Beads of Doubt

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  “You never argued with him?”

  “No,” she said. “Why would I? I mean, I worked for him. You don’t argue with your manager if you want to get ahead. A good reference is important.”

  “Were you planning on leaving?”

  “Someday.” She shrugged. “When the job market is better, but not right away. This wasn’t my dream job, but Andrew and Houston were both starting to let me handle some of the research on investments. Due diligence. I was learning a lot and I consider that important.”

  “Of course.” I didn’t see Lauren swinging a candlestick against the back of Andrew’s head, but then we can all be naïve about other people when their appearance doesn’t match the crime. I imagine that’s why defense attorneys dress murderers up in suits to take them to court: it confuses the jury.

  I studied Lauren for a minute. She was slender, which meant she probably worked out regularly. She was taller than I was, maybe five seven.

  “Do you by any chance play tennis? Or baseball?” I asked.

  She frowned. “A little tennis, but that’s all.”

  I nodded. At least she was relaxing. Her longing for the door wasn’t quite so intense.

  “Lauren,” I said. “Was Andrew married? Did he have a girlfriend?”

  “Neither. He is—was—pretty focused on business and that’s how he spent his time. You know, researching investments, attending functions to meet clients, anything that would make him money.”

  “Would you mind just telling me about him? Anything you can think of?”

  She nodded and gave me what she knew about Andrew Lynch. He was thirty-one years old. They’d had an impromptu birthday dinner for him in April. Houston, Rebecca, Andrew, and her. Seemed a little sad to me since neither of the young people had dates.

  Andrew didn’t drink much, only red wine or beer, and he lived in an apartment near Braker and U.S. 183. Upscale and very nice. He’d never had any friends come by the office, although he did get some calls. Lauren thought most of them were from clients or potential clients.

  At that point she pulled out an employment file and scanned it quickly before saying, “He went to UCLA, but moved back here about three years ago and had worked for Houston for over two years. He graduated with honors. For his birthday he bought himself a used Infiniti.”

  I was almost nodding off from Andrew’s exciting life. “Did he ever ask you out?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever talk about dating? Do you know if he did?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Did he ever talk about doing something just for fun? Movies? Car racing? Going to the lake? Sky diving? Frog jumping?”

  Lauren lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “He kept his attention on business.”

  “Talk about a guy who needed a life—”

  “Wait.” Lauren thought about it and reached for her computer. “He did do something—he never said exactly what, although . . . he put it on his calendar. In Outlook. I can check.”

  She moved the mouse around and stared intently at her computer screen. It was a flat panel and probably a nineteen-inch. I still have one of those big hulking things, but at least it isn’t one of the green ones.

  “Here,” she said, turning the monitor so I could get a better look. Since she no longer seemed frightened of me, I stood up and moved closer. “See, Sunday evenings, 5 p.m.”

  The notation read “TX H’em Tour.” And then there was a phone number.

  I frowned, looking at it from various angles. “Golf? Was Andrew playing in a golf tournament?”

  “No, he thought golf was boring. He did play a little, but just to spend time with clients.”

  A hem tour. The only thing I could think of was sewing. Sightseeing in various alterations shops? Overseas clothing factories? “Why don’t we take a look at Andrew’s office?” I said. I used the we so she wouldn’t think I was going to pillage and plunder.

  “We can’t. The police must have been here, because everything is sealed up.”

  “Well, hell.” I thought about it for a while. “What about his car?”

  “I don’t know where it is, but it isn’t here.”

  I was about out of places. “Can you think of anywhere we might look?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated. “I guess you could look in Houston’s office, but I can’t. Not if I want to keep my job.”

  The whole idea didn’t seem to be getting me anywhere, not that I knew where I wanted to go. I pulled out my card. “Lauren, I know this isn’t easy for you, but I’ll do anything I can to help, and I hope you’ll do the same for me. Here are all my phone numbers, and you can call me at anytime if you think of something, or if you need help.”

