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"Who's
that?" Curt Mehdlang moved back from the table in the lunchroom at the Tabor Picayune, until his shoulders
touched the top of the hatch window looking out over the river behind the
building. It gave him the perfect angle to see through the gap in the curtain
over the porthole window into Angela Coffelt's office.
A
dark-haired young woman sat opposite Angela's desk while the editor looked
through a sheaf of papers. As assistant editor for the twice-weekly newspaper,
Curt would have known about any interviews. So what was she doing there?
"Hmm?"
Max Randolph, one of the copyeditors, pulled her mug of hot water out of the
microwave and stepped over next to Curt. "Oh. She's here for a job
interview. I heard her tell Myrna she was a reporter at a newspaper out in Iowa
somewhere."
"Job
interview?" Curt shook his head. “When did we advertise?”
"We
didn't." Max raked her fingers through her mop of dark hair and twisted
her combs back into place to hold it out of her eyes. "I heard her say she
just moved back to town. Takes a lot of guts, moving without a job to go to, in
this economy."
"A
lot of confidence," he muttered, still watching the composed,
familiar-looking woman. "Not much going on to warrant new staff."
Something
about her oval face, those big, dark eyes and the way she tipped her head to
one side. He knew he should recognize her.
"Hmm?"
He jerked, startled when Max touched his arm. "Sorry. A lot on my
mind."
"I
said, how can you say there's nothing going on, when the White Rose is still on
the loose? That's kind of exciting. Sick, but exciting."
"You
and Tony aren't going to use it for your next book, are you?"
"Spare
me." Max rolled her eyes and ripped open two packets of raspberry hot
chocolate mix for punctuation. "We write romances. Sickos preying on
innocent girls, demanding love, sight unseen—that’s not romantic."
"Maybe
we should check the personal ads at the PD and any other papers, to find
someone who's been advertising for months and can't find his true love."
Curt's stomach twisted and his mouth tasted like he had bitten into moldy
bread. How could he make a joke about the White Rose Killer? Gretchen McKenzie
was dead, and now Katrina Harper alternated between terror and frustration.
"I
don't think someone like the White Rose would waste time and money on
advertising. He's the kind of guy who sees what he wants and punishes anyone
who won't give it to him."
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