Pat Remick is an award-winning short story author and veteran journalist, and has co-authored two non-fiction books. She is 2010 president of Sisters in Crime New England, co-chair of the Nov. 12-14, 2010, New England Crime Bake conference for mystery writers and readers, and a member of Mystery Writers of America. Her short stories have appeared in anthologies and she is working on a novel. Pat blogs at PatRemick.blogspot.com and at workingstiffs.blogspot.com. Her web site is

www.PatRemick.com

Circulation

It was the kind ofheat that could turn deadly. Edward Philbrick traced watery trails through the condensationclouding his beer mug and wondered how long it would it be before theblistering temperatures took their toll.

His looked up ashis uninvited supper companion plopped down on the red plastic stool beside himand said, “Hot enuff fer ya?”

            “Whatthe hell do you think?” Edward grumbled. He turned his attention back to hissteaming plate of “Tonight’s Special” at the Pines Café: overcooked pot roast, yellowmashed potatoes covered with lumpy brown gravy, and washed-out green beans bathedin far too much butter.

            Eventhe coldest beer wouldn’t counteract the heat rising from his plate. But the $5.99“Special” was affordable, an important consideration given two ex-wives and fivechildren scattered across the country. They despised him, but not the money hesent faithfully each month. Edward understood obligation all too well.

Tonight he hadlittle appetite for his supper or another conversation about a sweltering NewEngland summer day. Edward had heard “Hot enuff fer ya?” too many times already.

He realized CochecoMills was no different from small towns everywhere with their citizenry connectedby endless discussion about the weather because they often had little in commonbeyond their shared geography. But what did these New Englanders expect? It wasAugust, for chrissakes. They were just too cheap to embrace air conditioning intheir belief that scorching heat was as rare a blizzard in May.

They seemed toforget that every summer brought a few days when their homes became stiflingboxes filled with the sound of whirring fans that barely circulated the heavyair. Heat shimmered off the blacktop and threatened to ignite the dry brown needlesalongside the roadways, creating a pungent combination of pine and tar. Limp clothingclung to sweaty bodies. It resulted in a common irritability aggravated byconstant complaining about the oppressive heat. Even the churches prayed for anend to the searing temperatures.

            “Areal scorcher, ain’t it? Get this hot in Texas, Eddie?”

Edward hated to becalled Eddie by anyone and especially by Bill Wykoff. It implied a familiaritythat did not exist. Sharing space at the café’s worn Formica counter didn’tmake them friends. If it had, the friendship would have been one-sided sincethe retired postal carrier generally talked nonstop, primarily about himself.Most nights, Edward found it easier to daydream than try and fight his way intoBill’s monologue. But tonight he was too irritated to keep quiet.

“Are you kidding? Backin Texas, it was hotter than this in the middle of winter, for chrissakes.That’s why there were so many murders – too frigging hot.”

 “Well, I reckon we’d rather have heatand mosquitoes than murdahs,” Bill said, his New Hampshire accent destroying the“r’s” on some words and adding them to others.

He waved over thenew part-time waitress, a perky high school student named Brittany, and askedfor a lemonade refill. “Of course, some would say the mosquitoes are murdahenough, right Brittany?” he chortled. 

The teenagerpolitely smiled. Edward was too hot to be amused.  “Hey, Missy, any chance you can find another fan to get someair circulating? It’s too damn hot in here to eat.” Brittany’s smile vanishedas she scurried off.

 “Give her a break, Eddie. The heat’s nother fault,” Bill said.
            “If you call me Eddie one more time, I just might murder you. Maybe thatway you’d get the point.”            

Come to think ofit, a murder would definitely be more exciting than what qualified as news inthis former factory town. Edward was weary of running stories about thenever-ending squabbles of the volunteer selectmen, the recurring -- and thusfar unfounded -- panic that a big-box store would move in to drive out local businesses,and the infinite number of local sports that changed only with the players’names.

Neither Bill northe general population of Cocheco Mills realized it, but the byline of “Edward T.Philbrick II” once stood tall atop scores of major news stories. In his day, Edwardhad toppled the arrogant, humbled the elected, and exposed the entrusted.

Cocheco Mills sawonly a pot-bellied, middle-aged newspaper editor who ate supper every eveningat the town’s sole year-round restaurant because there was no one at home tocook for him. In three short years, Edward had become part of the town’s dailyrhythm, someone who showed up at Rotary meetings and other local events, andmade sure their lives were chronicled.     Hehated this town.

