The following morning, promptly at eight o’clock, Larry Denville hustled himself into the editor in chief’s private office at the Indigo Sentinel just as Cady Jordan headed for the shower. Their objective was the same although neither one knew it.

“Good Christ, Denville, what is it now?” Stanley Kaminsky, the burly editor in chief, bellowed. “I hope it isn’t any more of that crap with that twenty-year-old tragedy. There’s too much other news going on to keep harping on that. Don’t you get it? No one is interested.”

“Stanley, people are interested. Lola Jor Dan is news, and when she does something, people sit up and pay attention. Why can’t you trust me on this?”

“Trust doesn’t sell papers. News sells. What is it you want this time, Denville?”

“Chief, do you remember what you said to me the day you hired me?”

“I said a lot of stuff,” the EIC hedged.

“You told me in order to find a resolution or a conclusion to any story I was reporting on, I would have to go back to the beginning. That’s what I want to do. I want to go to Vermont and talk to Cady Jordan’s parents. That’s my beginning. No one bothered to talk to them. After the accident they left, and Lola took over their daughter’s care. I always thought that was very strange. Parents, no matter what, don’t leave their kids behind, especially when they are as badly injured as Cady was. Don’t you think that’s strange, Chief?”

“Look, Denville, that kid’s parents weren’t your garden-variety parents. They were religious nuts. Everyone in this town knew there was bad blood between Asa Jordan and his mother, Lola. That was then, this is now. No one cares. The answer is no to whatever you were going to ask me.”

“Two days, Chief. I’ll drive up using my own car. I’ll find the cheapest motel there is or sleep in my car. I’ll chow down on fast food.” Remembering his training, he mentally changed fast food to raw vegetables. “Seventy-five bucks, Chief. If I can nail this down, it might make the wire services. Human interest, Lola’s upcoming movie. Variety might even show up. I want to do just what you taught me. I want to go all the way on this. My nose is twitching.”

Stanley Kaminsky leaned back in his worn swivel chair and fired up his pipe. He stared at the pudgy reporter, knowing he was going to give in. The one thing he liked about Denville was that he had a feel as well as a nose for news. He sucked on his pipe, smoke billowing upward. “On one condition.”

“Anything. I’m thinking a hundred bucks instead of seventy-five. Gas is expensive.”

“You take Myrna with you. She understands women.”

“Come on, Stanley, I don’t need a baby-sitter. I’m astute. I can figure out things for myself. This is my story.”

Stanley yanked at his collar as he twisted his neck to the right and then to the left. “I hate ties,” he grumbled, “but the owner of this fine paper has a dress code, and ties are at the top of the list. It’s Myrna or nothing, kid.”