“Someone has set up a crèche on the lawn there, complete with holy infant, wise men, and shepherds. Mayor Ficarelli will have to step smartly to dance around that one,” Jared opined.
“OK, kiddo,” Dermott said to Liz. “Thanks to that hot tip, you’ve won your reprieve. Forget the SUV parkers at the mall and get yourself out to Newton. Grab a photographer and make sure he gets the crèche in the shot. Put on your dancing shoes. And step lively,” he said with a glance at Jared.
“All right, Chief,” Liz said. “I’ll cover another earth-shaking assignment in feature territory. Just promise me one thing.”
Slowly, she recrossed her legs.
“What’s that?” Dermott asked.
“If a big story ever breaks on my beat, you’ll let me run with it.”
“Yeah, sure. Now, get outta here and run on over to Newton City Hall.”
Uncrossing her legs in a leisurely manner, Liz stepped down from the city editor’s desk. It was not for nothing that her newsroom nickname was “Legs.” She picked up her reporter’s notebook and put on her coat.
“Shameless hussy,” Jared said in a stage whisper.
The city editor winked.
Chapter 2
Liz was no stranger to the common at Newton City Hall. Composed of a spreading lawn, duck pond, and handsome oaks, it was just the kind of suburban site Dermott had made her news beat. Located at the start of the Boston Marathon’s infamous uphill stretch known as Heartbreak Hill, it was the ideal place to interview spectators and faltering runners for marathon-related human-interest stories. Runners know Heartbreak Hill is the place where the race is won or lost, but, even so, it was miles from the finish line where front-page stories are made. In the summer, the common was also the site of farmers’ markets and crafts fairs that, for Liz, promised more features than hard news.
“Still,” Liz reminded herself, “you never know where you’ll find breaking news.”
The last time she set her eyes on this property, Newton’s Mayor Giancarlo Ficarelli made news by dancing with a man dressed as the Nabisco fig. It was the 110th anniversary of the creation of the Fig Newton cookie, a confection that had been named for the well-heeled Boston suburb.
“Come to think of it,” Liz recalled, as she parked her green Mercury Tracer on Commonwealth Avenue, “the story was a front-pager.” That was thanks to a hilarious photo of Ficarelli and the fig in free-fall from the dance platform, a tumble that occurred when the over-enthusiastic mayor stepped too lively to a rendition of “New York, New York” by the Newton North High School’s Northern Heights singing group. The lyrics, slightly altered for the occasion, went, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere, so here’s to you New-ton, New-TON!”
Recalling the headline, “NEWTON BIGWIG FELLS FIG NEWTON,” Liz smiled and scanned the scene for any sign of the fleet-footed Ficarelli. He was nowhere to be seen, but the loudspeakers, blaring the tune to “Hava Nagila,” were impossible to ignore. Liz wondered what self-respecting citizen would participate in the mayor’s quirky notion of celebrating the Jewish holiday. Rounding some shrubs, she received her answer. Led by the mayor, some thirty preschoolers dutifully attempted to imitate the mayor’s dance steps as the line of snow-boot–clad dancers wound its way through the property. Ficarelli only needed a flute to complete his image as the Pied Piper of Newton.
As carried away by the music as he was during the fig fiasco, the mayor seemed oblivious to the fact that he was leading the diminutive dancers straight toward the controversial crèche. But everyone else, including the preschoolers’ parents, assorted dog walkers, and the Banner photographer René DeZona, could see the mayor’s mistake. DeZona zoomed in eagerly as the mayor, who was looking over his shoulder at dancing preschoolers, slid on some dog droppings and ploughed straight into the Holy Family, scattering them all over the slippery scene.
“You have to hand it to the guy,” Liz thought as she watched Ficarelli’s feet fly out from under him and point straight up at the sky. “When he falls, it’s picture perfect.”
This time he outdid himself and delivered a quote, too.
“Holy shit!” the mayor declared.
Picture and quote might have made Page One—if the commotion on Newton City Hall Common had ended then and there.
But it didn’t.
Before Ficarelli could stand up and dust the snow off his coat, before the preschoolers’ parents could suppress their laughter long enough to round up their children, a kind of keening sound rent the atmosphere. Dogs on leashes howled in response and strained at their collars as a coatless, small child ran straight to the center of the common, looked frantically around her, and then threw herself into Liz’s arms.
“Somebody bleeded all over my kitchen,” the girl said, shivering. “Where’s my mommy?’ she cried.
“Veronica!” Liz exclaimed. And she hugged the child close. Taking off her own coat and wrapping it around the frantic youngster, she added, “Don’t worry, Veronica. We’ll find your mom. I promise.”
Briskly crossing the common, a policeman approached.
“Dan Atwood,” the officer said, naming himself. “What seems to be the problem here?” he demanded. “Where do you think you’re going with that girl?”
“I’m taking her home. She lives on the side street there, just across Commonwealth Avenue. I’m acquainted with her family.”
“I can’t authorize you to do that,” the officer said.
“Well, that’s too bad,” Liz replied, “because I plan to do it anyway. Can’t you see she’s ill-dressed and in shock?”
Taking in Liz’s own coatless state, Atwood softened. “All right, take my jacket,” he said. “Let’s take her back to her house together.”
“Thanks,” Liz said, gratefully taking the proffered jacket. “It’s okay, honey, we’re taking you home,” she said to Veronica, as Atwood took the child in his arms.
But Veronica wailed.
The child’s evident terror at returning to her house erased any doubts Liz might have held when Veronica first spoke of her bloodied kitchen. But there was nothing to do but see the scene for herself.
“We won’t make you go in the kitchen,” she promised as the trio set off across the wide avenue, with photographer DeZona following at a discreet distance. “We’re just going to look for your mom and dad,” she explained.
“How do you know this family?” Atwood asked Liz. “I need you to identify yourself.”
Liz hesitated. Should she let on that she was a Banner reporter so soon? He might then bar her entry to the Johanssons’ house.
Veronica spoke up. “She’s my friend. She took me to see Santa!” she said.
“My name is Liz Higgins,” the reporter added and scanned Atwood’s face to see if her name rang a bell. Apparently he did not read the Beantown Banner deeply enough to recognize the byline. When they came to the unlocked door of the Johanssons’ house, he flung it open for Liz, then he carried Veronica over the threshold.
“Please don’t make me go in there!” the child cried.
“We won’t, Veronica. We won’t,” said Liz as Atwood handed the child over to her. “We’ll just get warm in the living room.”
Liz patted Veronica’s head as the policeman barged through the dining room toward the back of the house. A minute later she heard him radio Newton Police headquarters. He gave the address and added, “Apparent B&E here. Blood all over. Send the crime scene unit right away.”
DeZona stepped in and snapped reporter and child. “Sorry for startling you,” he said as Veronica renewed her crying.