Bubbles Ablaze (7 page)

“Shot,” I corrected.

“Don't talk with your mouth full, Bubbles.” Mama handed me a napkin. “Anyway, turns out her editor didn't send the fax. No one knows who did. Though Bubbles did end up finding a businessman dead in the mine last night. Bud Price.”

Vilnia crossed herself. “May he rest in peace.”

“What we want to know is who sent her the fax. According to the sending telephone number, it had to have been someone from this area, with access to
News-Times
stationery, who also would have known that Bubbles was at the Passion Peak.”

“Stinky could have known,” I said, after a good, clearing swallow.

Mama wet her finger and wiped a smudge from the corner of my mouth. “How would Stinky have known?”

I smeared away Mama's spit. It's disgusting when she does that. “Through Roxanne. Didn't you tell her I was going to the Passion Peak?”

Mama fluttered her puny eyelashes. A sure indication of guilty as charged.

“I don't know,” she said, trying to sound vague and old ladyish. “These days I can't remember what I say or who I talk to.”

“Give it up, Mama. You're not riding any Goldwing motorcycle. I know how you gossip about me and Stiletto. You can admit it.”

Mama opened her red lips to confess her sins, but Vilnia interrupted.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Vilnia was waving the cake knife around. “You telling me Bubbles got the fax when she was staying at the Passion Peak on her honeymoon?”

“No,” Mama explained. “With Steve Stiletto, a news photographer. Her boyfriend.”

“Bubbles! I'm shocked.” Vilnia put down the knife and slid one index finger over the other, in the universal Pennsylvania sign language of warding off evil. “Oiii. Not married and—”

“Didn't you just tell me it's America in the twenty-first century?” Mama said.

“Guess it's none of my business. Not my soul that'll be languishing in purgatory.” Vilnia sat down and plunged a fork into her own slice of cake. We all ate silently, pondering eternal damnation and Entenmann's.

“What made you think of Stinky, anyway, Bubbles?” Vilnia finally asked.

“Because his Lexus was at the mine when I got there. It was gone after Stiletto and I nearly blew up in the mine.”

Vilnia held her fork in midair. “Seems like you left out a few details, LuLu.”

“I need more ginkgo.” Mama shrugged and pushed her plate away. “You got coffee?”

“Sure.” Vilnia got up and plucked the pot from the coffeemaker. No. No. Not more coffee! Vilnia distributed the cups and frowned as she poured, deep in thought. She replaced the pot, brought a carton of milk from the refrigerator and plunked it on the table.

“If I were you, Bubbles, I'd go home,” Vilnia said, folding her arms and sitting down again. “Go back to Lehigh.”

“I can't go home,” I said. “I need a new alternator.”

“Why should she have to go home?” Mama asked. “Bubbles needs to write a big story that will get her a full-time job at her newspaper. Looks to me like this is it. This could be her Big Break. And, anyway, she can't leave without finding Stinky . . . or whoever it was that tried to kill her. She'll never get a decent night's sleep if she doesn't.”

Vilnia regarded both of us. “It wasn't Stinky who tried to kill
you.” She lowered her voice and we had to lean over the table to hear her. “Whoever set you up, he's bigger than Stinky.”

“Bigger than Stinky!” I exclaimed, as though this were an impossibility. “Who?”

She sighed. “Okay. You know about the casino, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, someone very powerful doesn't want it to go through. He'll stop at nothing, including murdering Mr. Price, to make sure it stops. He does not want casinos to replace coal here in Pennsylvania.”

Mama and I looked at each other. “Who is it?” I asked.

“Maybe Bud Price's murderer. I ain't sure.” Vilnia sat back and plucked a toothpick from the toothpick holder. “But I bet Stinky knows. Stinky discovered something in his workplace he wasn't supposed to, Bubbles. That's what he told me when I ran into him at the library before he disappeared. That's why McMullen Coal fired him and that's why he's in hiding. You get Stinky and you'll get the straight poop.”

