These Shallow Graves Read Online Free PDF Page B

white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tweed vest. His shoulders were broad and his forearms muscled. Thick, wavy brown hair curled over his ears and down the back of his neck. His nose had a bump on its bridge, like a boxer’s. A strong jaw and high cheekbones gave his face character. His smile was slow and easy.
    Jo made herself look away. She untied the bow on the box containing Mr. Stoatman’s bequest. As she was retying it, her eyes fell on the handsome reporter again. He was talking with two other young men about exciting things—a robbery, a stabbing, a three-alarm fire. Their conversation was so different from the stultifying ones that went on in her home.
    Newport or Saratoga this summer? I hear Ellie Montgomery’s had her drawing room repapered. Have you seen Minnie Stevens’s herbaceous borders?
    As Jo continued to eavesdrop, one of the reporters brought up a topic that was more than exciting; it was scandalous. She leaned forward, the better to hear him.
    â€œHey, Eddie, you hear about the chorus girl who fell in front of a train this morning?”
    â€œShe didn’t fall, she jumped.”
    That was the same young man who’d offered Jo a seat. Now she knew his name—Eddie. He was leaning back in his chair, tossing an eraser in the air as he spoke.
    â€œYou sure about that?” the first reporter asked.
    â€œI got it straight from the horse’s mouth—Oscar Rubin over at the morgue,” Eddie said.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œShe was carrying on with the Beekman boy. Beekman senior found out and sent junior off to an aunt in Boston. Problem was, the idiot put the girl in the family way. He told her he’d marry her, then did a bunk.”
    Jo gasped. Andy Beekman had unexpectedly left for Boston just a few days ago. Now she knew why. And to think that Addie had served him tea at her father’s funeral luncheon!
    â€œStoatman know this?”
    â€œYeah, but he won’t run it,” Eddie replied, still tossing his eraser. “He’ll kill it. Just like he killed my story on Charlie Montfort.”
    â€œWhat story? There is no story. Montfort’s gun went off. It was an accident. End of story.”
    â€œIt wasn’t an accident,” Eddie said.
    And suddenly it was no longer exciting to be in the newsroom. Suddenly Jo couldn’t breathe.
    â€œThe cops said it was.”
    Eddie snorted. “They were paid to say it was. A rookie I know was there. He saw the body and he says different.”
    â€œYeah? What’s he say?” the other reporter asked, snatching Eddie’s eraser out of the air.
    Eddie sat up. “That Charlie Montfort put his revolver to his head and blew his brains out.”

It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Jo stood up on shaking legs and approached the reporter.
    â€œHow dare you. The dreadful thing you just said about Charles Montfort … it’s a lie. Why did you say it?” she asked. Far too loudly.
    Heads turned. The young man looked at her. “What’s that to you, miss?” he asked.
    Jo was about to tell him when the door to the editor in chief’s office opened and Stoatman emerged, holding the stub of a cigar in one hand, ushering a man out with the other. Short and bald, he wore an ink-stained shirt, a vest, and ash-covered trousers. The two men said their goodbyes; then Stoatman spotted Jo.
    â€œMiss Montfort? What an unexpected pleasure,” he said. “What brings you to the newsroom?”
    Jo, still glaring at Eddie, saw his eyes widen at the mention of her name. He knows who I am now and he’s worried I’ll get him into trouble, she thought. Good. He deserves it.
    â€œThis … this …” Boy, she was going to say to Stoatman. This boy should not speak ill of my father. But she changed her mind. “… bequest,” she said, handing him the box. “It’s for you from my