Deaths Excellent Vacation

want you to quit hammering Peert.”
    “I’m told we’ve got satellite difficulties in Los Angeles, where the Kirks live, so we’ll wrap it up for this evening.” And then she ended the Jason Kirk segments as she always did: “Jason, I will never stop searching for the truth, and I hope we can bring you home, safe and sound.” And she held her noble, dignified stance—she was justice without the blindfold—letting the viewers drink her in as they cut to her theme song and logo.
     
     
    THE post-broadcast tantrum was a thing of beauty: Nora raged at the ingratitude of the Kirks, at the unwelcome (and unprofessional) steeliness of Peert, at the stupid hotel maid who probably hadn’t seen anything at all and now had thrown Nora’s show into a tailspin, at the fates. When she was done, Molly got her a glass of water and a sedative. Nora gulped both.
    “Peert wasn’t supposed to be all uppity,” Nora said.
    “He got tired of being your whipping boy,” Molly crossed her arms. “Did you think he’d dance to your tune forever? He’s fighting back. He’s tired of the abuse.”
    “Abuse? I think you meant to say my investigation .”
    “Nora, maybe it’s time to find a new case for you to . . . investigate. Maybe Jason didn’t vanish on vacation.” That phrase had been Nora’s lead for the first two months of Jason’s disappearance. “He could be in hiding. He could be shacked up with a woman. He could have been smoking weed in the mountains of Sint Pieter for the past three months, watching his face on the news. This one is getting ugly.”
    “No. This one is getting good. Maybe this is all, like, you know, The Bourne Identity ,” Nora said.
    “What?” Molly said.
    “Maybe he got hurt and he doesn’t know who he is,” Nora said. She sounded like a woman awakening from a dream. “Oh, yes. Wouldn’t that be great? That would be a story. Then I could bring him home. Get me a doctor who knows a lot about amnesia.”
    “Amnesia. Please be kidding.”
    “I don’t kid. Humor and justice are not friends, Molly.” She crossed her arms. She was going to get control of this story back; November sweeps were imminent. “We’re going to Sint Pieter. Make the arrangements.”
    “Sint Pieter?” Molly stared at her.
    Honestly, Nora thought, she did see two ears on the sides of Molly’s head. If only a brain nestled between them. “Yes, hon. Peert’s dragging his feet; we have a legitimate witness, it seems. And the day after tomorrow is the three-month anniversary of the night Jason vanished. I feel the story demands my presence. Go get the travel booked. Me, the film crew, makeup, and”—feeling magnanimous, and realizing someone would have to deal with the front desk and the security escorts and the autograph seekers—“you for director.”
    “Should we let Jason’s family know you’re doing this broadcast?”
    Nora’s eyes glittered. “I want them there. Get them in the same room they stayed in when Jason vanished. And me the penthouse.”
    “Um, I know the Kirks are having money problems. They’ve been away from work, you know, spending so much time in Sint Pieter looking for their son . . . I don’t know if they can afford another trip back.”
    “They told you this?” It had not occurred to Nora that anyone on her staff might have developed a friendship with the Kirks. Nora thought Molly simply told them when and where to be for their satellite interviews with Nora.
    “Yes.”
    “Hmmm. All right. Given that it’s the anniversary, we can pay for them to go. Book coach for all but you and me. We’ll have work to do on the way down. I want every bit of dirt we can find on the good Inspector Peert and on this Annie Van Dorn.”
    “All right, Nora. But if you can spare me during the flight, I think I’ll sit in coach with the Kirks.”
    “No. It’s not appropriate for you to get too close, too emotionally involved with the story.”
    Molly stared at her. “I just feel so sorry for them.”
    “And I don’t?”
    Molly’s face paled. “Of course not. I never meant to suggest . . .”
    Nora’s voice was a drip of acid. “On second thought, put the Kirks in first class with me. We can talk. You can ride in coach with the film crew.” Nora waved fingers at Molly. “Go. Book tickets; find an amnesia expert who wants a little attention. Maybe one with a book to promote?”
     
     
    SINT Pieter was, to Nora’s mind, a strip of lousy dirt that South America had hawked up