Free What the River Knows by Katherine Pritchett Page B

mother sold her house and moved away. All Mac required of Scott was the occasional nod or “Uh-huh.”
    Debbie brought his meal, and Scott concentrated on eating the excellent fried chicken and even better home-made rolls. When Debbie came back to refill his tea, he requested another roll, though he knew he’d have to run an extra half-mile to mitigate this meal. It tasted surprisingly similar to the meals he’d eaten as a boy, even though he didn’t want to admit that he had missed such food.
    Finally, Mac stood and Debbie brought him another cola in a to-go cup. He left a ten on the table. “See ya later, Debbie, Al. Good to see you again, Scott.”
    He left the restaurant, shaking hands and greeting people as he went. Scott shook his head. “He should run for office.”
    “Oh, he did.” Debbie took his plate. “He’s mayor now.” She picked up Al’s plate, barely touched. “Sorry, Al.”
    He patted her hand. “It’s okay, Debbie.” He sighed and looked out the window. “It gets easier all the time, but I’m not over it yet, either.”
    “You never will be, Al, but it’ll get to be something you can live with.”
    Debbie walked away, and Al sat with his coffee, looking at something far beyond the window he stared through. Scott tried to concentrate on his Google searches, but something about Al got to him. He looked up, and his movement intercepted Al’s gaze.
    “New York City, eh?”
    Al focused on him and smiled. “Not originally, started in Connecticut and worked my way to the Times .”
    “ New York Times , I assume, not the Homedale Times .”
    Al nodded. “Reporter, then editing, then management.”
    “And somewhere along the way you met a girl from Kansas.”
    Al picked up his coffee cup and moved to Scott’s table. “She came to New York to dance and act, but she needed a part-time job.” He leaned back, deep in his memories. “Those were the days before computers, so she wound up in our typing pool. I eventually assigned everyone else’s stories to other gals, so she typed only mine.” He sighed. “Then I made it legal and permanent.” He ran his fingers around the rim of the cup. “We had two boys, both in college now, and life was good.”
    “Then she got sick?” Scott spoke softly.
    Al nodded. “We came back most summers and holidays for visits, and I talked about retiring here and starting my own paper, but the timing was never right. Then when they discovered the cancer, time seemed too short.” Debbie brought a pot to refill Al’s cup, and Scott turned over the cup that sat at his plate. She filled his, too. “It was too short. She fought for two years, but lost her battle a year ago. Year ago next Thursday.”
    “That’s hard.”
    “Yeah.” Al looked up to meet his gaze. “You said you were with PD, following up on an investigation?”
    “Murder of Delia Enfield.” Scott’s instinctive wariness around the press rose up.
    “How is that connected to Homedale?” Al’s practiced nose for news made him ask.
    “She grew up here.”
    “I didn’t know that. It didn’t say it in any of the newspaper articles.” Al shook his head. “Reporters not doing their jobs thoroughly enough.”
    “Well, we didn’t put out any info the family hadn’t already given them. She wasn’t born here.”
    “So you are tracking the hometown girl’s roots within your own?”
    “Not really, just following up on people who may have known her and where she went after high school.” He didn’t want to reveal anything. “Did I hear Mac say you were working with old presses?”
    “Yeah, I bought the old Monitor building, including all the equipment. I plan to put out a small free paper, plus print some small jobs for folks around town. Something to keep me busy.” Al leaned back in his chair. “You got some time before your next appointment?”
    Scott hesitated. Al knew enough about investigation to know that he would have left the restaurant after lunch unless he had a reason