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exactly where they always were, just at the tip of her nose.
    “Does Frank have kids?” I asked.
    “Two children, Jamie and Jane. I believe they are both in middle school.”
    “That explains a lot.”
    Also on the masthead and listed as correspondents were a couple of regular stringers, freelance writers called in to do stories for a set fee, covering zoning meetings, the planning commission, the school board and alike. Evan James was our main man, the man with two first names. He was a competent writer and had a good eye for detail. There was Kevin Marchand too, the old guy from the Historical Society. Never really saw much of him, but if there was ever a question about Sand City’s past, he was the person to call. We talked on the phone a lot. Kevin served a dual purpose. He wrote a column for the Chronicle’s op ed page, and he had a mandate: ensure architecture and paint schemes for every building and structure were in keeping with the character of the Village.
    There was also an endless list of other contributing writers who appeared on the masthead on a rotating basis. I could never keep track of them all… people who did guest editorials and nature pieces. I think Tracy Hastings wrote a lot of columns about bird-spotting, at least once a month, but I can’t say I ever read any of them.
    Speaking of columns and never reading them, there was also Molly, Molly Gossip. That was really her name, Molly, not Gossip— that’s what she called her weekly column. If you lived in town and had something to hide, Molly was your worst enemy. She never named names though, ever. It was always Mrs Smith and Mrs Jones. Mr Somebody, or Mr That and Mr This. If more characters were needed, she’d draw upon Mr Flint or Mr Rubble, apparently not common surnames in Sand City. I always thought her stuff was insipid and trivial. I never said so, but I avoided her whenever possible. Luckily, she emailed in her piece once a week and I just printed it out for Eleanor to mark up. I will say though, her column did account for at least half our subscriptions. Last week she wrote:
     
    Party Dress—
    A certain Mrs Somebody held a gala dinner last week, up in the Bluffs. She invited everyone, the Smiths, the Joneses, the Flints, and the Rubbles, just to name a few. Trouble is, she told everyone it was casual dress, everyone but Mrs Jones. Guess who made her grand entrance in a glamourous evening gown? Touché, Mrs Somebody! And you looked stunning, my dear Mrs Jones.
     
    Oh, and I almost forgot to mention Joey, Joey Jegal: our cub reporter, imported straight from the midwest, some land-locked place, Ohio or Indiana. Clean cut, eager, always smiling. I think he qualified as the nicest guy I’ve ever met. Reminds me of me from when I first started. He was also on staff, and got to cover Village meetings, the Council, conferences, the Chamber of Commerce— all the fun stuff— and one feature per week. I started at that age too, eight years ago. Wow, eight years… Where the hell did it go? I probably don’t smile as much as Joey does. Probably never did. He claimed to be half-Italian, half-Korean— what a combination.
    “Joey, how does a half-Italian, half-Korean guy from Ohio end up here in Sand City?”
    “Indiana,” he corrected me and grinned. “I don’t know, just lucky I guess. How did you end up here?”
    “Me? Well, luck had nothing to do with it. I came up every summer since I was a kid… I guess, I sort of grew up here…” I sometimes wondered if Jegal was an Italian or Korean last name. It didn’t sound like either.
    I walked through into the main office. There was always that smell and the sound of that machine. The machine that was supposed to suck up smoke and turn it into fresh air. I still questioned how well it really functioned. The office always seemed to stink of old cigarettes and air freshener. It was planted on Eleanor’s giant antique desk, right between her computer and the photo of her departed