Edward’s miserywas interrupted by the sound of angry voices coming from the small office off thecafé’s dining room. He could see its “manager,” a tall, skinny 20-year-oldnamed Jimmy Jones, arguing with his pregnant wife who had arrived minutesearlier. From the few words Edward could make out above the clatter, Tiffanywas resisting Jimmy’s demands that she go home to clean in preparation forentertaining his parents the following evening. 

            “Whatare you lookin’ at?” Bill asked.

Edward pointedtoward the office. “Looks like the new Mrs. Jones may be thinking better of herdecision to marry our esteemed manager. Wanna bet how long this marriagelasts?”

“Until he’s a bigbasketball star. Everyone’s says he’s goin’ to make it to the big time,” Billsaid.

 “Yeah, right.”

Edward didn’t likeJimmy. There were rumors the cocky young man had a history of bullying andbrushes with the law that his parents used their financial influence toconceal. Edward knew people resented that Jimmy got away with so much over theyears. But not even his family could save him from the rule that two failinggrades made him ineligible to play basketball his senior year so Jimmy droppedout of Cochecho Mills High.

After hearing somuch praise over the years, Jimmy considered it only a minor setback on theroad to a professional basketball career. He played in all the regional leaguesand supported himself with “temporary” employment at the Pines Café. In twoyears he had advanced from line cook to manager of the restaurant now decoratedwith his sports trophies. There were rumors cocaine made it easier for Jimmy tobelieve the pro scouts would come.

Brittany returnedfrom the kitchen with another box fan and plugged it in near the end of thecounter. “About time,” Edward said. 

Brittany managed aweak smile. “Another beer, Mr. Philbrick?”

“Better make it atall one. I need something to cool me down before I go back to the newsroom.It’s like a sauna.” 

“More lemonade,Mr. Wykoff?” Brittany asked.

 “Please make mine a tall one, too, mydear.” Bill removed his faded U.S. Postal Service cap and used a paper napkinto wipe his bald head. Then he launched into a lengthy series of anecdotesabout his hottest days as a mail carrier.  

Edward tried toappear interested even though he had heard all the stories before. He preferredto drink his beer in peace rather than deal with the agitation that followed ifBill realized he wasn’t listening.

He had just 15minutes of his supper break left, but Edward needed more liquid fortificationto face another frustrating evening of dealing with rookie reporters who couldn’tspell or find the lead of a news story unless it bit them in the butt. He wastired of training these ungrateful beginners only to watch them leave for higher-payingjobs and more glory than he had enjoyed in years.

He also dreadedtomorrow’s meeting with the out-of-state publisher, who arrived like clockwork twicea year to “look at ourselves on paper” and gauge the newspaper’s financialhealth. Edward avoided the advertising side of the business, but sensed thingswere not going well.  

“What in tarnationis going on?” Bill asked, nodding toward the office.

The shouting waslouder. Edward thought he saw Jimmy raise his hand to Tiffany before he slammedthe door shut. Seconds later, a sobbing Tiffany ran out of the restaurant,hands covering her pretty face.

 “Sure you don’t want to place a bet onthat marriage?” Edward asked.

Bill used hisnapkin to wipe his glasses and blot the moisture off his head again. “Everycouple has squabbles, you know that. Even me and my beautiful wife, Ann, Godrest her soul, had some doozies over the years.”

As Bill launchedinto a lengthy narrative about the many qualities of his late wife, Edward watchedBrittany place her order pad on the counter, walk quickly to the office, slipinside and close the door. Less than 10 minutes later, she and Jimmy emerged, facesflushed and clothing slightly askew. He thought Jimmy looked well-comforted.

Edward sighed andput a $10 bill and change on the counter. “Duty calls. See you tomorrow, Bill.”  

Bill nodded and,still talking about his beloved late wife, turned toward the truck drivereating silently beside him.

            Jimmyleaned against the doorframe inside the entrance, a smirk on his face. Edwardstopped and pointed at him. “Hey Mr. Manager, think maybe you could check thethermometer – and the calendar -- and find some ‘specials’ that are slightlymore appropriate for the weather?”

            “Surething, Mr. Philbrick,” Jimmy said, still grinning. “And when do you thinkyou’ll run a story on the summer league and all the points I’m scoring?”

“When it’s news,Jimmy,” Edward muttered as he walked outside. He felt the slightest hint of anevening breeze.

Maybe things wereabout to change.

