The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 57

DENOUEMENT: SIX YEARS LATER

The display on my cell phone read "Unidentified" as the ring tone added to the commotion. I was running late anyway. My husband and I were frantically getting Tommie and Sarah, their lunches, and their backpacks off to school. All while coercing the dogs out into the backyard and away from the kids and the food.

"You can take it, honey; I got this handled," Paul called out from the kitchen, and I stepped into the bedroom we use for a home office.

"Is this Debra Ann Wynn?" the throaty female voice on the other end asked.

"Before I was married, yes. What can I do for you?" I replied.

"Well, Debra Ann, I've been a fan of your writing for a long time and following your fascinating career. I have a story I know you'll want to hear, and I can't think of anyone else qualified to report it."

"I'm flattered, but... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name...," I said. And I don't have time for this raced across my mind.

"I didn't give it, Debra Ann," the disembodied voice replied. "I will say I've become rather an expert on quality reporting - the media has written about me extensively. But you'll know who I am soon enough."

"Look, ma'am; I don't want to be rude, but...," I said as I pulled the phone away from my ear to punch the disconnect button.

"It's about two murders you don't know about and one that wasn't," the voice said, not seeming too concerned about me hanging up on her. "It's your chance to get it right this time. Or not—your choice. But you'll want to do your job, Debra Ann. Meet me in the main lobby of the Hotel Del at ten."

"How do I know..." I started to ask, but the line was dead. She'd hung up on me.

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I'd started an independent news bureau four years ago. I'd thought about doing it after Dad opened up my options with the money he'd left me, but there were too many things going on at the time.

And honestly, the idea of running a business has never appealed to me, for many reasons. For one, I've not inherited that greed gene that modern capitalism seems to require for success (in my mind's eye, I picture the allele that represents mercenary sleaze just slip-sliding out of my DNA chain because it's so greasy, though I'm pretty sure that's not how it actually works). Most of the things I value in life aren't quantifiable in dollars and cents. I do get that some people spend their entire lives using perceived, contrived, or stolen advantage to take more from other people than they give back, and call the unearned gain 'profit'. Still, I've always wanted my life to stand for something a little further removed from what a thug does robbing a liquor store. And it's hard to feel any respect for the narcissism and sociopathy I see among a lot of business leaders when the same characteristics are so prevalent among the criminals that I investigate every day.

I've never been so weak and insecure that I need to acquire a bunch of things scammed from other people to affirm my identity, and I thank my parents for a lot of that. I much prefer getting my hands dirty chasing a story to earn the kudos that come my way, especially if readers benefit.

But you can never know how your life might work out. Doug Stein had read the tea leaves well, and was awarded an MBA he earned going to classes part-time during his last several years at the Union-Tribune. By the time the paper let Doug go, we'd been talking quite a while about his belief we could build an honorable business together the old-school way. He convinced me we could focus on providing much-needed high-value pool reporting and investigative services accessible online, and trust that our efforts would be rewarded organically. Doug would become my indispensable right hand, managing the business side of things while dabbling in editing and writing as time allowed. That would permit me to run herd on our reporters and story development, and to take the lead on the important pieces.