True Vision (19 page)

Click.

She lowered the phone, stunned. Billionaire newspaper magnate Simon Walker wanted to meet with the woman soon to be famous for single-handedly killing a community newspaper? He probably wanted to know how to prevent stunts like hers from occurring at his hundreds of daily newspapers across the nation. Great. More salt for her wounds.

She checked her watch. Almost a quarter of seven. Should she bother or pretend she didn’t get the message? Except it was Simon Walker. If she ever wanted to work in journalism again, she probably shouldn’t dis the biggest cheese.

Sighing, she tried Alex’s number at work.

“Alex Trudeau.”

“It’s me.”

“Where the hell are you?” Alex shouted into the phone. “I’ve been worried sick. Logan said you’ve checked in at the Royal Palm, but he wouldn’t tell me what’s going on. He said that was up to you. Bastard. Makes me want to take his head right off.”

Charlie couldn’t help but chuckle. “If I’d known Logan’s life was at stake . . .”

“It’s not funny, you bitch.”

She heard the joking, and relief, in Alex’s tone but sobered anyway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“What room are you in? I’m coming over there after work.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do. You’re going to tell me what’s going on with you if I have to sit on you and force it out.”

“What about the menagerie?” Charlie asked. Alex had a second career taking in stray dogs in her neighborhood.

“I’ll check in on them before I come by. So stop arguing already.”

“Fine, fine. I’m in 514.”

“I’ll bring the margarita mix.”

 

After a quick shower and a change into khaki slacks and a red polo, Charlie walked into the Java Bean at five to seven and paused to scan the customers, having no idea what Simon Walker looked like. The usual suspects were here. Three teen girls huddled on a sofa, giggling as they took turns casting longing glances at a table of two hunky but apparently clueless guys. At least four patrons sat alone at small tables, their attention fixed on the laptops opened before them. A young couple, tan and beautiful, sat across from each other, holding hands as they alternately sipped coffee and gazed into each others’ eyes. Charlie thought of Noah and enjoyed the tingle that ran up her spine, and through other, private, areas. Maybe she’d have time to visit him again before Alex showed up tonight.

The tempting scents of coffee and warm chocolate filled her head, and her stomach growled to remind her she hadn’t had dinner. Seeing as how no one had acknowledged her entrance, she assumed Simon Walker wasn’t here yet. She was about to approach the counter to get a snack to hold her over, perhaps one of those big-ass chocolate chip cookies the Bean was famous for, when the door behind her opened. She turned to see an older man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and craggy features amble in.

His face split into a huge grin when he saw her. “Oh, I do hope you’re Charlie Trudeau.”

She couldn’t help but return his welcoming smile. “Hi. Simon Walker?”

“One and only,” he said, clasping her hand in both of his big, soft mitts and pumping it up and down before she had a chance to brace herself. When nothing more than a feeling of warmth and well-being infused her, she relaxed.

He was only a few inches taller than her five-five, and judging from his wrinkles, she put him in the ballpark of sixty. His kind, blue eyes were the color of well-worn denim and crinkled at the corners as though he’d spent his entire life smiling. A feeling of familiarity nudged her, as though she’d known him forever.

He grinned, rocking back on his heels. “Oh, you are absolutely lovely.” Then he gave her a fatherly pat on the arm and handed her his briefcase. “Why don’t you take this and get us a table outside while I place our order? What would you like?”

“Uh.” She couldn’t think. The most powerful man in the newspaper industry was beaming at her, and she couldn’t think. Real professional. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“Now the pressure is on,” Simon said with a wink. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Feeling dazed, she walked out into the cooling dusk, found an empty table set back from the street, set Simon Walker’s briefcase next to a black wrought-iron chair then sat down in the one next to it with her back to the building. Sitting out in the open like this, knowing someone wanted her dead, was probably at the top of her list of stupid things she’d done this week. But she wasn’t going to be sitting here alone for long, and if anyone tried to kill her now, there’d be plenty of witnesses.

