Free Bubbles Ablaze by Sarah Strohmeyer Page B

with this?”
    â€œThey have no choice. They’re enchanted.” Mama hung the oven mitt on a hook by the stove. “These women aren’t called the Sirens of Slagville for nothing.”
    I considered Vilnia with her support hose and Dentu-Crème whitened choppers. “Vilnia is a Slagville Siren?”
    â€œDon’t underestimate her. Women from coal country got powers that science can’t explain.”
    Even Mama couldn’t explain because the swinging door to the kitchen burst open, and Vilnia entered, face flushed, phone pressed to her ample bosom. “You better get over to the Number Nine mine quick, Bubbles,” she said. “They found Price.”
    â€œFinally!” I shouted. “A scoop of my own.”
    â€œI don’t know how much of a scoop it is,” Vilnia said. “That was Esmeralda Greene on the line. She was there when they took out the body. She and that boyfriend of yours, Stiletto.”

Chapter 7
    â€œI told you to hit the pavement and dig up some dirt,” Mama said, barely able to see above the steering wheel, “but nooo, you insisted on wasting your morning in gossip.”
    â€œWhat? Visiting Vilnia was your idea!”
    â€œBubbles, Bubbles, Bubbles. When are you going to face the fact that you’re too soft for the big leagues. Unless you toughen up, honey, you’ll be writing fluff pieces about strawberry festivals and high school graduations forever. I can’t do your job for you, you know.”
    I would have throttled her dog-collared neck then and there except she was driving. Mama had insisted, claiming that her old race-car boyfriend had taught her a couple of tricks, including how to peel out of a neighborhood and take a turn on two wheels. Otherwise, it was little old lady as usual.
    â€œIf you’re so perfect,” I said, “then how come Stiletto was at the mine and not on Roxanne’s couch like we’d left him?”
    Mama turned a right onto the dirt road by the mine’s entrance. “Slipup in the operation. Genevieve needs to check with her Sominex supplier. The stuff must have been cut with sugar. Holy mackerel. Talk about competition.”
    Ye gads! Monstrous white TV news vans with gigantic satellite dishes crowded the road in front of the exploded Number Nine mine shaft where I had frozen the night before. All were local affiliates of the major networks—Channels Three, Five and Six. There were so many reporters, in fact, that the lights from the cameras lit up the place like a county fair Ferris wheel.
    â€œYou’re late!” Mama exclaimed, idling the Rambler. “Good thing I floored it.”
    Going forty miles per hour wasn’t exactly breaking the sound barrier, but I didn’t have time to argue.
    â€œYou want to come?” I asked, removing my reporter’s notebook and testing my pen.
    â€œNo can do. Genevieve and I need to talk.” Mama kept the engine running.
    â€œAbout how come the Sominex dart didn’t take hold?”
    â€œRight,” she said absently. “Now, this is what I mean about you being soft. Why are you here chatting with me about my schedule when you should be out there swimming with the sharks? Get going.” And she gave me a little push out of the car.
    My steps were leaden as I trudged toward the collection of cops and reporters. Perhaps Mama was right. Perhaps I was destined to be no more than a fluffy feature writer. Sure, I’d uncovered one major scandal—Henry Metzger, the ruthless chairman of Lehigh Steel. For decades Metzger had skimped on safety measures in the steel plant to rake in more profits for his own personal gain. And though numerous workers—like my own father—had died because of his cool disregard for life, no one in Lehigh had had enough guts to probe his evil doings.
    Until I found his one weakness.
    But in the end what had it mattered? Metzger had flown off to Central America