She, along with more than half the staff, had worked for the paper since he'd been a boy. And plenty of them, he knew, continued to see the Dispatch as his mother's paper.

If not his grandfather's.

There were times when he resented it, times when he despaired of it, and times when it simply amused him.

He couldn't decide which reaction he was having at the moment. All he could think was that Rhoda scared the hell out of him.

The best he could do was not think about it, or her, and settle in to polish his article on the meeting he'd attended the night before. A proposed stoplight at Market and Spruce, a debate over the budget and the need to repair the sidewalks on Main. And a rather spirited argument regarding the highly controversial notion of installing parking meters on Main to help pay for those repairs.

Flynn did what he could to inject a little energy into the subject matter and still stay true to the reporter's code of objectivity.

The Dispatch wasn't exactly the Daily Planet , he reflected. But then again, he wasn't exactly Perry White. Nobody around here would ever call him Chief. Even without Rhoda's periodic snits, he wasn't certain that anyone, including himself, really believed he was in charge.

His mother cast a very long shadow. Elizabeth Flynn Hennessy Steele. Even her name cast a very long shadow.

He loved her. Of course he did. Most of the time he even liked her. They'd butted heads plenty when he was growing up, but he'd always respected her. You had to respect a woman who ran her life and her business with equal fervor, and expected everyone else to do the same.

Just as you had to give her credit for stepping out of that business when necessity demanded it. Even if she had dumped it in her reluctant son's lap.

She'd dumped it all, including, he thought with a wary glance toward Rhoda's desk, surly reporters.

She was filing her nails instead of working, he noted. Baiting him. File away, he thought. Today's not the day we square off, you cranky old bat.

But that day soon will come.

He was deep into adjusting the layout on page 1 of section B when Dana walked in.

"Not even a cursory knock. No flirtatious little head peek in the door. Just stomp right in."

"I didn't stomp. I've got to talk to you, Flynn." She threw herself into a chair, then glanced around. "Where's Moe?"

"It's backyard day for the Moe."

"Oh, right."

"And maybe you could go by, hang out with him for a while this afternoon. Then maybe you could throw together some dinner, so I'd come home to a hot meal."

"Sure, that'll happen."

"Listen, I've had a rough morning, I've got a goddamn headache, and I've got to finish this layout."

Dana pursed her lips as she studied him. "Rhoda sniping at you again?"

"Don't look," Flynn snapped before Dana could turn around. "You'll just encourage her."

"Flynn, why don't you just fire her ass? You take entirely too much crap off her."

"She's been with the Dispatch since she was eighteen. That's a long time. Now, while I appreciate you dropping in to tell me how to handle my employee problems, I need to finish this."

Dana just stretched out her endless legs. "She really stirred you up this time, huh?"

"Fuck it." He blew out a breath, then yanked open his desk drawer to hunt up a bottle of aspirin.

"You do a good job here, Flynn."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered as he dug a bottle of water out of another drawer.

"Shut up. I'm serious. You're good at what you do. As good as Liz was. Maybe better at some areas of it because you're more approachable. Plus you're a better writer than anybody you've got on staff." He eyed her while he washed the aspirin down. "What brought this on?"

"You look really bummed." She couldn't stand to see him seriously unhappy. Irritated, confused, pissed off, or surly was fine. But it hurt her heart to see misery etched on his face. "Pleasant Valley needs the Dispatch , and the Dispatch needs you. It doesn't need Rhoda. And I bet knowing that just sticks in her craw."

"You think?" The idea of that smoothed out the raw edges. "The sticking-in-the-craw part, I mean."

"You bet. Feel better?"

"Yeah." He capped the water bottle, dropped it back in the drawer. "Thanks."

"My second good deed for the day. I've just spent an hour at Malory's, and another twenty minutes wandering around trying to decide if I should dump on you or just keep it between us girls."

"If it has to do with hairstyles, monthly cycles, or the upcoming Red Tag sale at the mall, keep it between you girls."

"That's so incredibly sexist, I'm not even going to… what Red Tag sale?"

