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tossing a rolled-up Eagle-Examiner onto someone’s front porch, Frisbee-style. Underneath, it read, IFIW–LOCAL 117: PROUD TO FLIP YOU THE BIRD!
    I wasn’t sure whether I could get that line past some of our prissier editors. But as I returned to the newsroom and started writing, I figured I owed it to Nancy to try.
    The words were just starting to flow onto my computer screen when my cell phone rang. The caller had a 510 area code, which was neither a New Jersey number nor one I recognized.
    “Carter Ross.”
    “Mr. Ross?” said a monotone female voice on the other end, and I knew who it was before she could say her name. “This is Jeanne Nygard, Nancy Marino’s sister. We met earlier today.”
    “Hi, Jeanne. Thanks for calling.”
    The line hissed with the sound of no one talking, though I could faintly hear her breathing. I shifted my weight, and my chair creaked in response. I cleared my throat and soon found myself talking, because I felt like someone ought to be.
    “I’m sorry if I triggered a little bit of a spat at the viewing,” I said. “I didn’t mean to stir up ill will.”
    “My sister and I don’t always get along,” Jeanne said, and I fought the urge to reply, No, really?
    “She’s not a happy person,” Jeanne continued. “She seeks fulfillment in worldly things, in money and power. They will never lead her to enlightenment.”
    Okay there, Siddhartha, I nearly replied. But again I resisted. And since I didn’t want to enter into a conversation about Anne’s self-actualization or lack thereof, I asked, “So what can I do for you, Jeanne?”
    “My sister would be angry if she knew I was talking to you,” Jeanne said, which didn’t exactly answer my question. “She said I should keep my mouth shut. But I gave up trying to please my sister a long time ago. Do you have siblings, Mr. Ross?”
    “An older brother and a younger sister.”
    “So you know what it’s like.”
    “Family can be a joy and a pain,” I confirmed.
    The line hissed silence.
    “I’m sorry, is there something I can help you with?” I said, trying to prod the conversation toward … wherever it needed to go. “The story about your sister is going in tomorrow’s paper, so I’m on a bit of a deadline.”
    “I wanted to call you because your card says you’re an ‘investigative reporter.’ Is that true?”
    I put my hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t say something like, No, Jeanne, I’m actually a taxidermist with an active fantasy life.
    I gave myself half a beat, then removed my hand and said, “Yes, it’s true.”
    More faint breathing was followed by “Don’t you think it’s odd, her being killed in a hit and run?”
    “I’m not sure I would choose the word ‘odd.’ I would just say it was a terrible tragedy.”
    “The police said it was probably a drunk driver. What do you think about that?”
    “That people shouldn’t drink and drive?” I said, trying not to sound like a smartass.
    “I’m told bars around here close at two. Would anyone still be drunk at six in the morning?”
    I sighed. Where was she going with this? “People get drunk places other than bars, so there’s—”
    “And there were no skid marks,” Jeanne interrupted, her voice managing to rise above the flatness of Parkinson’s disease to gain some inflection. “The police said they didn’t find any skid marks on the street. Don’t you think the driver would have slammed the brakes after hitting something as large as a person?”
    “Depends. The guy might have been so bombed he didn’t even realize he hit someone. It happens.”
    Jeanne took a moment to consider this. She was nothing if not deliberate.
    “Your card says you’re an investigative reporter,” she repeated. “Are you going to investigate the accident any further?”
    “I’m not planning on it, no.”
    I tilted forward in my chair and rested my elbow on my desk. The bottom right corner of my computer read 5:17. Obits, which are not considered