Pretty is as Pretty Dies

Chapter One-2

JOSH TUCKER WATCHED as his boss at the Bradley Bugle, Sloan Jones, slammed his telephone down. “Good God,” groaned Sloan, clutching his head. “Deliver me from conversations with Myrtle Clover.”

“Still griping about her column getting cut?”

“Well, it’s not like I cut it out. I just reduced it. It was getting pretty weird, anyway, with all the nosebleed tips lately.”

“What’s behind cutting my piece in the last edition? It wasn’t weird at all,” said Josh.

“Sorry about that,” Sloan said, “Fine writing, as usual. Had to squeeze in Parke’s column, though. Her full-page weekly ad took our bookkeeping out of the red. Thank God she pays in advance.”

Josh’s perfunctory smile disappeared in the deep lines in his face. Sloan went on, “And she’s not a bad writer, either. Imagine—two former New York writers on the Bugle staff!”

Josh lifted a beefy hand and smoothed it over his high forehead. There were times he missed New York. He’d expected his hometown to change while he was gone, but hadn’t noticed any changes at all. Chili dogs were still 99 cents at Bo’s Diner. The Bradley Library hadn’t circulated any new titles since 1985 and Miss Hudgins still shushed the patrons. The Bradley Bugle still considered bridge games and golden anniversaries major local news stories. His mother still fussed over him and brought him watery chicken noodle soup whenever he sniffled. Thomas Wolfe had obviously never visited Bradley, North Carolina, if he thought you could never go home again.

“Parke sure gives the Bugle some pizzazz.” Sloan dreamily reflected on Parke Stockard’s finer qualities, basking again in the radiant smile she’d blindsided him with early that morning. Sloan had carefully combed over his wispy hair today. This task involved locating his comb— a major undertaking, considering it had been misplaced for weeks.

Josh flushed. Parke’s expensive floral perfume still cloyingly invaded the newsroom, lingering in his nostrils and firing up his migraines. The scent conjured up Parke’s condescending smiles. “Just as long as the copy cutting stops there. We’ve made an award-winning newspaper, Sloan. The Bradley Bugle is starting to get some real attention from the public...and not just the town of Bradley. We don’t need her interference.”

Sloan smiled fondly at the large, pedestalled trophy of an oversized plumed pen that sat in a place of honor on his paper-congested desk. “Yes, we’ve done well, haven’t we?” Sloan beamed at Josh. His jowly face fell when Josh remained grim. Sloan pulled at his shirt collar. “Space is at a premium, you know. Parke’s ad revenue is helping us out a lot, but we’re not on a New York Times budget. Or even a Charlotte Observer budget. Or even a—“

“Point taken. But there’s got to be something else you can cut back on. Rita’s recipes?”

“I’d get reader hate mail.”

“The horoscopes Maisy Perry makes up?”

“Josh, there’re people who plan their whole day around those things. There’ll be pandemonium in the streets if Maisy doesn’t give them some guidance.”

“Well then, the ‘Good Neighbors’ column. If somebody wants to trade their grandma’s punch bowl for a few heirloom tomato plants, the Bugle doesn’t have to get in the middle of it, does it?”

Sloan stared blankly at him. He’d no idea Josh Tucker had gotten so completely out of touch with Bradley reality during his time in New York. “Now you’re just talking crazy. If I don’t broker deals between folks trying to trade their National Geographic collection for a collection of Reader’s Digest condensed books, I’ll be strung up in the streets. My 75-year-old neighbor, Miss Sissy? She’d be out there booing my butt every time I took my trash out. She’s the number one fan of ‘Good Neighbors.’”

“We’re back to Parke then.”

Sloan missed the dark undertone in Josh’s voice. “And like I told you, Parke is single-handedly financing the dinky amount of copy we do have. No, it’s got to be your articles and Miss Myrtle’s tips. You’re winning us awards,” added Sloan hastily, “but you can be edited down a little. Miss Myrtle’s column is new enough that her readers aren’t totally rabid fans yet.”

Josh crouched back over his article to signal the end of the conversation. He wasn’t going to play second fiddle to Parke Stockard in the newsroom—he didn’t care how much ad copy she bought.

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