"Watch for the ad in tomorrow's Dispatch . Is something wrong with Malory?"

"Good question. She had a dream, only she doesn't believe it was a dream."

Dana related the discussion before digging in her bag for the typed account Malory had given her. "I'm worried about her, Flynn, and I'm starting to worry about me, because she's got me half convinced that she's right."

"Quiet a minute." He read it through twice, then sat back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "What if she is right?"

Exasperation spiked into her voice. "Do I have to start playing Scully to your Mulder? We're talking about gods and sorcery and the capture of souls."

"We're talking about magic, about possibilities. And possibilities should always be explored. Where is she now?"

"She said she was going to The Gallery, to do some research on the painting."

"Good. Then she's sticking with the plan." "You didn't see her."

"No, but I will. What about you? Dig anything up?"

"I'm tugging a few lines."

"Okay, let's all meet at my place tonight. Let Zoe know, I'll tell Mal." When Dana frowned at him, he only smiled. "You came to me, honey. I'm in it now."

"I really owe you for this…"

"Oh, sweetheart, any day I can do something behind the bimbo-nazi's back is a day of celebration."

Still, Tod cast a cautious look right and left before he opened the door to what had once been Malory's office and was now Pamela's domain.

"Oh, God, what has she done to my space?"

"Hideous, isn't it?" Tod actually shuddered. "It's like the walls vomited Louis XIV. My only satisfaction is that she actually has to look at this when she comes in."

The room was jammed full. The curvy desk, the tables, the chairs, and two tasseled ottomans all vied for space on a rug that screamed with red and gold. The walls were covered with paintings overpowered by thick, ornate gold frames, and statuary, ornamental bowls and boxes, glassware and whatnots crowded every flat surface.

Each piece, Malory noted, was a small treasure in itself. But packing it all together in this limited space made it look like someone's very expensive garage sale.

"How does she manage to get anything done?"

"She has her slaves and minions—meaning me, Ernestine, Julia, and Franco. Simone Legree sits up here on her throne and gives orders. You had a lucky escape, Mai."

"Maybe I did." But still, it had been a wrench to come through the front door again, knowing she no longer belonged.

Not knowing where she belonged.

"Where is she now?"

"Lunch at the club." Tod checked his watch. "You've got two hours."

"I won't need that much. I need the client list," she said as she headed for the computer on the desk.

"Oooh, are you going to steal clients from under her rhinoplasty?"

"No. Hmm, happy thought, but no. I'm trying to pin down the artist on a particular painting. I need to see who we have that buys in that style. Then I need our files on paintings with mythological themes. Damn it, she's changed the password."

"It's mine."

"She uses your password?"

"No—M-I-N-E." He shook his head. "She wrote it down so she wouldn't forget it—after she forgot two other passwords. I happened to, ah, come across the note."

"I love you, Tod," Malory exclaimed as she keyed it in.

"Enough to tell me what this is all about?"

"More than enough, but I'm in kind of a bind about that. A couple of people I'd have to talk to first." She worked fast, locating the detailed client list, copying it to the disk she'd brought with her. "I swear I'm not using this for anything illegal or unethical."

“That's a damn shame."

She chuckled at that, then opened her bag to offer him a look at the printout she'd made from the digital photo. "Do you recognize this painting?"

"Hmm, no. But something about the style."

"Exactly. Something about the style. I can't quite place it, but it's nagging at me. I've seen this artist's work before, somewhere." When the file was copied, she switched to another, put in a fresh disk. "If you remember, give me a call. Day or night."

"Sounds urgent."

"If I'm not having a psychotic episode, it may very well be."

"Does this have anything to do with M. F. Hennessy? Are you working on a story for the paper?"

She goggled. "Where did that come from?"

"You were seen having dinner with him the other night. I hear everything," Tod added.

"It doesn't have anything to do with him, not directly. And no, I'm not writing a story. Do you know Flynn?"

"Only in my dreams. He's very hot."

"Well… I think I might be dating him. I wasn't going to, but I seem to be."

"Lip lock?"

"Several of them."

"Rating?"