Vendetta Stone by Tom Wood Read Free Book Online Page A

air.
    Ratings had slipped for the six o’clock newscast in the past quarter, falling two percentage points farther behind Channel 7, even though Bligh’s team consistently performed well and remained locked in a dead heat for ten o’clock viewers. She expected this story to put them back on top in the ratings, translating into more advertising revenue, and assuring her of a contract renewal for at least another two years. But she realized all the things that might go wrong if she didn’t crack the whip, explaining her frenetic leadership style.
    Coming out of commercial, the six o’clock theme cued the teleprompter’s start. The red light on camera one flashed.
    “Good evening and here’s what’s happening,” said Karen O’Day, the feisty, red-headed counterpart to graying, homespun co-anchor Cameron Knight. They worked well off each other and talked about syndicating their weekly gab-fest, “O’Day and Knight.” Bligh and other station officials saw the potential. “Our top story is an anguished husband’s emotional and angry reaction to his wife’s violent murder.”
    In the control room, White’s di rections were precise. “Camera two, cut to Knight, get ready to cut to video one,” White said. Camera two’s red light flashed. Knight spoke in grim tones.
    “It’s been almost two weeks since Angela Stone disappeared from her East Nashville home and seventy-two hours since searchers found her body across town in the Warner Park area. Less than an hour ago, husband Jackson Stone finally talked about her mysterious death. And it was a reaction no one expected. Our Dan Clarkston filed this report.”
    Cut to video one. Jackson Stone’s disheveled image and rage-filled message beamed across the Midstate. Cut to video two. Clarkston, professional but clearly sympathetic.
    “You’ve just heard the shocking first public statement from an angry Jackson Stone, whose wife Angela . . . .”
     
     

9
    Jackson Stone moved swiftly after his disappearing act from the precinct. Nearly six p.m., as he pulled off Ellington Parkway, his thoughts turned to Angela’s funeral set for Saturday at noon, to be preceded by a ten o’clock visitation. So little time, so much left to accomplish.
    His first stop at Eddie Paul’s Pub had retraced one part of his life with Angela. Now, after his very public bounty on her killer, a much harder trip became necessary. He needed to return to the scene of the crime. He must return to his home in East Nashville.
    Navigating the final leg of th e journey to his neighborhood, Lockeland Springs, the surrealism of the short drive home hit Jackson as he passed rows and rows of hundred-year-old Victorian, craftsman, and bungalow homes that came in all shapes, sizes and colors.
    The Stones ’ home stood out, one of three brick homes on their entire street. Neighbors took care to keep their lush lawns neat and well-watered so the August heat wouldn’t burn the grass. The shade trees and full-bloom flowers were wonderful and eye-catching, but the people made it a great place to live. Jackson, who with Angela served on the board of directors for the Lockeland Springs Neighborhood Association and helped coordinate annual block parties, couldn’t think of a single person in the area who might be capable of such a terrible crime.
    Most viewed the neighborhood as a Nashville melting pot, drawing people of every age, color, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and financial bracket.
     
     

 
                 
    A Korean family moved in two years ago next to the widow Edmonds, who was spending her golden years raising her granddaughter. The Waldens, a young black couple with their own insurance company, boasted four kids, two of each. They lived across the street from the Stones. A gay couple, Joe and Bob, both in their mid-thirties, lived in the purple bungalow on the corner. The Fletchers owned the corner home next to Jackson and Angela, a tasteful, peach-colored Victorian with