Murder Walks the Plank by Carolyn Hart

Author:Carolyn Hart [Hart, Carolyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 0060004754
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2003-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

Eight

THE NEWSROOM OF THE Island Gazette had an air of spent calm similar to that of a beach after a storm or a deserted stadium after a big game, lots of litter and nobody around. The huge gray wastebasket near the newsroom printer overflowed with crumpled computer paper. Styrofoam cups half filled with cold coffee, discarded candy wrappers, and wadded-up fast-food sacks cluttered newsroom desks. The monitors glowed an inviting green, but the desk chairs were unoccupied.

The deadline for tomorrow’s Gazette had come and gone, and the troops had withdrawn from the front line for R&R.

“Hi, Lisa.” Max waved hello to the receptionist, a svelte blonde with a ready smile and a sharp gaze.

“Marian around?”

Lisa pointed down a hallway near the printer. “Coffee room.” She started to rise. “I’ll get her.”

Max opened the swinging gate that led past a counter into the newsroom. “That’s okay. I know the way.”

Lisa settled back in her chair. “Do you know an eight-letter word for an Australian eucalyptus tree?”

Max was crossing the newsroom. “Ironbark.”

He heard a muffled whoop as he opened the door to the coffee room.

Star reporter Marian Kenyon sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, back straight, arms folded. Marian’s salt-and-pepper black hair stuck out in odd tangles, most likely disarranged by frantic hand swipes as she worked. An empty one-ounce sack of roasted peanuts was crumpled beside the can of Pepsi in front of her.

One arm unfolded. The can was seized, lifted to vivid red lips. Marian combined chewing and drinking, returned the can to the floor. “Whatever it is”—she didn’t open her eyes—“come back next week.”

Max pulled out a straight chair from the table, turned it around to straddle. He folded his arms on the back, prepared to bargain. “Like they say in literate crime flicks, quid pro quo.”

One dark eye opened, regarded him without warmth. “I haven’t seen a literate crime film since Chi-natown. As for you, it better be good. I’m down to my last quantum of energy. Saturday night we picked up the report of a man found shot to death. I got the bulletin written, then went out to the crime scene. Sunday night I came back on the last ferry from Savannah and got the scoop on Pamela’s plunge from the Island Packet. I was the early bird at Billy Cameron’s office this morning and nobody tells the press nada until my deadline is closer than a guillotine to a French aristo-crat’s neck. Then from the funeral home we get”—she turned up fingers one by one—“a well-known community do-gooder dying as the result of her fall from the excursion boat and the unexpected death of an island socialite who was once a world-class model. Then it turns out the murder victim in snazzy clothes has no ID. I had to get the facts and write the copy for all three stories by noon. Do you know how many inches I wrote between eleven twenty-five and noon? Do you care? I care. Seventy-two inches. In thirty-five minutes.

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