Chapter Nine
J odi was literally up with the birds the next morning. Two Northern Cardinals, the male strutting his stuff in his bright red feathers and black mask alongside his more soberly colored mate, were making short work of the remaining sunflower seeds in the bird feeder.
They ignored her as she crept outside, coffee in hand. She sunk into the Adirondack, enjoying the snug softness of her sheepskin boots and the weight of her coat over her pajamas.
It was crisp and clear. A gorgeous day which lifted the heart and calmed the spirits. She sipped the sweet black coffee and looked out at the snow heaped on bare-branched trees and upper stories of houses visible above the brick wall.
Her place. Her own sanctuary. And today was her late-morning start, a regular, quiet space to enjoy her small garden even on a winter morning.
It had taken Jodi a while to reach this point, to be comfortable in her own skin. To find the confidence to be Ms. Jodi Ruskin, Acting Editor of The Temple Mountain Monitor , and not the granddaughter of Rev. Bob Ruskin, the daughter of that flighty Lucy-May who married young Carter Ruskin and virtually dumped those little girls at their grandfather’s rectory when Carter up and died. Not to forget, sister to the wayward Jaylee who had left her husband and come back to town with little Isaac in tow.
The Northern Cardinals flew away and were replaced by a pair of small American Tree Sparrows, close enough to see the small dark spot on their pale chests. They too departed, and the hanging feeder swung empty in the courtyard.
Jodi thought about her avian visitors, now flitting across the roofs and through the woods. North, south, east, west—as long as they were fed, the birds went where they pleased.
She looked down at her empty mug. A cloud blotted out the low, pale sun. The morning darkened.
Suddenly restless, she rose to her feet, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. Winter was here, and spring would follow as it always did.
The grass would grow again and the flowers would bloom and Gramps would put in a crop of tomatoes and Jodi would pack away her winter clothes. Pick out some new silk blouses, perhaps in the new deep teal and purple and orange shades. Maybe get some bright new mud-proof boots for when she took Isaac to Little League, and she had promised Alma to take her to drama once a week after school, so long as it wasn’t press week.
People would come and go from her life. And the cycle of the town would go on, and she would be carried along in its pleasant and busy flow.
Chilly air crept down the back of her neck in spite of her heavy coat, and Jodi turned to go back inside. An inner voice whispered that her safe, contented life would no longer be enough to keep her warm.
***
J odi got the first indication that something was very wrong when she finally turned on her phone.
Notifications flooded the screen. Her pulse began to race as she read How dare you? Irresponsible reporting ...and worse, I’ll sue . By the time she flipped over to The Monitor’s online news, foreboding had crystalized into disaster.
Dougie Moon, ace reporter and keen seeker of breaking news, had written the story she’d asked. And then, he’d posted it online.
“Shit!” shouted Jodi. She stamped her foot, which was not as effective as it could have been since she was still wearing her sheepskin boots. “Shit, shit, shit. You little shit!”
It didn’t take long to exhaust her list of expletives. She imagined Ricky’s unamused face and used them all again.
First things first. Jodi sank into her chair, picked up her second coffee and began reading the online story. It was a decent piece of writing, she had to admit. She might even tell Dougie that before she yelled at him and then fired him on the spot.
More grim questions for Fire Chief as shocking new arson cases emerge , wrote Dougie, who went on to recap the recent cases before reminding readers that at least three nuisance fires had been lit in and around Temple Mountain since the previous summer.
Was this the detestable work of the same cunning arsonist/s, asked Dougie, pointing out that the initial fires had not been in trash cans in public parks.
One had been at the high school, lit matches tossed in the wastepaper bin of a teacher whom Dougie noted was described by stunned students and concerned teachers who wished to remain anonymous, as an old-fashioned authoritarian .
Jodi snorted. More like the kids had said “freaking head case”. At least Dougie had been tactful, she conceded, if heavy-handed with adjectives. And he had helpfully assembled all the available facts. All in record time too.
She kept reading, racing through the text and wincing at every literary flourish.
No damage to speak of, apparently, save the ruining of a “perfectly good” sports jacket owned by said teacher, which had been unfortunately covered in extinguisher foam by the enthusiastic janitor.
The next fire, also school-related, similarly had been a quick affair. A smoldering cigarette thrown into the head coach’s bag, singeing the polyester lining and melting her lipstick. The incident had occurred the day after graffiti was sprayed on the gym floor, an act which the head coach described to the press as “probably done by those potheads who don’t appreciate that mandated participation in the sports program promotes the health benefits of a healthy mind in a healthy body”.
