Read Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 for Free Online

past me. I don’t think she even saw me. Her face was mottled, her eyes glazed.
    Eric March watched her leave, then, scowling, heyelled at the sports editor. “You got that story done? Let’s get this show on the road.” Eric stared down at the desk. An ugly flush surged up his neck, turned his face and ears red. He flung down his pencil. “Buddy—hey, Buddy, put it to bed for me, man.” And he plunged toward the hall.
    I heard the downstairs door wheeze shut. A moment later, the sound of Eric’s clattering steps ended, and the door wheezed a second time.
    If I hurried I could catch Rita, perhaps calm her down, encourage her to go home.
    I didn’t think there was a thing I could say to Eric March.
    But protecting Dennis Duffy from the mess he’d made of his personal life wasn’t in my job description either.
    Besides, I was irritated.
    I wanted Maggie Winslow to produce first-rate copy, a new, fresh, important investigation of three unsolved crimes. I wanted her series to be exactly what I’d promised Dr. Tucker it would be: painstaking, in-depth investigative reporting.
    I wished the stories were mine to do. But they weren’t. I was a bystander, a coach, a cheerleader. I had to depend upon a young reporter to do the work. So I wanted Maggie functioning at her best.
    What effect would Rita’s suspicions have on Maggie?
    Very little, if I could help it. Maggie was smart and quick, and now was the time to prove she was tough, even if she might also be in the process of learning the painful lesson that those who play with fire often get burned. Of course, Rita could be wrong. In fact, it would surprise me if Maggie washaving an affair with Dennis. But I’ve been surprised before.
    I walked over to my office, unlocked it, and hurried to the phone. I punched Maggie’s number.
    The answering machine picked up.
    My message was short and to the point: “Maggie, this is Henrietta Collins. I must talk to you tomorrow as soon as possible. I will expect you here in my office at eight-thirty in the morning. Thank you.”
    I locked my office, said good night to Buddy and the others. Buddy arched his eyebrows sardonically, but said nothing.
    It was a relief to get back to the morgue. I had the beginnings of a headache, but I was determined to finish my task.
    It didn’t take long. The facts were quite simple: At approximately 5 P.M. on Monday, March 15, 1976, secretary Maude Galloway knocked on the door of her boss, Dean of Students Darryl Nugent, to tell him she was leaving for the day. “The dean was writing on a legal pad. He barely looked up when I knocked. He said, ‘Good night, Maude.’ I closed the door to his office and left.”
    Darryl Nugent was never seen again.
    I replaced the bound volume of Clarions and gathered up my notes.
    I had some ideas about how Maggie should begin. Tomorrow I would share them with her.

four
    S TEAM curled from the mouth of the thermos. Coffee gurgled into my mug. I always enjoy using this mug, a gift from my daughter, Emily. The mug is fire-engine red. An arched black cat forms its handle. Inside the mug, a small gray mouse perches on a tiny ceramic ledge. The legend reads “Morning Delight.”
    I lifted the mug, savored the scent and welcomed the pungent flavor of its contents. Whether it was the stimulus of the caffeine or the excitement of the chase, this morning I felt I could take on the world—including President Tucker—and win hands down. Gone was last night’s fatigue. And I’d dismissed my worry that Maggie Winslow might be too distracted by her personal life to do a good job. Maggie—whether romantically involved with Dennis Duffy, placating her boyfriend, or avoiding Rita Duffy—had an assignment from me that better take precedence.
    I wasn’t going to do Maggie’s work for her, but I could, one way or another, point her in the right direction.
    I pulled my legal