He glanced towardthe river and noticed a shiny black sedan with tinted windows and Massachusettsplates approaching on Main Street. It slowed in front of the café and turneddown the narrow driveway that led to the employees’ parking lot. The vehicleresembled a limousine, but Edward doubted its mission was upscale.

            Thenext day’s meeting with the publisher went even more poorly than Edward couldhave imagined. Examining the Daily News “on paper” produced far more financialnegatives than positives. The young publisher warned Edward he had three monthsto turn things around or the newspaper would become history -- along with his job.

 “Maybe I should just fire you now andput us both out of our misery,” the publisher groaned. “But I’ve never forgottenhow you treated me like a regular reporter instead of the publisher’s son backin Texas all those years ago. You better pull this off, Edward. We can’t keepbleeding cash.”

 Edward had weathered many ups and downsduring his lengthy career. But he wasn’t sure how much lower he could go. TheDaily News was pretty much at the bottom of the other side of “over the hill.”No decent large newspaper would ever hire him as an editor if he got fired fromthis job. And he was just too old, too broke and too jaded to start over as areporter.

Maybe he shouldsell out for a public relations job. The price would be higher than anysmall-town newspaper could pay. But journalism was the only thing that ever excitedEdward. His ten years of working as a reporter in Texas were the most thrillingof his life. The adventure ended prematurely when family obligations forced hisreturn to New England. With his parents – and marriages – now dead, the DailyNews was all he had left.

This weighed onhis mind as he slid onto his regular stool at the café counter a few hoursafter the depressing meeting with the publisher. There was no reason to rushback from supper. The edition had been put to bed.  Only a tragedy of major proportions could wake it up -- like acouple of drunken teenagers wrapping their car around a telephone pole.

Jimmy and Brittanysmiled at him. “Hey, Mr. Philbrick, we got some pretty ‘cool’ specials for you tonight.”Jimmy winked as Brittany giggled and gave her boss an adoring look. “Maybe you’llbe in a better mood to discuss me and the summer league now.”

“We’ll see.” Edwardgrabbed the list of specials from Brittany. He was pleased to discover thatsomeone had figured out that cold chicken salad and gazpacho were better summerfare than steaming pot roast. Maybe cocaine hadn’t totally destroyed Jimmy’s brainyet.

“I thought youmight find these more to your liking, sir,” Jimmy said with a small bow.  “And as they say, the customer isalways right.”

“You come up withthese yourself, Jimmy?”

“Of course I did.”He grinned.

Edward saw aflicker of disappointment cross Brittany’s face before she turned and walkedaway.  Jimmy didn’t seem to notice.Instead, he turned his attention toward Bill Wykoff, who had just come throughthe front door. 

 “Hey, Mr. Mailman, what big fat lies areyou delivering this evening?” Jimmy said loudly.  “By the way, is it true you guys used to open all the packagesand take out what you wanted before you delivered them?”

“You know damnwell the Postal Service doesn’t allow that.”
            Evenfrom a distance, Edward knew Bill was seething. Everyone, including Jimmy, knewBill’s retirement had not lessened his allegiance to the United States PostalService. From his first day of employment, Bill Wykoff had put the PostalService on the same pedestal as God, country and his sainted mother.

 “Well, I do know that when mygrandmother sent me cookies, one of them had a bite taken out of it and youdelivered the box,” Jimmy said.

“Are you accusingme of violating federal law by opening your mail? If so, you better have proof,buddy,” Bill said, his voice rising.

“Chill, you oldcoot. I’m just yanking your chain. Don’t go postal on me.”

Bill glared at theyoung man. “It’s not a joke to accuse someone of a federal crime. Say somethinglike that again and I’ll give you postal with my fist.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Mailman,” Jimmysaid. “But you better cool down before you give yourself a heart attack.  Let me get you some lemonade.” Heturned away to get Bill’s drink.

“He thinks I’mkidding,” Bill said, taking the empty stool next to Edward. “I could knock thespit out of that kid in a minute. And I will, too, if he doesn’t stop harassingme.”

“What makes youthink he’s harassing you?” Edward said.

“He’s been makingcracks about the Postal Service all week. I oughta smack him around on generalprinciples. Think that would knock some sense into him, Eddie?” 

Edward grimacedand signaled Brittany to bring him a beer. “How many times do I have to tellyou to call me Edward? How would you like it if I went around calling you Billyor Billy W?”

