Lake News Read Free Page A

John thought, there isn’t a hell of a lot of other excitement up here . No fascinating book material in an education bill, a computer mogul, or a family squabble; and Christopher Diehl’s bank fraud trial was a far cry from the murder trials he used to cover.
    His eye went to the wall of framed photos at the far end of the room. There was one of him interviewing a source on Boston’s City Hall Plaza, and another of him typing at his computer with the phone clamped to his ear in a roomful of other reporters doing the same. There were photos of him shaking hands with national politicians, and of him laughing it up with colleagues in Boston bars. There was one of a Christmas party—he and Marley in the newsroom with a crowd of their friends. And there was a blowup of his Post ID mug shot. His hair was short, his jaw tight, his eyes tired, his face pale. He looked like he was either about to miss the story of his career or severely constipated.
    The photos were trappings of an earlier life, like the deactivated police scanner that sat on a file cabinet beneath them. Listening to police or fire reports had been a way of life once. No bona fide newsroom was without one. So he had started his tenure at Lake News by setting one up, but static without voices for hours on end had grown old fast. Besides, he personally knew everyone who would be involved in breaking news. If anything happened, they called him, and if he wasn’t at his phone, Poppy Blake knew where he was. She was his answering service. She was the answering service for half the town. If she didn’t find him one place, she found him somewhere else. In three years, he hadn’t missed a local emergency. How many had there been… two… three… four?
    Nope, no big best-seller would ever come from covering emergencies in Lake Henry.
    With a sigh he dropped the phone into its cradle, pulled a doughnut from the bag, added more coffee to his mug, and tipped back his chair. He had barely crossed his feet on the desk when Jenny Blodgett appeared at the door. She was nineteen, pale and blond, and so thin that the big bulge of the baby in her belly looked doubly wrong. Knowing that she probably hadn’t eaten breakfast, he rocked forward in the chair, came to his feet, and brought her the bag.
    â€œIt isn’t milk or meat, but it’s better than nothing,” he said, gesturing her around and back down the stairs. Her office was on the first floor, in the room that had once been a parlor. He followed her there, eyed the papers on the desk, thought he detected what may have been separate piles. “How’s it going?”
    Her voice was soft and childlike. “Okay.” She pointed to each of those vague piles in turn. “This year’s letters to the editor. Last year’s. The year before’s. What do I do now?”
    He had told her twice. But she worked sporadic hours, hadn’t been in since the Wednesday before, and had probably lived a nightmare since then—or so the rationale went. She wasn’t exactly competent, had barely made it through high school, and was trained for nothing. But she was carrying his cousin’s child. He wanted to give her a break.
    So, gently, he said, “Put them in alphabetical order and file them in the cabinet. Did you type out labels for the files?”
    Her eyes went wide. They were red rimmed, which meant she had either been up all night or crying this morning. “I forgot,” she whispered.
    â€œNo problem. You can do it now. What say we set a goal? Labels typed and stuck on file folders, and letters filed in the appropriate folders before you leave today. Sound fair?”
    She nodded quickly.
    â€œEat first,” he reminded her on his way out the door and went to the kitchen to collect the contents of the bins.
    Up in his office again, he ate his doughnut at the window overlooking the lake. The Woody had disappeared and its wake been played out,