Death on Deadline by Robert Goldsborough

a computer terminal were behind it. At the far end of the room, some thirty-five feet away, was a light blue sofa, centered under two windows and flanked by end tables with tall lamps on them. Several light blue chairs of a style similar to the sofa were scattered around the room. On the walls hung French impressionist oils that fit in perfectly.
    The left wall was dominated by built-in bookcases and a large TV screen. On either side of the bookcases were dark wood doors.
    “Where do they lead?” I asked Lon.
    “The nearest goes to a powder room. And that far one connects with a bedroom-bathroom-kitchen suite. This is actually an apartment, and it’s where she lived most of the time. She liked being on the premises—she almost never spent the night at her place up on Park. That was more for entertaining, big parties for local muckety-mucks or visiting publishers, things like that.”
    “The body was found at the desk?”
    Lon nodded. “The gun was still in her hand.”
    We both snuck a look at the desk blotter. If there had ever been any blood there, it was gone now.
    “Whose gun?”
    “Her own. She kept it in her right-hand drawer ever since that editor got kidnapped down South some years back.”
    “Did a lot of people know it was there?”
    “I doubt it.” Lon frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t, until today. Carl Bishop’s the one who told me about it. But I suppose we’d be amazed to learn how many executives keep handguns in their offices.”
    “No argument there,” I said. “Did anyone hear the shot?”
    “Apparently not, although that’s no surprise, considering how thick the walls are—and the fact that it happened after working hours.”
    “I thought a newspaper never closed,”
    “It doesn’t, Archie—the newsroom, that is. But all the advertising, circulation, and executive offices on the upper floors are usually empty by six or so. Those of us who are still around at that hour normally head downstairs where the action is.”
    “Who found Mrs. Haverhill? And when?”
    “A guard on his rounds noticed the door to her office ajar at seven-forty and stuck his head in to see if everything was all right. The medical examiner estimated she’d been dead at least one hour.”
    “The Times story said there was no suicide note. Is that true, or did somebody cover it up?”
    “I was one of the first ones here after she was found, and there wasn’t any note then. The only others ahead of me were the guard who found her, his supervising captain, and Carl.”
    “So even though it was long past six, you and Bishop were still both on the executive floor, and not in the newsroom?”
    Lon shot a hard glance at me. “Be careful, Archie; you’re beginning to sound like Cramer. The reason we were both still in our offices was that we were waiting—that is, Carl was—for a call from Harriet, to find out how the meeting with MacLaren had gone. Satisfied?”
    “Hey, don’t get testy. I’m just trying to find out what happened. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that there wasn’t a note?”
    Lon shrugged. “Not really; lots of people end it without an explanation. What does strike me as strange is why she did it. I always figured she’d fight MacLaren to the finish.” He stared at her desk.
    “But you’re convinced it’s suicide?”
    Another shrug. “My guess is that after all the meetings yesterday, she must have realized MacLaren had enough commitments from the other family members to control the paper. She’d have lost everything she’d worked years to build. Must have been more than she could handle.”
    “Doesn’t that seem out of character?”
    “Archie, who’s to say what’s out of character when a personal crisis comes up?”
    I could have posed a dozen more questions, but I figured that was Wolfe’s province. I did, however, ask Lon to describe the position of the body when they found it, and then I spent a few more minutes looking around and poking my head into the powder room and