able to
figure out who did it, but Mabry wants to show the publisher he takes
this sort of thing very seriously. I think Mabry's secretly
delighted the story got in the paper. It's the biggest thing
going, and the Beacon-Light had it first. Mabry only held it to begin with because of the unnamed
sources. All he wanted was for Feeney and Rosita to go back and get
people on the record first. Someone just accelerated the schedule,
that's all."
"Still, what if
Feeney—"
"Look, I'll let you in a
secret, but don't let it cloud your judgment: the smart
money's on Rosita. No one thinks Feeney is capable of
something like this. He may bitch and moan more than most, but he
wouldn't risk losing his job over one story. Besides, Feeney
has an ironclad alibi."
"He does?"
Giggling, Whitney punched her in the arm.
Such physicality was a sure sign of drunkenness, better than any
Breathalyzer test. A punch was about 0.08 on the Talbot scale, while
arm-wrestling indicated she was well over the legal limit. It
wouldn't be the first time Tess had made a bed on her couch,
or put Whitney in a cab for the trip home to Worthington Valley, where
she still lived with her parents. If living in a guest house on a
twenty-acre estate could be properly described as living with
one's parents.
"Very funny, Tesser,"
Whitney said, still giggling and jabbing. "Feeney told me
today the two of you were out drinking past midnight. In fact,
it's about all he can remember from last night. Now,
that's not the sort of thing you want to tell the editors,
given the circumstances, but he couldn't have a much better
alibi, could he?"
Tess chewed on the inside of her cheek, a
habit she thought she had outgrown. It hadn't even been eight
o'clock when Feeney had lurched out of the Brass Elephant.
Why had he told Whitney it was midnight?
"Tess?" Whitney tried to
punch her again, but missed, sending her bourbon glass crashing to the
alley below. "So what do you think?"
"I think as alibis go,
that's a pretty good one."
Chapter 6
T ess
had been to the Beacon Light on official business once before, for a job interview after the Star had folded. She had bought a suit she couldn't afford from
Femme, borrowed Kitty's best pocketbook, and put on pantyhose
that she had managed to avoid running until she got back into her car.
The paper had granted interviews to every one of the Star's 383 newsroom employees. They offered jobs to fewer than ten. A new
suit, a borrowed pocketbook, and intact pantyhose were not enough to
make Tess one of them.
Luckily, the suit had stayed in style, even
if the store that had sold it had gone out of business. Nothing went
out of style in Baltimore, especially the simple clothes suited to
Tess's unfashionable figure. Almost three years later, her
interview suit was still smart, as her mother would say: navy blue,
with a fitted jacket that didn't require a blouse, and a
straight skirt to the knee. With her hair up and navy high heels, she
was the picture of demure femininity, stretched out over six feet.
"A real lady," Tyner
judged, inspecting her Thursday morning as she turned slowly in front
of the full-length mirror inside his office's closet door.
"The neckline is kind of
plunging," said Whitney, who had ended up spending the night
on Tess's sofa. She had awakened with a headache that she
refused to admit was a hangover, and was now perched on
Tyner's desk, lost inside a sweater and skirt borrowed from
Tess. On Whitney, the too-big clothes looked chic and deliberate.
"Thanks, Whitney. You're
a real pal."
"I'm not being rude. But
if they were making a training film about sexual harassment,
you'd be cast as the doe-eyed secretary. Someone could fall
into your cleavage and never be seen again. It's too sexy.
You lack authority. You need a scarf."
"Of course. I've noticed
the President always wears one during the State of the Union
address."
Ignoring her, Whitney dug through her Dooney
& Burke bag until she produced an Hermès with a
Western
figure out who did it, but Mabry wants to show the publisher he takes
this sort of thing very seriously. I think Mabry's secretly
delighted the story got in the paper. It's the biggest thing
going, and the Beacon-Light had it first. Mabry only held it to begin with because of the unnamed
sources. All he wanted was for Feeney and Rosita to go back and get
people on the record first. Someone just accelerated the schedule,
that's all."
"Still, what if
Feeney—"
"Look, I'll let you in a
secret, but don't let it cloud your judgment: the smart
money's on Rosita. No one thinks Feeney is capable of
something like this. He may bitch and moan more than most, but he
wouldn't risk losing his job over one story. Besides, Feeney
has an ironclad alibi."
"He does?"
Giggling, Whitney punched her in the arm.
Such physicality was a sure sign of drunkenness, better than any
Breathalyzer test. A punch was about 0.08 on the Talbot scale, while
arm-wrestling indicated she was well over the legal limit. It
wouldn't be the first time Tess had made a bed on her couch,
or put Whitney in a cab for the trip home to Worthington Valley, where
she still lived with her parents. If living in a guest house on a
twenty-acre estate could be properly described as living with
one's parents.
"Very funny, Tesser,"
Whitney said, still giggling and jabbing. "Feeney told me
today the two of you were out drinking past midnight. In fact,
it's about all he can remember from last night. Now,
that's not the sort of thing you want to tell the editors,
given the circumstances, but he couldn't have a much better
alibi, could he?"
Tess chewed on the inside of her cheek, a
habit she thought she had outgrown. It hadn't even been eight
o'clock when Feeney had lurched out of the Brass Elephant.
Why had he told Whitney it was midnight?
"Tess?" Whitney tried to
punch her again, but missed, sending her bourbon glass crashing to the
alley below. "So what do you think?"
"I think as alibis go,
that's a pretty good one."
Chapter 6
T ess
had been to the Beacon Light on official business once before, for a job interview after the Star had folded. She had bought a suit she couldn't afford from
Femme, borrowed Kitty's best pocketbook, and put on pantyhose
that she had managed to avoid running until she got back into her car.
The paper had granted interviews to every one of the Star's 383 newsroom employees. They offered jobs to fewer than ten. A new
suit, a borrowed pocketbook, and intact pantyhose were not enough to
make Tess one of them.
Luckily, the suit had stayed in style, even
if the store that had sold it had gone out of business. Nothing went
out of style in Baltimore, especially the simple clothes suited to
Tess's unfashionable figure. Almost three years later, her
interview suit was still smart, as her mother would say: navy blue,
with a fitted jacket that didn't require a blouse, and a
straight skirt to the knee. With her hair up and navy high heels, she
was the picture of demure femininity, stretched out over six feet.
"A real lady," Tyner
judged, inspecting her Thursday morning as she turned slowly in front
of the full-length mirror inside his office's closet door.
"The neckline is kind of
plunging," said Whitney, who had ended up spending the night
on Tess's sofa. She had awakened with a headache that she
refused to admit was a hangover, and was now perched on
Tyner's desk, lost inside a sweater and skirt borrowed from
Tess. On Whitney, the too-big clothes looked chic and deliberate.
"Thanks, Whitney. You're
a real pal."
"I'm not being rude. But
if they were making a training film about sexual harassment,
you'd be cast as the doe-eyed secretary. Someone could fall
into your cleavage and never be seen again. It's too sexy.
You lack authority. You need a scarf."
"Of course. I've noticed
the President always wears one during the State of the Union
address."
Ignoring her, Whitney dug through her Dooney
& Burke bag until she produced an Hermès with a
Western
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