  She took the card, shaking her head. “Oh, I’m fine. Really. I guess I’ll just go home. I mean, it’s Friday, and I don’t work again until Monday.”

  Something about her tone wasn’t right. “Do you live with someone?”

  “No. I have a little house in Hyde Park. “ An old, upscale area in central Austin, very near the university. She paused. “It’s nice.”

  “But you’ll be alone all weekend?”

  “Well . . . I kind of thought I might come back and work at the Bead Tea some more. If nobody minds.”

  Now I understood. Lauren did not want to be by herself this weekend, and I could hardly blame her. Too many unpleasant thoughts and maybe even some bogeymen to keep her company.

  “We could use your help on both days,” I said. “Would it be more convenient if you stayed at the Manse? We’ve got lots of guest bedrooms, and you can eat all the leftover tea goodies you can find. Beth is staying, too. You remember my friend Beth Fairfield? She was with me when I came to the office yesterday.”

  “Yes, I saw her today. She had a wonderful booth. I especially loved her earrings.”

  “If you ask, she’ll show you how to make them. She’s a great teacher. As far as I know I’m her only student who was a bead-class dropout. I can’t do the dreaded wrapped loop.” I picked up my purse and pulled a key off my key ring. “This will let you in the back door. I’ll call Beth and tell her to expect you. Take the blue room—it’s my favorite.

  “Oh, one more thing,” I went on. “A police detective is coming by at eight tonight, so if you aren’t inclined to talk to him, you might want to stay in your room. It won’t be a hardship—there’s a TV, DVD player, movies, books, and even a small refrigerator. You can stock it with whatever you want.”

  Lauren took the key and her sophistication disappeared. “Wow! Cool.”

  That settled, I headed out to accomplish my next mission.

  Eight

  Tess’s hospital room held two beds with a hanging curtain between them and a window at the far end. Her bed was next to the door; a fluorescent light flickered from a fixture on the wall at the head of her bed. It was mostly white, dreary, and dark. It didn’t smell all that grand, either. It was a combination of disinfectant and dead flowers.

  Tess was lying down, her eyes closed. Her hair, which had always been a rich, luxuriant brown, was now mostly gray and short. A chemo cut. Her cheekbones were more prominent than I remembered, and her skin was waxy looking.

  She opened her eyes, saw me, and her smile was as beautiful as ever. “Kitzi. How did you find out I was here?” She began raising the head of the bed with an electric control.

  I went to her side and gave her a hug. “I’ve been stalking you for weeks,” I said, handing her a dozen Lammes chocolate-covered strawberries that I’d picked up on the way. They were fresh and in a box that looked like an egg carton. “Something for us to nibble on while we talk.”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  “I am not, and you of all people should know better.”

  She smiled again, but some of the brilliance had worn off. “I can’t believe you found me.”

  “I can’t believe you’d go in the hospital without telling anyone. Anyone being me. I was at the Bead Tea and I asked about you.” I opened th
e top of the strawberries. “Eat one. So, why didn’t you call me?”

  She pointed to a chair near the foot of the room. “Pull that over so you can sit down.” She ignored the strawberries but settled in more comfortably while I brought the chair close. “I know how you hate hospitals, but I’m so glad you’re here.”

  For just a moment I thought Tess was going to cry. Smart, brave, wonderful Tess.

  She was wearing a hospital gown, one of those faded things, with some nondescript pattern that was partly worn off. The edges were frayed and one shoulder was slipping. I reached up and straightened it.

  She had an IV going into her arm, and a full dinner tray was on a hospital table that had been pushed back against the wall. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen Tess in the hospital, but every time was harder than the last.

  It was years ago that Tess Lewis had showed up at my campaign headquarters; in fact, it was the first time I’d run for the Texas Senate. The office was a storefront near Thirty-eighth Street that had three scavenged desks in it, three telephones, and enough boxes of flyers and such to cause a world paper shortage.

