Free PW01 - Died On The Vine by Joyce Harmon

stories and having to pull myself away and page onward.
    And finally, there it was. “Mary,” I whispered in awe. “You were right. Look at this.”
    Mary joined me at my table and we both stared at the picture. The headline read, “Squatter evicted from national wildlife preserve.”
    With Mary reading over my shoulder, I read the story of Craig Southern, a Viet Nam vet (“and terminally confused person, apparently”, Mary murmured) who had been discovered living in a shack deep in the Massanassack Wildlife Area, and turned out of his illegally acquired residence.
    The tone of the article was rather sympathetic, along the lines of “why isn’t more done for these people?”
    So here was the model for Winslow’s Jimmy. How weird. “Where do you suppose this guy is now?” I asked Mary.
    “Let’s find out.”
    We emerged from the periodical room with our find. “Can we make a copy of this?” I asked Janie.
    “Oh, shoot, just take that one,” she replied. “The only reason it wasn’t pitched out yet is that I didn’t get around to it.”
    So we left the library with the newspaper.
    “This has Will’s byline,” Mary said. “We’ll track him down.” I was expecting that we would go somewhere, but instead Mary reached into her Miata and brought out her car phone.
    She dialed a number from memory and then said, “Hi, Sam, this is Mary. Mary Nguyen… No, I’m back in the States… Well, not actually in town; I’m out in Virginia… No, I mean way out. Listen, Sam, I need to talk to Will… Of course he’s not at his desk; he never is. Page the smoking lounge. I’ll hold.”
    While on hold, she said to me, “I never thought I’d see the day reporters couldn’t even smoke at their own desks. What is this world coming to?”
    Finally she leaned into the phone as it began to speak to her. “… Will. Yes, it’s Mary. Listen, do you remember a story you did about – “ she looked at the newspaper and continued, “- about three weeks ago, about a vet found living in the wildlife area? Right, Craig Southern. Do you know where he is?”
    She listened for a moment and said impatiently, “I’m not stealing your story, Will. This guy may know something about another story. But he probably doesn’t. In fact, it will be much more interesting if he doesn’t. No, I’m not letting you in on it, I just want to ask the guy a few questions.”
    She listened again and then sighed. “Sure. We got a deal. Okay, shoot.” She produced a notebook from a large shoulderbag and wrote rapidly. “And that’s where? Thanks, Will, you’re a doll.”
    She replaced the phone and turned to me. “Craig Southern is at VietCare, an assistance dwelling in Alexandria. And I have to buy Will lunch the next time I cross the river.”
    “So, what now?”
    “So now we go to Alexandria. Who wants to drive?”
    “I’ll drive,” I said firmly. “I’m not going up the interstate in that little toy, cute though it may be.”
    As we settled into the car and started down the road, I asked Mary, “Tell me some more about Winslow’s family.” She arched an eyebrow at me, and I added defensively, “I did skim your manuscript last night, but it’s mainly about the Lest We Forget organization.”
    “Like Deep Throat told Woodward, ‘follow the money’,” Mary replied. “I thought the money details would create more of a scandal. Winslow’s home life was rather mundane, except for the nasty little business of the family left behind in a war zone.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag. “Do you mind?”
    “Go ahead,” I said in resignation. “I won’t even give you the health lecture, because it won’t work. My daughter smokes, so I know.”
    “Thanks, you’re a saint,” Mary said, and puffed with relief.
    “What about this – what did you call her? – Priscilla Horse-Country Blueblood?” I prompted.
    “Actually Priscilla Billington Smith. The Billingtons, her mother’s family, had the blue blood.