He looked at me dubiously. “Chica, I don’t think so. He’s very old. Seventy-one.”
“Hey, Father Lindstrom is seventy-two, and look at all the stuff he still does. I’m not saying it’s likely that your friendly farmer had anything to do with the red shoes—or the murdered woman. But it’s possible. Damn! I hate that GO News beat us again. This story was posted last night, and now we’re playing catch-up again.”
“And now we have to tell the sheriff’s office about the shoes. Do you still have them?”
“Yes. They’re still on the backseat of my car. I forgot about them. And yes, absolutely we’ll take them to the sheriff’s office. Just not this very minute. We need to talk to Mr. Pearson first, and find out what he knows about what was going on in his cornfield last week.”
Miguel shook his head as I finished. “No.”
“No?”
“No. It shouldn’t be me. You have to let Troy try. He’s smart, he works hard, he has to learn, that’s all. Take him with you.”
“Okay, you’re right on one count. It shouldn’t be you following up, you’ve got your hands full. I’ll do it and check in with the sheriff’s office after to tell them about the shoes. But I think this is too big for Troy. He’s not ready. We didn’t even have this press release on our site this morning. But GO News did. Plus they had extra information from the sheriff’s office. Why didn’t Troy get on this yesterday?”
“But look how late it came in. Six o’clock. No one was even here last night. You know that Sheriff Lamey would give Andrea a special alert that he won’t give to us.”
“That’s my point. Troy knows it, too. He should have checked the mailbox from home. He should have called the sheriff’s office to check on any developments. At the very least, he should have checked the GO News site.”
“But so should I, or you, right?”
“No, Miguel, not right. You weren’t on last night, neither was I. It was Troy’s responsibility. He should take some initiative. We’re all stretched thin. I don’t have time to babysit him.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. I just need a chance.”
We both turned to look in the direction of the voice. Troy stood in the doorway, his face flushed to the roots of his sandy hair, but his expression determined. How long had he been there? I ran a tape in my head of what I’d said and felt guilty. Less about what I’d said than that Troy had learned about it by overhearing me.
“I’m sorry, Troy. I should have spoken to you directly, and I was a little harsher than I had to be. But I’m frustrated because GO News seems to beat us at every turn. You’ve got to be on top of things. And it just doesn’t seem like you’ve cultivated enough sources yet. It takes a while to build trust with cops, but that’s what you need to get the story. I don’t think you’ve done the work yet.”
“Not like Andrea has, you mean?”
“Well, I wouldn’t like you to build sources the way Andrea has, but she’s got them, and you don’t. I’ll handle this for a little while, until we see where it’s going. Maggie will be back soon and then maybe you can team up with Miguel to follow through.”
“No.”
“No?” That was the second time in less than five minutes a directive of mine had been contested. The firmness in Troy’s voice surprised me, as did his willingness to push back. I respect a person who can stand his ground, so I waited for him to continue.
“I know I haven’t done a good job on the story so far. I missed the scanner information and I don’t have the sheriff as a source, like Andrea does. But I know that I can do better. I want to do this story. I’ll get it right, I promise.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at me directly, his gaze steady.
I was quiet for a moment, assessing what he’d said. As I did, I looked at him more closely than I had in a while. I noticed then that he’d grown his hair a little longer, and he was wearing his shirt untucked. That had to be either Miguel’s influence, or a new girl in his life. He looked a little less like an earnest Boy Scout.
As it happens, I also had some pretty big screw-ups when I was starting out, and Max, my first boss, had given me more than one second chance. Also, we didn’t have a very deep bench, and I had a book to write. Maybe, with a little patience—and as everyone knows, patience is my middle name—I could bring Troy along. And when Maggie got back, and please God, make that soon, she could take over that job.
“All right. I won’t take you off the story. But I’m taking the lead, until I’m sure that you’re ready to fly solo. Got that?”
The smile he gave me was so wide it almost fell off the edge of his face.
“Got it. No problem.”
“Get your notebook, Troy, we’re going for a ride.”
9
On the way to the Pearson farm, I filled Troy in on the red shoes and their significance, and why we were going to see Dwight Pearson.
“I’ll start things out, but you ask any follow-up questions you have. Don’t antagonize the man, though. We’re looking for information, not accusing him of anything, okay?”
Troy nodded and neither of us spoke again until my knock on the front door of the Pearsons’ stone farmhouse was answered.
I’d expected the door to be opened by Dwight Pearson himself. Instead, a short, gray-haired woman wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans stood in front of us.
“Yes?” The smile she gave us extended to the warm brown eyes behind her glasses, so I plunged straight ahead.
“Mrs. Pearson? My name is Leah Nash. I’m from the Himmel Times Weekly, and this is my colleague Troy Patterson.”
“What? No, no. I’m not Mrs. Pearson.” The idea seemed to amuse her. “I wouldn’t have the patience! My sister Juanita is married to Dwight. I’m Kristi McGinness.”
“Oh, I see. Is Mr. Pearson in?” As I asked, the unmistakable smell of warm cinnamon rolls drifted through the half-open door. My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that all I’d had so far that morning was a cup of coffee.
“Someone’s hungry,” she said, smiling again. “I’m afraid Dwight’s not here. He and my sister drove in to Omico this morning. But I just pulled some cinnamon rolls out of the oven and frosted them. Come on in and join me.”
A flash of disappointment had run through me at the news that Dwight Pearson wasn’t available. But the offer of cinnamon rolls was a definite mood-lifter. She led the way through a pleasantly cluttered living room filled with family photographs on every available shelf. An oval braided rug in shades of brown and gold covered the wooden floor. The most recent edition of the Himmel Times Weekly—always nice to see—rested on the arm of a cracked leather chair. Across the back of a comfortable-looking sofa was a beautiful quilt in autumn shades of rust, gold, and green.
“That’s gorgeous,” I said, stopping to look at it.
“Thank you! I made that for Juanita for her birthday. Quilting is something I’ve always done. I got Juanita into it too, recently. In fact, we’re working together on a Quilt of Valor while I’m here.”