Sweet Love (9 page)

“I have a great recipe for those,” I say, pointing to the berries. “Freeze them on a cookie sheet maybe with some raspberries and blueberries. Then melt a good quality white chocolate in cream.” Dolores makes me hold off until she gets a slip of paper so she can write it down. We agree that it’s ideal for warm days like this one. No one wants to heat up the kitchen in summer by baking shortbread.

We go on and on about wild berries versus cultivated ones, about what constitutes good white chocolate and if it matters what kind of butter you use. According to Dolores, butter with low moisture and high butterfat makes all the difference. She suggests Amish block butter or something called Plugrá, a bastardization of the French phrase
plus gras
, meaning “more fat.”

Only the French, I think, would add fat to their butter.

I can’t believe I care about butter. Before cooking class I wouldn’t have given a tinker’s dam, yet here I am wondering whether I can sneak over to Whole Foods to buy some for tonight. Dolores says it’s fantastic on French bread, with a good Pinot Noir.

“Ooh,” I hiss, licking my lip. Then the awful truth hits me.

I have become a foodie!

“What am I doing? I can’t stand around here talking about butter, not when I’m up to my eyeballs in work.”
Not when I’m in the running for my dream job.

Dolores slumps her shoulders and goes back to her sudoku. “I should have known. All anyone wants from me is gossip about what’s going on in Arnie’s office, why Kirk Bledsoe brought in Raldo, then Valerie. Who’s going to get sent to the election team.”

Raldo?

“Reporters are so hopeless. Can’t have a conversation with you people without you always angling.”

This is so not true. I want her to know that I didn’t go off on the butter tangent simply to eke out information about why Valerie’s in with Kirk. But how do you tell a person something like that?
Because you like to eat, Dolores, and eat a lot, so I thought I’d tell you about the berries.

Instead, I say, “I can’t wait to try the Plugrá.”

“Uh-huh.” And she writes down a 9 in the upper-right quadrant.

Raldo?

I dump the papers on my desk and get Michael’s card from my purse. Raldo’s at his computer intensely typing, probably looking up some rare disease with few symptoms that causes instant death. I try to picture him on the national election team and come up with him moderating the presidential debate in a head-to-toe white hazmat suit.

Why would Kirk even consider him?

Wary of Dolores’s sensitive feelings, I pretend I have no interest in finding out as I punch in Michael’s number at Slayton Consulting. Michael as a consultant, now there’s a twist. All that spark and inventiveness and this is the way he spends his life, advising other people how to live theirs.

Michael’s not in, so I leave a message about getting together for lunch. Then I hang up and turn my attention to
The New York Times
, a front-page article about the Republican candidate’s economic platform and an analysis of thirty years of tax policy.

I am going to need way more caffeine. I am going to need intravenous amphetamines.

Halfway into the article I realize a) I really, really want to get my hands on some of that Plugrá and b) I’m going to have to read this guy’s autobiography—only to find out he’s written five. (Five autobiographies? Just how many lives has he been leading?) I also notice Valerie’s still talking to Kirk. Dolores is away from her desk and Raldo’s furiously typing.

Time to take a break.

“Hey, Raldo,” I say casually. “Whatcha doing?”

He flinches and tries to click out of the site. Too late. I’ve caught him Googling
flesh-eating disease symptoms.

“Are you kidding?” It’s all I can do to stifle a giggle. “What are you doing that for?”

He points to a paper cut on his finger that’s slightly red. “Doesn’t this look bad? That’s how necrotizing fasciitis starts, you know. A cut. A little redness and before nightfall your whole body’s eaten by bacteria.” He logs off and runs a hand through his feathered silvered hair.

Despite his Viagra ad style, Raldo’s about my age. He dyes his hair silver to add a touch of respectability since he’s not a reporter’s reporter, he’s a highly paid teleprompter reader. Thankfully, he’s harmless, aside from his bizarre hypochondria and addiction to Lysol.

Perching on the corner of his desk, I start off with a jovial inquiry into his family life. “How’s mini Raldo? Looking forward to graduation?”

