Terror at the Fair

Chapter Thirty-Three

Just as I hung up, a slender and poised auburn-haired woman in a tailored suit whom I guessed to be in her mid- to late-twenties glided gracefully into the room on fashionable high heels.

“Hello. I didn’t see any sign on the door. This is the pressroom, isn’t it?” She brushed an errant strand of hair from her forehead.

“You have got the right place,” I said with a grin, standing as my mother long ago taught me to do when a woman enters a room.

“I’m Betty Ann Wells of the Daily News,” she said, offering a hand with a firm grip.

“Nice to meet you, Betty Ann. I’m Steve Malek of the Tribune.”

“The Steve Malek, no less, better known to his friends as ’Snap,’ am I right? I must say I feel most honored.”

“No reason to,” I told her with a chuckle. “And by all means, call me Snap, which instantly makes you a friend. What brings you to this remote outpost on the fringes of the empire?”

“I’m here to do a feature on one of the girls in the Cypress Gardens Water Show. She was runner-up in the Miss Georgia pageant last year, or so I’ve been informed.”

“I know your byline,” I said. “You did a terrific feature a few weeks back about the woman in Evanston who had raised—what was it? — thirteen foster kids over the years.”

“Fourteen, and thanks so much for remembering,” she said. “I guess we all often wonder if anybody actually reads what we write—and takes note of the byline.”

“We do indeed. I was impressed, both by your reporting and by the woman. She was a real inspiration.”

“Far more than the girl who I’m going to see today, I’m sure.”

“I interviewed one of those pretty water-skiing damsels myself a while back, and she looked like she could easily have been a Miss Alabama,” I told her. “I sincerely hope your Southern belle has more to say than mine did, though.”

Betty Ann smiled, flashing dimples. “I hope so, too. I understand from the rumor mill you are stationed here for the duration of the fair.”

“You heard right. It’s sure turned out differently than I figured.”

“I’ll say! Do you have any thoughts about who’s behind all the... deaths?”

“A few, but they’re pretty vague right at the moment.”

“I was surprised when I heard you’d been assigned here for the summer. Your reputation as a crime reporter is well known all over town, as I know you’re aware.”

“You flatter me.”

“Not really. I’m just stating the obvious. After all, everybody knows you saved the president’s life last year, among other things. And I remember when I was in journalism school up at Northwestern reading about how you helped crack those murders surrounding the hush-hush work on the atom bomb at the University of Chicago during the war.”

“I really appreciate the kind words,” I said with a shrug.

“Given your reputation, I’m surprised you got assigned out here.”

“To be honest, I was surprised myself, and not exactly happy.”

“But now look at how things have turned out. You’re right back in the middle of the news again. Adventure must follow you wherever you go.”

“So several others have remarked. What’s happened here the last few weeks is another surprise I didn’t see coming.”

Betty Ann pursed her lips and frowned. “I would give anything to have some kind of hard news beat instead of this fluffy feature stuff. But I’m well aware of how things work on the papers. About the only women in the newsrooms around town are the ‘sob sisters,’ whose assignments as you know are to cover the biggest trials for murder or divorce and wring every drop of emotion and pathos and drama out of the proceedings,” she said with a touch of bitterness.

I nodded. “That’s a pretty accurate description. I’ve got to believe the situation is going to change sometime, though. After all, during the war, women filled quite a few reporting positions on the Trib, and on the other papers as well.”

She made a face. “Yeah, and then look what happened the minute the war ended: Home came the men, and all the women who had been covering police news, fires, and the like went back to writing feature stories about beauty queens and debutantes and triple-layer chocolate cakes. It’s true that once in a while, somebody more substantial like the Evanston foster mom comes along, but it’s been the exception in my experience.”

“I still think better days are coming for the female reporters,” I told her, only partially believing my words.

“Well, I have to admit there is one advantage to being a woman on the paper, although even that is kind of insulting.”

“Oh?”

“When I left the office to come down here, my editor—who’s a woman—said to me, ‘Take a cab and expense it. I don’t want you riding down there on a streetcar or a bus.’ Do you know how the male reporters on the Daily News travel?”

“If it’s like at the Tribune, they go by said streetcar or bus.”

“Yeah, or the Elevated if it’s more convenient. But all of us poor little gals have to be protected, you know.”

“Maybe this will change someday, too.”

“I hope you’re right. I—” She got interrupted by the arrival in the pressroom of a smiling and overeager Fred Metzger.

“Ah, Miss Wells of the Daily News, right?” He introduced himself, bowing, and thrusting out a hand. “I am so glad you’re here. Sorry I wasn’t out at the front gate to meet you, but I got tied up. Are you ready to go and meet Holly Webster?”

“I am indeed,” she said, nodding curtly and whipping a reporter’s notebook out of her purse. “Lead the way.”

“I think you will find the young lady charming, absolutely charming,” Metzger gushed. “Almost as charming as you are.”

As they left, Betty Ann looked back at me over one shoulder and rolled her eyes. I got the message.