“I remember,” I said. “I never could understand what the fuss was. I can think of any number of politicians who belong in the nuthouse.”
“Yeah, but getting committed tends to put off the voters,” Heather said. “Especially if you lie about it and some reporter outs you.”
“Werzel outed him?”
“Yeah, and then he was the one who tracked Drood down and got that big final interview just before the guy hanged himself in a sleazy motel room. You remember that part, right?”
“Vaguely,” I said.
“Anyway, it was good detective work on Werzel’s part, tracking Drood down. I’ll give him that. And he did get that incredible final interview. But to me there was always something not quite right about it.”
“You think he made up the interview?”
Silence for a few moments on the other end of the phone. Then she sighed.
“The guy’s such a louse I could almost believe it,” she said.
“But no, the interview was too solid—had too many new revelations that turned out to be absolutely true. I meant not quite right about the way he got the interview. No way I believe Drood would have talked that much in his right mind. Who knows what kind of tricks or pressure Werzel used? And two hours later, Drood offs himself. Don’t tell me the two weren’t related.”
“Drood committed suicide when he realized how indiscreet he’d been?”
“Maybe. Then again, according to the coroner’s report, Drood had a high blood alcohol content—.02 something. Here it is—I’ve got one of the articles online—.025. Blotto. So maybe Werzel got him drunk and tricked him into giving such a candid interview. Or maybe Drood got drunk after Werzel left, when he realized what he’d done. Either way, don’t tell me that remorse and embarrassment over what he’d said didn’t contribute to his suicide. Though the more I think about it—maybe Werzel didn’t make up the interview, but I wouldn’t put it past him to tinker with what Drood said to make it a better story. I mean, the guy wasn’t around to contradict anyone, was he? I guess the Trib didn’t share my skepticism, though.”
“But if that was his one big article, and that was ten years ago . . .”
“Yeah, go figure. I guess maybe the Trib made allowances for the fact that even the best reporters on a small-town weekly have limited opportunities for big exposés. After his big story, he stayed with the same newspaper—the Fluvanna Gazette—until it folded last year. He did a few stories for the Trib as a stringer, and somehow he wangled a staff job—maybe he had something on someone in the Trib’s HR department. Or maybe someone liked his style—he can be pretty funny, in a mean, snarky way. But the grapevine says he’s on thin ice, and the Trib’s had him doing way beyond the Beltway stuff, human interest stuff—not hard news. Maybe he figures your murder—sorry, this murder—is his last chance to make it big. No wonder he’s trying so hard.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It all makes more sense. I’ll keep my eyes open for those provable errors, and hope the Trib cans him before he commits any more errors at all.”
“Good,” she said. “Hey, if the roads get better tomorrow, I could maybe come down for Boxing Day. Will there be turkey left?”
“Probably,” I said. “Since right now neither Michael and I nor Mother and Dad have power, I doubt if anyone has even started thawing the turkey. You might get to help us cook it on Boxing Day.”
“I’ll check with you before I head out, then,” she said. “Call me if you need any more scoop on Werzel. Or if you get any scoop I can use.”
“Will do,” I said, and we hung up.
I sat back and thought about what I’d learned from Heather. I decided finding out Werzel was in the doghouse instead of being the Trib’s golden boy didn’t make me like him any better. But maybe it would make it easier to put up with him in the short term. He’d get his comeuppance.
“Meg?”
I nearly jumped out of the chair.
Chapter 28
Jorge Soto had opened the door very quietly and was peering in.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Not your fault,” I said. I glared at Spike, who could at least have barked or something when he heard someone approaching.
What was Jorge doing here?
“Enough to make anyone jumpy,” Jorge said, as he stepped into the room. “Knowing that the murderer’s still running around loose.”
“Is he?” I said. “Chief Burke has arrested Norris Pruitt. So if you think he did it . . .”