Edited to Death (11 page)

White walls, polished floors, a few good rugs. Even the coffee mugs were regulation
dove gray, with tiny
Small Town
logotypes (Goudy Old Style) on them. Quentin was famous for his “bad taste purges,”
sweeping through the staff’s offices and appropriating cups with cartoon characters
or chirpy slogans, trimming plants of limp leaves, leaving yellow stickie messages
that read “clean me” on grimy Rolodexes and “think again” on sixties-era oak picture
frames.

The door to Quentin’s office was closed. While Alf assembled the troops, I called
Michael at his office.

“He’s with a client, Mrs. Fiori. Shall I interrupt?”

This news needed a face-to-face delivery, I realized, slightly relieved he wasn’t
immediately available by phone. “No, no, I’ll see him at home,” I said hastily. “Don’t
bother him now.”

We met in the conference room. The meeting was far easier than I’d imagined. Alf made
a few pompous remarks, introduced me as interim editor, and settled himself unsteadily
on the art director’s high stool.

I looked around the room. The faces were friendly, but clearly puzzled. The full-time
staff was quite small: Quentin as editor, his hand-picked assistant Gertie Davis,
his managing editor Glen Fox, the art director Linda Quoc, and a staff editor who
presided over a changing crew of proofreaders, factcheckers, interns, and production
people.

As Quentin liked to point out, he and Gertie were the only permanent senior staff
members without some kind of an off-shore accent. As for Gertie, who had applied for
the job with Quentin the day she got off the plane from Chicago to start a new life
away from Awful Husband Number One and grown but needy children, her loyalty was of
the kind most often mythologized in golden retrievers.

The contributing editors, who were responsible for columns and occasional features,
included Lisbet Traumer on restaurants, Andrea Storch on film, me on books, and a
mustachioed ex-hockey player named Puck Morris on music. Musicians who received bad
reviews were alerted ahead of time when Morris would send out one of his signature
“Pucked by Morris” t-shirts.

Okay, Maggie, I cheered myself on. These folks know you as a fluffy feature writer
who’s always just a little bit late with assignments. Act like an editor! You used
to do this for a living. I took a deep breath. “Mr. Abbott has asked me to fill in,”
I said, “until Kelly Girls turn up someone better.” Everyone smiled but Alf.

I saw Gertie bite her lip and exchange a quick glance with Glen Fox.

“I’d like to huddle with Glen and Gertie right after this meeting, and then meet individually
with the rest of you over the next few days. As for the contributing editors, since
I’m the only one who’s ever late, I’m going to assume we’re on target with content
and deadlines. Let’s try and talk before the end of the week.”

I took another breath. “I know this is tough and awkward for all of us. I’m not Quent,
and no one else is either. I’m sure Mr. Abbott and Mrs. Hart will do everything they
can to find someone who will do right by
Small Town
. In the meantime, all we can do is put out a magazine Quentin wouldn’t have terribly
minded finding on his nightstand.”

That prompted a little round of applause. Then, we quickly set up a process for finishing
the next issue and moving forward with the following few months. Like all monthly
magazines except for create-on-the-screen ’zines, the upcoming issues of
Small Town
had schedules that overlapped. While one issue was in the last stages of production,
the next was in design and editing, and the two or three after that were in planning
and story assignment stages.

After the meeting, Alf disappeared. Glen went to get coffee for us. I took a deep
breath, opened the door to Quentin’s office, and went in. I couldn’t face his desk,
so I put pad and pencil on his small work table, pulled up chairs for Glen and Gertie,
and waited. Quent’s office looked not unlike his house—serene, perfectly ordered,
the walls hung with framed covers from past issues of
Small Town
.

Glen backed in, thick file under one arm, two mugs of coffee in hand, a small bottle
of Bushmill’s under the other arm. Gertie followed, her face scrupulously clean of
expression.

“This is just what we need, my girls,” said Glen.

“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” I said. “But breakfast with Alf, Claire, and a Bloody
Mary have put me off a bit already.”

