Free Letter From Home by Carolyn Hart Page A

nice.”
    Cooley laughed. “She was an easy—”
    The editor rattled the sheets. “That’s enough, Ralph. Gretchen knew the woman. Let it go.”
    Cooley rolled his chair back to his desk, his glance at Gretchen sardonic. “The facts speak for themselves, kid.”
    â€œShe loved to dance. But the way you say it . . .” Gretchen felt sick inside for Barb. Barb would read the paper. Of course she would. She would read in the Gazette that her mother was strangled after dancing the evening away in a local nightclub. . . . It sounded bad. Gretchen took a step toward Cooley. “Did you put anything in the story about Mrs. Tatum? About what kind of person she was?”
    Cooley raised an eyebrow. His hands were poised above the keys. “What did her kid say? That she loved to dance?”
    She loved to dance. That’s what Barb had said. But that wasn’t everything. If that was all he wrote . . . “She was an artist.” There was a painting right now on the screened-in porch that Gretchen couldn’t describe, not really, not the way it made her feel to look at it. As much as she loved words, sometimes there were things words couldn’t capture. But the painting made her feel like she was looking at a heartbeat or a song, things you couldn’t see but you felt inside.
    Cooley picked up his suit coat, slipped into it. He yawned. “I’m going to get some lunch, then I’ll nose around the courthouse, see what else they’ve found out. Maybe they’ve got a line on her boyfriend.” He shook out a cigarette. “Though I don’t suppose that matters now.”
    The Teletype began to rattle. Gretchen ignored the paper coming out. She spoke loud and fast so she could get it all out. “Mr. Cooley, you could talk to some people who knew her. Some of the people who took art from her. Or somebody at the five-and-dime. They’d tell you what she was really like.” About the way her laughter sounded light and free as a silver spoon striking a crystal glass. Or the way she would rush out into the yard on a summer night and catch hands with Barb and the other girls playing in the yard and swing in a happy dance, singing that silly song, “Mairzy Doats.”
    Cooley poked his hat to the back of his head. He gave her a hard stare. “Who, me? I’m no sob sister, kid. That kind of story belongs to Jewell. Or maybe you’d like to do it. Make everybody get their hankies out.”
    When the front door slammed behind him, Gretchen slowly turned toward Mr. Dennis. “He’s going to make her sound cheap. Like she should have died.” The pictures were back in her mind: Mrs. Tatum sprawled on the floor, Barb with her face puffy, her eyes stricken.
    Mr. Dennis leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands behind his head, frowned at her. “There’s nothing in his story but the facts.”
    â€œThe facts . . .” Gretchen stopped. She didn’t know how to make him understand. Then she looked into bleak green eyes and knew that he understood everything.
    Dennis nodded slowly. “That’s right, kid. You’re getting there faster than most. Depends upon which facts, doesn’t it?” He poked at Cooley’s copy. “Every fact in here is true. Ralph may have a smart mouth, but he gets it right. But you don’t think the Blue Light and alcohol and people mad at each other tell the whole story about Faye Tatum. I’ll tell you what, you go get a story about Faye. Only one thing you have to promise me.”
    â€œYes, sir?” She stared into his mournful, skeptical, somber eyes.
    â€œYou got to promise that your facts will be true, too.” The chair squeaked as he turned back to his desk.
    Â 
“WON ’ T YOU HAVE another glass of lemonade, Gretchen?” Mrs. Forrester’s brown hair puffed in thick rolls, framing a gentle face. She had milk white skin and light blue eyes.