The last fire of the spate had been the most worrying , wrote Dougie.
Again, cigarettes had been used, and the target was the corner shop where the owner was known to keep a sharp eye on the candy and other small items—and to deliver a politically incorrect clip over the ear to anyone caught pilfering. The lit cigarette had been left in the newspaper rack outside, and only “quick action” by a passing pedestrian had stopped the stacks of newspapers and magazines from tuning into “a blazing inferno”.
Quick action indeed. Jodi snorted at the image of a large strawberry milkshake plucked from a child’s arms and hurled across the newsstand.
Pandemonium ensued , wrote Dougie.
Jodi’s heart rate began to settle. So far, even though Dougie had committed the cardinal sin of publishing without the editor’s go-ahead, it was all pretty reasonable.
Her eyes skipped past the descriptions of the effects of milkshake on fires and newsprint.
She froze.
“Oh no,” she said softly.
Fire Chief Leroy Browning at first dismissed any link between the widely condemned fires last year and the current trash can conflagrations, describing it as “fanciful b*** from folks who should know better”. When pressed by this intrepid reporter, the Chief said that he would follow up the matter with his temporary assistant, former New York firefighter Ricky Sharp, and that “heads would roll if there had been a foul-up in the investigation” .
Jodi closed her eyes briefly and thought about going back to bed.
She opened her eyes. She was the Acting Editor. And as Harry S. Truman had noted, The Buck Stops Here.
And Dougie got full marks for thoroughness. Not only had he contacted previous witnesses and victims, the keen reporter had asked them to speculate about the new fires. All this at a time when most folks in Temple Mountain were watching contestants on reality shows being yelled at by Special Forces instructors, music celebrities wearing dreadful clothes, or cooking show judges rolling their eyes at sunken soufflés.
In other words, a time when people were all fired up and keen to get back to the television to witness the inevitable walk of shame.
“Speculation. The reporter’s worst enemy and the libel lawyer’s best friend,” muttered Jodi. She braced herself.
“Why is the county using Temple Mountain as a dumping ground for feral kids straight out of New York City?” asked the head coach, who said she was “personally sick of trying to control these children, though of course one felt sympathy for their situation, and [that] local parents ought to be warned when the county dumped these hard-cases in the community.”
Nuff said, thought Jodi wearily. As far as Temple Mountain was concerned, Joshua and Judah were guilty as charged.
The Chief’s Assistant Ricky Sharp (who must have been hauled out of bed at dawn by the super-keen Dougie) had declined to comment on the specifics of the investigation, Jodi learned, warning folks not to jump to conclusions and adding he was not yet convinced that the cases were linked.
Chief Browning however, told The Monitor that an early arrest was expected, and that judgement would be swift. When asked about rumors that his daughter Bonnie Browning, Manager at Temple Mountain Retirement Village, knew the suspects, the Chief expressed frustration at “those media people who don’t abide by the standards of decency and the right to privacy that the Constitution entitles every American to”.
Jodi barely noticed the hanging preposition.
Further, the Chief said he would “support an investigation into whether The Temple Mountain Monitor had withheld important information about the arson” .
“Thanks Dougie,” said Jodi. Sympathetic as she was to the plight of Skippy the Kangaroo and the vanishing beaches in the South Pacific, she wished their local champion had never taken up the banner of journalistic justice.
She forced herself to finish.
While Chief Browning would not comment on whether he will run for the office of mayor when the current incumbent retires next summer, he did suggest that the Fire Department would soon be looking to recruit new staff to bring a fresh vision of how the department could best serve the Temple Mountain community .
Jodi closed the screen. Numb, she scrolled back through the messages on her phone, seeking the one name that wasn’t there.
Ricky Sharp.
***
“I warned you against talking to Jodi Ruskin, son. I’ve been in this game for a long time, and I know exactly how those high and mighty busybodies work. They target the weakest link, pretend to be your best buddy, promise confidentiality. And then they cut your legs out from underneath quick as can be.”
Hours later Chief Leroy Browning’s words were still ringing in Ricky’s ears. Enduring overloaded metaphors and an unlovely description of Jodi at the unsociable hour of 7:30 in the morning had been enough of a trial without Ricky’s suspicion that the old guy had a point.
But Ricky knew that his own drama, the sense of personal betrayal that had lodged in his chest like a chunk of stone, would have to wait.
“Your job is on the line here,” Browning had continued, “and I can tell you without a doubt that failing to bring these boys in when there’s a threat to the public will kill your career. You are already on ‘special leave’, which is shorthand for ‘unreliable’ in my book. So quit pussyfooting around, son, and bring those boys in here for questioning. I want them shaking in their boots so they understand that this is the big league now. No more kiddie court.”
