Death on a Deadline

taking that day might be in order.
    She shredded the tissue into strips as if she were about to embark on a papier-mâché adventure, then peered up at me, looking much older than her sixty-something years. “I’d rather feel the pain than lose who I am.”
    “I understand, but—”
    Her trembling hand closed on mine. “You’re a sweet girl, Jenna. I appreciate you.”
    “Thanks, Marge.” I cleared my throat. What I was about to do bordered on taking advantage—and I had to admit that clearing Zac’s name was my biggest motivator. Still, if I could find the murderer and by doing that, give Marge peace, my conscience could stand the hammering. “I noticed you had an ad in the paper for a part-time position.” I smiled gently. “I have good grammar skills and at least a little common sense.”
    “Why didn’t I think of that?” Marge murmured, almost as if she were talking to herself. “I know you were a coach, but didn’t you teach, too?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” “Yes, ma’am.” Physical education and swimming, but does she really need to know that?
    “You’d be perfect.”
    “Really?” All of my persuasive arguments, along with the crisp résumé in my purse—useless. Was there such a thing as too easy? “What does the position entail?”
    “Before I tell you, you have to give me your word that you won’t share this secret with anyone.”
    “Does that include Carly? If I can guarantee she won’t repeat it?” I knew myself. I was going to tell Carly whatever it was. And I had enough guilt for taking advantage of Marge’s grief. I wasn’t about to start out our professional relationship by lying to her.
    Marge seemed to think it over, then sighed. “No one should be expected to keep a secret from her sister. Especially not when they’re close. You can tell Carly. But no one else. Agreed?” In the dim light, the firm set of her jaw reminded me of Hank. Maybe she wasn’t as fragile as she seemed.
    I agreed, and for the next ten minutes, Marge allowed me into the magical, mysterious world of the local advice columnist, Dear Prudence, also known as Dear Pru. Dear Pru was required to sign a legally binding confidentiality contract promising to keep his or her identity secret or face legal consequences. Hank had to let the last Dear Pru go due to irresponsible answers. He’d been handling the letters himself for the last few weeks.
    Marge was anxious to fill the position, and before I left her house, I had a key to the newspaper office and a part-time job moonlighting at the paper. Literally. Eventually I would do most of my work from home, but in the beginning I’d be using the letters already received and sorted in a file at the office. While there, I could look through the past questions and answers to familiarize myself with the job. I agreed to work during that rare time no one was at the office—Tuesday nights after five. Marge officially hired me for a night-shift typist position I could use as a cover in the unlikely event someone ran into me then.
    My mind reeled with the possibilities by the time I got to my car. In order to go undercover to investigate the newspaper office, I’d just taken an undercover job working for the newspaper. Did that make me a double agent? Or a crazy woman with more curiosity than brains?

Seven

    When Carly and I arrived at the country club early Saturday morning, Alex and Elliott were standing beside two golf carts at the edge of the course, chatting like old friends. Alex waved and motioned us over, then went back to talking. Elliott, strikingly handsome, in a broad-shouldered Pierce Brosnan way, seemed genuinely interested in Alex’s conversation. I would have never guessed he was getting paid for his time if I wasn’t the one paying him.
    “They look like they stepped off the pages of Golf Digest ,” I muttered to Carly as we walked through the breezeway toward the men. “And here I am, straight from the clearance section in Uniforms R Us.”
    “Oh, sweetie, you’d look good in anything.” Carly looked down at herself. “I don’t know why I wore this. I’m a walking flag. One of those extra large ones.”
    “You silly goose, you could double for a finalist in the Miss Fourth of July pageant.” For some unknown reason, Carly had decided to go patriotic today. Red, white, and blue from her stars-and-stripes sun visor down to her little flag-adorned red toenails peeking out of her walking sandals. I teased her, but I had to admit the