CUE UP (CAUGHT DEAD IN WYOMING #14) BY PATRICIA MCLINN – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Patricia McLinn
- Language: English
- Genre: Thriller / Suspense
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Spring had sprung in the newsroom of KWMT-TV in Sherman, Wyoming.
At least Wyoming’s version of March had sprung.
Don’t think of daffodils and azaleas. More like being grateful daylight
eked out a bigger share of the twenty-four hours. Maybe some stirring awe
as calving season began.
To me, March in Wyoming meant trying to minimize exposure to it. At
the moment, that meant cutting the elapsed time from vehicle — the
station’s NewsMobile — to inside KWMT’s double set of glass doors.
As usual, I beat Diana Stendahl in that sprint.
She had the disadvantage of being weighed down by tools of her trade
as the best cameraperson I’d worked with in a TV news career from Dayton
to St. Louis to Washington, D.C., to New York, before crash-landing here.
It was a testament to our friendship that I did not plunge into the
warmth and desert her. I stopped and held the door — from inside. It was
awkward, but got me out of the wind.
When Wyomingites say the wind’s biting, think Jaws, not a puppy.
“Thanks . . . It’s natural people want to know about the wedding,” she
continued our pre-sprint conversation.
“Then they should talk to Tamantha—” That’s my stepdaughter-to-be,
the only daughter of Thomas David Burrell. We will make our familyhood
official at the end of June. “—or my mother.”
I turned left from the entry hallway into the open bullpen with battered
gray desks scattered like ectoplasm from an exploded gray blob. I might
have watched a vintage sci-fi movie recently with Tamantha. She’d
criticized the science. I gawked at the effects. Not believable, but
entertaining.
Diana followed me to the third desk from the windows, the one with the
E.M. Danniher nameplate, resting her equipment bag on it. “People asking
about the wedding plans is their way of wishing you well.”
“Urging me to add pigeons is—”
“Doves.”
“—not wishing me well. It’s inviting a bird to poop on the bride. On top
of which, our esteemed school district trustee was trying to drum up
business for her son, the recently minted dove wrangler. One of forty-seven
jobs he’s had in the two years I’ve been here. I can’t even imagine how
many trees would die to print his complete resume.”
After unwinding my scarf, which had held the coat’s hood in place and
muffled my lower face, and stashing gloves fit for the Antarctic in the
pockets, I slid off my coat. People who wore jackets must not have
temperature sensors in their legs. Or they went numb at the end of
September and haven’t felt them since.
“That’s an exaggeration,” she said mildly.
“Not much. And—” I stopped and looked around. “Something’s
wrong.”
Newsrooms have atmospheres and they’re seldom subtle, certainly not
to those of us who’ve spent a lot of time in them.
In these past months, there’d been a palpable feeling of spring-like hope
in KWMT’s newsroom. It being a much happier place was not me
projecting my state of mind — or heart — now that Tom and I were
together. Instead, it was the considered opinion of every member of the staff
I talked with about the subject.
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