The Chief had paused for breath, his high color reflecting his agitation.
“I know there’ll be a shitload of objections and special arrangements because those little thugs are underage, but do what you have to.”
Browning had stomped out, and now Ricky stared at his laptop, grateful for the silence and pondering his next steps.
In a town as small as Temple Mountain, Dougie had served up Joshua and Judah as the most likely culprits for both past and current arson investigations. The story also had put both Ricky and Jodi’s future on the line.
Ricky checked his cell again. Jodi had sent a single message.
Dougie is toast. Can we meet?
That was it. Six words. The Acting Editor had torpedoed his investigation by alerting the perpetrator/s to his next move, she had betrayed him personally and professionally, and she had possibly even cost him his job. And she somehow imagined that this was mildly amusing, and could they sort it all out over a cappuccino at Bean & Co?
Ricky’s head swam. His heart banged against his ribs and he clenched his fists against the sudden odors of charred plastic, smoke and fire retardant which filled his nostrils. Heat stained his cheeks, and he felt a rush of furious energy, the nearly overwhelming need to prowl the room like a caged tiger.
He breathed in, out. Like that counselor had told him.
Take it easy, buddy. Focus on the breath. Clear the mind.
Oxygen filled Ricky’s tortured lungs. He laid his hands flat on the desk, felt his shoulders relax. He remembered Jodi’s face the first time he’d kissed her. The surprise, the pleasure, the spark of desire.
His pulse slowed to somewhere near normal, though the chainmail squeezing his chest did not loosen one bit.
His phone gave a polite buzz. The calendar alarm.
10 a.m. Adoptive parents support group, Community Church Hall.
Ricky’s mind clicked back into action.
He jumped to his feet and opened the stationery cupboard (yes, they still had a stationery cupboard at the Temple Mountain Town Council office. And a photocopier, paper cutter, and industrial stapler).
He began stacking piles of brochures, fridge magnets, and safety posters, trying not to think about his other deeply personal agenda.
It was a foolish idea. A movie fantasy, that he might somehow, miraculously, encounter the adoptive parents of his child. And unless Baby Lioba was a carbon copy of either himself or Chrissie, there was unlikely to be a Road to Damascus moment where he recognized his child.
The single factor on his side, Ricky reminded himself, was the statistic he had wrangled out of the Annual Report of The New York State Adoption Services.
Adoptions, it seemed, were much less common these days, especially of newborns.
In fact there had been only ten adoptions of babies in the whole county last year, and a similar number in previous years.
In which case, the odds were not bad.
Ricky snapped shut his briefcase and zipped up his jacket.
Joshua, Judah, the Beechams and the whole mess could wait a few more hours.
***
T he first surprise was that the parent and child group looked pretty much the same as the playgroup at the rectory. A babble of conversation, crawling babies and toddlers underfoot, and parents sipping lukewarm beverages while poised to leap forward to avert disaster at any second.
“Ricky, this is Bella, the convener of the support group.”
Ricky had expected a cool reception from Hattie, but she had merely squeezed his arm and smiled when they met outside the hall.
“Ricky Sharp is Chief Browning’s new assistant. He’s been doing a wonderful job, informing parents about fire risks in the home,” said Hattie in her soft, clear voice. Jaime, wearing preloved denim overalls and a baggy t-shirt with the cuffs rolled up, threw Ricky a toothy grin over Hattie’s shoulder.
Hattie deftly moved the child to her other hip, and Ricky marveled at how so petite a woman could carry a large two-year-old for hours at a time.
“Mumma,” gurgled Jaime. “Narna. Please narna.”
Hattie delivered a kiss onto the curly head. “Clever girl. Her new word. Bananas are her favorite.”
Jaime’s eyes lit up. “Narna?”
“Soon,” promised Hattie. Jaime caught sight of the other children and began wriggling. “Down,” she commanded, and Hattie began untangling the child and her Bluey backpack from the bulky diaper bag on her shoulder.
Bella, a tall, solidly built woman with a sensible face and sharp eyes, turned her attention on Ricky before he could ask what Jaime’s other words were. Dog? Cat? Plane? Was she still drinking from a bottle, and what about diapers? He realized that he knew next to nothing about babies and small children. Or large children, when it came to it.
