Edited for Death (13 page)

Al Harmony showed up at eight the next morning and Robert met him in the hotel’s bar area. The second-generation Harmony to own the construction company, Al was compact, solid and competent. Muscle was packed onto his short frame making him look like a fireplug in shades of brown—hair, eyes, tan arms holding drawing pads and pencils.

“This hotel could certainly use some freshening, Mr. Calvert,” Harmony said. “It’s had a good, long run but there’s a lot of life, still.”

“Hey, what’s this Mr. Calvert stuff. We’ve known each other for years. Call me Robbie, like you used to,” said Robert as his brother, William came in.

“And you better be calling me Willie,” he said. “Robbie and I may have moved away and we’re doing different things now, but we’re still the Calvert boys who grew up here. Now let’s get busy and see what we can do to bring this old place into the space age.”

The three were huddled over drawings and plans spread across the bar when the elder Calverts came in with a tray of coffee and cups.

“Don’t get carried away. We can’t afford a huge construction bill, you know.”We know, Dad. But we saved the best for last. Willie and I are paying for the renovation. We figured it was only fair, since we’ll be the eventual owners anyway.”

“Oh, we can’t let you boys do that! You have other expenses...”

“Mom, it’s all settled. Willie and I have been talking about this for a while and we’ve given Harmony Construction an absolute cap on what he can change. Upstairs, it’s primarily wiring, bringing it up to code and wiring the attics. I don’t know how you’ve managed without any lights up there all these years.”

Robert’s mother said, “It’s simple. You just don’t go up there after dark. Sometimes folks used candles or lanterns, but we just decided there wasn’t anything we needed from there that couldn’t wait until the next morning.”

William nodded to Robert.y noon, they had roughed out several parts of the renovation. After lunch, Ben Nevell brought his suitcase down and said, “If there’s anything I can do for you, either during the campaign or when you’re our Senator, well, you just let me know. I have connections. I’ll stay in touch, too.”

“That guy, I don’t know. There’s something about him that makes me uneasy,” William said as Ben started his car for the drive back to the Bay Area.

“It’s just his East Coast brashness, Willie. We forget things are different in New York and New Jersey. We’re used to a slower pace and more independence, doing things our own way. When you get involved in politics, you see just how useful contacts and friends are.”

Al Harmony had stayed for lunch and he, Robert and William began the final discussions. “I understand the wiring and agree with you guys about the attics, but what do you have in mind for down here? The lobby, the dining room, the bar? These are the areas that most people will see so I’d suggest putting most of your money into fixing this up.”

“I think you’re right, Al. Paint, at least. Get rid of this dated wallpaper and chair rails.”

“I’d go even further than that, “Harmony said. “You can do a lot in the dining room with new chairs and tables but you can make the bar really sing with a new, sleek bar. Redo the back bar area, bring it forward, closer to the actual bar. And paneling. Paneling is in. In fact, I’d panel the lobby, the bar, the hall...” Robert nodded.

“I think we’d have to call it quits with the dining room though. It feels like it’s going to start into money. Can you get us a quote and a timeline by the end of this week? I have to get back to the Bay Area. Now that I’ve announced, I have a lot of speaking and raising money; it’s not all kissing babies!”

“I can stay longer,” William said. “I have at least three weeks before I have to start planning for fall semester. We should have this pretty well started by then, right, Al?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I’m a little snide. “
That’
s pretty unusual. What does he say?”

I sit down so hard my chair skitters. Stewart? We talked to him a few days ago. I left him a message. He sure won’t return my call now.

Clarice collapses in a chair across the desk and we stare at each other.

A homicide is just a murder, just a victim, just a body when we work. Like the cops and investigators, journalists who work the police beat use humor to distance themselves from the murders they cover. It’s difficult to cover all sides without some distance. We get the cops’ side, but we also get information from family and friends. Both the victim’s and the suspect’s.

The best police reporters consider themselves true storytellers and most have a book by legendary Miami Herald crime reporter Edna Buchanan. Clarice is no exception; she even boasts a signed copy of Buchanan’s “Garden of Evil.” Buchanan’s famous lede, “Gary Robinson died hungry.” is taped to the top of Clarice’s screen. Clarice has yet to find her voice as well as Buchanan, but she’s dogged and unflappable.

This, though, is the death of someone we know, and too raw.

“What happened? I mean, where was he? How’d he die?” I’m asking questions in no particular order. I have to get a handle here and start sorting the events or I won’t be able to help Clarice get a clear story.

“I don’t know,” Clarice says. “The fax is basically what I told you. I thought we could call Jim Dodson together and get the information.”

I’ve already hit the speaker button and dial Dodson’s direct number before Clarice stops talking.

“Sheriff Dodson? Jim? This is Amy Hobbes. I have Clarice in here with me and we want to get some more information on what happened to Stewart Calvert.”

“You guys know I can only give you what I have officially.” Over the phone’s speaker, Dodson’s voice is edgy. Oh crap, is he pulling his defenses around him?

“Wait, this is off the record…we’re looking for background now. Remember, we knew Stewart, we’re friendly with Royce and we know the family. We’re not going to use any of this until it’s cleared.”

I sense Dodson’s calming down and hope I’m gauging the sheriff’s response right. I just plow on. “Where did you find his body?”

“We didn’t find it, a tourist getting out of his car found it. Not very good for our family-friendly image.” Dodson is less wary but still reserved. “It was just where the alley behind the hotel meets the side street. You couldn’t see him unless you were right at the corner of the building, looking down the alley.”

“But what happened? Was he shot or beaten up or….”

“We won’t know
anything
until after the autopsy. There aren’t any obvious signs of external trauma other than what would be caused by hitting the ground.”

