Caught In The Middle. Gayle Roper

who served with Trudy—one in her party, one in the opposition—the director of the Y, and the chairman of the hospital board. At least that last one would be easy; the chairman was Don Eldredge.

      I approached his desk and wondered again how he felt about the double tier of African violets that lined the sill of the great window by which he sat. Did he have purple, rose, lavender, pink, white and variegated dreams and wonder why? Somehow the violets were so un-Don, yet they flourished beside him.

      “I need a quote from you about Trudy,” I said.

      Don looked up, surprised, and I noted that his hair was once again perfect. “From me?” he said. “What for?”

      “She served on the hospital board, and you’re the chairman.”

      “Oh,” he said. “Okay. Just say something about what a good and capable worker she was, and how she dedicated great amounts of time to the hospital and its needs. She will be sorely missed by all of us.”

      I walked back to my desk, jotting Don’s comments as I walked. Pretty trite for a professional journalist.

      Next I called Grassley, Jordan and McGilpin. The secretary who answered was obviously trying not to cry into the phone. She kept sniffing and hiccuping. When she realized who I was, she began talking about Trudy.

      “She was the best boss in the world, she was. So pleasant. Always please and thank you. And attractive. Real class, you know? I could never figure out why she wasn’t married.” Obviously being married was important to the secretary. “But I think she had a new boyfriend. She was smiling a lot more.” And the girl began to cry in earnest.

      The line went empty, and I thought I had been disconnected. Almost immediately, though, a male voice boomed over the phone, speaking too enthusiastically as a cover for his emotions.

      “Trudy was wonderful,” he said. “A fine lawyer, interested in her clients and very knowledgeable in law. She was a strong woman, but not at the expense of her femininity. She more than held her own in a courtroom. We shall miss her very much.”

      “Thank you,” I said. “And to whom am I speaking?”

      “This is Edmund Grassley.” His voice broke on the last syllable of his name, and he cleared his throat. “We’re going to miss her very much,” he whispered, and hung up.

      My eyes misted at the man’s genuine emotion, and I couldn’t help glancing at too-cool Don, sitting at his desk in reorganized splendor.

      Nick Dominic and Forbes Raleigh, the commissioners, and Annie Parmalee, the director of the YWCA, said much the same thing as Don and Mr. Grassley, surprise, surprise. They were all greatly saddened by Trudy’s death and would miss her. Amhearst was diminished by her passing. How hard it was to put deep emotion into quotes.

      Finally, when I could avoid it no longer, I called Stanton McGilpin.

      “I’m sorry. He’s not here right now,” said a woman. “May I take a message?”

      “I’m Merrileigh Kramer from The News. I’m calling in reference to the death of Mr. McGilpin’s sister. We will be devoting much of tomorrow’s paper to Trudy, and we thought he might like to make a statement, sort of a eulogy.”

      There was a small silence. Then, “I’ll tell him you called.”

      I started to say thank you, but the line was dead. I doubted I’d ever hear from Stanton McGilpin, and I couldn’t blame him.

      Still, contacting a family member in one context made me think about doing the same thing in another. I grabbed the phone book, looked up a number and dialed before my nerve failed.

      “Mrs. Marten, my name is Merrileigh Kramer. I was wondering if I might speak to you about your son’s death.”

      A weary voice asked, “Are you from the police?”

      “No. I work at The News.”

      “They’re going to keep putting him in the paper whether I talk to you or not, aren’t they?”

      “A crime like this will certainly be covered.” I kept my voice neutral. I couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Marten was happy or distressed that Patrick was to get so much posthumous media attention.

      Her sigh echoed down the phone line. “Come over if you want. I’d like to be certain that Patrick is presented as the fine kid he was. But don’t come until tomorrow. I can’t talk to anyone else today. I’m too busy crying.”