“What poop?” Mama asked.

Vilnia shrugged. “I don't know. He didn't give me no poop particulars.”

I tried to sort out the many stories Roxanne had prattled about this morning. She'd said her husband had quit his job because the maps at McMullen Coal hadn't been updated, making it look like less coal was being taken out than it was. But why would that result in Bud Price's murder?

“Are you sure Stinky's not crazy?” I asked.

“Not crazy.” She tapped her temple with the toothpick. “Smart.” She chewed on her toothpick and winked at me.

I didn't know whether to believe her. Vilnia might be another conspiracy nut like Genevieve, only shorter and with more plastic jewelry.

There was a faint shuffling and the door opened. Mr. Vilnia appeared. “I was thinking I might go out. You know. To the park. For a walk.”

There was silence. Vilnia removed the toothpick. “And what, may I ask, have you done about the garbage? I told you this morning to take it out and still it's there.”

“Oh, sorry.” Mr. Vilnia scurried across the kitchen and removed the white plastic bag, tying it quickly.

“Don't forget to put in another liner. How many times have I opened the door under the sink to throw away coffee grounds only to have them land in the bare garbage pail. Do you know what a pain that is to clean?”

“Yes, dear,” he said, shaking out a plastic bag.

“And I suppose the bathroom faucet's still dripping.”

Mr. Vilnia dragged the garbage bag to the kitchen door. “It needs a new washer.”

“I know
that
,” Vilnia said, as Mr. Vilnia opened the door almost in relief. “That's why it's dripping.”

As soon as he left, Vilnia jumped up and quickly opened the oven door. Mama, heeding some mysterious signal, also sprang to action, bringing down a white plate from the cupboard. Vilnia slipped on two oven mitts and brought out the apple crisp. She spooned out a section as Mama reached in the freezer and found some vanilla ice cream. The women worked silently.

Mr. Vilnia returned with resolve on his mind. “Listen, Vilnia. I have a right to go out if I want to. I'm retired. I've worked all my life—”

Vilnia handed him the plate of steaming cinnamon apple crisp with vanilla ice cream melting over it in rivulets.

“What's this?” he said, softening.

She gave him a spoon and he dug in. After two delectable mouthfuls he said, “Maybe I will stay home. It looks like it's going to rain and there's that documentary on fungi I've been wanting to see.”

“Sounds good, tiger.” The phone on the kitchen wall rang and no one budged.

“Phone's ringing, dear,” Vilnia announced.

Mr. Vilnia snatched it off the wall and handed it to his wife without answering.

“I'll take it in the other room.” She left through the swinging door. Mr. Vilnia followed dutifully.

After they were gone, Mama rested against the counter and fanned herself with an oven mitt. “Whew!”

“What the heck was that all about?”

“A rare treat. You have just witnessed the casting of the Nag 'N Feed spell, a local specialty.”

“Nag 'N Feed?”

“It's how the women in this town keep their men folk in line. They nag them constantly about the garbage, watching too much sports on TV, you know the drill. Then, just when their husbands are about to blow their tops, they bring out the food and the men cave. The chores get done and the women remain in control. Flawless system.”

“And the men put up with this?”

“They have no choice. They're enchanted.” Mama hung the oven mitt on a hook by the stove. “These women aren't called the Sirens of Slagville for nothing.”

I considered Vilnia with her support hose and Dentu-Crème whitened choppers. “Vilnia is a Slagville Siren?”

“Don't underestimate her. Women from coal country got powers that science can't explain.”

Even Mama couldn't explain because the swinging door to the kitchen burst open, and Vilnia entered, face flushed, phone pressed to her ample bosom. “You better get over to the Number Nine mine quick, Bubbles,” she said. “They found Price.”

“Finally!” I shouted. “A scoop of my own.”

