Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 Read Online Free PDF Page B

and ran out from the study and darted through the shrubs to see what had happened. “That’s why my dress was mussed. And when I saw Curt—oh, God, I couldn’t believe it!”
    Murdoch admitted she and her husband had quarreled that night, but said her husband had not killed her pet bird, but that he hadn’t liked the bird and had put it in the dining room when he found it dead in its cage. “Curt thought he was being funny.” The witness’s voice shook. “It’s so awful now to think I was mad the last time I saw him.”
    The headline in next day’s Clarion said it all:
    CANDACE MURDOCH ACQUITTED
    I only wrote one query on my pad: Angel Chavez?
    It was half past six and I was tired. I don’t work twelve-hour days anymore. I stood, stretched,glanced at the bound volume of The Clarion for March 1976.
    No, I had to finish tonight.
    And that’s when I heard shouts.
    My response was instinctive, automatic. Over the years, covering wars, trials, and riots, I’ve heard every level of human expression, from deep anguish to desperate fear to demonic anger. I know emotion when I hear it.
    As I hurried up the hall, a woman’s voice rose to a screech. “Where’s Dennis? Where the hell is he? Are they in his office?”
    I reached the newsroom doorway.
    Rita Duffy, the city editor’s wife, stood in the center of the newsroom. Her appearance shocked me. Rita glories in the latest fashions, whatever they may be. But tonight she looked slovenly in a wrinkled red silk blouse and tight green slacks. And she wore no makeup, leaving her puffy face naked and splotchy. She shoved Duffy’s empty chair hard against his desk. The sound caromed across the room.
    Startled faces turned toward her. Only a handful of students remained in the newsroom. It was close to the final deadline and most of the stories were in. Only late-breaking news would be used now.
    Eric March, the student deputy city editor, stopped chewing a mouthful of Cheetos. “Wait a minute, Mrs. Duffy,” he mumbled, then swallowed. “Take it easy. Okay? Duffy took the evening off. I’m putting the paper to bed.” Eric had a broken nose from intramural touch football, a smear of Cheetos orange on his chin, and a look of exquisite embarrassment. The young editor’s job description didn’t include handling hysterical wives. He shovedback his chair and stood, still holding the bag of cheese puffs.
    Rita darted across the newsroom, flung open the door to Duffy’s dark office. “Dennis, you bastard—” She turned on the light, stared into the office, then swung around. “Okay, where the hell are they?”
    Eric looked bewildered. “Where’s who?”
    â€œDennis and that Winslow bitch.”
    The quality of the strained silence in the newsroom abruptly changed.
    The sports editor shot a swift look at Eric.
    A reporter swung to face her monitor, carefully not looking toward Eric.
    Another student—I scrambled for his name, Buddy, yes, Buddy Neville—began to smile. His thin lips curved in a malicious grin.
    Eric looked as if somebody’d kicked him in the gut. “No way, lady. You’re crazy. Maggie’s—Maggie and I—You got it all wrong. I don’t know where Duffy is, but he’s not with Maggie. He’s not!” Eric shouted it.
    I wished his voice sounded more confident. And I wished there hadn’t been a sudden flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
    Rita Duffy laughed, and the sound was harsh and ugly. “Oh, you’ve got a lot to learn, kid. I can tell you about women like Maggie Winslow. They’ll do anything—anything—to get ahead. And bastards like Dennis will screw them every time. But this time”—her voice broke—“this time he’s not going to get away with it. When I find them, he’s going to wish he’d never been born.” Rita whirled around. She brushed