Sand City Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

weekly ad in the Chronicle was just a cost of doing business for them. They never changed from week to week. Pick-ups in the jargon. Don Pagor was on the masthead as Advertising Director. Thankfully, he wasn’t in the office much, usually on the road making sales calls. It’s also a big reason why our ad department had a separate office with a door that we could close. Every Wednesday, he’d layout the ads, figure out the percentage and tell Eleanor. Then we’d know how much of the paper we had to fill with news, features and photos.
    Pagor led a double life, one with us, and the other as the Voice of Sand City. He had figured out a way to make his most annoying attribute, a prized asset. I’ll admit he did put it to good use. He never needed a microphone or a public address system. He could bellow and boom all on his own, and his voice was clear and smooth, like an opera singer without the singing part. Every word that came across his lips was over pronounced, over enunciated. If there was a public event in town, a civic function, a parade, a fundraiser, or even little league opening day, the Voice of Sand City was at the center of it all. He was the Master of Ceremonies. Some people whispered about Pagor’s shadowy side but I never put much stock in it. He lived with his aged mother in the old family house up in Cedar Bluffs. It was a huge place, generally rundown, but with a functional widows’ walk; that is, it had a high railed terrace with an actual view of the ocean. No one had seen Donald’s mom in years and it was generally supposed she was an invalid. He never talked about her. I sometimes wondered if Pagor could ever remove his giant persona. He wore it all the time, everyday, like one of his shiny suits. Maybe he just hung it up in the closet when he got home, but that didn’t seem very likely to me.
    Pretty much the opposite of Pagor was Frank Gannon, our sportswriter. He spoke in a monotone and barely above a whisper. I had my doubts about Frank. I don’t think I ever saw him in anything else but a flannel shirt. He covered all the local sporting events, from the middle school to the high school in town. Why he wanted to cover local sports was always a mystery to me, but I have to admit he was pretty good at it. He always got great photographs, team pictures and even the occasional standout action shot. I would have thought he could put all that passion into following the big teams: the Celtics, or the Knicks, or whatever big market teams were nearby, but he showed absolutely no interest. He couldn’t even tell you the score from the big game, from the night before. Frank the sportswriter… I had my doubts about him. He was somewhere near forty and always seemed slightly befuddled. He had a scruffy gray beard and wire-rim glasses. He looked like the most un-sports guy you’d ever meet, except that he did wear a baseball cap, and was always incessantly fiddling with the brim. And it was the Rockies. The Rockies? Frank, have you ever even been to Colorado?
     
    I heard Eleanor Woods call out to him in her craggy voice. I lingered at the door and peeked inside the office. I knew she was holding her pale blue marking pen.
    “Frank, what’s the final score of this game?”
    “Which game?”
    “North Central verses the Ospreys.”
    “What did I write?”
    “One-o-three to seven.”
    “That can’t be right. Let me check my notes.” Frank pulled out a skinny notebook from the back pocket of his jeans. He flipped through the pages. “Hmm, that must be wrong.” He looked at Eleanor blankly. “I’ll have to call the coach.”
    Eleanor gave him a small satisfied smile. She liked that Frank was thorough at least. He didn’t seem to have the coach’s number on hand, but was sure it was in his car somewhere. He disappeared. I poked my head into the office and looked at Eleanor. She was wearing her usual dark gray suit and a frilly white blouse. Her hair was pulled back tight and her glasses were