When Simon Walker elbowed his way through the door of the Bean, his arms were laden with bagels, muffins, cookies and two Big Gulp-sized cups. She rose to help him distribute the goodies on the table and wondered whether he’d left anything in the display cases. Then she spotted her favorite—chocolate-filled croissants—and didn’t care.

“Everything looked so good I couldn’t decide,” he said, chuckling. “I hope you’ve got an appetite.”

“I’m starved, actually,” she said, sitting back down as he handed her a tall stack of napkins. “And it looks like I can be messy, too.”

His chuckle turned to a belly laugh. As he sat across from her, he reached for one of the huge cups. “Iced mocha cappuccino,” he said, before clamping his mouth around the fat straw.

Charlie caught herself smiling as she watched his weathered cheeks go concave while he tried to suck the thick slush through the straw. Oh, to be that enthusiastic about something as simple as a frozen coffee drink.

Finally getting a mouthful, he swirled it around as though tasting a fine wine, then swallowed and smiled his approval. “Ah, that’s refreshing. I would never have dreamed of having an iced cappuccino in March, but here we are. Sitting outside even. What’s the temperature, do you suppose? Seventy? Oh, wait, I remember, the pilot said it was seventy-two.” He drew in a big breath, leaned back in his springy chair and took in their surroundings. “It’s a beautiful,
beautiful
evening.”

“It is,” Charlie said, tearing into a chocolate croissant. She was certain her companion would approve of her lack of shyness.

“Such a wonderful town, Lake Avalon. All these art deco buildings are breathtaking, are they not? You can just
feel
the history.” He leaned forward. “I bet you’re wondering why I’ve swept into your life this evening, Charlie Trudeau.”

Her mouth too full to speak, she nodded.

“My career in newspapers started many, many years ago. Think
His Girl Friday
, though I was far more debonair than Cary Grant and wore a much better hat. And my Rosalind, well, she didn’t speak nearly as fast and while she didn’t have the legs of a Rockette, I loved her just the same. But I digress. My point is that when I started I was fresh out of college and ready to change the world.”

“I know that feeling,” Charlie said.

Simon grinned. “I thought you would.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have to admit that I’m not pleased with how the business has evolved. What about you?”

“Uh . . .”

“My sentiments exactly. Every damn newspaper across this great nation is chock-full of news supported by information taken from press releases and Web sites like it’s the word of God. Reporters are quoting experts right and left and no one is saying a good goddamn thing. When someone, a politician perhaps, tells a bald-faced lie to the American public, do our nation’s journalists call him or her on it? No. Oh, sure, there might be some bitching and moaning on the editorial pages, but who reads those editorial pages anyway? Meanwhile, there on page one, the page everyone sees all day long in the newspaper racks on every street corner, sits the lie in all its glory with nary a counterpoint. I ask you: What good does that do the American people?”

Before Charlie could form a response, he plunged ahead. “The industry has become about selling cornflakes.”

She nodded helplessly. Cornflakes? Huh?

He thudded an index finger against the latticed tabletop. “It doesn’t matter what’s
in
the newspaper. What’s important is what it
looks
like. The theory is that if it looks good, readers will buy it. And, I’ll admit, there is some truth to that. But it’s not just about the packaging. It’s about what’s being
packaged
. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of all of my newspapers and their Web sites. Some of them do a decent job of balancing the cornflakes with the heavy-duty fiber, if you know what I mean. But the smallest ones, the ones at the community level . . . well, you know all about what happens at the community level, don’t you, Charlie Trudeau.”

She did, but she didn’t say anything, figuring he didn’t plan to pause long enough to allow her to anyway.

“What happens at the community level, my dear girl, is reporters like yourself get hamstrung. You’re forced to stay away from certain stories, because certain stories might anger certain revenue-generating customers and losing those revenue-generating customers would be very bad for business. Am I right?”

When he peered at her, apparently expecting a response this time, she gave an enthusiastic nod. “Yes.”

“Yes!” He slapped an open palm on the table, making bagels and muffins and croissants jump. “Yes, I’m right. I
love
being right. But, then, who doesn’t?”

