the tone. I will return your call promptly. Thank you .”
    I hung up.
    By God, what a clever, intriguing, effective ploy!
    And further proof, if I needed it, of Maggie’s flamboyant forcefulness. She definitely had the chutzpah and inventiveness of an investigative reporter.
    Maggie might have the last laugh, after all.
    Â 
    I often jog during my lunch hour. And yes, at my age, it more resembles a summer stroll by an armadillo, but I cover the ground, and Runner’s World promises it is distance, not time, that matters. I end by walking a mile. I was in the second cooldown lap when Angela Chavez joined me. Everybody relies on Angel to keep the Journalism School humming. Her official title is chief office administrator. Unofficially, because of her good humor and her willingness to go the extra mile to help both faculty and students, she’s the J-School Angel, reliable, pleasant, unfailingly good-humored.
    Yes, that was Angel. But the news business had taught me early on that every living creature experiences passion and fear, love and hatred, that there is a story, often dark, always compelling, in every human heart. With Angel, I suddenly realized I’d succumbed to surface appearances.
    Bleak lines webbed her Raggedy Ann face. There was no trace of her usual placidity. She didn’t even say hello. The words burst from her. “You have Maggie Winslow in independent study.” It was a statement, not a question.
    I looked at her in surprise. “Yes.” I tugged at the sleeves of my sweatshirt. The wind had veered to the north and there was a winter feel to the gusts. Dust devils swirled from the track’s reddish clay gravel.
    Angel’s sandy hair streamed in the wind. “Did you see that ad?” It was hard to define the tone in her voice. Anxious? Disgusted? Angry?
    I stopped and faced her. “You called the number?”
    â€œNo.” Her reply was clipped. She pressed her lips tightly together, then added jerkily, “No. But people will. I know they will.” She glared at me, anger breaking through the thin veneer of control.
    â€œWhy shouldn’t they, Angel?”
    â€œIt’s awful, to bring things up when they’re over with and people have forgotten.” She wrapped her arms tight around her torso.
    â€œThose involved won’t have forgotten, Angel. And if any answers can be found, they should be found.” Windblown specks of gravel stung my face.
    â€œBut it’s all over with. Finished.” Her voice was shrill.
    I looked at her curiously. Angel wanted to believe the unsolved crimes were over with. Why should Angel care?
    â€œWhich crime do you know about, Angel?”
    â€œI don’t know anything about any crime.” She stared at me defiantly. “Everyone’s so obsessed with crime. It’s so sick .”
    â€œSo you think Maggie will receive a lot of calls?”
    â€œOh, yes. Of course. People are