believe he’s not a local.” She turned back to her reading.
Irked, I went into my office. Wednesdays were usually down time that I used for planning the next issue while waiting for the paper to hit the streets and mailboxes. Having editorialized the past two months to pave the way for the mayor’s restructuring plan, a follow-up would be due next week. But that was on hold until I got reader response.
There was nothing I could do about the dead body. More waiting, in this case for Milo and Yakima’s law enforcement personnel.
But I could tackle the runaways. There was something about having two girls run off within such a short time that bothered me. Journalists get hunches, and I’d had my share. I decided to take a chance that my latest hunch was worth pursuing.
New SkyCo phone directories had been distributed the firstweek of April. I looked up the Ellisons’ listing. Charles and Janice Ellison lived up on the Icicle Creek Road, not far from the ranger station. I dialed their number. A young female voice answered on the second ring.
“Samantha?” I said.
“No,” the voice replied. “She’s not here. Who’s this?”
“Emma Lord, from the
Advocate
. You are …?” I let the query dangle.
“Chelsea. Did you want to talk to my parents? They aren’t here.”
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’m doing some background for an article about high school students. What grade are you in, Chelsea?”
“I’m a sophomore,” she replied. “Is Samantha there?”
“No.”
“What grade is she in?”
There was a long pause. “Well … she’d be a senior.”
“I’m sorry. Do you mean she dropped out of school?”
“Um … kind of. I mean, she … moved.”
“Samantha left Alpine?”
A shorter pause. “Yes. She went somewhere with her boyfriend.”
I thought fast. “That’s fascinating,” I said. “In fact, it’s exactly the sort of information I can use in my article. I want to focus on how today’s teenagers have more choices with what they can do with their lives. It’s all rooted so deeply in technology,” I asserted, wondering when my nose would start growing like Pinocchio’s. “You know, the unlimited access they have to family and friends, no matter where they are. Have you got a phone number or an email address for your sister? I’d love to talk to her.”
“Ah … no. Sammy calls here every week, but she uses a pay phone.”
So much for the technology angle. I was undaunted, however, if only because Samantha hadn’t gone the high-tech route. “I’m even more curious about that,” I said in my friendliest tone. “Your sister must be one of the few teens I know who isn’t glued to a cellphone.”
“I guess she lost hers,” Chelsea said vaguely. “Hey, I have to go. My brother’s gone outside and I can’t see where he is. ’Bye.”
To my surprise, Vida was coming toward me. “What,” she asked, “was that all about?”
Relieved that she was at least being civil, I unloaded on her after she sat down in one of my visitor chairs. I concluded by asking if she’d interviewed the Ellisons when they’d moved to Alpine last fall.
For once, she looked stumped. “I
think
I did,” she said, frowning. “In October, which you may recall was a hectic time for me.” Her admission was strained.
“I know,” I said, hoping to sound sympathetic about her reference to the trailer park disaster that had temporarily derailed Vida’s delusions of Roger as the ideal law-abiding grandson. “Do you recall mentioning the Ellisons at all?”
“Yes,” she replied reluctantly, “but only in a monthly wrap-up.”
I shrugged. “No big deal, except, as you might have heard me on the phone, their daughter Samantha was reported as a runaway but later contacted her parents. Now that the Johnson girl is missing, my curiosity’s piqued. Frankly, the younger Ellison daughter didn’t do much to reassure me about her sister’s well-being.”
Vida shifted from
Irked, I went into my office. Wednesdays were usually down time that I used for planning the next issue while waiting for the paper to hit the streets and mailboxes. Having editorialized the past two months to pave the way for the mayor’s restructuring plan, a follow-up would be due next week. But that was on hold until I got reader response.
There was nothing I could do about the dead body. More waiting, in this case for Milo and Yakima’s law enforcement personnel.
But I could tackle the runaways. There was something about having two girls run off within such a short time that bothered me. Journalists get hunches, and I’d had my share. I decided to take a chance that my latest hunch was worth pursuing.
New SkyCo phone directories had been distributed the firstweek of April. I looked up the Ellisons’ listing. Charles and Janice Ellison lived up on the Icicle Creek Road, not far from the ranger station. I dialed their number. A young female voice answered on the second ring.
“Samantha?” I said.
“No,” the voice replied. “She’s not here. Who’s this?”
“Emma Lord, from the
Advocate
. You are …?” I let the query dangle.
“Chelsea. Did you want to talk to my parents? They aren’t here.”
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’m doing some background for an article about high school students. What grade are you in, Chelsea?”
“I’m a sophomore,” she replied. “Is Samantha there?”
“No.”
“What grade is she in?”
There was a long pause. “Well … she’d be a senior.”
“I’m sorry. Do you mean she dropped out of school?”
“Um … kind of. I mean, she … moved.”
“Samantha left Alpine?”
A shorter pause. “Yes. She went somewhere with her boyfriend.”
I thought fast. “That’s fascinating,” I said. “In fact, it’s exactly the sort of information I can use in my article. I want to focus on how today’s teenagers have more choices with what they can do with their lives. It’s all rooted so deeply in technology,” I asserted, wondering when my nose would start growing like Pinocchio’s. “You know, the unlimited access they have to family and friends, no matter where they are. Have you got a phone number or an email address for your sister? I’d love to talk to her.”
“Ah … no. Sammy calls here every week, but she uses a pay phone.”
So much for the technology angle. I was undaunted, however, if only because Samantha hadn’t gone the high-tech route. “I’m even more curious about that,” I said in my friendliest tone. “Your sister must be one of the few teens I know who isn’t glued to a cellphone.”
“I guess she lost hers,” Chelsea said vaguely. “Hey, I have to go. My brother’s gone outside and I can’t see where he is. ’Bye.”
To my surprise, Vida was coming toward me. “What,” she asked, “was that all about?”
Relieved that she was at least being civil, I unloaded on her after she sat down in one of my visitor chairs. I concluded by asking if she’d interviewed the Ellisons when they’d moved to Alpine last fall.
For once, she looked stumped. “I
think
I did,” she said, frowning. “In October, which you may recall was a hectic time for me.” Her admission was strained.
“I know,” I said, hoping to sound sympathetic about her reference to the trailer park disaster that had temporarily derailed Vida’s delusions of Roger as the ideal law-abiding grandson. “Do you recall mentioning the Ellisons at all?”
“Yes,” she replied reluctantly, “but only in a monthly wrap-up.”
I shrugged. “No big deal, except, as you might have heard me on the phone, their daughter Samantha was reported as a runaway but later contacted her parents. Now that the Johnson girl is missing, my curiosity’s piqued. Frankly, the younger Ellison daughter didn’t do much to reassure me about her sister’s well-being.”
Vida shifted from
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