"Okay, Mother dear," I said, trying not to sound as weary as I felt. "How much of this stuff about Amy is hearsay and how much is truth?"
"Oh, I only gave you the facts, Jolene, but there are plenty of stories. Agnes told Merline about seeing those two out at McDonald's together. They didn't sit on the same side of the booth or anything, but Agnes said she could still tell."
No, I was not about to ask "tell what?" because frankly, the more I learned, the muddier the picture got. And while none of this appeared to have anything to do with the mayor's murder, it very well could have played into Jerry's shooting--or not. Nevertheless, I couldn't ignore this part of the equation. I scribbled a few notes then scratched out my doodle of the golden arches when I realized the only fact worth noting was that Amy had a girlfriend. "So what kind of a person is Amy's friend?"
"Oh, she's really butch," Lucille said authoritatively. "Real masculine looking."
I did not laugh, but I did rub my hand across my mouth to prevent it. My mother, the expert on lesbians. "What I meant was, is she a nice person?"
Lucille patted her hair. "Oh, well, I don't really know about that. Merline pointed her out to me once. Real short dark hair, thin build, but kind of muscular."
Again, I did not groan nor did I bother explaining that short hair and a nice physique did not mean anything whatsoever, except that the person obviously did not sit around eating chicken fried steaks with gravy and watching "Wheel of Fortune" every night as did a large percentage of the local populace.
"She works over at that new lumberyard out off the old Jacksboro Highway," Lucille volunteered. "Maybe you ought to have a talk with her."
I tapped my pen on the pad. "Why would I want to talk with her?"
"Maybe she shot Jerry."
I thought about that for a minute, and I had to admit it was a possibility, but not a good one. Why bother with Jerry since she already had what she wanted, namely a divorced and available Amy? There were a number of other details that didn't make sense. "If she was going to shoot Jerry there are a whole lot more convenient places to do it than in your breakfast nook."
Lucille huffed, although I could see her following along with my thinking. "Then, I guess we're just back to me. Somebody hates me enough to want to kill me." She took in a ragged breath that was tinged with both anger and fear. "I know you find that very easy to believe."
I didn't argue with her, just sat there, trying to figure out what to do next. I couldn't see a good starting place. Either there were two separate events to unravel, or they were somehow related, which made it more complex since we didn't know if the shooter was actually after Jerry or Mother. It seemed highly likely, but not certain, that whoever shot the mayor was probably also responsible for trying to kill Jerry or Mother. I could link a motive for shooting Mother with the mayor easily and romantically, but not confidently. I could find a fair motive for a couple of people to shoot Jerry, but they didn't have anything to do with the mayor. None of the motives I could come up with were very strong, and there was nothing that pointed to some kind of big conspiracy. But maybe, I just wasn't seeing the bigger picture--maybe I didn't want to.
Denial danced a jig through my brain chanting: When in doubt, block it out. Seemed reasonable. But as much as I didn't want to face the ugly reality of the situation, the plywood on the window, my mother's arm in a sling and my dear friend in ICU demanded otherwise. "I think I'll run back into town to see how Jerry's doing, then swing out to Bowman City and chat with Sheriff Leroy, or some higher evolved species occupying the office tonight, and see what's going on."
"I doubt he'll tell you anything."
I doubted it too, even planned on it. While denial had been trying to avoid reality, another little voice had been screaming, "Do something, even if it's wrong." That particular voice calls to me a lot. However, giving myself permission to do something wrong is not always a great plan since I can usually be highly successful in the endeavor. Thus my decision to also go to the Redwater Falls
Times
newsroom and find the newest greenest kid in the place--one who hadn't been socialized into complacency yet--and lay out all the tantalizing facets of the shootings in Kickapoo to whet his appetite for a juicy "make a name for yourself" story.
It was yet another long shot, but I didn't see how it could hurt.
The next morning I forced myself out of bed at the obscene hour of seven a.m., threw on my standard uniform of shorts and a T-shirt, and set about my mission of snagging the newspaper before my mother did. Stumbling into the kitchen for my daily infusion of liquid tar, I saw that I was too late. Way too late.