 “Heat’s making everyone cranky, ain’tit? How about we head down to the tavern after supper and see if we can improvethat nasty mood of yours, old man?”

Edward wasn’t fondof the Corner Tavern, but it was one of the few places that might be tolerabletonight. No sunlight entered the bar and there were enough air-conditioningunits to  counteract the heat and heavyfog of cigarette smoke. Plus, the beer was cold and the music decent. He hadnothing better to do – why not?

As they left,Edward noticed the same black sedan from the day before approach and turn intothe driveway beside the Café.

“Who’s that?” Billsaid. “Looks like out-of-state plates.”
”Probably some friend of Jimmy’s. I doubt he’s here for the food.”

It was still earlyfor the regular tavern crowd. Edward and Bill took a booth in the back.  The air conditioning was such a relief itwas easy to ignore the darkness and the stale smell of alcohol and cigarettes.

 “What’ll it be, boys? And where youbeen?” asked Kathy, a rough-looking waitress who had been slinging beers aslong as anyone could remember. 

“Here and thereand back again.” Bill winked at Kathy, but she ignored him.

 “If you’ve been reading the paper,you’ve got a pretty good idea what I’ve been doing – a big fat nothing,” Edwardsaid.

Two hours andthree pitchers of beer later, Bill had pretty much run out of things to sayabout himself and his lovely (but deceased) wife. He also ranted about howJimmy Jones insulted not only him, but thousands of Postal Service employees.“Someone really needs to teach that jerk a lesson,” Bill declared more thanonce. Edward nodded and continued drinking.

Having exhaustedhis usual topics and with no new potential listeners in sight, Bill askedEdward about his time in Texas.

 “Did it all: Tornadoes, rodeos, oil andcotton. Courts and crime. But the murders were the best,” Edward said. He felta slight beer buzz.

Bill drained hisglass. “That’s sick.”

“It was great. WhenI was in West Texas, there was at least one murder a week. They were alldifferent. One time a woman went to the bathroom at this cowboy bar and cameout to find another gal in her seat. Pulled out a gun and blew thechair-stealer away. Got her seat back, though,” Edward said.

“Are you serious?”Bill slurred. “Heat make ‘em all crazy or just the wild, wild West?”

Edward laughed.“Probably both. Everyone has a gun in Texas. Back then, if a black man wasmurdered, there might be a couple paragraphs in the back of the newspaper. Butif the victim was white, always front page. That’s why I liked white murders thebest – guaranteed byline on page one above the fold. A real rush.”

Bill refilledtheir glasses while Edward continued reminiscing. “I’ll never forget this newbride was shot to death outside her apartment building in 1979 – wedding gown stillon her bed inside. The managing editor vowed there would be a front-page storyevery day until her murder was solved. Circulation went through the roof.”

 Bill was surprised the beer had loosenedmore words from Edward than three years of eating supper together. 

“I wrote so manystories about ‘beautiful blushing bride Mary-Alice Oatman’ that it got to thepoint that I cared more about finding a new angle for the next story than thefact that a 22-year-old girl was brutally murdered,” Edward said. “Sad to say, Mary-AliceOatman made my career.”

 “Did they evah find out who did it?”

“Nope. Eventuallythe readers got tired of the front-page stories. So did the cops. I went to abigger newspaper but there’s an anniversary story every year. Some people thinkthe husband did it, but no one could prove it.”

“Why the husband?”

“Turned out he hada girlfriend on the side. Cops also wondered if maybe she did it. Couldn’tprove that, either.” Edward lifted his glass: “To beautiful blushing bride Mary-AliceOatman. May she rest in peace.”

 “Where their murdahs in the other placesyou worked?” Bill asked.

“Oh, sure. Barfights, domestics, drug deals gone bad. You name it. But they were neverfront-page stories like the unsolved cases, especially if the victim was youngor attractive. Better if they were both.”

Edward tookanother swig. “We had a preschool teacher fatally shot coming home from herbachelorette party. Even the wire services picked up that story. My byline wasin newspapers all over the country. It was great.”

Bill couldn’tbelieve what he was hearing. “Great?”

“Not the murder,but the play,” Edward said.

“The play?”

“Yeah, play.That’s what you call it when a story gets into a lot of newspapers and on theTV and radio news. Murder always gets big play. ”

“Oh.” Billfrowned, obviously trying his best to understand despite increasinginebriation.

 “Anyway, another time this handsomeall-American-type was shot when he went out to get ice cream for his new wife.Got interviewed on TV for that one.”

