Leland Brett called my mobile just as I was stepping back into my hotel.
I’d booked a room at the St. Regis, an imposingly posh establishment that far exceeded my usual travel budget. The clientele was mostly expense-account types, business travelers who glided through the lobby wearing bespoke suits and brandishing platinum AmEx cards. But I was justifying the indulgence on the grounds that I’d suffered a terrible shock and therefore deserved a little pampering. I was spending my waking hours performing mournful chores, visiting graves and poring over obituaries. The only thing keeping me going was the prospect of returning in the evening to a good hotel with high-thread-count sheets.
Leland caught me as I handed the rental-car key to a valet and pushed through the front doors. I leaned against the wall by the elevators, pressed the phone to my ear, and listened as he made his pitch.
“More I think about it, more I love the idea of telling your story for our readers,” he drawled. “And it’s a grand opportunity for you, too. What about I swing by after work, buy you a drink, and we can ponder it further? Where are you staying?”
The man was persistent, you had to give him that. No doubt a valuable quality in a reporter. But sipping cocktails across from him while he “accidentally” pressed his leg against mine under the table was the last thing I felt like doing.
“I’d love to,” I lied, “but I have plans tonight.” Another lie. “And I’m leaning against this whole profile idea.” That, at least, was the truth.
“Well, that’s a shame. But while you cogitate on it, here’s a little favor I’ve done for you. I’ve found you a phone number for Cheral Rooney. Your mama’s friend. Turns out she still lives in town. She’s a teacher, retired from one of the big private schools. Got a pen handy?” He read out a home phone number and an address. “I reckon if I were to ask the interns to keep working on this, they maybe could find numbers for other folks. Other old neighbors and family friends and whatnot. And of course, there’s no way of knowing who might come forward if we were to run a story about you.” He paused, then blew out a soft, low whistle. “No, sirree. Just can’t know until you try.”
The rat. This was blatant and despicable manipulation. What made it even more annoying was that he was right.
“What exactly would you need from me?” I asked warily.
After that, he knew he had me.
I did hold steadfast in my refusal to meet him tonight. But he talked me into having breakfast with him in the morning at eight, at the hotel restaurant. The interview would take an hour.
“One other arrangement we ought to iron out,” he said. “We’ll need a picture of you. The staff photographers will want to do it at the golden hour. That’s right before sunset, the best light. Let’s take it in front of your parents’ old house. Where was that again?”
“Eulalia Road. Near Lenox.” I was learning the lingo of Atlanta neighborhoods; Lenox Square was a huge shopping mall that everyone seemed to know.
“Wonderful. What’s the house number? We’ll need to call the current owners, let them know what we’re up to.”
“Oh, it’s a Mrs. Dorminy. I met her yesterday. She gave me a tour.”
“Did she? So she already knows who you are. Hopefully she won’t mind a staff photog taking a few snaps with her house as backdrop. Technically, mind you, we can shoot from the street, never set foot on her property. But it never hurts to be courteous.”
“Are you sure you need my picture, though?”
“My dear, your picture is going to be the best thing about this story. The caption practically writes itself: “ ‘Dark beauty, haunted by -tragedy . . .’ ” Readers will eat it up. Now, you have a good night, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Thirteen
* * *
I pause here to mention the state of my wrist and neck. Nothing is more tiresome than listening to people go on about their medical woes, so I’ve spared you the minute-by-minute updates. Suffice to say that my wrist hurt, nearly all the time.
I had come, though, to feel it as a sort of background noise, a chronic nuisance that I was learning to work around. You can learn to live with almost anything, I suppose. Driving with one hand was easy. Shampooing, less so. Cutting steak or anything else requiring a knife and fork wasn’t pretty, though it could be done. The one thing I could not manage with one hand was typing. But here I had apparently gotten lucky. Typing—the very activity that provokes the carpal tunnel symptoms of most sufferers—did not bother me in the least. I could type all day without a twinge.
As for my neck, it had stopped hurting. No, that’s not quite right. It hadn’t stopped hurting, but the hot pulsing had retreated, like a wild animal that has tired and decided, for now, to rest. The important thing was to keep still. The pain nipped when I turned my head, especially to the right, so I learned not to do this. If I needed to glance sideways, I swiveled my whole torso. I probably looked like a geriatric constrained by an invisible neck brace, but it helped.