taking notes,” Kitty said. “I thought I’d bring you the outline of the scholarship fund that the Kates are setting up.” She offered the envelope, and I stood up, took the offering and laid it on my desk.
“That’s a very nice gesture,” I said. “Who can apply for this scholarship?”
“It’s for young people who want to go into the performing arts. Music, acting, TV news, whatever.”
“Very appropriate. Thanks for bringing this in.”
“My pleasure,” Kitty said. She took half a step closer so that our noses were only inches apart and her green eyes were looking directly into mine, and in a softer voice added, “If you have any questions about the scholarship, or want to talk about anything else at all, give me a call.” She was so close that I detected the light odor of a dusky perfume, and I wanted to explore her body to locate the source.
“I might think of something I need to talk to you about,” I said, with admirable self-control.
“I hope you do,” she said. She winked, offered her hand for shaking and said, “Until later,” as she turned away. Again, every male eye in the newsroom tracked her departure all the way to the elevator.
I took a deep breath and sat down. I sniffed my hand, which bore the scent of Kitty’s perfume. There was something familiar about the smell, and I tried to recall whether someone I’d dated in the past had worn this scent. No one came to mind, and I turned to my computer and the task at hand.
In the sidebar, I wrote that St. Paul police were looking for an unnamed person of interest, who had disappeared on the day of the autopsy report. I saw this as a prelude to the next chapter in the story of Klondike Kate, in which I hoped to tell the readers whether the killer (1) had attended the funeral, (2) was the missing person of interest or (3) was someone not involved in any way with the Winter Carnival. I didn’t put much stock in the third option.
Chapter Thirteen
Hail, Vulcan!
Friday began routinely. When I awoke, my arms felt better because Martha and I had decided to postpone attempting Number 62 on the list until my triceps recovered from the stress of Number 61. When I went outside, I performed the car starting and scraping drill without even checking the thermometer beside the back door. On the way downtown, the radio newscaster informed me that it was “only” seventeen below.
I’d barely reached my desk when I got a call from Brownie. He said that Connie St. Claire and her children had been located at her parents’ farm in Cannon Falls, about thirty miles south of Newport, but that there was no trace of Edward. I was putting together a story about the ongoing search, without naming the wife and kids, when I got a call from Karl Langford, our Capitol reporter.
“I just e-mailed you a copy of the story I sent to the desk,” Karl said. “You gotta read it. Talk about an opportunistic asshole, this guy takes the prize.”
“Which guy?” I asked.
“Sean Fitzpatrick.”
“The gun nut pushing the bill for packing concealed weapons?”
“That’s the one,” Karl said. “Read the story and prepare to puke. It’s slugged ‘Arming Kate.’”
I called up the story and read it on my monitor. Fitzpatrick had held a press conference to proclaim that if the murdered Klondike Kate had been carrying a hidden pistol strapped to her thigh, she could have saved herself from her killer.
“When that (expletive deleted) began to strangle her, that girl could have reached under her skirt, pulled out that pistol and plugged him,” Fitzpatrick had said. “That girl’s unnecessary death is a perfect example of why we need this legislation.”
The thought of “that girl’s” family reading this piece of crap did make me queasy. This was one time I hoped nobody in that household would be reading either the online or the printed edition of our newspaper. If they learned of Fitzpatrick’s blather, let it be on television rather
“That’s a very nice gesture,” I said. “Who can apply for this scholarship?”
“It’s for young people who want to go into the performing arts. Music, acting, TV news, whatever.”
“Very appropriate. Thanks for bringing this in.”
“My pleasure,” Kitty said. She took half a step closer so that our noses were only inches apart and her green eyes were looking directly into mine, and in a softer voice added, “If you have any questions about the scholarship, or want to talk about anything else at all, give me a call.” She was so close that I detected the light odor of a dusky perfume, and I wanted to explore her body to locate the source.
“I might think of something I need to talk to you about,” I said, with admirable self-control.
“I hope you do,” she said. She winked, offered her hand for shaking and said, “Until later,” as she turned away. Again, every male eye in the newsroom tracked her departure all the way to the elevator.
I took a deep breath and sat down. I sniffed my hand, which bore the scent of Kitty’s perfume. There was something familiar about the smell, and I tried to recall whether someone I’d dated in the past had worn this scent. No one came to mind, and I turned to my computer and the task at hand.
In the sidebar, I wrote that St. Paul police were looking for an unnamed person of interest, who had disappeared on the day of the autopsy report. I saw this as a prelude to the next chapter in the story of Klondike Kate, in which I hoped to tell the readers whether the killer (1) had attended the funeral, (2) was the missing person of interest or (3) was someone not involved in any way with the Winter Carnival. I didn’t put much stock in the third option.
Chapter Thirteen
Hail, Vulcan!
Friday began routinely. When I awoke, my arms felt better because Martha and I had decided to postpone attempting Number 62 on the list until my triceps recovered from the stress of Number 61. When I went outside, I performed the car starting and scraping drill without even checking the thermometer beside the back door. On the way downtown, the radio newscaster informed me that it was “only” seventeen below.
I’d barely reached my desk when I got a call from Brownie. He said that Connie St. Claire and her children had been located at her parents’ farm in Cannon Falls, about thirty miles south of Newport, but that there was no trace of Edward. I was putting together a story about the ongoing search, without naming the wife and kids, when I got a call from Karl Langford, our Capitol reporter.
“I just e-mailed you a copy of the story I sent to the desk,” Karl said. “You gotta read it. Talk about an opportunistic asshole, this guy takes the prize.”
“Which guy?” I asked.
“Sean Fitzpatrick.”
“The gun nut pushing the bill for packing concealed weapons?”
“That’s the one,” Karl said. “Read the story and prepare to puke. It’s slugged ‘Arming Kate.’”
I called up the story and read it on my monitor. Fitzpatrick had held a press conference to proclaim that if the murdered Klondike Kate had been carrying a hidden pistol strapped to her thigh, she could have saved herself from her killer.
“When that (expletive deleted) began to strangle her, that girl could have reached under her skirt, pulled out that pistol and plugged him,” Fitzpatrick had said. “That girl’s unnecessary death is a perfect example of why we need this legislation.”
The thought of “that girl’s” family reading this piece of crap did make me queasy. This was one time I hoped nobody in that household would be reading either the online or the printed edition of our newspaper. If they learned of Fitzpatrick’s blather, let it be on television rather
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