Lucille Jackson sat at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of her, bifocals perched on the end of her nose and steam coming from her ears. Apparently, intern Kimberlee Fletcher had written an article on the unseemly activities in Kickapoo.
Without a word, I grabbed a can of Dr Pepper from the fridge and sat down at the table. Stupidly, I said, "Anything interesting in the paper this morning?"
"You should know." Lucille shoved the newspaper at me. "Every other sentence in this trashy little piece ends with 'Jolene Jackson said.'"
Uh oh. A sick feeling settled over me, and it was like I was being called into the office again for writing my "Fire the Pervert" editorial in the school paper. "It really says that? 'Jolene Jackson said?'"
"You have no idea the can of worms you've opened up, Jolene. And why on earth they printed this mess is beyond me."
"Slow news day?" I said, trying to be halfway amusing, lighten the mood, that sort of thing. It didn't work--for either of us.
Lucille stood and glared. "You've made this mess, Jolene, now you're going to be the one fixing it, not that you can un-sully my reputation."
I watched her stomp out, but got the feeling she wasn't all that mad. If she had been, she'd have already dragged me out of bed accompanied by the phrase "Jolene Janette Jackson, look what you've done." So, I figured it couldn't be too bad.
I was wrong.
The more I read, the sicker I got. If Kimberlee Fletcher had been to even one journalism class, it was not readily apparent from the words printed on the page. It goes without saying that she didn't know the first thing about investigative reporting either, like the fact that you don't just print everything some moron off the street tells you. The moron in this case, of course, being me.
The highly informative and speculative article detailed every little trivial thing I had told Kimberlee, including the fact that my mother, an eccentric, flamboyant type (yes, she used those words), had been dating a married man who was now dead via unnatural causes, specifically the mayor whose obituary she dutifully noted appeared on page 23. Kimberlee Fletcher was right on top of this story.
And furthermore, the "highly esteemed sheriff of the county, Jerry Don Parker, former high school sweetheart of the very same Jolene Jackson, was critically wounded during an early morning visit to the elder Jackson's home." The little snot had made it sound like we were both sleeping with him.
After I quit hyperventilating, I read on. Kimberlee had told every little bit of hearsay and speculation about all the goings-on at city hall. She even hinted that the mayor's wife had been having an affair also, but nobody knew for sure who with, and what did anybody really know about the mayor pro tem and what is a pro tem anyway? All in all, it reflected rather tackily on the populace of Kickapoo, not to mention the sleazy informant.
And I had to agree with my mother. How on earth did this piece of yellow journalism get published? This wasn't typical of news stories, even in this paper. The
National Enquirer
would have passed on this one.
Then it hit me. When I'd been doing my internship, I'd had to beg and fight to get assigned to anything other than a feature story on a homecoming queen. And in those stories you didn't have to check out anything, just write what you were told and, true or not, everybody was happy.
I flipped through the rest of the paper looking for little Miss Kimberlee Fletcher's byline. It didn't take long to find it, right beneath the headline that read: Greenbelt Bowl Queen Nominees Announced. A dozen or so photos of smiling high school girls lined the sides of the article. Pretty much the same headline and format as when my picture graced the page twenty-odd years ago. And then, at the bottom, I did see my high school picture with the words:
"Former Bowl Queen Involved in Recent Shooting."
"Mother!"
Now, I was the one with steam coming out my ears. "Did you see this?" I said, pointing at the article as she walked into the room. "Did you see this!"
She put on her glasses and peered over my shoulder. "Why no, I didn't. I always did like that picture of you. It's one of my favorites. I paid a fortune for that dress but it surely did look good on you. Look how that lace vees down over your bosoms. You surely did have a nice figure back then, not that it's horrible now. You've gained a few pounds, of course, but, I bet you could still fit into that gown. Why don't you give it a try? It's in the closet, you know."
