Free The Devil's Interval by Linda Peterson Page A

about death-penalty appeals—who does what and how long it takes and the whole Innocence Project thing.”
    Silence in the room. “Maggie,” prodded Hoyt, “we already did a story on your Gasworks Gang ladies. More death-penalty appeal coverage hardly seems like a story our readers would find compelling.”
    â€œOkay, what would our readers find compelling?” I protested.
    Puck began shredding his empty coffee cup. “They’d find the murdered broad interesting,” he offered. “She was a player on the social scene, wasn’t she?”
    â€œThat’s good,” I said. “Death of a Socialite.”
    Hoyt began to nod, “That’s got possibilities, Maggie. Although it seems a little odd to do it two years after her murder.”
    I had an answer. “Now it’s news again, because her alleged murderer is on Death Row and his attorneys are filing appeals. Let’s go back and see if we can do a story that tells our readers how Grace Plummer went from glamorous socialite to dead body in the back of a limousine.”
    â€œCool beans,” volunteered Linda Quoc, Small Town ’s art director. “We can do a black-and-white photo essay—from the Black & White Ball to the back seat of a black limo. Very graphic.” I thought about the photos again and swallowed. Too graphic, maybe.
    â€œIt sounds a little too investigative journalism for us,” said Hoyt, “but I like the concept.”
    â€œWell, let’s see if we’ve got the chops to do it,” I said. I remembered something one of the Gasworks Gang said to me.“We’ve got entree to the world Grace Plummer moved in. If anybody could do the story, we could.”
    Hoyt caught me in the hall after the meeting. “I feel bamboozled, Maggie,” he said. “We were going to do that story, come heck or high water.”
    â€œOh, for heaven’s sake, Hoyt,” I said. “It’s hell or high water. Who are you going to give it to?”
    â€œBesides you?” asked Hoyt. “I know you’ll be riding shotgun on this piece, invited or not.”
    â€œHey,” I said, “I’m the media mogul, I’m the one who can get next to the rich and famous.”
    He sighed. “I wouldn’t be overestimatin’ my clout if I were you,” he said. “I’m putting Andrea on it. She’s got the pedigree.” Starchy Storch, who did both features and film reviews for Small Town , brought her daddy’s signet ring, and a kind of rock-ribbed Northeast breeding to the magazine. Recently, she and Small Town’ s favorite arty freelance photographer, Calvin Bright, had become a romantic item. Just two crazy preppy kids in love, one of whom happened to be African-American. “If Calvin ran the United Negro College Fund,” Michael once mused, “their motto would be ‘A Burberry is a terrible thing to waste.’”
    â€œPerfect,” I said. I walked back to my office and picked up the phone. “Isabella,” I said. “It’s Maggie Fiori. I went to see Ivory Gifford.”
    I heard her sharp intake of breath. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me.”
    â€œYou win. Well, you and Ivory win. We’re doing a piece.”
    â€œ Dios mio ,” she said softly. “Thank you, Maggie.”
    â€œNow would be a good time to tell me why you and Eleanor gave each other a peculiar look in Eleanor’s living room the other day.”
    â€œIvory,” she said. “I’ve always thought we didn’t have the whole story on Ivory. That is one tight mother-son relationship, and it weirds me out a little.”
    I thought about my own boys, about how I kept a permanent, long-running tape in my head about every moment of their lives.In an instant, I could recall the way Zach burrowed into the crook of my arm when he nursed, as if he were embedding himself back into my body. Or how,