“I don't know how much of a scoop it is,” Vilnia said. “That was Esmeralda Greene on the line. She was there when they took out the body. She and that boyfriend of yours, Stiletto.”

“I
told you to hit the pavement and dig up some dirt,” Mama said, barely able to see above the steering wheel, “but nooo, you insisted on wasting your morning in gossip.”

“What? Visiting Vilnia was your idea!”

“Bubbles, Bubbles, Bubbles. When are you going to face the fact that you're too soft for the big leagues. Unless you toughen up, honey, you'll be writing fluff pieces about strawberry festivals and high school graduations forever. I can't do your job for you, you know.”

I would have throttled her dog-collared neck then and there except she was driving. Mama had insisted, claiming that her old race-car boyfriend had taught her a couple of tricks, including how to peel out of a neighborhood and take a turn on two wheels. Otherwise, it was little old lady as usual.

“If you're so perfect,” I said, “then how come Stiletto was at the mine and not on Roxanne's couch like we'd left him?”

Mama turned a right onto the dirt road by the mine's entrance. “Slipup in the operation. Genevieve needs to check with her Sominex supplier. The stuff must have been cut with sugar. Holy mackerel. Talk about competition.”

Ye gads! Monstrous white TV news vans with gigantic satellite dishes crowded the road in front of the exploded Number Nine mine shaft where I had frozen the night before. All were local affiliates of the major networks—Channels Three, Five and Six. There were so many reporters, in fact, that the lights from the cameras lit up the place like a county fair Ferris wheel.

“You're late!” Mama exclaimed, idling the Rambler. “Good thing I floored it.”

Going forty miles per hour wasn't exactly breaking the sound barrier, but I didn't have time to argue.

“You want to come?” I asked, removing my reporter's notebook and testing my pen.

“No can do. Genevieve and I need to talk.” Mama kept the engine running.

“About how come the Sominex dart didn't take hold?”

“Right,” she said absently. “Now, this is what I mean about you being soft. Why are you here chatting with me about my schedule when you should be out there swimming with the sharks? Get going.” And she gave me a little push out of the car.

My steps were leaden as I trudged toward the collection of cops and reporters. Perhaps Mama was right. Perhaps I was destined to be no more than a fluffy feature writer. Sure, I'd uncovered one major scandal—Henry Metzger, the ruthless chairman of Lehigh Steel. For decades Metzger had skimped on safety measures in the steel plant to rake in more profits for his own personal gain. And though numerous workers—like my own father—had died because of his cool disregard for life, no one in Lehigh had had enough guts to probe his evil doings.

Until I found his one weakness.

But in the end what had it mattered? Metzger had flown off to Central America and died in a plane crash, and that was that. No prosecution. No compensation for his victims. Within weeks Metzger's crimes were reduced to quaint, legendary tales. And somewhere my newspaper articles were yellowing with age, waiting to be committed to cyberspace and thrown in the incinerator.

Like they say in the newsroom, you're only as good as yesterday's story. Well, today was tomorrow's yesterday and I had better shape up, like Mama said.

Already a press conference was underway. Dolled-up TV reporters with their severely plucked eyebrows, bright lips and impeccable hair faced Donohue and two men I didn't recognize.
One was in a navy blue windbreaker that read
MEDICAL EXAMINER
on the back. The other was a business-suited type.

I searched the crowd for Stiletto, but he was nowhere to be seen. The other reporters wouldn't let me get closer to the podium, so I was forced to the back of the crowd where it was impossible to see or hear bupkis. Can you say loser?

“Loser,” said a nasal voice. “Those big-city reporters make me feel like such a loser.”

A reporter with curly brown hair, black glasses and a press pass that said
MYRON FINKLE
,
SLAGVILLE SENTINEL
was by my side. He was no taller than my shoulder and the sheen of his tan shirt, along with his baggy pants, indicated that the
Slagville Sentinel
didn't pay very well.

He squinted at the press pass around my neck. “Lehigh
News-Times
? Where's that?”

