* * *
—
“Now stand with your arms crossed,” a reporter suggested to Seymour as he put a new flashbulb in his camera. “Look tough—like whoever did this messed with the wrong guy.”
Unbelievably, it was that same reporter—the one from the cemetery. Still trying to improve his journalistic odds, he’d recently installed an illegal police radio in his car and today it had finally paid off: someone had found a small bomb in a ladies handbag over at KCTV Studios.
He took notes as Seymour explained that the bag had simply appeared on his table; he had no idea how it got there. He’d opened it to look for identification but instead found a bunch of flyers decrying Elizabeth Zott as a godless Communist and two sticks of dynamite bound together with wires so flimsy, the whole thing looked like a broken toy.
“But why in the world would someone want to bomb KCTV?” the reporter asked. “Don’t you mostly do afternoon programming? Soap operas? Clown shows?”
“We have all sorts of shows,” Seymour said, running a shaky hand over the top of his head. “But ever since one of our hosts mentioned she doesn’t believe in God, we’ve had some trouble.”
“What?” the reporter said incredulously. “Who doesn’t believe in God? What kind of show are we talking about?”
“Seymour—Seymour!” Walter Pine called as he and a police officer pushed their way through a small throng of worried employees. “Seymour, thank god you’re all right. After what you did—you risked your life!”
“I’m fine, Mr. Pine,” Seymour said. “And I didn’t do anything. Not really.”
“Actually, Mr. Browne,” the officer said, consulting his notes, “you did. This lady’s been on our radar for a while. She’s a die-hard McCarthyist, a real nut job. Said she’s been sending death threats for months now.” He closed his notebook. “Guess she was tired of being ignored.”
“Death threats?” The reporter perked up. “So this is—what— a news show? Political opinion? Debate?”
“Cooking,” Walter said.
“If you hadn’t gotten hold of that bag, Mr. Browne, this day might have ended very differently. How’d you do it, anyway?” the officer pressed. “How’d you get the bag without her knowing?”
“That’s what I keep telling everyone. I didn’t,” Seymour insisted. “It was just sitting on my table.”
“You’re being too modest,” Walter said, patting him on the back.
“The mark of a true hero,” the police officer nodded.
“My editor is going to eat this up,” the reporter said.
From a distance, Six-Thirty lay in a corner watching the men, exhausted.
“Just a few more photos and that should—” Out of the corner of his eye the reporter spied Six-Thirty. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t I know that dog? I know that dog.”
“Everyone knows that dog,” Seymour said. “He’s on the show.”
The reporter looked at Walter, confused. “I thought you said this was a cooking show.”
“It is.”
“A dog on a cooking show? What does the dog do exactly?”
Walter hesitated. “Nothing,” he admitted. But as the words hung in the air, he suddenly felt awful.
From across the room, Six-Thirty’s eyes met his. He wasn’t a dog person, but even Walter could see: the mutt was crushed.
Chapter 36
Life and Death
“Big news!” Walter said a week later, his body trembling with excitement as he joined Elizabeth, Harriet, Madeline, and Amanda at the table. This had become a regular occurrence—Sunday night dinner in Elizabeth’s lab. “Life magazine called today. They want to do a cover story!”
“Not interested,” Elizabeth said.
“But it’s Life!”
“They’ll want personal details—things that are no one’s business. I know how this works.”
“Look,” Walter said. “We really need this. The death threats have ended, but we could use some positive exposure.”
“No.”
“You’ve turned down every single magazine, Elizabeth. You can’t keep doing this.”
“I’d happily talk with Chemistry Today.”
“Yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Fantastic. Not exactly our target audience, but I’m so desperate, I actually called them.”
“And?” she said eagerly.