  Although Tess had been a touch soft-spoken on that first meeting, her bright clothes spoke for her. She had on a lime green suit with a navy shell under the jacket and a navy flower on her shoulder. Her hair had been dark brown, thick, and wild, seeming to stick out in all directions. She’d held her big black purse in front of her with both hands. My first impression—that here was a woman of many inconsistencies—was right on target.

  “Hello,” she’d said in her lovely voice. “I’m Tess Lewis. I’d like to talk to someone about volunteering for Katherine Camden’s campaign.”

  “I’m Kitzi Camden,” I’d said, gesturing her to a chair across the desk from me. “Will I do?”

  She’d nodded as she sat. “Actually, Miss Camden—”

  “Kitzi.”

  “Kitzi. I wanted to ask you a few questions before I jump on the bandwagon. I hope that isn’t rude.”

  “I consider it smart, but then my mother tells me I’m sometimes rude, so what do I know?”

  For the first time she’d smiled and it lit up that office. “I worked on your father’s campaign for governor when I was in school. I thought he was a wonderful man—I’m so sorry he passed away.”

  “Me, too. Besides all the selfish reasons for wishing he was still around, he’d also have made a bigger difference if he’d had more time in office. Unfortunately, that’s one of those things that they don’t let me control.” I remember trying to keep my voice light, but Tess had looked so sincere and so damn sad I had trouble. I made one more attempt. “Sometimes I think if I were in charge the world would be in better shape, but I can’t seem to find the place to run for that office. I figure this will do for a start.”

  She nodded, and I got the feeling she was weighing everything I said. “You aren’t doing all that well in the polls.”

  “I blame that on my staff.” I gestured to the empty room.

  “Are they all out?”

  “Mostly they don’t exist. I have some part-time people who help stuff envelopes and such, but I jumped into this race at the last minute, and as my mother has pointed out, I wasn’t well organized. I’m working on it.”

  “Ah.” Tess sat back in the chair and began asking me questions. She wanted to know my views on education and on funding education. She wanted to know how I felt about toll roads, property taxes, the gun-control laws, and the death penalty. The thing is, she was so good at asking questions and encouraging answers that I just blathered on until she knew almost as much about my opinions as I did. She was smart, that much was for sure, because when I hedged she’d make just the right comment to force me to explain myself.

  I don’t remember how long we talked, but I do know that when we were done it was dark outside and I was hungry. “How about if I buy you dinner?” I’d suggested. “We can finish our conversation then.”

  “Don’t you want to know if I’m going to work for you?”

  I’d stood up. “You are.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if you weren’t going to you wouldn’t have wasted so much time.” I picked up my purse and a jacket. “You know anything about the media or public relations?”

  “I used to work for an ad agency.”

  “Past tense?”

  “It was my husband’s, only he’s divorcing me.” She stood up. “He’s handling your opponent’s campaign.”

  Now that was very telling, just as her earlier comments and questions had been. “So, in part,” I said, “this is a grudge match.”

  “In part, yes, but not completely. If I’m going to spend time doing something I want to make a difference. I’m tired of writing macho commercials for boats and cars and RVs. Anybody can hawk a pickup, but not everyone can change lives.”

  I reached out and shook her hand. “Tess, you’re hired.”

  That had been so many years ago. It seemed as though we’d both been about ten, although that can’t be true. She’d been an amazing person to work with. From the moment she joined the campaign, she energized it. She softened the look of my logo, created a campaign slogan, and recruited a volunteer staff. Then she booked me on more talk shows than I knew existed.

  She was always bringing someone new into the office. “Kitzi, this is Karen. She’s an image consultant.” “Kitzi, this is Rose. She’s going to place our radio commercials.” “Kitzi, this is Ann. She is going to book your travel.”

  When it came to important issues, though, it was Tess who did the research and gave me her opinions. We didn’t always agree, but when we were finished with our spirited discussions, we understood both sides of most topics and I could debate them with anyone. And I did. I got elected, too, and I always say it was in big part because of Tess.

