In the kitchen, Michael was sipping coffee and chopping bits of ham and cheese for an omelet. Rob was slumped over his cup of coffee and staring into it as if he could read his fortune in its depths—or more likely, in the hope that it would kick in and magically erase the ill effects of another night of minimal sleep. Both twins were in their high chairs with the breakfast Michael had prepared spread over the trays—bits of fruit, cooked vegetable, chicken, and the ubiquitous Cheerios.
“Mom-my!” Josh exclaimed, as if he hadn’t seen me in days.
Jamie was so busy methodically ferrying Cheerios and bits of fruit into his mouth that he ignored my entrance.
“If Josh is finished eating, let’s put him in the playpen,” I said.
“How do you know he’s finished?” Michael asked. “He could just be taking a break.”
“Both dogs are lurking under Jamie’s chair,” I said. “They have an infallible instinct for these things.”
“Yeah, for the dogs, babies are basically like little food vending machines,” Rob said. “They tend to notice if one stops producing.”
As we watched, Jamie reached for another Cheerio, knocking half a dozen off onto the floor. Spike scrambled to snatch up all of them, growling at Tinkerbell the whole time. But Tinkerbell had positioned her huge, shaggy head more strategically, and was able to snag her half of the windfall without moving her muzzle more than an inch. Spike, after chasing his half of the Cheerios to the far corners of the kitchen, returned to his place beneath Jamie’s chair. He barked sharply at Tinkerbell, as if to say, “You do realize I let you have those Cheerios!” Then he sat down again to gaze longingly up at Jamie. Tinkerbell merely shifted her head and lifted her eyebrows to stare upward.
“Damn, that’s cute,” the reporter said.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Rob said. He looked a lot more alert. Clearly he liked the look of Kate from the Star-Trib.
“I hate cute,” she said. “I didn’t used to, but ever since I went to work for the Star-Tribune, they’ve sent me on every human interest story that comes along. People turning in cash-stuffed wallets and refusing to take rewards. High school seniors spending their prom night passing out sandwiches to the homeless. Wolves adopting orphaned baby rabbits. Sometimes I think if I have to do another cute, heartwarming story, I’ll puke!”
“Yeah, cute’s a menace,” Rob said. He frowned down at Spike and Tinkerbell as if suddenly disgusted by their persistent cuteness. I made a mental note not to tell her the cute, heartwarming story of how Spike, the Small Evil One, had turned into the boys’ best babysitter.
“At first I thought this was another of those cute stories,” Kate went on. “Town mortgages its jail, but all the citizens are bravely carrying on as usual in tents and barns. Aarrgghh! But then, just when I’m about to OD on it all—a murder!”
She was looking around, beaming happily—and then a look of panic suddenly spread over her face.
“Not that I’m happy the poor woman was killed, of course,” she said. “I mean it’s horrible. It’s just that … I mean…”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We understand what you mean. There’s nothing cute or heartwarming about murder. My dad’s the same way. He’d rather the locals didn’t knock each other off, but if they must do it, he’d prefer they schedule their crimes when he’s around to help with the medical side of the investigation.”
“Right,” she said. “I mean, I thought it was a chance for me to report on some real news! I was here. I helped find the body. And they’re sending the crime reporter down to take over? Come on!”
“So you’re hoping we can tell you something that will allow you to scoop your colleague, prove to the Star-Trib that you do belong on a serious news beat, and keep your byline on the story.”
“Well—yeah,” she said.
“I might be able to help you,” I said. “If you help us.”
She frowned and pursed her lips.
“I’m not asking you to do anything that would compromise your journalistic ethics,” I said. “In fact, all I want you to do is what you want to do—follow the story. Using one tiny but important bit of information.”
“What’s that?” She had her skeptical reporter face on now.
“Phineas Throckmorton didn’t do it,” I said,
“I know you all think he’s innocent—” she began.
“I know he’s innocent,” I said. “There’s proof.”
“What proof?”