Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Other Stories by Sharyn McCrumb

seasoned reporter than I, to cover it, but I followed the coverage and listened to the office gossip. The defense had rounded up a psychologist who said Kenny must have been temporarily insane, and he never did confess to the killings, but the jury had been looking at that cold, dead face of Kenny’s for two weeks and they didn’t buy it. They found him guilty in record time, and the judge obliged with a death sentence.
    After that, the only clippings added to Kenny’s file were routine one-column stories about his appeal to the State Supreme Court, and then to Washington. That route having failed, it was official: in six weeks Kenny Budrell would go to the electric chair.
    That’s when
she
turned up.
    Varnee Sumner—sometime journalist and activist, full-time opportunist. In between her ecological-feminist poetry readings and her grant proposals, Varnee had found time to strike up a correspondence with Kenny. The firstwe heard of it was when the warden sent out a press release saying that Kenny Budrell had been granted permission to get married two weeks before his execution.
    It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me that Varnee Sumner wanted to be pals—that’s probably what my city editor was counting on when he assigned me to cover the story.
    “What’s your name?” she asked me as she applied fuchsia lipstick to her small, tight mouth.
    “Lillian Robillard. Tell me—are you nervous?” I decided against taking notes. That might make her more careful about what she said.
    She smoothed her hair. “Nervous? Why should I be nervous? It’s true I’ve never met Kenny, but we’ve become real close through our letters—I’ve come to know his soul.”
    I winced. Kenny Budrell’s soul should come with a Surgeon General’s warning. Maybe
she
wasn’t nervous about marrying a mass murderer, but I would have been.
    My thoughts must have been obvious, because she said, “Besides, they’re not going to let him come near me, you know. Even during the wedding ceremony he’ll be on one side of a wire screen and we’ll be on the other.”
    “Will they let you spend time alone with him?”
    That question did faze her. “Lord, I hope—” I’d swear she was going to say
not
, but she caught herself and said, “Perhaps we’ll have a quiet talk through the screen—Honey, would you like to be my maid of honor?”
    “I’d love to,” I said. “And would you like to give me an exclusive pre-wedding interview?”
    “I wish I could,” she said, “but I’ve promised the story to
Personal World
for ten thousand dollars.” She straightened her skirt and edged past me and out the door.
    I didn’t think it was possible, but I was beginning to feel sorry for Kenny Budrell.
    *  *  *
    “You looked real good out there as maid of honor,” Tracer told me as we left the prison. “I got a good shot of you and the warden congratulating the bride.”
    “Well, if I looked happy for them, pictures
do
lie.” The television crews had arrived just as we were leaving and Varnee was granting interviews right and left, talking about Kenny’s beautiful soul and how she was going to write to the President about his case. “You know why she’s doing this, don’t you?”
    Tracer gave me a sad smile. “Well, I ruled out love early on.”
    “It’s a con game. She stays married to him for two weeks, after which the state conveniently executes him, and she’s a widow who stands to make a fortune on movie rights and book contracts.
I Was a Killer’s Bride!
”
    “Maybe they deserve each other,” said Tracer mildly. “Kenny Budrell is no choirboy.”
    I pulled open the outside door fiercely. “He grew up poor and tough, and for all I know he
may
not be in his right mind. But there’s nothing circumstantial about what she’s doing!”
    Tracer grinned at me. “I can see you’re going to have a tough time trying to write up this wedding announcement.”
    He was right. It took me two hours to get the acid out of my