  Right after the election, I offered her a full-time position as my assistant in the Senate. She had a few reservations, but I didn’t have any. She did a heck of a job, and we made a difference. Oh, once in a while something would get past her, and we kept a running total of those. When I left office she had a total of eighteen and I had something like eighty-nine. If it hadn’t been for my name we’d have been better off running her for the Senate.

  For me, the worst part about leaving office had been the stretch in our friendship. We still felt the same way about each other, but we no longer spent as much time together. I’d started my training company and wanted to take her with me, but Tess loved politics as long as she could remain primarily behind the scenes. She’d gone to work in the governor’s office. She’d gotten married and three years later, divorced. I’d taken over the Manse. She’d been diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

  “What are you doing in the hospital?” I asked, helping adjust her pillow. “What are they saying?”

  “It’s nothing really.”

  I gestured at the IV bag and realized that what was inside was red. “Which is why they’re giving you a blood transfusion? For nothing. Your vampirical tendencies?”

  “I don’t think that’s a word.”

  “I don’t think you’re answering me.”

  “It’s actually a long and very involved story.”

  “You don’t tell that kind,” I said. “Just hit the highlights.”

  And so she did. She’d gotten a cough that wouldn’t go away, and she had become more and more tired. The doctor had tried antibiotics. They’d done some sort of scan and found some unusual spots on her liver, although a biopsy had come up negative for cancer. I took a deep breath when she said that. One doctor told me that ovarian cancer doesn’t move to the liver, but then we’d both been told things that hadn’t proved true.

  “My body can’t fight the infection—if that’s what it is—because I’m anemic,” she said. “That’s the primary reason they put me in here. Also, I can get twice as many tests and see twice as many doctors in half the time. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but it is easier. I just don’t like this place.”


  “What’s your CA-125?” I asked.

  Tess sat up straighter and said, “Now that’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t ask about your underwear. I’d tell you my blood pressure.”

  “Because you don’t have any blood pressure.”

  I waited. The CA-125 is a blood marker used for ovarian or peritoneal cancer. A CA-125 level above thirty-five is considered suspicious—it may even mean you have cancer. After a diagnosis this is the one test that tells doctors if the cancer is spreading, if it’s in remission, if the chemo is working to kill it—all those questions that are so vital to treatment.

  “Well?” I asked again. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “It’s at 850, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s just high.”

  Way damn high. My heart hurt, even as I pretended I wasn’t concerned. I knew what it meant: the last type of chemo hadn’t worked and the cancer was taking every advantage to spread. “It means,” I said, “that I am going to have to speak sharply to your doctor. Or perhaps we’ll have to try some voodoo. I can also light a candle at several churches, and I may have to take control of the universe.”

  “Forget me. Tell me about the Bead Tea. I really wanted to be there.”

  “You can be at next year’s,” I said. Then I went on to tell her about the cocktail party and about Rebecca in the blonde wig. She smiled and patted my hand. I don’t think it mattered much what I said, she just wanted some company.

  I talked about the vendors and the booths in the big tent, but I didn’t mention Andrew or his murder. I also didn’t talk about Houston or how he was trying to take away the Manse. Even though Tess had bigger problems of her own, I knew she’d worry about what Houston was up to, and how my mother and I would fair. I tried to keep my conversation light and interesting.

  When I wound down she said, “How are your grandkids? Is Cliffie still the most brilliant child on the planet?”

  “In the universe,” I corrected. “And, of course, he is.”

  I could tell Tess was trying to keep the conversation light, and I wanted to as well. If I didn’t, I was afraid I was going to cry. It’s almost unbearable for me to have to face someone I love and know that they have a disease that’s going to take away their life. When Tess was first diagnosed, I saw a grief counselor; she was wise beyond her years and told me that we’re all dying, every day, from the moment we’re born. She reminded me that I could be the next one to go, maybe in a car wreck or in an airplane crash.