Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [56]
“Maybe someday,” he’d reply. “Maybe someday.”
Had that “someday” arrived? he wondered as the two women in his life cleared the table, with Curtis pitching in. Usually, Joe would be carrying things along with them into the kitchen. But this night he remained at the table, wondering what to do and dreading another ringing of the phone.
They had dessert in the living room, gigantic homemade cookies and coffee, with everyone declining after-dinner drinks. To Roberta’s feigned horror, her mother dragged out photo albums and started showing family pictures to Curtis. Joe wandered outside to the patio, and Roberta soon followed.
“Your guy’s okay,” he said, “pretending to be interested in those photos.”
“You like him?”
“Sure.”
“Dad?”
“Huh?”
“They’re pressuring me at the station to do a series on the serial killer angle, a five- or six-parter.”
“I heard you say that in your report this afternoon. Congratulations!”
“I’m not sure I want to do it.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know, pride, I suppose. Your series of articles is what’s spurred them to come up with it.”
He looked at her, brow furrowed. “You said it was a matter of pride, Robbie. How so?”
She hesitated, her eyes on the garden, and kept them there as she said, “I don’t want to build my career based upon you, Dad.”
“I never thought you were,” he said, a tinge of hurt in his voice.
She turned to him. “No,” she said, “there’s more than that. Yes, I feel a little as though your series will end up being the basis for my reports.” He started to respond but she cut him off. “There’s also a gut feeling I have that maybe this serial killer obsession isn’t justified.”
“Why do I have the feeling I’m being accused of being obsessed?”
She placed her hand on his arm. “Well,” she said, “aren’t you?”
“No.” He didn’t want his anger to show. “Paul Morehouse, my boss, is obsessed. Me? No. I’m just doing my job.”
“And enjoying it,” she said flatly.
“Not really.”
“Please, Dad, no offense, but the pieces you’ve been writing seem—well, they seem so tabloidy. Is there such a word?”
“I don’t think so. Or there should be. Is there tabloid TV?”
“Yes, but some of the writing is so unlike you. It’s so unlike the Trib for that matter. Anyway, I just wanted to mention it and get it off my chest. I hope you’re not mad.”
“Not at all.” But he was, mad and embarrassed, and was thankful when Georgia and Curtis joined them.
“I really have to be running,” Curtis said. “This was great, getting to meet you both, and enjoying an incredible meal. The fried chicken at Georgia Brown’s is great, but yours tops it, Mrs. Wilcox.”
Roberta left a few minutes after him, and both Joe and Georgia were sure the young couple intended to meet up somewhere in town and enjoy being alone, out from under her parents’ microscope.
The parents went to the kitchen where he helped scrape plates and load the dishwasher.
They were close to finishing when the phone rang. Joe grabbed it off the kitchen wall. “Hello?”
He heard someone cough, a male cough.
“Hello!” he said, as though speaking to a deaf person.
The phone went dead.
“Another hang up?” she said.
“Yeah. Annoying.”
Georgia announced she was going to bed to read. She kissed him and said, “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I won’t.”
He went to the den, poured himself a short drink, neat, removed his shoes and sat in a recliner. His eyes scanned the photos on the wall and mantel, resting on a montage of Roberta at various ages. Seeing her display warmth and closeness to Tom Curtis—was it love?—depressed him, and he swallowed against a lump that was forming in his throat. He knew he would lose her one day. That’s the way it was supposed to be, nurturing and guiding your children into productive, responsible, happy lives until they were out of the nest and flying successfully on their own. He could accept that; one had to accept it or go mad.
But