Page 14 of Reptile Dysfunction
“Good morning, Suzie! Good morning, Mrs. Windstrop!” I call back, breaking out into a wide smile.
The moment I pass them, though, the frown I was wearing earlier slips back into place.
Charlotte Lieberman seems intent on bringing me down, and while I understand her job is to investigate potential scandals, I can’t help but wonder what she has against me, given my squeaky-clean track record. To be honest, I’d expected better from the Herald’s star reporter, especially given her background in Chicago. Can’t she tell the difference between a good politician and a bad one after all her recent investigating?
My thoughts are cut short as I arrive at the local library, ready for the Mayor’s Monthly Storytime. A group of kids are already gathered, and I decide this is exactly the thing I need to get my mind off things. Plus, some good publicity doesn’t hurt.
I spy Fred Lewis in the crowd and give him a smile and a nod, hoping he might put in a good word for me with Charlotte, or at least write a nice article about the good I’m actually doing, not the bad I’m supposedly doing.
“Good morning, kids!” I call out to the crowd of children sitting eagerly on the library’s carpeted floor. “Are you ready for a story?”
“Yes!” cry fifty tiny voices, along with the fluttering of several pairs of wings and the rustling of at least eight sets of tentacles.
“Wonderful,” I reply with a grin. “Then let’s get started. Today’s story is the story of the Big Bad Wolf and the three mean little pigs who wouldn’t let him eat them.”
The kids go wild again as I pick up the book and settle into the story chair. The story session goes well, and I’m feeling significantly better once it’s over. That is, until I chat with Fred as I’m heading out.
“Good to see you,” I tell him. “And I’m glad you’re branching out to more complex articles. Not that I don’t love Fred’s Thoughts, but I see you have the potential to really get into journalism proper.”
Fred grins widely. “Thanks, Mayor Wendall. It’s actually all thanks to Charlotte. She’s been teaching me everything she knows,” he tells me.
Hearing Charlotte’s name plunges me back into the consternation I felt earlier, and I hurry through the rest of the conversation with Fred, suddenly eager to get out of there.
The next stop on today’s agenda is a meeting with the city councilors to discuss the latest stage of planning for Pickle Fest.
“How’s everything coming along?” I ask Barry, the treasurer, once the niceties are out of the way.
“Well, I have good news,” he tells us with a wide grin. “I had a very promising meeting with Mick’s Pickles, and they think they can get us a deal. If it goes through, that means we can get almost twice as many pickles for the same price as last year!”
The table erupts into applause as councilors clap Barry on the back, trying their best to avoid the ridge of spikes that protrude from his spine.
“Well done, Barry,” I say once the noise has died down. “That’s excellent news. We want this year’s Pickle Fest to be the best yet.”
“And it will be!” Sandra jumps in. “I’ve just got word that Dill Cucumis has agreed to be our headline act!”
Another round of celebrations runs through the meeting room, and even my snakes hiss approvingly. Dill Cucumis is the biggest performer of pickle-based music in the whole state, and the fact he’s agreed to play the Curiosity Pickle Fest is more than we could possibly have hoped for.
“Ooh, I hope he plays ‘Red, Red Brine!’” squeals Anabelle.
“As long as I get to hear ‘Message in a Pickle Jar,’ I’ll be happy,” replies Barry, a massive grin on his face.
“Great work, Sandra,” I say, trying to keep the meeting moving. “And what do we have in terms of marketing?”
“Well,” begins Annabelle, now that she’s calmed down about Dill Cucumis. “As always, I thought we’d start with full coverage in the Herald for the month leading up to the festival. We can have a front-page piece on each of the main attractions.”
“One week for Dill Cucumis, one week for the pickle sports, one week for the gourmet pickle-tasting fair, and one for the Pickle Blimp,” she continues. “And since there’s that new hot-shot journalist in town, I thought we could request she cover it. What’s her name? Sharon?”
Annabelle looks at me proudly, and I have to use all my PR training to remain smiling serenely rather than frowning at the thought.
“Charlotte,” I say as evenly as I can. “Charlotte Lieberman.”
“Yes! That’s her!” replies Annabelle, clearly oblivious to my plight. “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve thought this strategy through very well,” I tell her diplomatically. “But it’s probably best to leave the assignment for Eddie to decide on. He’ll know who’s best for the job.”
I manage to get through the rest of the meeting smoothly, and without another mention of Charlotte, but by the time it’s over, I can’t think of anything else. It’s clear there’s no way of avoiding this woman, and for a moment, I wonder if approaching her and clearing the air would be the best move.
I wander back through the city hall to my office, where Deborah has three more notes from well-meaning friends calling in about Charlotte’s insistent snooping.