When you’re pushing forty, it’s always nice to be called a kid.

“Well, Mrs. Fremont, I’m sure you could,” I said, handing the bag of candy over to her. “And I know you don’t judge me. I guess I’m fretting over an idea Frank has – he wants me to meet his mother at the family Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Oh, and you’re afraid if his mother doesn’t like you, that will be that?”

I thought about her question. “I guess so. That, and the fact that I’m not sure what Frank means by bringing me home to his mother.”

She gave me a kind look. “Well, Irene, you know I’m not into this role of being some old lady who imparts her wisdom to the younger generations at the drop of a hat. But let me ask you this – do you and Frank love each other?”

I turned crimson, but answered, “Yes.”

“Well then, don’t worry about what Frank means by this invitation. Enjoy Thanksgiving – you’ve got everything you need in life, with or without his mother’s approval. Frank is no fool, Irene.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Fremont.”

“Go on to work. I’ve got to get going myself – I’ve got to carve a jack-o-lantern. Happy Halloween!”

“Same to you,” I said, getting into the car and waving as I drove off. As I made my way down the streets of Las Piernas, I was already turning my thoughts to being with Frank again. I was looking forward to sharing a pleasant evening together.

I was being optimistic.

As it turned out, that Halloween, someone was up to some very cruel tricks indeed.

THE WRIGLEY BUILDING, which houses the Express, is in downtown Las Piernas. It’s been there since the 1920s, when the father of the current editor had already turned his own father’s small rag into a good-sized paper. We are always in the shadow of the L.A. Times, but the local beach communities have appreciated our special attention to their concerns over the years, so we’re firmly entrenched along the coastline south of Los Angeles.

As I entered the building, I was greeted by Geoff, the security man, who was rumored to have been working in the building since opening day.

“Good morning, Miss Kelly,” he said. “There’s someone here who says he has an appointment with you.” I didn’t bother to return Geoff’s questioning look; he knew it was not my custom to meet people off their own turf, nor at 7:30 in the morning. I turned around and saw additional reason for Geoff’s skepticism: the person waiting for me looked to be all of sixteen. He was decked out in black from head to toe, and I doubted his hair was originally that coal black color. But the face was familiar, so I hesitated for a moment. It was a face full of that intense seriousness of purpose that seems built into adolescence.

He nervously stood up, wiping his palm on the leg of his pants before extending his hand to me. “Miss Kelly? I’m Jacob Henderson.”

Henderson. So that was why he looked familiar. Son of Brian Henderson, candidate for District Attorney. I faltered only a moment before I took the offered hand in mine and said, “Hello, Jacob. I’m so glad you’re on time.”

I turned back to Geoff, feeling bad about making him doubt his instincts, but saying, “Jacob and I are going to have a chat downstairs. I think we’ll have more privacy there.”

Geoff smiled. “Yes, Miss Kelly, I understand. Anybody asks, I’ll tell them you were in but had to leave for an interview.”

“Thanks.” I turned to Jacob. “Would you like to see the presses?”

The seriousness gave way to curiosity, and he nodded. He followed me through the maze which is the downstairs basement of the Express. “They aren’t running right now,” I said, “but you’ll get to see them, anyway. They may run a special section while we’re down here.”

“How do you know they aren’t running?”

“There’s a low rumble that runs through the whole building when they do. It’s quiet now.”

We entered the area of the basement which houses the presses. As Jacob looked around in wonder, I took a deep breath and smiled. Ink and newsprint is my favorite fragrance in all the world. I loved being down there.

Coburn, one of the operators, saw us and walked over. “How are you, Danny?” I greeted him.

“I’m great, Irene. Suzanne and I have got a new grandbaby.” He pulled out an ink-stained wallet and showed me a photo. I made appreciative noises and he beamed with pride. He put the wallet back and smiled over at Jacob. “Who you got with you?”

“This is Jacob,” I said, and they shook hands, Jacob not even flinching at the dark smudges he received. Why not, I thought. Matches the rest of his outfit. “Jacob and I need a place to talk. Can you help us out?”

“Sure, sure. I think I can manage something.” We followed him around and through the warren of machinery. We went past a cubicle with vending machines in it, and I stopped and fished some change out of my purse.

“Want a cup of coffee or a soda?” I asked Jacob.

“A Coke would be nice, thank you.”

“This early in the morning?” Coburn said.

“Why not?” I said. “In fact, I think I’ll have one too. You want anything, Danny?”

Still disbelieving, he shook his head. While I took a chance on the vending machine, Danny talked to Jacob about the presses. I watched them for a while. Jacob was clearly fascinated, and Danny enjoyed the audience. I wondered what was on the kid’s mind.

I had been covering the election since the summer, when both the mayor’s and D.A.’s races had become fairly wide open. Brian Henderson, Jacob’s father, was one of the two leading candidates for D.A. As politicians go, he was an okay sort. I knew he had made some compromises along the way in order to hold a fragile coalition of supporters together, but he still seemed able to take a stand on an issue.

I was not as impressed with his chief opponent, Brad “Monty” Montgomery. Monty struck me as the type who would do just about anything to win an election. I stopped looking for sincerity in politicians long ago, but something in my gut made me especially leery of him.

Unfortunately, the readers of the Express needed more than Irene Kelly’s gut feelings. They were being fed all sorts of contradictory information through the mail and in ads. The campaign had started out on the up and up, but with only one week to go, the mud was really flying.

Danny saw me standing there with the Cokes, and brought Jacob back over to me. “We’re going to be running a special a little later on, Irene. Will you and the lad still be here?”

“Not sure, Danny, but you know I love to watch them run.”

Coburn laughed. “That you do, that you do.” He led us to a small storage room, pulling a couple of folding chairs out of a small office. “It’s not as grand as the conference room of Wrigley’s office, but it’s a damned sight more private.”

“You’re great, Danny – thanks.”

He smiled and left. Jacob and I settled on to the metal chairs and opened our Cokes. The nervousness was back, and he fidgeted with the pop-top on the soda can.

“Okay, Jacob, I’ve interrupted my day and gone AWOL first thing this morning so you could talk to me. I have a feeling you’re supposed to be in school somewhere right now. Want to tell me why you’ve come to see me?”

“I called in sick. They won’t miss me.”

I waited.

“You’re the reporter that writes all the stuff about my dad, right?”

“Guilty.”

“Well, I need your help.”

“In what way? I have to try to write objectively, Jacob, no matter who the candidate is.”

“It’s not that.” He looked up at me, deadly earnest. “I need for you to prevent a witch hunt.”