Front Page Affair by Radha Vatsal

don’t seem like I’m prying,” Kitty said delicately, “but did Mr. Cole have an occupation?”
    â€œHunter didn’t really work,” Aimee replied. “But we got by. We always managed.”
    Mrs. Henderson pursed her lips. “It’s nothing like what you’d have had if you’d married the furrier. And you’d be living just down the street from us in Brooklyn.”
    Kitty took a sip of her tea. It was probably time to leave mother and daughter to each other’s company. “I should be on my way.”
    â€œCan I show you around the apartment?” Aimee said.
    â€œOf course.” Kitty put down her cup and rose.
    The tour didn’t take long, since all that remained for Kitty to see were the dining room, the bedroom (to which Mrs. Cole didn’t open the door), and Mr. Cole’s study.
    To Kitty’s surprise, she felt most at ease in the dead man’s private room. It had been sparsely yet tastefully furnished with a rolltop chestnut desk, swiveling chair, rich Persian carpet, and curtains that reached the floor. An antique clock with a mother-of-pearl face sat on his desk. An eye-catching canvas of a muscular stallion posed against mountains hung on the wall above low walnut bookshelves.
    â€œIs that a Stubbs?” Kitty stepped in to take a closer look.
    â€œHunter’s grandmother left it to him in her will. I don’t know much about art, but I do know that it’s the one good piece we have from them.”
    The widow put her hand on Kitty’s arm. “I hope I can trust you to be kind, Miss Weeks. The public will say cruel things about me. They may even point fingers in my direction.”
    â€œMrs. Cole—” Kitty pulled away.
    â€œCall me Aimee. After all we’ve been through, I think we might allow ourselves that.”
    â€œI just work for the Sentinel .” Kitty hoped to avoid the invitation to be intimate. “I’m not in charge of what they print.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œI do hope the police will apprehend the culprit—”
    â€œYou have a lot to learn, Miss Weeks,” Aimee Cole burst out in anger. “Where I’m from, we know what the police do and what they don’t, how they pin the crime on whoever happens to be convenient. What I want is justice for my husband.” She spoke with force. “I’m not interested in watching them haul away some poor sod just so that they can cross the case of their list.”
    Kitty took her leave of the widow shortly afterward.
    Mrs. Henderson walked Kitty to the landing and waited with her for the elevator. “We’re supposed to go to Connecticut on Friday for the funeral, but none of them will come here to see my daughter.”
    The rattling machine arrived, and the operator pulled open the fretwork grille. Kitty stepped inside.
    â€œThe Hendersons may not have come here on the Mayflower ,” the older woman continued as the gate shut between them with a clang, “but Aimee will be so much better off without Hunter.”
    With a jerk, the elevator lurched downward, slowly erasing Kitty’s view of Mrs. Cole’s bitter parent.
    â€¢ • •
    For once, the typists’ incessant clacking didn’t drive Kitty to distraction. She filled two sheets of paper with neat script and brought them upstairs to the sixth floor, where a glass wall partitioned the newsroom off from the rest of the hallway. Behind it, the real reporters, all men, went about their business. Some spoke on the telephone; others sat at their desks, writing or chewing on their pencils; still others smoked cigarettes or chatted with their colleagues.
    Kitty knew she wasn’t allowed to enter, so she tapped on the glass, caught the attention of one of the reporters, mouthed the words “Mr. Flanagan,” and then, acutely aware of sidelong glances in her direction, waited until Flanagan emerged from within.
    â€œNot