She laughed, a bit overwhelmed by his exuberance.

He picked up his iced cappuccino and tapped the plastic rim against her cup. “I like you, Charlie Trudeau. I especially like saying your name, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s a good reporter’s name. Charlie Trudeau. I’m impressed that you don’t use your full name, like some reporters. You might know a man as Dave Brown, but his byline is David Michael Edwin Brown III. It’s downright odd, if you ask me. But tell me, what is your full name, Charlie Trudeau?”

“Charlotte Meredith.”

“Ah, a lovely name for sure. But Charlotte Meredith Trudeau just doesn’t have the same dog-with-a-bone journalistic cachet as Charlie Trudeau. Don’t you agree?”

“Wholeheartedly.”

His blue eyes twinkled. “I suppose I should get to why I’ve come to see you.” He scooted back his chair, propped his briefcase on his lap and popped it open. When he pulled out Tuesday’s
Lake Avalon Gazette
with the damning auto dealer headline, her heart thumped harder. Oh, no.

“I have a friend who retired here to Lake Avalon,” he said. “My best lifelong friend, you might say. Avid newspaper reader. Sharp as a fox and just as cagey. He called me the other morning and read your crooked auto dealer story to me over the phone.” He spread out the paper and tapped his finger on her byline. “This is good work, Charlie Trudeau.”

Pride swelled through her for a change. “Thank you.”

“I’ve heard it cost you.”

Surprise lifted her brows.

“I tried to call you at the
Gazette
yesterday,” he said, “but was curtly told you were no longer employed there.”

Her cheeks started to burn. Good-bye, pride. Hello, shame. “Yes, that’s true.”

“You were fired?”

“I planned to quit anyway.”

“Why?”

He fired the question at her so sharply that she stuttered at first. “Well, I—I—” She stopped, took a breath. “Like you, I’m disappointed in the direction of the news business today.”

His grin returned full blown. “You’re an idealist.”

“I suppose I am.”

“I am, too. Which is precisely why I’m here. I want you to work for me.”

That set her back. “In New York?”

“Anywhere. You pick the newspaper. I have them all over, you know. California, Colorado, Illinois, Pennsylvania, even here in Florida. You name a state, I’ll give you a list.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know—”

“Yes, yes, I know it’s sudden. I’m prepared to give you time to think about it, of course.”

Reality quickly followed the first rush of excitement. Any other newspaper would have the same issues as the
LAG
. Advertisers ruled, period. “I’ve pretty much decided to leave the news business.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Because there is nothing else. You’re a journalist to the bone, and you’ve got something that many journalists today lack. Do you know what that is?”

“An unrealistic idea of what my job should be?”

He threw back his head and guffawed. “I like that, but it’s not what I was getting at. You’ve got guts, Charlie Trudeau. And balls. Pardon my French, which is a silly saying, because what I said was not French at all. It was English, but perhaps also French because the French also have balls. But I’m off track once again. What I’m trying to say is that you saw a good story and you went after it. Your boss told you no and his or her boss probably also told you no, and what did you do? You wrote it anyway and then you conspired to get it onto the front page. And what happened?”

“I lost my job.”

“What else?”

“I pissed off my father.”

“Oh, dear. Daddy owns the newspaper here?”

“Yes.”

“Hot damn, my dear, you’ve got even more balls than I thought. What else happened?”

“My co-workers are going to want to kill me when they find out the newspaper could collapse financially.”

He nodded, still grinning. “What else?”

She looked back at him, out of ideas.

He turned the newspaper on the table so she could clearly see the headline. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, almost reverent: “You made a difference.”

Her gaze swept up to meet his.

He nodded, arching one dark, silver-streaked brow, his smile never wavering. “You let a community of thousands know that Dick’s Auto Sales can’t be trusted. That, young lady, is what newspapering is supposed to be about.”

“Except that’s not what it
is
about.”

“Come to work for me, and we’ll change that. Together. One newspaper at a time.”