Free The Red Scream by Mary Willis Walker

Medical Examiner’s office.’ ” She opened her eyes. “You didn’t have to say that, but I’m glad you did; my mom thinks I’m famous now.”
    Before she left, Molly borrowed Barbara’s phone and called the DA’s office to make an appointment with Stan Heffernan. His secretary, someone new whom Molly didn’t know, said Heffernan was in court all morning and booked in meetings all afternoon so he couldn’t possibly see her today.
    “Who is this I’m talking to?” Molly asked.
    After a pause, the voice said, “Ella Sue Jenkins, ma’am.”
    “Well, Ms. Jenkins, I’m Molly Cates and I got a real urgent problem that only your boss can help me with. Now I know you can get him on his pager, so please tell Stan that I’ve received an anonymous letter concerning the Bronk case and that it sounds threatening. I need his help in deciding what to do and I need it today. I can come in anytime he’s got five minutes.”
    “Okay, I’ll try, Mrs. Cates, but—”
    “Honey, if he doesn’t get that message, he’ll be all horns and rattles when he hears he missed it.”
    “Well, I—”
    “I know what,” Molly said, talking fast. “Stan usually comes back to the office at twelve-thirty to read and eat his lunch in peace. Why don’t I come over and catch him then? Yes, that’s a good idea. You go ahead and tell him that when you buzz him. Thanks, Miz Jenkins.” She hung up quickly so the secretary couldn’t get another word in.
    She looked at her watch and decided to spend the three hours until her appointment over at her Lone Star Monthly office. These days she usually worked in her home office and sent things in over a modem, but it was good to appear in person occasionally, remind them she was still around. Maybe a change in working environment would help her discover an ending for the Abilene Angel story. At least it would give her a chance to fill Richard Dutton in on what was going on.
    R ichard Dutton looked up after less than thirty seconds. His fine long nose with the dent in the tip wrinkled in distaste. “Forget it, Molly. This is just the usual nonsense.” He dropped the copy of the poem and the twelve pages on his desk.
    Molly reclaimed them. “You’re probably right, but I’m going to show Stan Heffernan—just in case.”
    Richard shrugged under his loose fawn-colored jacket. “Didn’t I tell you the Bronk book would bring out the squirrels? I’m surprised this is all you’ve gotten. Of course it’s only been out for a month.”
    “But, Richard, doesn’t this poem read like a threat to you?”
    He sat back on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “If you want to call that dreck a poem. I think ‘verse’ or ‘doggerel’ is more appropriate for something so dreary.”
    “Compared to Louie Bronk’s stuff, it sounds like Shakespeare. Anyway, things are heating up as the execution approaches. I’m going to—”
    “Give it a rest, Molly. Enough’s enough.” He uncrossed his arms and slapped his hands down on his thighs. “How’s the Abilene piece going? We need it tomorrow, first thing, so the fact-checkers can get going on it.”
    “Richard, have you ever known me to miss a deadline?”
    He tilted his long bony head to the side. “Not once. That’s one reason I like to hire old reporters—you work like coolies and you always meet your deadlines. Listen, tomorrow after you sign off on that, I want you to plan on going to Houston right away to cover the defenestration of that banker—what’s his name?”
    “Griswold. Banker Griswold,” Molly muttered.
    Richard chuckled low in his throat. “How could I have forgotten? Absolutely Dickensian, isn’t it?” In spite of having grown up in Fort Worth, the son of an oil executive, Richard Dutton spoke with a slightly British accent—an affectation Molly had always considered amusing and eccentric. But now, for the first time in the eight years she had worked for him, she found it