MRS. BELVA STANDISH is sitting in the master bedroom of an opulent three-story mansion, the most splendid structure in the town's upper-class neighborhood. She's surrounded by furniture, carpets, tapestries and pricey bric-a-brac, all bearing an imposing "S" monogram with curlicues and fancy flourishes.

She's an ancient society matron who also happens to be sole owner, publisher, and Editrix-in-Chief of the local newspaper. Decked out in an expensive robe of black satin, a sapphire-studded editor's visor perched tiara-wise among the face-lift nips and tucks on her venerable forehead, she has taken up her position at a dressing table that's been converted to a desk. Mrs. Belva Standish lays out tomorrow's edition on a big desktop computer.

HER FORTY-YEAR-OLD live-at-home son, Raleigh Standish IV, dressed in an elegant suit with an old lady-style diamond brooch weighing down the left lapel, sits on her spacious canopy bed nearby, looking bored. He wonders aloud, "Why can't I be the restaurant critic?"

Without looking from the screen, Mrs. Standish says, "You tell me why, Raleigh." Continuing to manipulate the mouse with her right hand, she reaches out her left, opens a gilded drawer, and produces a copy of the local telephone directory, which she hands over to her son. The yellow pages are pitifully paltry.

"When your dearly departed father purchased the paper, he was certain that something would come of this burg."