“I know it’s made the papers,” she persisted, “all the way out to Montana.”
“Oh yes. Even television,” said the managing editor, “briefly.”
“What happened?”
“I would describe the public reaction,” he said, “as a mild but fleeting curiosity.”
Mary Andrea was floored. A despondency settled upon her; it might have been mistaken for authentic grief, although not by those aware of Mary Andrea’s background as an actress.
The managing editor said: “Don’t take it personally. It’s been a humbling experience for all of us.”
“But they should make Tom a hero,” she protested.
The managing editor explained that the job of newspaper reporter no longer carried the stature it had in the days of Watergate. The nineties had brought a boom in celebrity journalism, a decline in serious investigative reporting and a deliberate “softening of the product” by publishers. The result, he said, was that daily papers seldom caused a ripple in their communities, and people paid less and less attention to them.
“So your husband’s death,” said the managing editor, “didn’t exactly generate an uproar.”
Gloomily Mary Andrea stared out the car window. If only Tom had made it to The New York Times or The Washington Post, then you’d have seen a damn uproar.
“Was he working on something big?” she asked hopefully.
“Not at all. That’s part of the problem—it was just a routine feature story.”
“About what?”
“Some woman who won the lottery.”
“And for that he got blown up?”
“The police are skeptical. And as I said, that’s part of our problem. It’s far from certain Tom was killed in the line of duty. It could have been a robbery, it could have been… something more personal.”
Mary Andrea gave him a sour look. “Don’t tell me he was doing somebody’s wife.”
“Just a rumor, Mrs. Krome. But I’m afraid it was enough to spook Ted Koppel.”
“Shit,” Mary Andrea said. She would’ve gargled battery acid to get on Nightline.
The managing editor went on: “We gave it our best shot, but they wanted it to be a mob hit or some cocaine kingpin’s revenge for a frontpage expose. They were disappointed to find out Tom was just a feature writer. And after the adultery rumor, well, they quit returning our calls.”
Mary Andrea slumped against the door. It was like skidding into a bad dream. That the media had already lost interest in Tom Krome’s murder meant vastly reduced exposure for his bereft wife—and a wasted plane fare, Mary Andrea thought bitterly. Worse, she’d put herself in position to be humiliated if the fatal “mystery blaze” was traced to a jealous husband instead of a vengeful drug lord.
Damn you, Tom, she thought. This is my career on the line.
“How’s the hotel?” she asked glumly.
“We got you a nonsmoking room, like you requested.” Now the managing editor was chewing on a toothpick.
“And there’s a gym with a StairMaster?”
He said: “No gym. No StairMaster. Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s great.”
“It’s a Hojo’s, Mrs. Krome. We put up everybody at the Hojo’s.”
After a ten-minute sulk, Mary Andrea announced she’d changed her mind; she wished to return to the airport immediately. She said she was too grief-stricken to appear at the newspaper to accept the writing award Tom had won.
“What’s it called again—the ‘Emilio’?”
“Amelia,” said the managing editor, “and it’s quite a big deal. Tom’s the first journalist to win it posthumously. It would mean a lot if you could be there in his place.”
Mary Andrea sniffed. “Mean a lot to who?”
“Me. The staff. His colleagues.” The managing editor rolled the toothpick with his tongue. “And possibly your future.”
“Come on, you just told me—”
“We’ve got a press conference scheduled.”
Mary Andrea Finley Krome drilled him with a stare. “A real press conference?”
“The TV folks will be there, if that’s what you mean.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“Because it’s a safe story.”
“Safe?”
“Fluff. Human interest,” the managing editor explained. “They don’t want to get into the murky details of the murder, but they’re thrilled to do twenty seconds on a pretty young widow receiving a plaque for her slain husband.”
“I see.”
“And I’d be less than frank,” the managing editor added, “if I didn’t admit my paper could use the publicity, too. This is a big award, and we don’t win all that many.”