Page 60 of Head Room
I messaged Kit, leaving my phone number.
And hoped she’d do better than I had at returning messages.
I put my phone into my bag and it immediately rang.
Tom.
“I’ve got a meeting tonight—” He didn’t bother to tell me what it was for, because he was involved in so many civic efforts that it usually didn’t matter unless there was something newsworthy cooking.In which case he wouldn’t tell me, to protect what was cooking being on the news.“—and Tamantha’s sleepover’s been canceled because her friend has a sore throat.If you can’t—”
“I can.Have her stay here or be with her at the ranch?”
“Your call.She’s at that program at the library again until late afternoon.And returns in the morning.”
“Here makes sense then.”
“Good.Heard you talked with Connie this morning.”
“Hah.Just happened to hear, huh?”
“Yep.What’ve you got going now?”
“Lunch with Mike, Needham, and a friend of his.Then I’m going to Hiram Poppinger’s place.”
“I’m going with you.”
The speed of his reaction had me narrowing my eyes at the phone.He’d known that was coming.Connie, no doubt.He’d had two purposes for this call.
Two that I knew of so far.
“Why?No.That’s not necessary.”
“Back to front, might not be necessary but I’ll like it better, yes, and because he’s prone to pulling out a shotgun, as he did the first time you met him.”
I didn’t recall telling him about that first meeting, so how...?On second thought, did it matter how he knew?Could have heard it from Mike, Diana, Shelton, or Hiram himself.
And those were the primary sources.Secondary and tertiary sources covered the entire county and plenty of people beyond.
“Tom—”
“You’ll hardly notice I’m there.”
Right.When did I ever not notice he was in my vicinity?
****
I walked intothe Haber House Hotel precisely on time, to spot Mike and Needham already at a prime table by the front windows.
Prime because it was buffered by architectural oddities from the building’s early Twentieth Century origins.It was some distance from the ornate bar that drew a lot of attention.The placement of columns kept it separate from other tables.The drapes — what else?red velvet — absorbed sound.
The third occupant at the table made me blink hard to fight a momentary disconnect.
I knew his identity, I just couldn’t make it fit this location.
Orson Jardine.
Not a prepossessing figure by nature — he’d said of himself that he had a body built for overalls, not suits — but certainly one by repute.
Famed Executive Editor of theWashington Standard.
