watching.
“They get lonely at night,” she said. The editor and I shared a smile.
“Kate Henry, I think,” he said.
“Guilty.”
“Come on in. We’re wrapped up for the week.”
He held up the countertop for me to pass into the main office area, where a couple of men and one woman were covering their computer terminals or cleaning off their desks. It was a cheerful, friendly place, with tourism posters and community notices tacked to the walls. We went through it into a small, messy office in the corner. Jagger cleared some papers off the second chair.
“How would a beer go about now?” he asked.
“It would go grand, thank you. I’ve just come from the funeral parlour.”
“That’ll give you a thirst every time. Just let me let the rest of the staff out, and then we can talk.”
I looked around the room while I waited. It was messy enough to be a journalist’s. There was an old upright typewriter on the desk, as well as a computer. A tall bookcase held reference books, style guides, and some of the better books about the craft.
There were various plaques on the walls, and framed photographs which told me something of the man: Cal Jagger with chubby wife and red-haired children, one of each, in a studio portrait; Cal Jagger with large fish; Cal Jagger with Gloves Gardiner, on the golf course; autographed photo of Jimmy Carter; autographed photo of Jimmy Buffett. There was a faded snapshot stuck into the frame of one of the Chamber of Commerce certificates of commendation.
I got up and looked at it. It was a piece of ancient history, a faded candid shot of a group of laughing young people in tie-dyed gear, sprawled under a palm tree on the beach. I tried to recognize a younger version of Jagger beyond the hair and love-beads.
“Beach Blanket Blowout, 1970,” a voice behind me said. I jumped. Jagger was grinning and holding out a cold can.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy,” I said, taking the beer. “Is one of these wild and crazy young guys you?”
“Third from the left,” he said, laughing. “The one making the peace sign.”
“Amazing.”
“You’re wondering how that disreputable kid turned into this straight and respectable good burgher of Sunland, right?”
“Something like that,” I confessed. “It’s none of my business, of course. Besides, I’ve got some pretty embarrassing photographs of myself in that same era.”
“It was the standard story. I wanted to defy my conservative parents with their small-town attitudes. I ran all the way to Chicago to write the Great American Novel. Got a job on the
Tribune
to pay the rent. Settled down a bit. Discovered I liked a few middle-class comforts. Reconciled with my parents just before my dad died, and came home to run his newspaper. Met my high-school sweetheart on the street one day, married her six months later, and we have lived happily ever after.”
“And the Great American Novel?”
“Right up there,” he said, pointing to a cardboard box tied with string on the top shelf of the bookcase. “I take it down and look at it from time to time. The world may have to be denied the pleasure.”
“No regrets?”
“No. Not for any part of it.”
“What about the other people in the picture? Ever see any of them anymore?”
He came and stood beside me, gulped some beer, and pointed at the kid with his fingers making horns over his neighbours head.
“This one was killed in Vietnam,” he said. “The day before his tour was up. This one died of a drug overdose over in Miami. This one runs a liquor store in Saint Pete’s. Bobby is a real estate broker now; almost as respectable as I am. I’ve lost touch with Dwayne completely. Last I heard he was out in California, working in a bar band. And this one is still the same.”
He looked at me.
“Except for the fact that his daughter just got murdered. This is Hank Cartwright, Lucy’s father. She was born about when this was taken.”
“He was at the funeral
“They get lonely at night,” she said. The editor and I shared a smile.
“Kate Henry, I think,” he said.
“Guilty.”
“Come on in. We’re wrapped up for the week.”
He held up the countertop for me to pass into the main office area, where a couple of men and one woman were covering their computer terminals or cleaning off their desks. It was a cheerful, friendly place, with tourism posters and community notices tacked to the walls. We went through it into a small, messy office in the corner. Jagger cleared some papers off the second chair.
“How would a beer go about now?” he asked.
“It would go grand, thank you. I’ve just come from the funeral parlour.”
“That’ll give you a thirst every time. Just let me let the rest of the staff out, and then we can talk.”
I looked around the room while I waited. It was messy enough to be a journalist’s. There was an old upright typewriter on the desk, as well as a computer. A tall bookcase held reference books, style guides, and some of the better books about the craft.
There were various plaques on the walls, and framed photographs which told me something of the man: Cal Jagger with chubby wife and red-haired children, one of each, in a studio portrait; Cal Jagger with large fish; Cal Jagger with Gloves Gardiner, on the golf course; autographed photo of Jimmy Carter; autographed photo of Jimmy Buffett. There was a faded snapshot stuck into the frame of one of the Chamber of Commerce certificates of commendation.
I got up and looked at it. It was a piece of ancient history, a faded candid shot of a group of laughing young people in tie-dyed gear, sprawled under a palm tree on the beach. I tried to recognize a younger version of Jagger beyond the hair and love-beads.
“Beach Blanket Blowout, 1970,” a voice behind me said. I jumped. Jagger was grinning and holding out a cold can.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy,” I said, taking the beer. “Is one of these wild and crazy young guys you?”
“Third from the left,” he said, laughing. “The one making the peace sign.”
“Amazing.”
“You’re wondering how that disreputable kid turned into this straight and respectable good burgher of Sunland, right?”
“Something like that,” I confessed. “It’s none of my business, of course. Besides, I’ve got some pretty embarrassing photographs of myself in that same era.”
“It was the standard story. I wanted to defy my conservative parents with their small-town attitudes. I ran all the way to Chicago to write the Great American Novel. Got a job on the
Tribune
to pay the rent. Settled down a bit. Discovered I liked a few middle-class comforts. Reconciled with my parents just before my dad died, and came home to run his newspaper. Met my high-school sweetheart on the street one day, married her six months later, and we have lived happily ever after.”
“And the Great American Novel?”
“Right up there,” he said, pointing to a cardboard box tied with string on the top shelf of the bookcase. “I take it down and look at it from time to time. The world may have to be denied the pleasure.”
“No regrets?”
“No. Not for any part of it.”
“What about the other people in the picture? Ever see any of them anymore?”
He came and stood beside me, gulped some beer, and pointed at the kid with his fingers making horns over his neighbours head.
“This one was killed in Vietnam,” he said. “The day before his tour was up. This one died of a drug overdose over in Miami. This one runs a liquor store in Saint Pete’s. Bobby is a real estate broker now; almost as respectable as I am. I’ve lost touch with Dwayne completely. Last I heard he was out in California, working in a bar band. And this one is still the same.”
He looked at me.
“Except for the fact that his daughter just got murdered. This is Hank Cartwright, Lucy’s father. She was born about when this was taken.”
“He was at the funeral
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