Gertie shook her head. “Not for me, Glen. You know we wholesome Midwestern girls don’t
drink before noon.”

“Okay,” he said, “then this is just what I need.” He unscrewed the lid, picked the
bottle up, hovered it over the mug, then put it down again.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“No, I think I won’t,” he said, screwing the lid back on. “I’m cutting back. Drives
all those Irish stereotypers quite mad. Besides, we all have to take better care of
ourselves these days. I’ll face the music cold sober.”

These two need to be my pals, and fast, I thought. “Before we jump into the issue,
I want to tell both of you I didn’t go after this job,” I said.

Glen patted my hand. “I know you didn’t, Maggie. I’m not hurt. I’ve only been here
a year and, frankly, I know damn little about this city and this kind of magazine.
I mean, if it’s not rantin’ and ravin’ politics, I’m out of my home turf.”

As Alf had pointed out, Glen was relatively new to the magazine, having landed in
San Francisco when he’d been tossed off the radical Catholic weekly he’d edited back
home in County Clare.

I laughed. “I always wondered if
Small Town
wasn’t a little superficial for you.”

“Actually, thanks to Quent, it’s a world better than it has any right to be. Besides
that, when I came to San Francisco with Corinne and the five mouths to feed, I was
grateful to Quentin for the job. Gertie knows that. So I’ll do anything I can to help
you.”

Gertie had been silent, her arms crossed, regarding me during Glen’s little speech.

“So Gertie, how’s about it?” I asked. “Are you with me?”

“I’m wondering if I still have a job,” she said.

“If it’s up to me, you do,” I said.

“Thanks, I guess,” she said. Her eyes welled with tears and she stood up.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she said.

I jumped up and put my arms around her. “I know.”

She shook me off. “No, you don’t, Maggie. You’ve got another life. I still don’t know
why Quent took a chance on an old reentry broad like me, but he gave me this job and
a life I loved for the first time. He was an opinionated, arrogant, selfish son of
a bitch, and I loved him to death.” The room became very quiet. She dug in her pocket
and blew her nose angrily. “Oh, you know what I mean. I’m so angry that he did something
stupid enough to get somebody mad enough to kill him.” She swiped at her nose again.
“And the worst of it is, we don’t even know why this happened.”

I collected myself. “Gertie, you’ve lost Quentin and that’s awful. It’s awful for
all of us. He rescued me, too, you know. I was about to go down for the count in carpools
and play groups. But you haven’t lost your job, and I can’t possibly figure out this
place without you. Now, are you in?”

“I’m in… for now,” she said. “And of course, I’ll try to help you, Maggie. I’m not
angry at you. I’m furious at Quentin, but he’s not here.” She dabbed at her eyes with
tissue. “Can you guys have this meeting without me? I’ll be around later, but I just
need some air.”

“Fine, fine,” I said, relieved she wasn’t going to disappear forever. And then she
was out the door.

Within fifteen minutes, Glen had the table covered with production schedules, story
lineups, editorial and art budgets, and a messy stack of paper layouts printed out
from the designers’ screens.

“Here’s the big picture,” he said. “November issue goes to press next week. Linda
Quoc and I will do the press check. She covers things from the design side, of course,
and I handle the last-minute editorial stuff. So unless you’re anxious to break in
with an all-nighter.…” I said I’d pass.

“Fine. Copy’s in for December, except for your lox piece, and Linda and her fellows
are designing the book. January is the trouble.”

Glen pulled out the January story list. There was a line for each of the four major
features with a working headline, the writer assigned, deadlines, and so on. At the
bottom of the story list, the standing, or regular, features and columns were displayed.

“What’s the problem?”

“Have a look.”

There on the page, in Quentin’s Spencerian hand, was the lineup for the January issue.

1. The Resolution Blues

Famous People talk about the art of not making New Year’s resolutions.

Writer: Manfred Smith, deadline: 11/15.