This grabs his attention and he brightens immediately, always eager to brag about his son, a strapping captain of Exeter’s lacrosse team. “Spending the summer checking out colleges. Is Em doing the grand tour? You know, Harvard, Brown, Yale, Princeton, Vassar.”

“Sure,” I say, though this is a lie.

Em’s nowhere near that level, a fact that—rightly or wrongly—makes me feel like a failure as a parent. If Donald and I hadn’t gotten divorced . . . If I’d been able to stay at home and fill Em’s days with trips to the science museum and Suzuki violin lessons and library story hours and Waldorf Nursery School . . . If I’d been able to afford to send her to Exeter like Raldo, Jr., would she be on a “grand tour” this summer instead of digging out mint chocolate chip at Brigham’s?

Then again, while I care what school Em goes to, she’s shown absolutely no interest. She’s perfectly happy drifting along, hanging with her friends, and dreaming her days away reading romance novels or watching endless reruns of
Buffy
.

Don’t get me wrong: Em is a joy to have around—loving, smart, funny, and, as far as teenagers go, wash and wear. But not much has changed since she was born two weeks late and the doctor had to suck her out with a vacuum. She prefers to operate on low frequency.

Raldo and I chat some more about our kids and then I get down to business. “My lord,” I say, acting surprised. “Valerie’s been in with Kirk a long time.”

He cranes his neck to check Arnie’s office. “Poor girl. Kirk’s got a lot of ideas about how she should handle her new assignment and he’s giving her an earful.” Then, as if just remembering me, he adds, “I hope you’re not upset by that.”

Panic zips through my sternum.
I’ve lost the promotion.

“Uh, no. Valerie’s a terrific reporter. She’ll do a great job.” Though now that I’ve grasped the brass ring, no matter how briefly, I’m not all that willing to let go. Valerie’s a terrific reporter for her experience level, but I’m better overall. There’s got to be a way to change Kirk’s mind.

“That’s what I think, too.” His thin lips form an avuncular smile. “It’s always nice to see the next generation sprout up, don’t you think? Gives you hope that the news biz will plow on despite us.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, biting my nail, curious as to what, exactly, Michael told Kirk when he called.

“It’s a young man’s game, Julie. Pretty soon you and I will be forgotten dinosaurs.”

The door to Arnie’s office opens and Valerie emerges all smiles and shaking hands with Kirk. Then she turns and makes a beeline for my desk.

The newspapers!
The New York Times
and
Washington Post
and
The Economist
. They’ll tip her off that I’m up for the post, too. I’ve got to ditch them before Valerie gets her gossiptrometer going.

Mumbling something about a phone call, I leave Raldo with his Google hypochondria and rush to my desk, where Valerie’s already waiting, staring at the
Economist
curiously. “You actually read this?” she asks as I snatch
The New York Times
and the
Post
.

“Occasionally. You might want to try it. I mean . . . now that you’ve got the job.”
Thunk
. The papers fall into the wastebasket in violation of WBOS’s recycling mandates.

“So you heard already.”

“Word gets around. It is, you know, a
newsroom
.” I stick out my hand. “Congratulations.”

She lets out a sigh and shakes it. “I’m so relieved you’re not upset. I know how much this story means to you.”

Her use of the word “story” triggers a thought.
She’s not talking about the national election team
.

“Arnie told me to ask you for your notes and contacts . . . if that’s okay.”

What can she possibly mean by “story”?

“You know, the detectives’ numbers and Rhonda Michak’s unlisted home phone.” She blinks. “Are you following me?”

Rhonda Michak, the mother of Amy Michak who disappeared last November. Oh, no. I’m getting a bad feeling.

“Why do you need to talk to Rhonda?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.

“Because she’s a suspect, that’s why. Not officially, but that’s where I’m leaning. Kirk thinks it’s a hot lead.”

The room feels like it’s spinning, I’m so confused. Somehow we’ve gone from Valerie landing a spot on the national election team to Rhonda Michak being a suspect in her own daughter’s disappearance.

No wonder Raldo asked if I was bothered. This is
my
story, one I covered better than any other reporter in the Boston area. I’ve held countless interviews with Rhonda and Amy Michak’s friends. I’ve retraced Amy’s steps that night, combed the woods, pestered the detectives, unsealed police reports. And never,
never,
has her mother been considered a suspect.

