Six
Two days later, Wes’s luck changed. Not at work, where he’d pitched a story about the impact of digital face editing hooked to the release of a new app and had been told what the Spear needed was a profile of a woman making furniture from abandoned tires.
“Sustainability is one of the Spear ’s editorial pillars,” said Rebecca, patting him on the shoulder as they looked at the monstrosities the designer called chairs. “Make sure you stress that part.”
Wes put his head in his hands. “Why me? Why?”
“Because people will read your story out of interest and not for the lulz.” Rebecca scrolled to a stool or possibly a table. “Better add in a user’s guide while you’re at it. Oh, and nice work on the Voline story. It was too bad you didn’t get that quote, but I loved the sidebar of obituary misfires.”
“Thanks.” He’d emailed Nadine the link. She hadn’t replied.
When the phone rang an hour later, he nearly let it go to voicemail so he could continue his research on the environmental impact of tire manufacturing. Habit forced him to answer.
“Wes Chen, Spear .” He might be frustrated with his job at the moment, but there was no way he’d get tired of knowing he’d made it. Atrocious design profiles or not, he was working in journalism.
“Wes, this is Brent Tatterly.”
The name was familiar. “Tatterly. Dot Voline’s nephew?” Nephew by marriage, technically, as Tatterly had been Voline’s husband’s sister’s son. Or something like that.
“That’s me.”
Was Brent about to tell Wes where he could stick his story? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened, so Wes was more curious than worried about the call. He hadn’t been by the house since his fruitless library search. At least Nadine had come up short as well, obvious from her defeated expression as she left the basement research bunker.
“I hope Ms. Voline is okay?” he asked, heart lurching as he grasped another reason Brent might be contacting him.
“She’s fine and why I’m calling. I’d prefer to talk about this in person. Do you have time later? Say three this afternoon?”
“I can move some things if it’s urgent,” Wes lied, calmer knowing Voline was alive. He didn’t want to look too desperate.
“It will be worth your time.” Brent gave him the location, which was nearby. “I’ll see you soon.”
The day dragged, but at 2:48, Wes was on his way to the café for Brent’s meeting. His legs were stiff after hours of sitting, and lengthening his stride to get a stretch did nothing to work the tension out of his calves. His friend Caleb was always on his case to build in walking breaks, but Caleb was the kind of guy who did triathlons and polar dips for fun. His opinions on exercise could not be trusted.
A text came from his mother. I can’t get the kitchen tap to close all the way.
He counted to ten before replying. I’ll fix it when I get home, okay, Ma?
No, the dripping is terrible. It’s ruining my day off. I don’t know what to do.
He waited for the light to turn so he could cross the street. Use a towel to stop the noise.
All it does is drip.
He tried to relax his jaw. Take a towel, and put it under the tap to absorb the water.
The phone rang and he ignored it, preferring to keep their conversation on text. You’re not picking up. I need to talk to you.
Sorry, I’m in a meeting. A very pale white lie, as he was about to be in one soon.
What kind of towel?
Any kind. Use a dish towel. His fingers hurt from how hard he tapped the message.
It’s too much. You don’t care. Go do your job since it’s more important. Amy can help me since you’re too lazy to do anything.
Don’t call Amy at work.
No answer. Amy told him he should take their mother’s silences as the blessing they were, but all he felt was guilt. He could call a plumber for an emergency visit, but Ma hated being in the house with strangers. Either he or Amy had to be there for any repairs. She’d have to wait for once.
Stressed in the way only his mother could make him, Wes tried to focus on the upcoming meeting. The café was on a side street with chairs chained to the two iron tables in the front. A small window sold drinks and pastries to passersby too busy to open the door and walk four steps to the counter. He stepped in, breathing the comforting smell of roasted coffee and melted butter, and then stopped dead.
In the back corner sat Nadine, laughing with a man in a blue Henley shirt and jeans, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that showed off her ears. She had a new piercing, he noticed as he came closer, making it three in her left and one in her right. Why he noticed that about her, he couldn’t say. Well, he’d been trained to observe details, so that was probably it.
She looked up, and her smile flashed out of sight.
“Ah, you must be Wes. I’m Brent.” The man rose to a casually polite half crouch. He was tanned with brown hair, the kind of man who populated streetscape shots in movies because he faded so well into the background. He didn’t offer his hand and instead gave a small wave, which was a relief. Wes never trusted men who acted as if a strong handshake was some sort of stand-in for masculinity. Tyler had an intentionally crushing shake.
Brent sat down and tilted his head at Nadine. “I believe you know Nadine Barbault?”
“We know each other.” The grit in Nadine’s voice said she hadn’t expected Wes to be at the meeting either. Wes beamed at her, and she snapped her head away so fast her ponytail whipped around to hit her in the face. He took his chair as she pulled her hair out of her lip gloss.
“Good, good.” Brent smiled at them. “I’m pleased to meet you. I always wanted to be a journalist.”
Wes heard that a lot. “What happened?”
Brent lifted one shoulder, his face wry. “I’m a terrible writer, to be honest.” He brightened. “You know what you should look into? Pylons.”
“Pylons?” said Nadine blankly.
Brent waved his hand. “You know, traffic cones? How many times have you driven down the highway and seen kilometers of orange cones but no construction? I bet there’s some kickback scheme there.”
