Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [7]
“Here’s to Roberta,” Georgia said, raising her glass.
Wilcox lifted his glass and sipped.
“She’s off to a good start,” Georgia said. “It was sweet what she said about you tonight.”
“It was good of her,” he said, then added, “but obviously not true.”
Georgia started to respond, but held back. The moment had all the trappings of what had lately become a frequent scene in their marriage, her husband lamenting what he considered his failing career, his wife trying to change the subject.
“Did you see what that silly congressman from New Jersey did yesterday on the floor of the House?”
Wilcox nodded and sipped his drink. “Silly is kind,” he said.
Joe wasn’t a heavy drinker; Georgia had never seen him even slightly tipsy in all the years they’d been together. But unlike some people who became morose after a few drinks, or expansive or even combative, Joe Wilcox tended to become somber and reflective, occasionally about life, especially his own. There were times, but only a few fleeting ones, when Georgia wondered whether her husband could ever become suicidal, so dark were his moods.
“Anything new on the murder at the paper?” she asked.
He shook his head as he went to a small bar, refilled his glass, and returned to the recliner. “Morehouse is on a rampage, wants it solved in-house by staffers, not the police. He wants the story. Edith Vargas-Swayze says he’s even stonewalling the cops.”
“Is he?”
“Could be. The guy gets more paranoid every day. Somebody comes up with a new rumor and he’s ballistic.”
She tucked her stocking feet beneath her. “It’s scary to think someone at the paper might have killed her.”
“It is, isn’t it? I get these pep talks from Morehouse that are supposed to motivate me to crack the story open, come up with some goddamn source within MPD who doesn’t exist.” His laugh was a snort, and he swirled the ice around in his glass. “Know how I know, Georgia, that the fire’s gone from my belly?” She didn’t respond. “I know it when I really don’t care who killed Jean, except to want to pull the switch on him myself. God, to see a beautiful young woman like that have her life snuffed out by some sick bastard. I care about that. But getting the story? It just doesn’t seem that important to me any more.”
“I can understand that,” she said. “It’s a matter of priorities. But getting the story is your job and—”
“Is it, Georgia? Maybe it was. I go to work these days because of the pension. I might as well work for some transit authority, be a toll taker or brakeman on a commuter train.” He raised the glass to his lips again, drank, and intoned, “All aboard! Take your personal items with you and watch the closing doors. Toot! Toot!”
She laughed, although she didn’t find it amusing. “You wanted to be a journalist, Joe, and you are, with one of the country’s most important newspapers. You have every reason to be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
“Really?” There was an edge to his voice that wasn’t lost on her. “I’m no journalist. I’m a reporter. Proud of what, Georgia? Working the cityside beat for twenty-three years covering cops and robbers? That’s hardly what I came to Washington for.”
She finished her drink and stood. “I’m beat,” she said. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”
“I’ll be up in a while.”
She kissed him on the forehead.
After she’d left the room, he got up and went to the wall where the family photos chronicled the past thirty years. Family, this family, was important to him. It was the only family he had. His mother and father were dead, as were uncles and aunts, their offspring somewhere in the country. He hadn’t kept up with them. His only sibling, a brother, hadn’t been heard from in twenty-five years.
Photos of Roberta on the wall at various stages of her life took center stage—graduation ceremonies from junior high, high school, and college, interspersed with candid color