She hadn’t been right.
Rose fiddled with the spoon on the table, stalling for time. When a source had sent her bank statements that supposedly showed Senator Madden was skimming money earmarked for state nursing homes, she’d known it was a huge get. With the senator’s unstoppable popularity, the story had explosive potential, the power to take Rose’s career to the next level. Except something about the documents themselves felt off to Rose. She’d begged her superiors to wait until she had further proof of Madden’s crimes before taking the news to air. At the time, Gloria Buckstone was Rose’s friend and mentor, and unfortunately, she was also her boss and desperate to have a big exclusive.
In the end, Rose’s protests fell on deaf ears. When it turned out the bank statements were, in fact, doctored, the whole thing became a massive PR disaster for the news desk. Luckily, the loss of face lasted all of a week before a different whistle-blower came forward with irrefutable evidence of the senator’s wrongdoings. Now all anyone remembered was that Gloria and Rose had broken the story first.
Everyone thought she was a renegade, fighting to get the truth out. But if it were up to her, they’d never have run the incorrect version in the first place.
“I left because I missed writing too much,” she said. Always a handy excuse. Made her sound intellectual. The waitress tossed the check on the table and Rose snatched it up, relieved by the interruption. “Allow me.”
Outside in the sunshine, Rose considered her next steps. First off was to find the button store Stella had mentioned, and see if she could get some more color on Darby’s life.
Jason shrugged his backpack over one shoulder and stood, legs spread wide. He looked like an urban lumberjack. “How is it working for Tyler?”
She considered the question. Best to be ambiguous. “Interesting.”
“He’s the nephew of one of the guys I worked with in Iraq. Comes from a lot of money.”
“So he says. Money buys power.”
“That’s true. Stupid name, WordMerge.”
Rose nodded. “It’s impossible to pronounce without laughing. My boyfriend said it’s . . .”
She stopped.
“What does he say?”
“Nothing, it was silly. I don’t want to be bad-mouthing the boss, not cool.”
“I’m a freelancer; what do I care? I shoot the video, cash the check, and move on.”
“Must be nice.”
“You should try it.”
“Can’t afford it.”
“Do you miss network news?” His eyes searched her face, as if he were trying to suss her out. “I always wondered if there was more to the story than came out.”
“Nope, that’s it.”
He swung the backpack to the other shoulder. “Ah. Anyway. You didn’t deserve what happened.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
“And Tyler is lucky to have you.”
Ever since the debacle, she’d hated running into people in the business, knowing they’d gossip about their encounter within ten minutes. “I’m doing what I like now. Writing, I mean. Happy to leave the shooting to experts like yourself. It’s what I should have done all along.” Even to her own ears, her tone was brusque and dismissive.
“Right. Got it.” He turned to go. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
He strode away, head held high. Here she’d been complaining about the lack of collaboration at WordMerge but couldn’t have a normal conversation with the first person who seemed to know what he was doing. In any event, what did it matter? She’d probably never work with Jason again; he’d be off to Iraq or Iran or somewhere, shooting footage that put her features to shame.
No, that was the wrong way of thinking.
She’d do whatever it took to make this story work.
Samson Button Shop on West Thirty-Eighth Street sported a black-and-white checkerboard floor, and walls covered with every style and color of button imaginable. The overall effect was slightly psychedelic, and only by focusing on one section at a time could the details be fully appreciated: big black plastic buttons, rose-shaped ones made from silk, others that glowed with a metallic sheen.
Determined to find Darby’s former place of business, Rose had googled “button stores” on Thirty-Eighth Street and been surprised at how many were still in existence. The garment district, once a bustling rectangle of New York streets, where pedestrians fought for sidewalk space with workers pushing clothing racks from factory to showroom, was now a burgeoning home for trendy high-rise hotels and tech start-ups, but a dozen or so stalwarts held on. Rose had made her way west from Fifth Avenue while scanning the storefronts, popping into all those that sold buttons.
“May I help you?”
A thin man with a large belly strode over. He wore jeans and an untucked shirt with disappointing white plastic buttons down the front.
“I was wondering if a Miss Darby McLaughlin used to work here.”
“Of course. Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine. She’s an old friend of my mother’s.” If she didn’t lie, she’d never be able to get any information from this man without him wanting to talk to Darby first. And there was no time for that. If anything, the debacle with Gloria Buckstone had toughened her up. Or twisted her ethics. Depended on how you looked at it. “We’ve only just found each other on Facebook. Luckily, too, as she needed some help with Bird.”
He smiled. “Ah, Bird; she brought him by a few years ago.”
“She’s not as mobile as she used to be, and she asked me to come by and say hello since I was in the neighborhood.”
The man laughed. “Excellent. Tell her that Stanley Junior is in charge, and all is well.”
“I will. How long did she work here? Seems like a long time.”
“Well, she started in the fifties. Kept showing up, day after day, year after year, until she retired five years ago. “
“Did she sell buttons?”
“No. Never wanted to be in the front of the store. She did our books, kept records, acted as a secretary for my father. Sweet lady.”
“Very sweet.” Rose ran her hand through an open box of ebony-colored buttons. They clattered like pebbles. “Very private, though. She never takes off her veil.”
“Always kept her face covered here at work, too, at least above her nose. I knew she’d been in some kind of accident, but since I grew up with her, I never questioned it. Or if I did, my father shut me up soon enough.”
“Right. Well, she’ll be happy to know that you’re still going strong.”
“I don’t know about that. We sell most of our stock online these days. I’m looking into the possibility of getting out of the bricks-and-mortar part of the business.”
She looked around the room. “Do everything online? That would be a shame.”
“Another piece of New York City gone with the wind.”
Stalling for time, Rose selected six coffee-colored buttons that looked like round chocolates, good enough to eat.
“Good choice.” Stanley Jr. brought them to the register and wrapped them in tissue paper. “These will liven up a fall or winter jacket. Very stylish.”
As he rang up the purchase, Rose pressed on. “What kind of person was Darby when she was younger? I only ask because she’s such a grande dame now. Curious how she was in her youth.”
“She was careful, wry. Ate a tuna sandwich for lunch every day, year in and year out. She didn’t mind if I played near her desk. In fact, I think she liked it. She had a great sense of humor, loved to play practical jokes.”
“Jokes? Really?”
“Sure.” He shrugged, thoughtful. “She may have kept to herself because of what happened to her, but she’s no stick-in-the-mud. Darby is a tough cookie. She has class, style. Swagger, almost. An elegant mystery, my father liked to say.”
Rose placed the buttons in her bag. “Does Darby have any family or anyone close to her? My mother is hoping she’s well taken care of these days but doesn’t want to be rude and ask her outright.”