Yes, I knew. I also knew I couldn't fit into the thing if my life depended on it. I'd been sixteen years old then, for godsakes. And now every person in the county and the next would be commenting on how I'd aged, how I used to be such a smart and sweet girl, and on and on, ad nauseam. It was all stuff I didn't care about under normal circumstances. Here, however, that kind of thing just plain makes me nuts, because in the hierarchy of needs, gossiping and judging comes right after food and shelter--most of the time.
And what would the killer think about all the printed inane conjecture, speculation and outright lies? Oh, I'd already thought about that, don't think I hadn't. In fact, it had sort of been the point. My plan had been to stir up enough interest so the idiot reporter would investigate, which would put pressure on the killer and make him back off a little. It had seemed like a sound theory at the time, but all it had probably accomplished was getting my own name added to the killer's hit list on general principles--namely stupidity and a big mouth.
"Okay, Mother, I admit it. I screwed up." I folded up the newspaper and shoved it aside. "So what do we do now?"
"It seems to me, Jolene, that your newspaper article puts all the cards on the table, so to speak."
"It's not my article, Mother."
"Well, same as," she said, with a flick of her nails. "The point is whoever is taking pot shots at everybody isn't going to stop because of it, that's for sure. I suppose one choice is to just sit back and let the sheriff's department handle it."
Handle what? They hadn't handled anything at all that I could see, and with Jerry barely alive, I had no hopes that his troops would pull themselves up by their bootstraps and become efficient criminal-catching machines here in the next ten minutes. "You're right about the article, but I have no faith whatsoever in the current leadership of the sheriff's department."
Lucille wandered over to the cabinet and got a glass, then filled it from the jug of water in the fridge. When she finished, she set the glass aside and turned toward me, rather haughtily. "Well, Jolene, it seems to me that all Leroy's said to the newspaper was 'No Comment.'"
She was implying that Leroy had more sense than I did, and I didn't appreciate it, although I couldn't argue with her point. I had made a really dumb mistake and I was rightfully obligated to fix it. I stood. "I'll take a quick shower and head up to the hospital. Jerry was awake for a few minutes yesterday, so I'm hoping he'll be awake when I'm there today."
"No visits with the reporter?"
"Oh, yes, I'll be visiting with little Miss Fletcher and her boss as well. I think they both need a lesson on responsible journalism."
"Well, you go on and have a good time, dear. Merline's coming over and we're going to the Dairy Queen."
I stood, frowning as I thought about her plans. "I don't think so, Mother. Somebody might be trying to kill you. We agreed you would stay home until this was over, with the nice deputy outside to see to your safety."
Lucille waved her good hand in dismissal. "Well, I've thought about that, and nobody's expecting me to be out so they can't very well be waiting in the bushes with a gun. Somebody would have seen them by now."
I started to point out that nobody had seen the shooter before either, but instead I used a different tack. "What about that article in the paper?"
"Well, really, Jolene, I hate to say it, but you'll be the one taking the heat over that."
Or a bullet. I didn't say a word, just smiled--sort of.
"Besides, I'll not have anyone disrupting my lifestyle for any reason. If I want to go have a hamburger and a glass of iced tea with my friends, I'll certainly do so. Like Merline said, I'm kind of a celebrity now anyway."
Oh, so that was it. A celebrity. "So you're not mad at me anymore?" I asked, willing to take my "get out of jail free" cards where I could get them.
"You ought not have told that little girl to print all of Kickapoo's dirty laundry."
"I didn't tell her to," I said, obligated to defend myself. "I made it crystal clear that I was just giving her some tidbits to help with her investigation, which was no investigation at all as it turned out. In the real world, the eager reporter gets a tip then starts digging into public records, does interviews and tries to get to the truth of the story. Remember Watergate? Kimberlee's rambling piece of nothing shouldn't have been printed. A decent attorney could retire off the potential libel suits in that article."
"Well, it's all water under the bridge now," Lucille said, turning and heading toward her bedroom.
"You're one of the ones who could sue her. I'm another."