The Winter Widow by Charlene Weir

he decided on revenge? It was Helen who had shot his father, not Daniel. If he was out for revenge, why not shoot Helen?
    He might have a motive that had nothing to do with all this past history. She recalled the smirk on his face yesterday morning, and somebody in the crowd teasing him about Lucille. “What kind of relationship does Floyd have with Lucille?”
    â€œIf you mean romantic, none that I know of. They know each other, but that’s the extent of it.”
    â€œAny word on Lucille?”
    â€œNot yet,” George said with a worried sigh.
    â€œHas anybody questioned Floyd about her?”
    â€œNot specially.” George eyed her, waiting for her to explain.
    â€œJust a feeling,” she admitted.
    He nodded, as though that was reason enough.
    â€œWould you send somebody—Parkhurst—to lean on him a little?”
    â€œOsey’d be better. Floyd’d clam up when he saw Ben coming. Osey has a way of just easing information along like a lazy current moving a duckling.”
    â€œWell—” She wasn’t sure Osey would recognize information if it was handed to him with a label.
    â€œI’m going to see Lucille’s editor. What do you know about him?”
    *   *   *
    THE Hampstead Herald, according to a brass plaque on the front of the building, had been founded in 1886. It was a square brick structure, painted white, directly across the railroad tracks from the depot.
    Henry Royce had bought the paper five years ago after a heart attack at age forty-two forced him to retire from one of the Chicago papers. He was an outsider, too, but according to George, more readily accepted than most because nobody wanted to do without the Herald. His office was at the rear of the building, and he sat writing copy behind an old oak desk cluttered with file folders, magazines, notes and old newspapers.
    White shirtsleeves rolled up, garish red-striped tie loosened, he looked up at her and scowled. It was a scene straight out of The Front Page. She wondered why he didn’t wear a green eyeshade. The heart attack probably accounted for the absence of a haze of smoke.
    He had a heavy face—jowly—sharp black eyes and black hair, mottled with gray, that was overdue for a haircut. Thirty pounds overweight, with an ulcer, he was a short-tempered man who quickly reached a hot rage when things went wrong, which happened with great regularity on a small-town daily.
    Tossing down the pencil, he leaned back in the chair. “Well, you must be Chief Wren.” He spoke with a soft Southern accent.
    She was getting a little tired of the sarcasm everybody loaded onto Chief Wren. “Where is Lucille?”
    â€œIf I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this drivel. I’d haul her in and have her doing it.”
    â€œDrivel?”
    â€œMy readers are more interested in who got married and what the bride wore than hard news.”
    â€œSurely you knew that before you came.”
    â€œYeah, well, knowing and experiencing are two different things.”
    He crossed his arms, tipped back his head and peered at her with cynical amusement in his beady eyes. “Maybe you know about that. Want to give me an exclusive interview?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHuman interest,” he drawled. “Romantic dreams, biological clock—career woman gives up all, then lands knee-deep in reality.”
    She wasn’t sure she liked Henry Royce; he seemed to carry antennae that zeroed in on the weak spots. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a supercilious nod in acknowledgment of his accuracy.
    Since he made no attempt to provide her a place to sit, she scooped a tottery pile of papers and files from the only chair, swung it around in front of the desk and planted herself on it. “Where do you think she is?”
    â€œAh, honey, she’s young. You know how it goes, most likely a hot-and-heavy love affair with some