Pick Your Poison by Leann Sweeney Page B

was probably written before she was born.
    With so much time having passed, the writer seemed like my best bet to learn more than what meager facts were provided in the article, so I plugged Larry K’s name into a search engine. It seemed he was a syndicated freelancer, and I found pages and pages of Web articles from newspapers all over the country. And I also found his mother’s obituary, which offered the name of his hometown. Finding his phone number was as easy as catching fish with dynamite.
    After I dialed, he answered with, “Kryshevski here. I don’t want any.”
    “I’m not a telemarketer,” I said quickly. “I’m calling about a story you wrote years ago.”
    “Years ago I might remember; just don’t ask me about anything I wrote yesterday.” His raspy, gruff voice sounded like he was a smoker.
    “My name is Abby Rose, and the article in question concerned a teenager’s disappearance. Very brief story in the Marysville Sentinel . I’m hoping you know more than what appeared in the paper.”
    “Hold on a second.” He didn’t bother to cover the receiver when he started yelling at whoever was in the room with him. “Can you tell I’m on the phone? Or have you added deaf and blind to the hypochondria list?”
    I heard a female respond, but couldn’t make out what she said. Larry answered her with, “Now I understand why you sneeze all the time. To remove the dust from your brain.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Ms. Rose. Continue.”
    “The teenager’s name was Connie Kramer,” I said, hoping to end this conversation quickly. Larry K wasn’t exactly my kind of guy.
    “Yeah. Connie. She disappeared.”
    “So you do recall the story?”
    “The kid, more than the story. In places like Marysville you get to know people.”
    “And what do you remember about her?”
    “Hold on again,” he said, then barked, “Chicken again? Are you hoping to put enough salmonella in my system to kill me, Phyllis?”
    Sounded like a decent plan to me, I thought.
    This time the woman’s response was audible. “Kryshevski, you’re living proof there are more horse’s butts than horses. Eat your dinner and shut up.”
    It seemed she didn’t need anyone’s help to handle this jerk.
    Larry said, “I’m having a conversation with someone far more interesting than a fucking chicken. She wants to know about something I wrote, which of course would never interest you .”
    “Uh, maybe I should call you back later?” I said.
    “No. Me and the chicken will go in the other room—if that’s okay with you , Phyllis?”
    Another muffled response that I was glad I couldn’t understand.
    “Women,” said Larry K, and then I heard a door squeal shut. “Okay. Blessed privacy. Now why are you asking about Connie Kramer?”
    “I was cleaning out an attic after a friend died and found the article. Looks like it came from one of those ‘police beat’ sections,” I said. “The last line is what caught my interest. You wrote, ‘Foul play is not suspected.’ ”
    “Ah, yes,” said Larry K with a laugh. “Snuck that past the night editor and got in trouble with the big boss when he read the copy.”
    “Why would that get you in trouble?” I asked.
    “Back then,” he answered, sounding like he had a mouthful of food, “you weren’t supposed to confuse gossip with the news. See, I was ahead of the times.”
    “And do you remember the gossip?”
    “Depends on why you’re asking. Dispensing information is my bread and butter, and it sounds like you want me to work for free.”
    “How much?” I said, stifling my irritation and hoping there really was salmonella in his chicken.
    “You tell me why this is important to you and we can work something out. If it’s a good enough story, it won’t cost you a dime. My newspapers will pay me.”
    No use shooting myself in the foot just because I didn’t like the man. What harm could it do to tell him the truth? So I began with Ben’s murder and ended with