We stare at each other for a second. “Come with me,” she says, waving me through the door into a tiny vestibule. The office is nothing like I imagined it; in the corner there’s an actual child’s desk, the kind with a flip top.
She plops down on the tiny chair. “You can go ahead, his office is right over there.”
I look down the long hall, which leads to the front door, and wonder how many times he brought Ruth here, to his office. It’s probably one of the tallest buildings in Friendship, come to think about it—the kind of place that most business owners would split up into multiple offices and rent out. Did Jim Steele get off on telling Ruth he owned the whole building and only used a quarter of it? I wonder if she came in the side door instead of the front, like clients, so people wouldn’t notice. I wonder if that ever made her feel ashamed.
I got an email this morning from her mom:
Dear Kippy,
How are things going with the journal? I know the handwriting is difficult (she gets it from her father). I was wondering if you could send the redacted version to me here in Canada so I can use it in my therapy sessions. If not, no worries.
Sincerely, Mrs. F
She wrote “gets” instead of “got,” like Ruth is still alive. In my head I sort of do the same thing sometimes—referring to Colt as her ex-boyfriend, like maybe she broke up with him instead of died.
Dear Mrs. Fried,
I am not ready yet.
Love, Kippy
There are taxidermied animals all around his office: pheasants and foxes wearing sunglasses, a deer lying on its side in a sexy pose, propping up its head with its hoof. Jim Steele is sitting behind a big, shiny red desk. He’s tapping his fingertips together, which is kind of gross, actually, because he’s got these superlong fingernails shaped like guitar picks. I try staring at the giant dream catcher on the wall behind him.
“Welcome, young cub!” he booms, pointing a long, yellowing nail at a chair in the middle of the room. He’s got bright-blue eyes above a salt-and-pepper mustache. “I hear you’ve gotten into a bit of trouble—what was it, trespassing, loitering, public urination? In any case, you’ve come in need of Big Bad Uncle Jimmy’s legal advice. Please, sit.” All of a sudden I picture him and Ruth making out. Him chomping on her face with his furry mouth. “What’s wrong, Ms. Bushman, are you ill?”
“So basically I’m doing this yearbook page for my best friend Ruth Fried and was wondering if I could get a quote from you,” I blurt.
He taps his fingernails together. “Essentially, you came here under false pretenses.”
“Wait—”
“Do you know how much my time costs?”
“No.” But I know you knew my friend. I turn on my Dictaphone.
He smirks. “In New York, I would charge seven hundred twenty-five dollars per hour to deal with your bullshit.”
“Your secretary didn’t say anything—”
“In Friendship the first visit is free otherwise no one in this godforsaken town would show up,” he snaps, frowning.
“So then after that is it seven hundred twenty-five dollars an hour?” I ask, curious. “I just don’t see people around here paying that—it’s as much as a four-wheeler—”
“I said New York, for God’s sake—what is the point of this?” He bangs his fist on the table, and I jump. He’s got some anger issues.
“So—” I glance at my belt to make sure the Dictaphone is really on. It is. He’s on the record now. I’m pretty sure if Diane Sawyer were here, she’d say, Kippy Bushman, you are an actual genius with incredibly smooth moves.
I smile. “You’re a pretty important man, huh?” Davey and I practiced with the Dictaphone before coming over and you could hear stuff really clearly even when one of us was speaking softly. “An important man with tons of fancy money, am I right?” Best to start with compliments. Loosen him up.
“I’m a great man.” He smirks again. “Many people think this means that I should be like Jesus and welcome every visitor with open arms—that I should sit and listen patiently to every question about every bullshit subject in the universe.” His fingernails click against the red enamel. “Are you in trouble or not, Bushman? I only want to talk to you if you’re damaged in some way and can pay me—does that make sense? This is not a Girl Scout welcoming center. I do not want your cookies.”
“Um.” I’m pretty sure that these metaphors are nonsense and Jim Steele is a crazy person, but I try to keep him talking. “I’ve been trespassing a little.”
His face softens. “Did you bring cash for a retainer? How much is the fine? My secretary tells me everyone you’ve ever loved has died—forgive me, but high school gossip can be beneficial.” He gestures at the reclining deer. “I like to think nothing ever really dies. But there is no better weapon than tears, Ms. Bushman. You’ll end up paying me more than the fines to get a clean record, but it’ll be worth it for things like college applications—does that make sense?” He smiles at me.
I wriggle in my seat, suddenly very uncomfortable, and try to stick to the script. “By trespassing I mean I know about you and Ruth. I want to get a nice quote from you about her for the yearbook or else I’ll tell everyone about the . . . sex things you had together.” I can feel my face getting red.
I expect him to slam his fist on the table, or at least to clear his throat, but instead he bursts into laughter. “Oh, you little bitch.”
I reach into my bag and grab Ruth’s diary, which I put on my lap. “I have proof right here, in Ruth’s journal.”
“Give me that.” He folds his hands together on top of his desk, waiting for me to pass over the diary. His eyes are hard and cold, like a stuffed animal’s. The irises are huge. “What do you want from me, money?”
I touch the Dictaphone. “So you admit it? And now you’re trying to bribe me so no one finds out?”
He wheels his chair a few steps over and pushes the office door shut. “How much money is it going to take, sweetheart?”
I sort of want to see how much money he would actually give me, but I’m on record, too, and it’s best to sound squeaky clean. Last night I did a bunch of Googling, researching investigative tools and strategies. I’m starting to think I could be more than a journalist even. Like maybe I could out—Diane Sawyer Diane Sawyer. “That’s not what I’m after,” I snap. I rifle through the journal to the dog-eared pages that mention his name. “Here, look.”
Jim Steele yanks the diary from my fingers, looking tense. He plucks reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and unfolds them with one shake. “Hm.” He gazes intently at the entry, then grins. “Are you kidding me with this?” He removes his spectacles. “I can’t even tell what language this is in. It’s illegible chicken scratch.” He stands and goes to the window, dropping the diary in my lap as he walks by. “I know the law, Ms. Bushman—and this diary doesn’t mean shit.” He starts pacing, chuckling under his breath. “Ruth was eighteen. She could make her own decisions. Not that anything happened.” He stops pacing and glances at me. ”Now get out before I call the police.”
I can feel sweat slip down my biceps. Time to bluff. “Quick question: How does it make you feel that I’ve got proof you weren’t just sexing with her but you killed her, too?”
He charges toward me, and when he reaches down into my lap I scream, thinking he’s going to rape me or something. That’s when I see him grab the Dictaphone and smash it in one fell swoop against the desk.
“There we go,” he says, shaking pieces of plastic off his bright red palm. “I don’t need that chicken-scratch diary because it’s inadmissible—and I’m offended, I’m deeply offended that you would accuse me of something so craven.” His eyes are red. “Ruth . . . I . . . She . . . It’s none of your business.” He clears his throat, smooths his tie, and crosses to the door. “Time to leave now, I think, little bear. Our time together is past.”