“About an hour or so from here,” I whispered, trying to catch what Donohue was saying. “Lots of folks in Lehigh come from Slagville. Steel and all.”

“Oh, yeah. The Lehigh Valley Railroad runs through town. Guess there's a coal connection.” He lifted his chin toward the TV people. “We got TV reporters from Philly and New York here today. I bet they don't even know the difference between anthracite and bituminous.”

“You can say that again.” Bituminous was an eating disorder. Even I knew that. “How did they find out about Price's murder, anyway?”

“Are you kidding?” Myron pulled out a folded up newspaper from his back pocket. “It was in the morning papers all over the country.”

Myron opened to a lead AP story from that morning's
Slagville Sentinel
. It was brief, but it delivered the essentials. Bud Price, who recently won unprecedented legislative approval to open a casino in Slagville, PA, was presumed dead after a portion of the Number Nine mine had exploded. Rescue workers were attempting to retrieve the body. No comment from Price's
family or company, except confirmation he'd been in the area on business.

“Shoot!” I said. “He beat me to it. Son of a gun.”

“Who beat you?” Myron asked, refolding the clipping.

“Steve Stiletto,” I said. My mind raced. It was impossible. To get the story on the wire early enough for the morning newspapers, Stiletto would have had to call it in by 2
A
.
M
. And he didn't get out of the mine until 2:30.

Or did he?

That dog. He must've found another exit after the cave-in and then somehow managed to get to a phone—a rescue worker's perhaps?—before returning to the ambulance where I had been crying about him suffocating, blah, blah, blah.

“Bastard,” I hissed.

“Stiletto?” Myron said. “How do you think I feel? I'm the local cop reporter and I didn't even know about the explosion until my editor got me out of bed this morning, yelling that we'd been scooped by a New York AP photographer and his girlfriend. Biggest story to hit this town in a century and a prize-winning reporter and photographer happen to be here on a romantic weekend. Is that bad luck or what?”

I blushed. “That's nice of you, Myron, but I haven't won any prizes. Not yet.”

“Not you,” he said, pushing up his glasses. “Esmeralda Greene. She used to be the regional AP bureau chief here and then got promoted to New York after her coal region series was nominated for a Pulitzer. Kick ass babe-a-lonia.” Myron stuck out his tongue like a panting dog. “That Stiletto is one lucky dude. Man, what I wouldn't give to be in his place.”

“You mean Stiletto and Greene are . . . a couple?”

“That's the rumor. Supposedly they keep it hush-hush 'cause they work for the same organization. You know what the AP's nepotism policy is like.” Myron said this with importance, as though he were tighty whitey with the AP honchos. “
Management gets a whiff two employees are sleeping together and it's curtains. That's her over there, asking a question now.”

A statuesque redhead towered above her colleagues. Even from the back of the press conference, I could tell that she was an arresting woman. Broad shoulders. Classic cheekbones. Her black suit lent a trim, stylish appearance and set off her shoulder-length, thick hair. She could have modeled more than women's underwear. Esmeralda Greene was a stunner.

“Chief Donohue,” she said, her voice crisp and clear over the crowd, “what can you tell us about a former McMullen Coal employee named Carl Koolball whose car was spotted at the Number Nine mine entrance around the hour of Price's murder? From what my sources tell me, he had made numerous threats against his former employer and against Price. And, as an engineer, he would know how to set off a mine explosion. Is he a suspect in this case?”

Showoff. No decent reporter would ask a lengthy question like that in front of other reporters. She had just handed the competition tons of information she'd dug up. Perhaps she was trying to impress someone—Stiletto?

Donohue stepped to the podium, flushed and sweating. He looked like he hadn't had much sleep. “I am not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation with the press, Esmeralda. Suffice it to say that Carl Koolball is not a suspect. However, I would classify him as a ‘person of interest.' ”

Person of interest. I wrote that down. What the heck did that mean? He was either a suspect or he wasn't, right?