“That’s terrible.Did they find any of the killers?”

Edward stared intohis glass. “A few years later, a whacko serial killer named Timothy Lee Zilker claimedhe killed Mary-Alice and the other two, plus about twenty others across the country.They executed him, but the families never believed he was the one. Cops didn’teither.”

Bill was quiet fora moment and then raised his mug. “To all those poor young people.” Then hepassed out, spilling his beer on Edward.

It was time to gohome.

At 3 a.m., theringing interrupted Edward’s drunken stare at the blank television screen.“What?” he grunted into the telephone, fighting to sound sober.

It was Police ChiefLen Adkins. A patrolman had discovered the battered and bloodied body of JimmyJones outside the Pines Café just after midnight. He was shot twice in the backand a shattered basketball trophy was nearby. The state attorney general’soffice was sending someone down to help with the investigation. “I thoughtmaybe you’d want to get down here before the big papers,” Adkins said.

Edward changedinto fresh clothes. The streets were clear of traffic and the crackling ofemergency radios outside the restaurant interrupted the predawn silence. Edwardwould not be the only newsman here for long.

 He joined Adkins and a group ofpoliceman near Jimmy’s bloody corpse. “Looks like Mrs. Jones was a tad unhappywith her basketball star hubby,” Edward offered.

 “What makes you think Tiffany did this?They’re newlyweds, for God’s sake,” Adkins said.

Edward hesitated.“Doesn’t mean she didn’t do it. They were fighting a couple nights ago andthings got pretty heated. He may have even hit her.”

Adkins stared atEdward. “Did you see him hit her?”

“No, but I’mpretty sure he did. She ran out with her hands over her face.”

 “Why didn’t you report it? Spousal abuseis a crime in this state.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Then you can’t besure now, either, can you? Jimmy was an asshole sometimes, but murdered by hisown wife? That’s crazy.”

 “I think he was fooling around with thatnew waitress, Brittany. With a baby on the way, Tiffany might have mad enoughto kill him. Even if she didn’t, there’s always the cocaine angle. I can’t bethe only one who’s seen those black sedans from Mass.”

“Jaysus. Jimmy’sbody ain’t even cold and you’re making up crap,” Adkins said. “We best justwait and see how this thing plays out.”

They didn’t haveto wait long. All of Cocheco Mills soon knew that Jimmy was not only shot, butalso bludgeoned with one of his prized trophies. They read about it in a DailyNews special edition beneath the byline of Edward T. Philbrick II.

Edward told his youngreporters that covering Jimmy’s killing required experience, preferably someonewho written about murders before. This kind of story was important to anewspaper.

In the days thatfollowed, Edward churned out page one stories with new angles and not-so-vaguereferences to unsavory activities involving Jimmy and those around him. Edwardknew the authorities had no idea who killed Jimmy or why.

Daily Newscirculation soared.  Newsubscriptions were at an all-time high. Newspaper vending boxes were emptied byeager readers. Advertising sales skyrocketed.

The heat spell hadbroken, but there was still plenty to talk about. Cocheco Mills couldn’t getenough of the murder of Jimmy Jones and the search for his killer (“or killers”as Edward speculated).

Chief Adkinsrepeatedly tried to reassure the populace, saying it was unlikely Jimmy was thevictim of random violence. (A theory unsupported by evidence, the Daily Newsnoted.)

Edward used allhis journalism skills to keep the saga twisting and turning. If there was nothingofficial to report, he posed leading questions to authorities. When theyrefused to answer, Edward used their non-responses to raise suspicions.

He asked ChiefAdkins if anyone ever investigated domestic abuse allegations against Jimmy. Asexpected, the chief declined comment. So Edward wrote “Chief Adkins refused toconfirm or deny reports of domestic abuse, or to comment on reports TiffanyJones spent the night at her parents’ home following a newlywed spat hoursbefore her husband’s murder.” It caused readers to wonder if Jimmy was killed forhitting his wife.

Another day,Edward reported authorities refused to confirm that Jimmy was having an affairwith a co-worker who reportedly worked late the night he died. Edward quoted theco-worker’s parents as saying she was home early to finish her homework, makingher identity obvious to café regulars while giving readers another suspect andmotive to consider.

When Edwardlearned police planned to question everyone in the café the night of Jimmy’sdeath, he published his own account of Jimmy’s final hours. He related inpainstaking detail Jimmy’s comments to Bill Wykoff but sanitized Bill’sreaction, for which the retired postal carrier was grateful.

