Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [88]
“I think it’s wonderful the way you acknowledge what you did, Michael, and how you face that reality in your new life,” Roberta said, looking to her father for confirmation.
Joe nodded and left it at that.
“Enough about me,” Michael said. He turned to Roberta, “I have been watching you on TV ever since I arrived in Washington,” he said, “and I am so impressed that I have such a talented niece. You’re better than Barbara Walters and Diane Sawyer and that lady on 60 Minutes, Leslie—?”
“Leslie Stahl,” Roberta said. “And I’m not better than them, but thank you for the compliment.”
“Don’t be modest, Robbie,” Michael said. “Allow me to be the proud, long-lost uncle.”
His use of the familiar version of Roberta’s name pricked Joe.
Georgia came from the kitchen and joined them at the table. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s not much, last minute and all, but—”
“I have a feeling,” said Michael, “that even last-minute meals at the Wilcox house are gourmet.”
“Michael’s writing a novel,” Roberta said.
“Are you?” replied Georgia. “That’s wonderful. Joe has always intended to write a novel but—”
“Writing for a newspaper is enough writing for me,” Joe said. “From what I’ve noticed, there are too many bad novels being published as it is.”
Roberta frowned, and checked Michael for his reaction to her father’s pointed comment. He didn’t seem to be offended. His smile was as wide as always as he said, “Joe is right. Too many books, half of them not worthy of publication.”
“What is your novel about?” Georgia asked.
“Oh, it would take all night for me to explain that,” Michael said.
“Publishers and novelists I know say that if you can’t sum up a novel in a few sentences, chances are no one will ever understand it,” Joe said.
“How right they are,” Michael said.
Georgia asked her husband to select a wine to go with dinner.
“Anything I can do to help?” Michael asked, standing.
“Not a thing,” Georgia said.
Michael was a gregarious guest at the dinner table, telling tales from his years in the mental institution, many of them amusing, some heartwrenching. Georgia and Roberta seemed to hang on his every word, which annoyed Joe. He said little during the meal, his responses to questions terse and sometimes tinged with sarcasm. They’d almost finished when Michael asked, “Anything new on the killer, Joe? By the way, your articles are wonderful.”
“As a matter of fact, there is something new.”
“What is it?” Georgia asked. “Has there been a break in the case?”
“In a sense,” Joe responded, looking at Roberta, whose expression said she was waiting for her father to elucidate.
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Michael said.
“I received a letter today from the serial killer,” Joe said.
“A letter?” Georgia and Roberta said in unison.
“Yes. A short letter addressed to me arrived at the paper. Today.”
Roberta’s interest was palpable. “What did it say?” she asked.
Joe replied, “It said he was contacting me because of what I’ve been writing about him, and that he intends to stay in touch with me.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Roberta asked, exasperation in her voice.
“I was too busy writing the story. It’ll run tomorrow.”
“With the letter’s contents?” Roberta asked.
“Right.”
“Did you contact the police?” Georgia asked. Her tone was decidedly gloomy.
“Not yet. We’ll bring them in on it tomorrow, as the story runs.”
“Excuse me,” Roberta said, getting up from the table and going to the patio where she dialed a number on her cell phone. Georgia, too, left the table and went to the kitchen.
“That’s quite some news,” Michael said to his brother.
“Yeah. Excuse me.”
Joe joined