For one thing, Rhonda was cleaning up tables at the Brown Derby at the very moment police believe her daughter was abducted. It was physically impossible for her to have been directly involved. Though, I suppose, that doesn’t rule out indirectly.

“Did the police tell you this?” I ask.

“No. But Kirk says the mother as murderer twist is the kind of juicy tidbit the cops would intentionally keep from reporters to throw us off track. And now that they’ve found Amy’s body . . .”

My peripheral vision goes black. It’s as if I’m staring down a long, dark tunnel.
They found Amy’s body.
“She’s dead?”

“I thought you heard.”

“No. That’s horrible!”

Of course, in the back of my mind I’d assumed Amy was dead. Girls don’t go missing for months because they need to get away from it all, especially young women like her. Amy was generally at peace with herself. She had a boyfriend, a new car, was studying to become an occupational therapist, had plans to travel with her girlfriends to Mexico over winter break.

I’d always held on to a sliver of hope. The improbable
what if
. . .

“A hiker found her pretty decomposed up by Walden Pond, wrapped in a black garbage bag under a bunch of leaves and wood.” Valerie is rattling off the gruesome specifics with as much breeziness as when I was talking to Dolores. “The coroner’s office is there now and Jason’s at the scene doing the shoot. He says the word among all the other cameramen is she’s probably been there for months.”

“Since the night of her abduction.”

“That’s what Jason says. She was killed right away.”

Raped. Murdered. Terrified. Instantly, my thoughts turn to Em and I check the clock. It’s eleven and she should be off to Brigham’s. Please may she arrive safely today and every day, I pray.

“You okay, Julie? You look a bit shaken.”

I have to take a deep, cleansing breath to compose myself. “I’m okay. It’s the similarities that get to me. Amy and my daughter, Em, are—
were
—so much alike. Blond and flighty. I can’t imagine being in Rhonda’s position. How do you go on after something like this?”

“I know.” Valerie regards me with something approaching pity. “It must be hard. That’s why I’m better able to handle this story now, psychologically. I don’t carry the, uh, baggage, you do of being a single mother—like she is.”

Give me a break. I might be sympathetic, but I’ve been a professional reporter longer than you’ve had the caps on your teeth, kiddo.

“You’re off the mark about Rhonda being the suspect,” I say, setting her straight. “There are others the police have pegged as persons of interest: the local drifters who use the public library bathroom, perhaps a man she met online, even her boyfriend. Not her mom.”

“Oh, really?” Valerie has a hand on her hip. “Is this inside information you’ve got or what?”

“Experience. Mothers don’t generally rape and strangle their daughters and leave their bodies in garbage bags by Walden Pond.” Valerie’s corrupted by
CSI
and
Law & Order
. “If you’d covered crime for as long as I have, you’d know that.”

A comment of this order would have completely deflated me at Valerie’s age. I would have found it humiliating for a veteran reporter to have knocked me down a peg. But Valerie’s a different breed, part of this new crop of women remarkable in both their lack of introspection and their hyperconfidence.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. But that’s your opinion. Only your opinion. And, really, I guess the only person who knows for sure and who’s still alive to tell is . . . Rhonda.”

“Maybe,” I say, giving her the benefit of the doubt. “But if the cops have crossed her off their suspects list, what are you going to do?”

“Ask her myself. That’s why I need her number. Though, on second thought, it’s probably better if I go straight to her home and confront her when she comes back from the morgue. She won’t be able to hang up on me then.”

“You’re going to confront her when she comes home from the morgue?” Smacking my head in disbelief, I say, “You can’t do that! You can’t ask Rhonda if she killed her own daughter.”

“Why not?” Valerie flips her head. “The first rule of journalism is that there are no wrong questions, just bad ones.”

Unbelievable. If Valerie had a teenage daughter like I do, she wouldn’t think of asking such a thing, especially not on the day Amy’s body was found.

“Have you told Arnie you’re going to do this?”

“Uh . . . kind of.”

“And he’s fine with it?”