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and Mrs. Watson with “a reprehensible cat fight that left my new lavender blouse ruined.”
    I was surprised to see that even Myra merited some ink. Actually, this entry was about a particular fight Myra had with her late husband, Carl.
    There they were at the steakhouse in Abingdon. Annabelle was waitressing that night and saw the whole thing. Now, everybody knows Carl Jenkins is a cheapskate. He pinches his pennies so tight, you can hear Lincoln holler. I think this night was either their anniversary or Myra’s birthday, and she was of a mind to splurge.
    The waitress—not Annabelle but another girl—came over to take their order.
    “We’ll have two of your specials,” Carl said.
    “I don’t believe I’m in the mood for that this evening,” Myra told the waitress. “I believe I will have me a filet mignon cooked medium well and a baked potato with sour cream and butter.”
    “I don’t believe you will,” Carl said to Myra.
    His telling her she couldn’t have what she wanted flew all over Myra.
    My doorbell rang. I looked down at my pajamas and hoped it was Violet at the door.
    “Who is it?” I called.
    “It’s Ben. Ben Jacobs.”
    “Um, give me just a minute.” I raced to the bedroom, put Mrs. Watson’s diary on my nightstand and pulled on a track suit.
    “Did I come at a bad time?” Ben asked when I opened the door. He looked the same, only older: same light brown hair falling into his pale blue eyes, same lanky build, same lopsided smile.
    “No, not really. I—”
    “I realize I should’ve called first. May I come in?”
    “Of course.” I stepped aside.
    “Nice place.”
    “Thank you,” I said. “What brings you by?”
    “I feel terrible about being so insensitive this afternoon.” He grinned sheepishly.
    “Insensitive?”
    “Yeah. I should’ve never compared Mrs. Watson to . . .well, you know . . . a dead animal. How callous can a guy get?”
    We moved into the living room, and I invited him to sit down. He sat down on the couch, and I offered him some tea. He declined, and with small talk dispensed with, he returned to the topic of Yodel Watson.
    “I suppose it’s all these years of journalism,” Ben said. “You learn to remove the emotional element from stories, and you become jaded. Sometimes that makes you come across as cold, but I certainly didn’t mean any harm by it.”
    “No, I understand. You remembered how freaked out I used to get by dead animals, and you knew I’d be terribly affected by finding a dead person.”
    “Exactly. Then you don’t think I’m a monster?”
    “Not at all.” I was sitting in the pink and white club chair, and I tucked my legs under in the fashion Lucas and Leslie would call “crisscross applesauce.”
    “Do you enjoy journalism?” I asked.
    “Love it . . . though sometimes I hanker for the meatier stories of a larger paper.” He smiled. “There’s only so much a body can say about the Christmas parade and the county fair, you know.”
    “You long for the bright lights and big city, huh?”
    “Sometimes. I mean, small town life has its advantages, too.”
    “Yeah,” I said with a laugh, “with so many people willing to gossip, you probably never have to dig very deep for a story.”
    Ben laughed as well. “That’s for sure. I’ve even heard that Mrs. Watson had written a book that would make our little town seem like a veritable Peyton Place.”
    “I’d love to get my hands on that,” I said.
    “You and me both.”
    “If you’re interested in covering more hard-hitting stories, then why don’t you send out some resumes? Surely, with your experience—”
    “Ah, it’s a little late in the game to switch teams.”
    “I wouldn’t be too quick to say that. Look at me.”
    “Yes, but you have more courage than most of us. Besides, I freelance some. That gives me the opportunity to focus on some bigger stories.”
    “That’s good.”
    “How’s the cake decorating business working out?”
    I sighed.