Had Wes wandered into a different reality? “You think organized crime is behind road pylons?” he asked.
Brent looked earnest. “You never know, do you?”
“I guess not,” Nadine said.
Wes nodded in agreement, not sure what answer to give.
That was apparently enough for Brent. “That’s what I’d look into if I owned a media company. Well, let’s get down to it. I’m here on behalf of my aunt, Dot Voline.” Brent folded his hands on the table and looked at them. “She says you’ve been coming by the house.”
“Yes,” said Nadine before Wes could answer.
“My aunt rarely gives interviews,” Brent said.
“I know.” Wes readied himself for the back-off warning.
“Her rule is that everything she needs to say finds its way into a book, and she can’t be expected to explain it to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who refuse to use their own brains.”
“Okay,” said Wes. That definitely sounded like the woman who had been yelling at him over the intercom.
“That has changed. She’s willing to speak to you.”
Wes saw Nadine’s surprise. “Both of us?” she asked. “We work for different organizations.”
Brent smiled and sipped his drink, so milky it was the color of eggshells. “My aunt would say that’s your problem. This is her offer. The obituary forced her to think about her mortality and legacy. She wants to talk to you ‘so those deathmongers can get the damn story right.’” He gave them a cheerful smile. “Direct quote.”
“Then there is a story.” Wes slid his hands to his lap so Brent couldn’t tell how eager he was. He glanced at Nadine, who looked as cool and collected as she always did when working. Wes’s phone buzzed, and he silenced it. It would be his mother again, and although he’d pay later for ignoring her, he needed to concentrate.
“I’m not sure about a story,” said Brent. “All I know is she said she had a promise to keep. She also gave me some rules.”
“What are they?” Wes asked. “Obviously they have to work within our ethical standards.” When did my become our ? Were he and Nadine a team? No. It was simply a practical linguistic shortcut.
“They’re reasonable.” Brent took a long sip of his drink. “The first, as I said, is she’ll only deal with the two of you together. Second, you can’t tell anyone you’re doing this. Finally, you may not publish, allude to, or speak about what you learn until she’s dead.”
“That might be years,” Wes said. He felt Nadine’s disgust at his tactlessness.
“It might be.” Brent looked at his hands. “But probably not.”
“I agree,” said Nadine promptly.
Wes took a breath. “Sorry, can you give us a moment, Brent?”
“Sure.” He drained his cup. “I’ll be right back.”
Wes waited until Brent was safely ensconced in the washroom, which was a closet off the main space. It irritated him that Nadine looked unperturbed about this offer. He wanted to break through that facade to the real Nadine, the one who had almost strangled him in front of Voline’s gate.
“You can’t be serious about working together,” he said.
She flicked him a dismissive glance. “Sure I am. I know this will be a stretch for you, but quit being contradictory, and look at it reasonably.”
“I’m not being contradictory,” he said in full knowledge that the statement was itself contradictory.
“The reason we’re having this meeting is because I left a note in the chocolates,” she said. “You’re only along for the ride.”
“The flowers had a card with my name and number.”
“Fine, whatever.” Although her voice sounded the way an eye roll looked, he knew it was as close as he would get to Nadine giving in. “I don’t know why you’re digging into Dot Voline, but I assume there’s a reason beyond pettiness.”
He thought about Tyler and Jason, to that place on the I-team he wanted back so bad he could taste it. “I don’t know why you’re so focused on it either,” he pointed out.
“Because I ran an obit to find not only was Dot Voline alive , but there were facts missing ?” She sounded more outraged about the inaccuracy than the running of the obit.
“Then what, you owe it to her?” He meant it as a bit of a dig—he knew that was uncool—but Nadine put her hands on the table and looked him in the eyes.
“Yes. Or at least to the story.”
“What was missing?” he asked.
“I know you know what was missing.” Her voice was tight. “You said as much to the librarian.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. But I want you to tell me.” He wanted to make sure there wasn’t something else he didn’t know.
“Why should I?”
Wes gave an exaggerated glance at Brent’s empty seat. “Because it seems you need me to get access to Dot Voline. You depend on me in fact.”
She puffed out her breath. “You are so annoying. You’re the worst.”
“What do you know, Nadine?”
Nadine’s mouth was tight. “There was a comment under the obituary I ran about a scandal. I can’t find any information about it, and I want to ask her.”
“Was that so hard?”
She was trembling with infuriation. “You got what you want.”
He smiled at her. “I knew it already. I saw the comment too.”
Nadine breathed out slowly. “Of course you were being an ass as always. Are you going to wreck it for the both of us?”
He fixed his expression to look like he was considering all his options, just to make her sweat.
Brent sat down with the friendly expectation of a golden retriever waiting for the tennis ball to be thrown. “Well?” said Brent.
Nadine resembled a thundercloud as Wes pretended to consider his answer. “Let me get it straight. We have to work together, keep it secret, and withhold publication until after death?”
“Yes.”
“How often would we meet Ms. Voline?” he asked, partly out of curiosity but mostly to see if he could make Nadine’s brain explode.
Brent pursed his lips. “Those are details you need to sort out with my aunt. I was only sent to get an answer. What’s it going to be? Yes or no?”
Wes waited another few seconds until the redness started to climb up Nadine’s throat. The ice queen was turning into a fire demon. He smiled.
“Yes.”