Bella’s cropped hair was a startling shade of red, but it was the tattoo of multi-colored roses entwined with a large snake on her neck and upper shoulders that captured his attention. Her eyes flicked around the room as she spoke, and Ricky surmised that she was the parent of two boys who were perhaps a year apart in age. Their natural tight black curls had been buzzed to their scalps, and their blue eyes were striking against their dusky skin.
“Good to see that old fool Leroy Browning has finally brought in someone with a lick of sense,” said Bella in a vaguely Scottish accent. “Though from what I read online this morning, you’ll be on the next bus to Rochester. For my money, I wouldn’t believe a word Bonnie Browning says.”
Ricky gulped, unsure how to respond to this brutal but accurate assessment. “Well,” he began, searching for diplomacy, “the most important thing is that the Chief and I are working together to find and stop the firebug.”
“Quit stirring up trouble Bella.” A middle-aged man with a thin pinched face, no hair, and a smile of surprising charm joined the group. “Elliot Burns.”
A small girl chose that moment to cannon into Ricky’s legs. She looked up. Her round face creased in dismay. “Come here,” said Elliot, lifting her into his arms. “Wrong legs, sweetheart. Say hi to Ricky. This is Zobia.”
Ricky’s eyes widened a fraction. The now beaming child had the characteristic flattened face and up-tilted eyelids of Down syndrome.
“Hey,” said Ricky uncertainly. He tapped the child gently on her nose, and she giggled. He relaxed. “Hi Zobia. That’s a pretty name.”
Without warning, the little girl launched herself straight at Ricky. He caught her just in time, which set off another fit of giggles.
Elliot smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, I should have warned you. When Zobia likes someone, she wants to hug them there and then.”
“That’s fine,” said Ricky, cradling the warm weight of the child against him. She smelled of talc and milk and cookies. Her hands reached out to cup his face as though studying him. Then she leaned forward and kissed his chin.
“No boundaries,” said Elliot wryly. “These kids radiate love.”
“Unusual name.” Ricky pursed his lips and made loud kissing sounds at Zobia, which his new best friend found hilarious.
Elliot reached forward and stroked the small back gently. “I named her. I’m a single parent, by the way. Anyways, her mom hadn’t given her a name—in fact she wouldn’t touch the baby after the doctor told her she had Down syndrome. And so I got a call, late one night, to ask if I could foster this little mite while the mom thought about what she wanted to do.”
Ricky knew that he needed to get the session going, but he was rooted to the spot. And the small head now tucked into his neck made him want to never let go. He kissed her hair, and she snuggled deeper.
Elliot’s eyes shone with emotion. “I’ve been an emergency foster parent with the county for years. So I took the baby, cause I was all set up with the cot and the bottles and the equipment, and she stayed. And she stayed. And she stayed. And then the social worker asked me if I was interested in adopting. I think the woman expected me to say no, because not everyone will consider a child with a disability. And this sweet girl has a heart defect, which is a common, life-limiting issue with these kids.”
He smiled. “But I was already in love. And I called her Zobia, which means ‘blessed’.”
Hearing her name, Zobia raised her head and performed the same leap towards her father, who easily caught her.
Hattie was suddenly alongside. “I don’t want to hurry you Ricky, but most kids have a very small window of civilized behavior before it all goes south...”
Ricky took a deep breath. “Thanks. I’m ready when you are.”
Five minutes later, the parents were sitting either on the floor or in the old armchairs in the hall and the children were (mostly) engrossed in a storybook with Hattie in the book corner.
“Morning,” said Ricky briskly. “Thanks for giving up your valuable time. Now, does anyone know the three ingredients that a fire must have to burn...?”
***
J odi stalked behind the counter of The Temple Mountain Monitor . She dumped her bag, rested her hip against her desk, folded her arms, and glared.
“Yo,” said Dougie weakly. “Problem?”
Jodi hissed. “Please do not ‘yo’ me. To my knowledge, you were born here in Temple Mountain and have no cultural or ethnic links with hip-hop.”
Dougie put up his hands in mock surrender. May Perrot, a retired teacher who handled the accounts, hid a smile.
“And yes, Dougie. We have a problem. The problem is you published a story without my go-ahead. And now the shit is hitting the fan.”
Dougie leaned back, unconsciously mirroring Jodi’s folded arm stance.
“I really, honestly thought that you wanted me to go live. You said it was news-breaking. I remember. And I stopped playing Back 4 Blood , even though I was on the verge of getting my next card power and the other Cleaners were like, whoa, Dougie, you can’t leave now!”
“Tough call Dougie,” said May mildly. “I love a good zombie splatter.”
