Like the first person. Stay with it. Posting now.
Okay, good. I could relax at least and focus on the eighties hits playing on the sound system.
The pat on the back from Dodson, however, hardly put me in a celebratory mood. A young mother was missing, and even if she was still alive, it was unlikely that she’d be found unharmed.
After dropping the phone back in my purse, I caught the eye of a woman at the end of the bar, perched on a stool six or seven spots away from me. She was middle-aged, probably late fifties, slightly heavyset, with short, coarse brown hair, and still wearing her hip-length unbuttoned coat, the kind my mother used to call a “car coat.”
I’d seen this woman before, I realized—at the volunteer center, where she’d arrived midafternoon and spent a few minutes talking intently with Kelly. Thinking she might be a family friend worth debriefing, I’d said a hasty goodbye to the Baker Beverage deliveryman I had been interviewing and made a beeline in her direction. But she’d been faster than me, taking off in her car before I could reach her.
I had another chance now, however. Though she clearly knew other patrons—she’d lifted her hand in a wave a couple of times—she was on her own, a half glass of white wine set in front of her. I grabbed my own glass and moseyed down to the end of the bar.
“Excuse the intrusion,” I said, “but I’d been hoping to talk to you at the volunteer center today and never had the opportunity. Do you have a minute now?”
The woman raised a dark, bushy eyebrow.
“What about?” Not rude, but hardly friendly, either.
“About Shannon Blaine’s disappearance. I’m a reporter. My name’s—”
“I know who you are,” she said bluntly.
“Did Kelly mention me?”
“No, but I recognize you. Your reputation precedes you.”
“I hope in a good way,” I said. Maybe she’d readA Model Murder, or had seen me discussing it on TV. I smiled, hoping to diffuse the odd tension permeating our encounter.
“I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you think crime reporters should be behind the scenes, gathering the facts, or out in front, showing up on places like CNN and theTodayshow.”
It hit me then that she was another reporter, though I didn’t recognize her. I was briefly tempted to say something snippy, like “Oh, come on, let’s not be a player hater,” but that would have only worsened the situation.
“Who do you work for?” I asked.
“TheGlens FallsPost Star. Probably too small potatoes for you to know.”
“Of course I’ve heard of it,” I said, hoping that by switching the tone I could appeal to her sense of collegiality. “Are you by any chance Alice Hatfield?”
“Yup,” she said, looking surprised but still guarded. “That would be me.”
“Well, nice to meet you. I guess you know I’m Bailey Weggins.”
She nodded.
Fine, I thought, I’ll take my toys and go home. But I intended to leave on a high note.
“Your reporting has been terrific. See you around.”
She leveled her hazel eyes at me.
“Thanks,” was all she said.
I returned to my perch and tried to enjoy the last of my wine. The crowd shifted again, and Alice Hatfield vanished from my line of sight. I was used to reporters being competitive but generally not pissy, except of course Matt Wong. Hatfield was making him look like one of the Care Bears.
Ten minutes later, I was back in my Jeep, headed to the Breezy Point. There was still some light traffic in the village, but before long I practically had 9N to myself. The wind had kicked up and it sent herds of dead leaves scurrying across the road ahead of me. Most of the motels and businesses were dark, clearly closed for the season.