2. Where the Sun Always Shines

Winter vacations for the indolent pale skins.

Writer: Liz Gruder, deadline: 11/15.

3. Looking for Daddy More-Bucks

An overview of funding for the city’s major arts organizations.

Writer: Puck Morris, deadline: 11/15.

4. Trouble in Paradise: The Cock of the Walk

The writer and the deadline were blank, and there was no telegraphic description of
the story.

“No problem, Glen,” I said.

“Why?”

“I’m the writer. The day Quentin… died… we were supposed to have lunch and talk about
the piece. Just give me the file and I’ll do the piece myself.”

Glen tapped his pencil on the list. “You haven’t anything on the story? Anything at
all?”

“No. But if you’ve got the file, then I’m sure we can put something together.”

He picked up his coffee mug and swallowed. “That’s the problem. There is no file.
Well, there’s a file, but there’s nothing in it but a clipping from the
Chronicle
’s social notes about the opening. Big society bash. All the mink-and-fink set came
out for that. It was a benefit for some AIDS group.”

“Mink-and-fink?”

“You know, all those ladies with furs who come out and tittle-tattle about each other.
Like our own beloved widow.”

“Claire?”

“She’s the one. Actually, she organized this little to-do.”

“I don’t get this. If the piece isn’t a restaurant review, and it’s not, or he’d have
asked Lisbet to do it, then what is it? I can’t believe Quentin just wanted to plug
some place Claire hangs out.”

“I don’t know, Maggie. ‘
Trouble in Paradise
’ doesn’t sound like a plug. But if you don’t have any background, I think we’ve got
to kill the story.”

I sighed. “Damn. Quentin was tantalizing me with this story. I didn’t even know what
the piece was about and I was already writing my acceptance speech for some award.”

“You don’t know anything?”

I shook my head. “Nope. There may be something back at Quentin’s apartment. I was
meeting him there for lunch, so maybe he brought the contents of the file home with
him. I’ll ask that nice cop if I can have a look around. In the meantime, let’s dig
out the evergreen file and plan a backup.”

In the magazine business, evergreen stories are an editor’s life preserver. They’re
stories that aren’t seasonal (hence, the name) and can be dropped in when a cowardly
lawyer kills a piece or the interview subject dies or a writer botches a job.

Glen promised to pull some candidates from the evergreen file. As he stood up, the
door swung open. Calvin Bright and Andrea “Starchy” Storch waited outside.

“I heard the news,” said Calvin. “Came by to say congratulations, can I help, and
are you sweet things free for lunch?”

“On principle,” said Glen, “I never have lunch on a Friday with a fellow who calls
me a sweet thing.”

“I didn’t mean you,” grinned Calvin. “I mean these lovely ladies. But you’re welcome.”

“I’ll take a raincheck, as you Yanks say.”

“You’re on,” I said. “Come on, Andrea, we’ll take you someplace sleazy and you can
class the place up.”

Half an hour later, we were all sitting in front of Anchor Steam beers at Hamburger
Mary’s. It’s not that Hamburger Mary’s is exactly sleazy; it’s just not the kind of
place you generally find Starchy Storch, the high brow film critic, bending her elbow.
For openers, Mary is rumored to be a guy. After dark, it’s hard to feel well-dressed
without some heavy leather accessories (and I don’t mean Coach handbags), but at any
hour, the burgers are unbeatable.

“Let’s toast Maggie’s new job,” said Calvin.

“Let’s not,” I said. “It’s temporary. And it gives me the creeps. I’ve already made
Gertie cry and driven Glen to drink. God, I wish the cops would figure out what happened.”

Andrea shivered. “You know, until we came in to see if you wanted lunch, I’d not set
foot in Quentin’s office, since, you know.…”

“Cheer up, girls,” said Calvin. “I think Quentin would be one happy guy to see Maggie
in that office. Besides, the SFPD will crack the case pretty soon. Maybe Mrs. Quent
popped over and just nastied him to death.”