Murder at Midnight by Marshall Cook

Author:Marshall Cook [Cook, Marshall]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-3227-6
Publisher: F+W Media
Published: 2005-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

But when Mo pulled up in front of the Thunderclouds’ small ranch home on the northeastern edge of town the next morning, Naomi wasn’t ready. When she finally appeared, clutching her notebook to her chest, her eyes looked everywhere but at the car. Mrs. Thundercloud stood in the doorway, massive in a tent dress, her face an older version of her daughter’s passive mask.

“We did a little better in the second half, huh?” Mo said when Naomi was settled in and buckled up.

“They still creamed us.”

“True. Did you pick a topic?”

A shrug. It could be a long morning. Mo concentrated on the road as they drove through Mitchell, deserted on a Saturday.

“Would you like to listen to the radio?”

Naomi shrugged again, and Mo admonished herself to stop asking questions that could be shrugged off.

“What would you like to listen to?”

“My father listens to classical music all day.”

“Is that what you want to listen to?”

Another shrug. Mo turned the car heater up; there was frost on the pumpkins in McKenzies’ field.

“Do you ever listen to that guy in Madison?” Mo ventured. “Bickens?”

“Boomer? All the kids listen to him.”

It was by far the most animated response she’d gotten.

“Do you like him?”

“He’s okay. He’s funny.” Naomi watched the farmscape unroll outside her window.

“Have you decided on a topic?”

Shrug.

“Okay. I’ll assign one. Find out everything you can about Father O’Bannon.” Mo glanced over at Naomi. “Is that okay with you?”

The shrug. Acute shyness? Passive resistance? Disinterest? Maybe all of the above.

Now that she’d assigned a topic, Mo wondered why she’d picked that one. The profile was done. Was she hoping that Naomi would somehow turn up something everyone had missed, some clue that would reveal the killer?

The topic didn’t really matter, Mo reminded herself. The purpose was to let Naomi teach herself how to use the full resources of the Internet for research, with a bit of guidance from Joey Hasslebaum.

They had to wait at the front desk at the Madison Cardinal-Herald while the receptionist paged Joey. Behind her, a dozen women sat at their desks. All were talking on telephone headsets while typing. Probably taking ads, Mo figured.

She caught the paunchy security guard looking her over; he turned away under her glare. She walked to the far wall, covered with wooden plaques shaped like the state of Wisconsin. Each represented an award from the Wisconsin Newspaper Association. Joey Hasslebaum had been named “Best Columnist, Class A Circulation Division,” in 1991 and again in 1998.

“There you are!” Joey’s friendly voice boomed from the stairway. “I’d about given you guys up for dead.”

He wore tattered jeans, low under his belly, a soiled white dress shirt, the top two buttons open, and a 1950s-style narrow tie, the knot tugged halfway down his chest.

“Joey,” he said, thrusting a hand at Naomi, who seemed to flinch before submitting to a cautious handshake. “I work the dopes, dupes and dolts beat. And you would be …?”

“Naomi.”

“Naomi …?”

“Thundercloud.”

“All one word? Thundercloud?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think I met your uncle, Joe Rain-in-the-Face.”

Nothing.

“You’re interning at the Doings this semester, right?”

A slight nod.

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