Another day,Edward quoted unnamed sources who related stories about Jimmy’s bullying past.He even contacted drug authorities so he could write they refused comment ona  possible drug connection,providing the first public hint of Jimmy’s substance abuse and sparking rumorshe was the victim of a drug deal gone bad.

Edward also cited“reports that a black sedan with tinted windows and Massachusetts licenseplates was seen at the Café the day of the murder, as well as the day before.”He found “an expert” who said Massachusetts was the source of most illegaldrugs coming into New Hampshire. Chief Adkins demanded Edward provideadditional details.  Edward refusedbut used their conversation for a story the next day.

Salaciousness soldfar more newspapers than sympathy ever could. Edward did everything possible toensure the dirty linen of Jimmy Jones – and everyone around him – was ondisplay each morning.

 Although the café closed out of respect forJimmy’s funeral, it quickly reopened to serve the hungry mourners. By the nextday, Jimmy and his trophies were replaced. Brittany was said to be toodistraught to return. Other than the gossip about each morning’s Daily Newsstory, life seemed to return to normal.

But Bill Wykofffelt unsettled. There was a change in his supper routine. Most evenings, Edwardwas so involved in writing about Jimmy’s murder he didn’t eat at the café. Onthe rare occasions when he did, Edward gave only a brief greeting to Bill andthe rest of the regulars as he quickly walked to a rear booth. He ate alone,cell phone beside his plate, and left as soon as he was finished.

Chief Adkins wasnow Bill’s more frequent companion at the counter, too busy investigatingJimmy’s slaying (and dealing with the rumors sparked by Edward’s stories)to  drive home for supper with hisfamily.

 “Hey Chief, this thing ever gonna besolved?” Bill asked one evening a few weeks later.

“Sure as hell hopeso,” Adkins said. “The police databases haven’t turned up anything. I’m gettingso desperate I even tried the Internet to see if I can locate similar cases.”

“Find anything?”

“Not one case sofar where a gun and a basketball trophy were used to kill someone. I don’t havemuch time to search, though, being so busy responding to the Daily Newsstories.  I’m getting pretty tiredof seeing Edward T. Philbrick II’s name, and mine, on page one every day.”

“He really likeswritin’ about these kinds of murdahs. Told me that’s how he made his name inTexas, said they were good for business.”

The Chief put downhis coffee cup. “What do you mean by ‘these kinds of murders’?”  

“You know, youngpeople, just startin’ out, like Jimmy and Tiffany.”

 The Chief was about to respond when hesaw Edward enter the café behind a slickly dressed younger man whom Bill identifiedas the newspaper’s out-of-state publisher. Edward looked away from the counteras the duo headed for a booth by the window. He seemed happy, something thatnever happened when the publisher was in town. 

 Bill felt the hairs stand up on the backof his neck. Now he knew why he felt so uneasy.  The circumstances were too familiar. He leaned toward theChief and whispered: “Have you tried searching the Web for ‘newlywed murders’?”

 Across the café, Edward put down hismenu and looked up expectantly. The publisher smiled. “Edward, I met with the advertising side. There’sbeen a phenomenal turnaround. As usual, murder has done wonders for circulationand our profit margin.”

Edward wasrelieved. Maybe he wouldn’t lose his job after all.

The publisher playedwith his fork. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’m keeping the Daily Newsopen, but replacing you.”

Edward felt likehe had been sucker-punched. All the effort and long hours, and this was hisreward? He had put the newspaper first, pushed things to the edge and beyond. Edwardfelt his face turning red. He didn’t know if he could control his rage, even ifhe wanted to.

The publisher laughed.  “I can see you’re surprised. Youshouldn’t be. You done good, Edward. I need you in Montpelier. The Beacon needsa new managing editor.”

Edward was stunned.

“And do you knowwhy I want you there, Edward?” the bemused publisher asked.

“Because I hatebeing here?”  

“No, Edward. It’sbecause you understand there are circumstances that can require anextraordinary commitment to boost circulation numbers.”

 Edward waited for his boss tocontinue.   

 “I was afraid you’d lost that commitment,”the publisher said. “It took a while, but you proved once again that you’re notafraid to do what it takes for the good of the newspaper. That’s the kind ofmanaging editor I need in Montpelier. What do you say?”  

Edward struggledto find the right words. Finally he said, “Have I ever let you down?”