“Perhaps I can shed some light.” The suit walked up to the microphone. “Hugh McMullen, owner of McMullen Coal Inc.,” he said, removing a sheet of paper from his breast pocket.

My initial impression of Hugh McMullen could be summed up in three words: hungover Peter Pan. Although his wavy hair sported streaks of gray, it was boyishly (and, oh yes, expensively) cut and he had donned a spiffy pair of penny loafers. His posture
was poor, he yawned as he prepared to speak and he seemed ill at ease, as though he were eager to return to the frat house.

The reporters crowded closer, shutting me out completely. No way I was going to miss McMullen. I expertly wedged my body between a Barbie and Ken from Channel Three in a move I like to call the “Bon Jovi Butt.”

It requires years of grandstand seating at Jon Bon Jovi concerts to perfect the Bon Jovi Butt, and the feat is not for the petite or polite. The trick is to resist the urge to say, “Pardon me.” Offers too much of a heads up. And once the butt is complete, never look back.

“Hey!” Barbie objected. I ignored her and kept my eyes straight ahead on McMullen.

“On Labor Day,” McMullen began, reading stiffly from a prepared statement, “it came to my attention that one of our top engineers, Carl Koolball, was suffering from mental health issues. Our company offered him a generous leave and medical help, which he refused. We had no choice but to let him go—for the safety of our other employees.”

I scribbled as fast as I could and recalled what Vilnia had said about Stinky being fired from McMullen. I sensed a plant. Esmeralda's question had been too detailed and McMullen's answer too pat to be a coincidence.

“Since then the Columbia County court has issued a restraining order barring Mr. Koolball from coming within fifty feet of the McMullen colliery and the Dead Zone, which we happen to be standing on right now. I'm not violating any confidentiality policies here. Everything I've just told you is in the public record. My primary goal is to be as upfront with you people as possible.”

In unison, reporters whipped out their cell phones and dialed rapidly. I predicted that within an hour the oblivious clerks in the Columbia County Courthouse would be flooded with news interns requesting copies of the restraining order.

And then it struck me like an anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote. The Dead Zone. We were standing on it and it was right next to
the Number Nine mine. I wiggled past Barbie, who threw me a darting look, to the back of the crowd where Myron waited, fed up.

“I hate these reporters,” he said. “They're so mean. They won't let me get closer 'cause I'm from a dinky paper.”

“You're not missing much.” I smiled sympathetically. “Listen, Myron, if this is the Dead Zone, then where is Price's casino supposed to go?”

Myron pointed to a cluster of orange ribbons tied around a few trees. “There. Though the entire complex of swimming pools, hotels, theaters and a shopping mall will be much larger. Probably take up all two hundred acres.”

“Hmm.” I left Myron and hiked across the beaten grass, through the woods and over to the entrance of the mine, my heels slipping on the black slag scattered about. I was simply going to have to get new shoes if I was going to stick with this story. Nice if they made slingbacks with treads.

The exploded mine entrance was littered with burnt wood, rock and settled dust inside a perimeter of yellow police tape. Let's see now. Stiletto and I had entered here and then—I envisioned our underground path—we stopped there. I imagined a spot about a hundred feet away. That must have put us in the Dead Zone.

I thought back to the article I had read in Roxanne's bathtub. McMullen had sold the Dead Zone to Price because the coal company wasn't permitted to mine under that land for safety reasons—namely possible encroachment by the Limbo fire. But what if McMullen had been robbing coal from underneath the Dead Zone and not documenting it, to escape state scrutiny? And what if Stinky had found that out and that's why he'd been fired?

The wheels in my head spun. I needed to get back to Roxanne and convince her to let me break our pinky promise so I could track down what she told me about Stinky. This could be a big story, I thought, heading out of the clearing and toward the woods. Especially with Bud Price, owner of the Dead Zone, found shot through the chest in the Number Nine mine.