Miracle Man by Hildy Fox Page A

quite
useful in the past, though not for the reasons its editors might have hoped
for. It had often served as kindling in her fireplace.
    Now Lahra sat in the
reception area of the modest Riverbank Gazzette office building, leafing
absent-mindedly through yesterday's edition. The bulk of the stories were
pretty much as Lahra had always remembered them. Farmers' complaints, senior
citizens' activities, university issues, craft markets. The kind of lightweight
stories found in any number of country towns around the globe.
    Wally sat next to her,
reading over her shoulder. She went to turn the page but he stopped her.
    "Wait, wait! That's him
there," he said pointing to a byline on the page. "Malcolm
McGuire!"
    Lahra looked at the article.
She read the headline aloud: " 'Holy Service Visitation by Holy Cow.' "
She then read on: " 'The congregation at Charlotte Anglican Church had
its hymns upstaged last Sunday morning when a stray cow meandered into the
church and made its way to the altar. People watched disbelievingly as the cow,
belonging to local farmer Mr Colin Wright, made Sunday brunch of the floral
arrangements.' " Lahra lowered the paper. "Well this friend of
yours sure has a feel for important social issues."

 
    "Believe me,"
Wally assured, "Malcolm knows this business. He's worked in Edinburgh,
London, Seoul, everywhere. He's written some pretty big stories in his time.
And besides, we don't have anybody else who can help us at such short
notice."
    "Walter!" a voice
boomed, making both of them jump. Lahra turned to see a short, elderly man with
wispy red hair approaching them, arms outstretched. "It's been way too
long, old friend! How the devil are you?"
    Wally stood, smiling
broadly, and the two men embraced, patting each other heavily on the back.
''I'm good, Malcolm. And as usual you look healthy enough to hurl a few
telephone poles up Main Street."
    The two men laughed, and
Lahra stood. Malcolm must only have been an inch taller than her. He looked at
her with a smile and winked at Wally.
    "Ah, I see you're
dating again!" he quipped in his Scottish lilt. "Do I get an
introduction?"
    "Malcolm, this is my
dear old friend Lahra Brook. Lahra, Malcolm McGuire."
    "Hello Mr
McGuire," Lahra said, shaking his hand.
    "Malcolm, please,"
he corrected her. "And you may be a dear friend of Walter, here, but if
anyone's old, believe me, it's him!"
    The three of them laughed.
Then Malcolm smiled at Lahra, almost sadly. "Walter's actually mentioned
you quite a bit over the years. I was working here when your parents passed
away. Sad news indeed. Very sad."
    "Thank you."
    "We've actually got
some pressing business," Wally explained. "Could we go somewhere to
talk?"
    "Of course! Enter the
plush surroundings of the most noble Riverbank Gazzette!"

 
    Malcolm ushered them into
the small, paper-strewn room that was his office as senior journalist and
sub-editor. He cleared a couple of chairs and sat them down. For fifteen
minutes, Lahra went into detail about the Miracle Cinema situation. Malcolm
listened with all of the attention of an eager cadet on his first assignment.
When she finished her story, he played with his bottom lip and rotated a few
times in his swivelling chair.
    "What was that fella's
name, again?” he asked.
    "Marcus Dean."
    "Is he tall?"
    "About six two,"
Lahra estimated.
    "I figured as
much," Malcolm said disapprovingly. "It's always the tall ones."
    "So what can we
do?" Lahra prompted.
    "Okay. Good thing
you're here now and not an hour later or we'd miss material deadlines for
tomorrow's paper. We can do the online edition any old time, but most folks in
these parts like their paper. Sounds like this Marcus wants to get in and do
his business as quickly and quietly as possible, so it's our job to make a bit
of noise. He must have council approval, and to have got that he must have
already given public notice of his intentions. Probably some little ad in the
personal columns that nobody would read anyway, let