Read Online Letter From Home by Carolyn Hart - Free Book Online Page A

faced the door, leaned back. His face had a look Gretchen recognized. Whenever Mr. Cooley ambled across the newsroom cocky as a rooster, Mr. Dennis’s face turned sour, like he’d eaten bad barbecue or maybe smelled a skunk. “Christ, Ralph, what’s kept you? You went over there at nine.” Mr. Dennis glared at the clock. It was just past noon.
    Mrs. Taylor fluttered across the room. “Here’s the story on the Colman triplets. Did you know they named them Franklin, Winston, and Charles? Oh, I’ve got to hurry. It’s the Ladies of the Leaf luncheon. Gladys Rogers is going to review Pearl Buck’s new book.” Her high heels tapped as she hurried out.
    Gretchen checked the clock. Not quite noon. She grabbed her pica pole, the thin metal ruler with type sizes marked on the left and inches on the right, and hurried to the Teletype. Using her pica pole, she ripped the stories free, sorted them by origin. Each story had to be spiked. There were four spikes, one each for local, state, national, and international. The spikes were long, sharp nails that had been pounded through metal jar lids, then hot lead was poured in. When the lead cooled, the nails stood upright to serve as spikes for copy.
    Cooley grinned as he strolled past Mr. Dennis’s desk. He slouched into his chair, tossed some crumpled notes by the typewriter. “Patience, Walt. Nobody wanted to talk to me and finally I told the chief’s secretary I was going to run a story that law enforcement in the county had no news about Faye Tatum’s murder. That got me into his office. There are currents, Walt. Tricky currents. Lots of door banging. The stalwart chief and the ambitious prosecuting attorney are toe-to-toe, ready to fight. Lurking on the sidelines, ready to jump in the ring, is the sheriff. This is going to be one hell of a battle and I’m just the man to ferret out the real story. Did I ever tell you how goddam lucky you are to have me? Nobody ever got better stories for INS than I did. I ought to be the bureau chief in Dallas. I ought to have got the job in Washington. If I had, I’d be in London now or the Far East. Somewhere.”
    â€œYeah.” That was all Mr. Dennis said, his face still sour.
    Cooley’s pleased look slid into a frown. He puffed his cigarette, shot the editor a brooding glance. “I can handle my whisky.”
    Mr. Dennis picked up a pencil, grabbed a sheet of paper. “What’s the chief got, Ralph?”
    Cooley shrugged out of his suit coat, draped it over the back of his chair. He spread out his notes, rolled a sheet into the Remington. “The chief is going to feel a lot of heat if he doesn’t find the husband pronto. The county attorney’s been on the phone already and he’s pushing the chief hard. No love lost between Durwood and Fraser. No trace yet of the husband. The sheriff’s got some men out with dogs. Anyway, I’ve got a hell of a lead.”
    Cooley typed and talked at the same time: “‘Well-known artist Faye Tatum was strangled in her home Tuesday night after dancing the evening away at a local nightclub, according to Police Chief Harold ‘Buck’ Fraser. Chief Fraser said police are seeking the victim’s soldier husband, Sgt. Clyde Tatum, for questioning.
    â€œHow’s that? I’d say it looks bad for the husband. . . .” Cooley talked, typed, talked, typed, his words coming almost as fast as the staccato bursts of his typewriter keys. His cigarette smouldered in a butt-filled ashtray. “The cops can’t find the poor bastard anywhere. Tatum’s car is parked in the lot at the Blue Light. Has the keys in it. That doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense, but nothing ever makes much sense with murder.” Cooley yanked out a sheet of copy paper, rolled another into the typewriter. “And, hold on to your hat, Walt, I had a ringside seat last night. See, you got to be part of the