Jodi’s gaze did not waver. “I did ask you to write the story,” she said grimly. “And you did a good job. Did your research, asked the right questions, poked the bear, and did an impressive number of interviews as well.”
Dougie preened a little. “I wanted to show you that I could do more than write up the council minutes and the Little League scores.” Disappointment flashed across his face. “And no one seems to care about the kangaroo cull.”
Jodi ignored the antipodean distraction. “And you did, Dougie. In fact, I’ll admit right now that I expected you to be stuck on the phone and online for at least a couple of days to get this story. I imagined that you would send me a draft, and I would give you a few pointers and suggest more sources and different angles.”
The next words came through gritted teeth. “Those pointers would include a reminder that adjectives are like salad dressing, Dougie. To be used sparingly, if at all. They turn the ingredients soggy and make people nauseous.”
Dougie opened his mouth. Wisely, he closed it again.
Jodi paused for breath.
“And then, Dougie, only then, we would publish a polished, fully approved story maybe this afternoon or tomorrow.”
Dougie’s phone trilled the opening bars of a vaguely familiar and extremely annoying rap song. He hastily turned it off.
Jodi briefly wondered if she had had this same blend of brash self-confidence and exhausting energy when she was a freshly minted graduate.
Probably .
His eyes lit up. “But Jodi...if we had waited to publish, then it wouldn’t have been breaking news,” he said, with the air of one whose logic was unbeatable.
She shook her head. The urge to pound her fist on the desk (preferably knocking something breakable to the floor) and to yell that she was the top dog around here, the queen bee of this hive and the butt-kicker extraordinaire, was strong. But the years of conditioning to be a well-behaved, conciliative and polite woman were even stronger.
On the other hand. Jodi breathed deeply.
Enough was enough.
Unfazed by his boss’ expression, Dougie sat up straight and flexed his fingers. “Publish and be damned,” he said proudly. “I learned that in college.”
Jodi thought briefly about the job she had turned down in Manhattan, where the offices probably had glass walls with stunning views and built-in Italian coffee machines, maybe a separate gym and neck massages on demand. She could do with a massage right now.
“Dougie!”
He jumped, wide-eyed. Jodi adjusted her tone slightly. Millennials were known to be sensitive about negative feedback, and she didn’t really want him to resign forthwith in a fit of the sulks.
“I want you to think of this as a learning experience. An opportunity to grow as a professional.”
Dougie nodded eagerly. He opened his mouth to speak. She held up her palm.
“That particular saying has nothing to do with whipping together a story and, without the advice or permission of the editor, posting it online.”
The next words were delivered with slow emphasis. “Are you clear on that point?”
He nodded.
“And further, in case you are confused about the lines of authority in this office. I am the editor. You do nothing without my permission. The fact that we don’t have lawyers slapping us with writs yet, is—”
Her own phone rang, and she grabbed it hastily, her heart thudding in anticipation. She raised a finger to pause the conversation.
“ The Temple Mountain Monitor office. Jodi Ruskin speaking.” She tried to project calm authority.
But it wasn’t Ricky.
“Jodi? Silas here. There’s something I’d like to share with you and Ricky, if you have time. It’s...ah...relevant to the story I read online this morning.”
The espresso she’d picked up on the way to work was suddenly sour in Jodi’s mouth. Was even Silas Beecham having second thoughts about the twins’ guilt? Or was he going to tell that, having thrown confidentiality to the winds in order to capture readers, Jodi was responsible for the imminent removal of Joshua and Judah by Social Services?
“Sure. Yes.” She paused, aware that her two employees were straining to take in as much of the conversation as possible. She turned so her back was facing May and Dougie, providing her a view of the bustling sidewalk.
“I don’t have any idea if Ricky can join us, Silas,” Jodi said tightly. “I think it is safe to say that the online story came as an unpleasant surprise to him.”
There was a snort of laughter behind her, but when Jodi swung around May was typing into her computer and Dougie was frowning over a printout.
Silas chuckled. “I can only imagine.” His voice grew cool. “Hattie and I were surprised too, and disappointed. We expected better.”
Jodi’s mouth was dry. Fortunately, Silas didn’t expect a response. “So shall we say Friday night, after the community supper? I’ll...um...contact Ricky myself.”
“Fine!” Jodi knew she sounded too hearty. “See you then.”
She ended the call. Stared at the screen as though willing a message from Ricky to pop up. But there was still no reply, and to tell the truth, Jodi no longer expected one.
She was the Acting Editor, and so the mistake was her responsibility. But she was done apologizing. And she was done trying to fix everyone else’s problems.