Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [47]
To which he’d replied, “Because I’ve had enough of academia and all its pretensions. I made a decision to pursue a simpler life after a divorce left me shaken and unsure of who I was, or what I wanted to be—when I grew up.” That lovely smile emerged. “I don’t want to teach literature. I want to enjoy it as a reader. I want to read every book ever published, and become really good on my guitar, maybe write songs for my own enjoyment.”
After hearing him play his guitar for her one night at his apartment, and being extremely impressed, she’d tried to persuade him to appear at open mike nights in local coffee houses.
“That would defeat the whole purpose,” he said. “I play for me, and only for me.” He quickly added, “And for you, of course.”
She never brought it up again.
• • •
“Besides,” he announced on the phone this night, “I have something to celebrate.”
“What’s that?” she asked. “I love celebrations.”
“Can’t tell you,” he said. “Be content to celebrate with me without knowing why.”
“Ah, my mysterious friend Michael,” she said with a laugh. “A half hour?”
“A half hour.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
You had trouble sleeping?” Georgia asked Joe the next morning as they sat in their kitchen. It was 6:30 A.M.; he’d been up, showered, and dressed for more than an hour.
“Yeah. It must have been the fast food I ate last night at the paper.”
That morning’s edition of the Trib was open on the table.
“HE SHOULD ROT IN HELL”
Grieving Mom Speaks Out About Serial Killer
“I wouldn’t trade places with you for the world,” she said with an admiring smile.
“What do you mean?”
“Having to speak with the families of victims after a tragedy.”
“At least I don’t do what the TV types do, shove a microphone in people’s faces an hour after a family is wiped out in a fire and ask how they’re feeling. I’d better get going. I’m meeting Jean Kaporis’s mother and father at nine.”
“Watch it—your daughter’s a TV type. You still believe the serial killer angle?”
“Yeah. But I never said I believe it, only that the cops are romancing the possibility among themselves.” He took his sport jacket from where he’d draped it over the back of his chair, put it on, kissed her, and headed for the front door.
“Joe,” she said, following him.
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You seem—oh , I don’t know. You seem preoccupied.”
“I guess I am. Must be the lousy sleep and another full day. I’ll be late.”
“No, you won’t. Roberta and her new boyfriend are coming tonight for dinner. Remember?”
He slapped the side of his head. “I absolutely forgot. Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”
Clouds that had rolled in overnight opened as he drove to the District, and his wipers had trouble keeping up with the deluge, as well as with the torrent of thoughts that had consumed him since receiving the call from his brother.
It had kept him awake for much of the night, and dominated his every thought that morning. He’d considered telling Georgia about it but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Michael’s sudden injection into his life represented for Joe Wilcox a monumental and unwelcome intrusion, a Category Five hurricane, a nuclear bomb.
It had been almost forty years since they’d had any contact, enough time for Joe to have virtually forgotten that Michael even existed, although mental snapshots of him occasionally came and went, each causing a jolt to the nervous system, a jab in the stomach. Michael’s name hadn’t been mentioned in Joe’s house since early in his marriage to Georgia; Roberta didn’t know that she had an Uncle Michael.
“Damn him!” Joe fairly shouted within the confines of his car. “Goddamn it!”
Anger represented only one of his emotions