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“Sure.” Closing the door, the man moved into the room and took a seat beside Mark.
Mark spread the sheets out in front of Joe. “It appears that there’s an irregularity in the payroll entries. I haven’t gone into the detail journal yet—that’s on my agenda for next week—but this was too troublesome to leave until then. It’s always for the same amount—” Mark circled a number on the pad where he’d been doodling “—and it’s happened on a number of occasions over the past year. Can you explain it?”
The man shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. When he replied, his tone was cautious. “I’m aware of the discrepancy. But it might be better if you talk with Abby about it.”
“Okay.” A beat of silence passed as Mark regarded the man. “I can do that if you’d rather not discuss it.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be uncooperative. It’s just that…I think she’s in a better position to explain the situation. It’s nothing illegal. You’ll see that when you check the detail journal.”
Instead of replying, Mark gathered up the spreadsheets and slipped them into a file. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to get much out of the Gazette’s accountant. And he didn’t want to miss his plane. But now he was more curious than ever. If no impropriety was involved, why was the man uncomfortable?
“I’ll stop in and see Abby on my way out.”
“Listen, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help with this.”
“No problem. You pointed me in the right direction.”
As Joe left the room, Mark switched off his computer, double-checked his flight time, then stood and strode toward Abby’s office, file in hand. She was on the phone when he appeared at her door, but she motioned him in.
“Okay. Thanks, Dale. Talk to you soon.” Abby replaced the receiver and looked up at Mark. “Heading out?”
“In a few minutes. But I found something a bit odd in the books, and when I asked Joe about it he referred me to you.”
“What is it?”
Mark withdrew the spreadsheets from the file and pointed out the payroll entries. “There’s a discrepancy of exactly the same amount on these particular weeks.”
After a quick glance at the reports, Abby looked back at Mark. “Have you checked the detail journal?”
“Not yet. That’s on the agenda for next week.”
She could stall, but it would be a useless delay tactic, Abby decided. She and Joe had figured Mark would uncover the inconsistency at some point, but she’d hoped he wouldn’t pursue it since it helped—rather than hurt—the Gazette. Instead he’d homed in on it faster than either had anticipated. And it was clear he wasn’t going to let it pass. Since she’d have to clarify it sooner or later, there was no sense delaying the inevitable.
“There’s a very simple explanation. The Gazette often operates on a razor-thin margin. If you haven’t already discovered that, you will when you examine the detail journal. In the weeks you’ve highlighted, our operating funds were so low that some expenses would have gone unpaid. To help us through the crunch, I instructed Joe not to issue me a paycheck those weeks. That accounts for the discrepancy you discovered.”
A full five seconds of silence ticked by. “Let me get this straight. You funneled your paycheck back into operating expenses?”
“Look, I know it’s unconventional, but it’s not illegal.” Mark was looking at her as if she had three heads, and a hot flush began to creep up her neck. “The paper needed the money more than I did at certain points. I just trusted that the Lord would see me through, and He did.”
For several moments Mark stared at the woman sitting behind the scarred desk that represented her family legacy. A legacy she’d worked hard to protect—even to the point of denying herself living expenses. Mark tried to think of one such example of selflessness and of faith in his circle of friends and came up empty.
But he did have some examples closer to home. His brother, who’d bypassed a high salary at Campbell Publishing for a far-lesser-paying job managing a Christian bookstore chain. And his father, who’d gambled everything to launch his company because he’d passionately believed in his dream and was willing to put his trust in the Lord.
Bobby Mitchell came to mind, too, for the second time in the past couple of weeks. His friend had given up the immediate pleasures that might have been afforded by his allowance and funneled almost every penny into his passion—his space fund, earmarked for a trip to space camp at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center. And up to the end he—like Abby—had believed that God was by his side.
His estimation of the woman across from him edged up another notch.
He looked again at the figure he’d circled on the paper he’d put in front of Abby, and all at once the amount registered, disconcerting him further. That was her weekly salary, he realized. And it was less than what they paid the receptionist at Campbell Publishing! Was this an indication of the salaries in general at the Gazette? But no. He’d seen the salary budget total. He knew how many people worked there. He could do the division. Other staff members were making more than Abby.
This was getting more confusing by the minute.
“Okay, let’s back up. I’ve seen the salary budget and this isn’t adding up. Why is yours so low? You’re the managing editor.”
Her flush deepened. She felt like an ant under a microscope as he loomed over her, so she stood and faced him across the work-worn desk. Even then, he had a distinct height advantage. “I’m not in this for the money. I never have been.” Her tone was quiet but resolute. “I lead a simple life and my wants are few. I care a lot about the Gazette and I don’t mind making a few sacrifices to keep it going.”
Shaking his head, Mark raked his fingers through his hair. “I appreciate your dedication, Abby, but it’s just a job. You deserve a living wage.”
A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. “It’s not just a job! I know what’s gone into building this paper. The sacrifices, the passion, the determination, the courage. It’s important work that makes a difference. We’ve won lots of awards, and those are great. But look around this office at the letters from readers. Like that one behind you. That’s what makes this job important.”
Now that she’d called them to his attention, the dozen or so framed letters on the walls registered. Turning, he scanned the one over his shoulder, noting in his peripheral vision a photo of a dark-haired minister on a tiny table in the corner. Forcing himself to focus on the letter, he realized that it was a thank-you note of some sort.
“That letter is from a man we featured in a story about prescription drug costs and government assistance. You can do a story like that and just quote statistics. A lot of papers do. But we put a face on the numbers.” Abby’s voice rang with passion and conviction. “Jon Borcic is seventy-six years old. He was eligible for state assistance with prescriptions, but when his request got bogged down in red tape he went without food to buy his wife medicine. Thanks to that article, the agency cleaned up its act. And people like Jon don’t have to go hungry anymore in order to care for the ones they love.”
Her voice choked, and she stopped long enough to take a deep breath. “So, no, Mark, this isn’t just a job. That’s why I do everything I can to keep the paper going. Including passing up a paycheck once in a while.”
Once again, Mark found himself speechless in the presence of the petite dynamo across from him. And thinking how unfair it was that Abby had to carry the full weight of such a burden on her slight shoulders. He’d made a few discreet inquiries and he knew she wasn’t married. But the minister in the photo he’d just noticed must be important to her. Why didn’t he help? His gaze flickered to the framed image.
“My brother. And ministry pays even less than journalism.”
As she answered his unspoken question, he shifted his attention back to her. Now he could add mind reading to her many talents.
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