“Hitting the ground? You mean, like, knocked down?”

“Well, no, more like falling from a height.”

“You mean he fell from the
hotel
?”

“It looks like he came down from the hotel. Whether he fell, jumped or was pushed we have no idea,” Dodson says. “And I don’t want either one of you running off down speculation street. We just don’t know and we won’t know until late tomorrow at the earliest. His body is at the morgue now—you know that’s makeshift in the basement of our hospital—and I’ve called in the M.E. from Monroe. This one is going to be done by the book, regardless of the cause of death. He and his family are just too well-known and if I’m going to face a pack of reporters, I want to know all the answers before the questions get asked.”

Dodson’s voice has lost its edge and Clarice and I know he’s being open.

“Was he drunk?” Clarice gets right to the point.

“We don’t know yet, but we sure are going to have a battery of toxicology tests done. For now, the back of the hotel is yellow-taped, but we should be finished with the physical scene by tomorrow.”

“Not tonight? What time did he die?’

“He was found about 10:30 this morning. He was still warm. The paramedics did CPR but there weren’t any vitals and the ER doctor at the hospital called him a little after 11. Preliminary, and this is just a background guess, is sometime around 10. We’re talking to all the hotel staff and guests to find out who saw him last.”

The nervousness is gone from Dodson’s voice. I’m sure that he’s giving us all the facts he knows and none of the background will make it into Clarice’s story. For tomorrow’s paper, a short will do. This will leave the interviews with Marshalltown people, law enforcement, medical personnel, some tourists—hopefully we can find the guy who found Stewart’s body—for a follow-up on Friday. Clarice can spend tomorrow in Marshalltown and also get enough for a Calvert Sunday package.

“I’m going to run, Jim, but Clarice probably still has questions for you. Thanks so much for your help. I may try and get up there tomorrow,” I say. I click off the speakerphone and Clarice takes over.

I can hear Clarice’s voice going softer as she says she’ll try and free up some time for a drink with the sheriff. I’m concerned again that Clarice and Jim Dodson might be working on a personal relationship. When I was married to a cop while working the beat, it was stressful. I don’t know if we would have made it work. Vinnie dying young left a lot of questions that will never have answers.

I go on a hunt for a photographer to have him clear a chunk of time tomorrow. Then I head into the ad director’s office to wheedle an open section front in Sunday’s paper. Putting our resources into this means I want to play a retrospective on the Calverts big. And this death is going to make my possible book a lot more promising. Three suspicious deaths in his small hometown shortly after the Senator dies are an ironic way to celebrate the life of a war hero.

In terms of coverage, how Stewart died is less important than that he did. When I come back, Clarice is drafting her lede and I add it to the page one daily budget.

While I’m updating the budget I check for other local stories coming in. As Max and Calvin frequently remind me, this is the
Monroe
Press,
not some valley regional paper.

With the high temperatures over the last couple of weeks, the utility company keeps sending press releases on conserving power which have been turned into a tip box that can be a small graphic.

Don Roberts has an interview with the president of the congregation that’s trying to get property zoned for a mega-church. The plans for the complex include enough space for a “Christian Learning Center.” The church hasn’t formally announced whether this will be an area for Bible classes, meetings, or Wednesday prayer groups or whether they’re planning a full-blown private K-12 school. The neighborhood rumor mill is already churning up opposition. The church hopes to get the zoning through; the neighbors plan to create a stir.

This is shaping up to be a good story with legs. I’ll talk to the education and city hall reporters about another weekend package.

I’m waiting for the last local stories to be filed, and take time to email Phil with the news of Stewart’s death. I’m startled to get a fast reply.

“Amy, I’m sure our state desk will want a copy of that story. Could you make sure your reporter sends one ASAP?”

I’m a little hurt at the businesslike tone but answer “sure” and cc Clarice on the email string.

About half-an-hour later another email from Phil pops up. “Sorry if I was brusque; our editors were just going into final budget and I wanted to make sure the Stewart Calvert story got some decent play somewhere. A lot of people in the Bay Area still remember his great-uncle and his dad. This must have hit you guys pretty hard. Weren’t you just up in Marshalltown last week? Are you OK?”

Mollified, I write back. “I’m OK. Clarice is going up to Marshalltown tomorrow to do a longer story and obit and start working on a retrospective for Sunday. We can send you those, too, if you think the Times might be interested. Probably the wider we can get with the story, the more we might shake out of the trees. Do you think someone could get a quote from Ben Nevell on this? He was friends with Robert and his brother since the war; that’s about 60 years. Do you know if he knew Stewart?”

Clarice knocks a couple of times on the doorframe, comes in and drops heavily into a chair. “Well, I just sent a 15 inch story to the local basket. I left a lot out and I only have a couple of quotes from Jim—uuh, Sheriff Dodson—but it covers most of what we know now.”

“Thanks, Clar. I know it’s harder to write short than long. Tomorrow we can get enough for a long obit and an overview on Sunday. Phil emailed me; he wants the stories for the Times.”

I’m amused as I watch Clarice’s eyes round with surprise and pleasure. Her pale skin gives her away with a flush of deep pink rising up her neck.

“Wow! That’s cool, Amy! Why didn’t you tell me? Do you think I’ll get to keep a byline?”

“I’ll ask Phil to make sure you get a ‘Special to the Times’ line when I send the story over. This is a good addition to your clips. Not that I’m ever expecting you to look for another job or leave!” I laugh at Clarice’s stricken expression; she looks as though she’s been caught taking a sip of someone else’s drink.

“That’s a joke. Neither of us expects you to make a career out of the cops beat at the
Monroe Press
. Of
course
I expect you to go on to a major metro; personally, I’ll be sad but when you thank me after your first Pulitzer, that will make up for it.”