Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 by Death in Lovers' Lane Read Free Book Online Page B

and he barked orders over the phone to Kitty Brewster, who was covering the police beat.
    If only I had the police beat…
    The newsroom drew other faculty like a magnet. Everybody wanted to know what was happening. Helen Tracy, the LifeStyle editor, darted from desk to desk like a honey bee after nectar. Even the J-School’s normally aloof director, Susan Dillon, dropped by twice. Fortunately, no one knew I’d been to Lovers’ Lane that morning.
    Helen, who has a story instinct on a Louella Parsons level, poked her lean body into my office about lunchtime. “Wasn’t Maggie one of your students, Henrie O?” Her bright, clever brown eyes scoured my face.
    â€œYes.”
    Our eyes locked for a moment.
    Helen knew—I don’t know how, perhaps it was that uncanny journalistic instinct of hers—that I knew more than I would tell, but we didn’t have to put this communication in words. She nodded. “Talk to you later,” she rasped, and buzzed away.
    Every so often, I looked out into the newsroom at Dennis Duffy. He no longer exhibited the self-satisfied air of a plundering roué. Instead, his dissipated face had the stark bleakness of a man trying to find his way through earthquake ruins, all the familiar landmarks obliterated, the smell of death cloying the air. Had Rita Duffy been right? Had Dennis known Maggie a lot better than he should have?
    Angel Chavez slipped in during the lunch hour. She stood by the city desk, her back to me.
    Of course, the news of the murder was of interest to everyone in the J-School, including the staff.
    But somehow I doubted that Angel usually kept abreast of breaking stories. She looked so stolid, wearing a white cotton blouse with a scalloped collar, a navy skirt, and sensible blue leather flats.
    That demure demeanor didn’t fool me now.
    I remembered the sharp feel of the wind at the track and Angel’s hair streaming away from a face raddled with anger.
    And fear?
    Yes, she looked like such an unlikely person to have starred as a defense witness in a notorious murder trial. But appearances do deceive—or mislead. Who would ever forget the scholarly young professor who’d been fed the quiz-show answers?
    Reporters have to remember that the surface doesn’t reflect the depths.
    And I was sure I had no grasp of what Angel thought or feared at this moment.
    Buddy was flapping his hands. “…jogger found her body about seven this morning. Out on Lovers’ Lane. But Kitty says the cops just picked up Maggie’s car from the J-School lot.”
    Angel said sharply, “A jogger found the bodies that spring.”
    For an instant, Buddy looked blank. The year 1988 was long before his time at Thorndyke. But he was quick. “You mean those students? Huh.”
    It was hardly a world-class coincidence. Ever since the Kennedy days, joggers are everywhere, especially on college campuses. I was more interested in the fact that Maggie’s car had been spotted in the J-School lot. I wondered if her car keys were in her purse.
    â€œHer car was in the lot. So somebody drove her to Lovers’ Lane,” Angel said.
    â€œLooks like it.” The phone rang. Buddy turned away, snagged the receiver. “City desk.” He scrawled notes on a pad.
    Angel waited patiently.
    Buddy muttered, “Yeah, yeah. Cover it. Okay.”
    When he hung up, he swiveled to his computer.
    Angel moved closer, spoke over his shoulder. “Those articles Maggie was writing…”
    Buddy looked up impatiently. “Yeah?”
    â€œDo you know if she’d turned anything in yet?” Angel’s face was somber, intent.
    The phone rang. “I don’t know, Angel. Check with Duffy.” Buddy grabbed the receiver. “City desk.”
    Angel crossed to Duffy’s station. “Dennis, do you have Maggie’s stories on the old crimes?”
    Dennis didn’t even look up. He grunted,