community. But best of all, he could get out of the motel, where he’d registered under his own name.
“I don’t need to inspect the room,” he said. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m good with plumbing, so the leak should be fixed by this time tomorrow. Give me a little longer on the gutters.”
Thursday, May 9, 2002
A tour of the
Spectrum
’s offices, under the guidance of Severin Quill, was the first activity of the new day. Matt, nursing a hangover, suffered most of it in silence, saving his strength for Quill’s introductions of their fellow staff members. He’d already been greeted at the reception desk by the office and subscription manager, Brandi Webster, a young woman with the good looks of a high school cheerleader and the mannerisms to match; normally he would have found them delightful, but today they just seemed wearisome.
As Quill got up from his desk and came to meet him, a heavyset woman in a purple straw hat and voluminous flowered clothing rushed past Matt, calling out, “Vera Craig, arts editor. Welcome aboard!” The scent of violet perfume trailed after her.
Quill smiled. “Appearances to the contrary, Vera’s a damned good reporter and an astute critic. This morning she’s off to chronicle the opening of the new Thomas Kinkade gallery.”
“Kinkade?”
“California’s ‘painter of light.’ Mass-produced ‘originals.’
” “Like Keane paintings?”
“No, more palatable. Idyllic scenes instead of glassy-eyed children. Very popular in the nineties; less so now, and his enterprises are overextended—hence a gallery in our provincial little community.”
A woman came through one of the doors at the rear of the room, and Quill called, “Donna, meet John Crowe, our new photographer. John, Donna Vail, general assignment reporter. You’ll be working closely with her.”
Donna Vail was small, blonde, and attractive. She wore shorts and a tee, and her frizzy shoulder-length hair was topped by a baseball cap. Her blue eyes surveyed him with frank interest, and she said in a husky voice, “Good to meet you, John. I’m sure I’ll enjoy working
closely
with you.” Then, like Vera Craig, she was out the door.
Quill chuckled, and Matt realized his mouth had fallen open. “Don’t mind Donna,” Severin said. “She likes to project a bad-girl image. In reality, she’s a dedicated soccer mom and wife of the golf pro at the Meadows.”
“The Meadows?”
“A big planned community on the road east of town. The way to handle Donna is to serve back to her what she dishes up. She won’t know if you’re serious or not, so she’ll back off and treat you like a buddy.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
The tour went on to a large back room full of cubicles, where Matt met the display ad manager, advertising sales representatives, and mail-room personnel. As they were passing through the front room again, Quill introduced him to the religious/education and sports reporters. The door to Carly McGuire’s office was closed, and a Do Not Disturb sign—courtesy of Ramada Inn—hung on its knob.
“She’s hiding?” he asked.
Quill rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank God. She came in loaded for bear.”
“Why?”
“Who knows, with Carly?”
“The truck got her to Santa Carla and back okay, didn’t it?”
“If it hadn’t, my friend, you wouldn’t be alive.”
Quill led him through another door, to a room where the production manager and chief of page makeup and their assistants congratulated him on joining the staff. Beyond their areas were a couple of desks, a bank of file cabinets, and a light table. A door labeled DARKROOM was set into the wall opposite them.
“Your bailiwick,” Quill said, with a flourish of his hand. “Your assistant, Joe Maynard, is currently in the inner sanctum, printing what he claims are perfectly egregious photographs he took at the Calvert’s Landing mayoral press conference this week.”
“Calvert’s Landing?”
“It’s the largest
“I don’t need to inspect the room,” he said. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m good with plumbing, so the leak should be fixed by this time tomorrow. Give me a little longer on the gutters.”
Thursday, May 9, 2002
A tour of the
Spectrum
’s offices, under the guidance of Severin Quill, was the first activity of the new day. Matt, nursing a hangover, suffered most of it in silence, saving his strength for Quill’s introductions of their fellow staff members. He’d already been greeted at the reception desk by the office and subscription manager, Brandi Webster, a young woman with the good looks of a high school cheerleader and the mannerisms to match; normally he would have found them delightful, but today they just seemed wearisome.
As Quill got up from his desk and came to meet him, a heavyset woman in a purple straw hat and voluminous flowered clothing rushed past Matt, calling out, “Vera Craig, arts editor. Welcome aboard!” The scent of violet perfume trailed after her.
Quill smiled. “Appearances to the contrary, Vera’s a damned good reporter and an astute critic. This morning she’s off to chronicle the opening of the new Thomas Kinkade gallery.”
“Kinkade?”
“California’s ‘painter of light.’ Mass-produced ‘originals.’
” “Like Keane paintings?”
“No, more palatable. Idyllic scenes instead of glassy-eyed children. Very popular in the nineties; less so now, and his enterprises are overextended—hence a gallery in our provincial little community.”
A woman came through one of the doors at the rear of the room, and Quill called, “Donna, meet John Crowe, our new photographer. John, Donna Vail, general assignment reporter. You’ll be working closely with her.”
Donna Vail was small, blonde, and attractive. She wore shorts and a tee, and her frizzy shoulder-length hair was topped by a baseball cap. Her blue eyes surveyed him with frank interest, and she said in a husky voice, “Good to meet you, John. I’m sure I’ll enjoy working
closely
with you.” Then, like Vera Craig, she was out the door.
Quill chuckled, and Matt realized his mouth had fallen open. “Don’t mind Donna,” Severin said. “She likes to project a bad-girl image. In reality, she’s a dedicated soccer mom and wife of the golf pro at the Meadows.”
“The Meadows?”
“A big planned community on the road east of town. The way to handle Donna is to serve back to her what she dishes up. She won’t know if you’re serious or not, so she’ll back off and treat you like a buddy.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
The tour went on to a large back room full of cubicles, where Matt met the display ad manager, advertising sales representatives, and mail-room personnel. As they were passing through the front room again, Quill introduced him to the religious/education and sports reporters. The door to Carly McGuire’s office was closed, and a Do Not Disturb sign—courtesy of Ramada Inn—hung on its knob.
“She’s hiding?” he asked.
Quill rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank God. She came in loaded for bear.”
“Why?”
“Who knows, with Carly?”
“The truck got her to Santa Carla and back okay, didn’t it?”
“If it hadn’t, my friend, you wouldn’t be alive.”
Quill led him through another door, to a room where the production manager and chief of page makeup and their assistants congratulated him on joining the staff. Beyond their areas were a couple of desks, a bank of file cabinets, and a light table. A door labeled DARKROOM was set into the wall opposite them.
“Your bailiwick,” Quill said, with a flourish of his hand. “Your assistant, Joe Maynard, is currently in the inner sanctum, printing what he claims are perfectly egregious photographs he took at the Calvert’s Landing mayoral press conference this week.”
“Calvert’s Landing?”
“It’s the largest
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