Remember Me, Irene

by Jan Burke

  “I think this is one of your best Bakersfield stories.”

  “My dad was still working then. He loved the business with the mop—told it to the other guys so often, it’s a wonder I didn’t end up with a nickname out of it. I’d say, ‘Dad, we would have caught him without the mop.’ He wouldn’t hear a word of it.”

  He started the car, turned on the windshield wipers.

  “You okay to drive?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He leaned over and gave me a quick kiss. “I’m okay now.”

  We were almost home when I remembered the cocktail napkin. Frank saw me pull it out and try to read it, and flipped on the dome light. “What’s that?”

  “Keene Dage’s cocktail napkin.”

  “What’s on it?”

  “The letter Z.” I turned the napkin and frowned. “Or the letter N.”

  “Or just a doodle,” he said.

  “Right,” I said glumly, which made him laugh.

  That was okay.

  8

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, my time was whittled away on the phone, to no apparent purpose other than strengthening my dialing finger. I was trying to contact people who might know more about Allan Moffett’s resignation. Most of my time was spent talking to receptionists and secretaries whose bosses supposedly weren’t in. Not in now, not expected back in today, probably not in as long as I was the caller.

  The people who were willing to talk to me were his political enemies, and although Moffett’s long tenure in a powerful position allowed him to gather quite a few adversaries, it was clear they were not knowledgeable on the subject of his sudden retirement. It was all well and good to allow a few of these frustrated souls to tell me how happy they were that Moffett was gone, but I wanted to do more than gather reactions to his departure.

  I listened to their theories, hoping some useful lead might be found. There had been the disappointment around the convention center plans, they pointed out. The city and its developers had suffered a defeat at the hands of the Coastal Commission, which had recently denied approval of a waterfront convention center. But when I countered that Moffett had weathered far worse, no one disagreed.

  There were budget shortfalls and an increasingly uncooperative city council. Budget shortfalls didn’t fit with sudden flight, though, or account for the guest list at the dinner meeting, although I kept that to myself. And even Moffett’s enemies couldn’t blame him for problems caused by cutbacks from the county and state. If anything, Moffett had relentlessly urged the city to budget more realistically when cutbacks occurred.

  His priorities might not have been universally embraced by the city council, but even I knew that the council had been at his mercy—not the other way around. The city manager could slow a council member’s pet projects to a standstill, just by making sure that his own staff was overly meticulous in discharging their bureaucratic duties. The council also received much of its information from Moffett and his staff, and no politician who wants a second term fails to realize what a valuable commodity information can be. Council members came and went, Moffett stayed. Until now.

  His friends weren’t helpful to me in the least, and after the disrupted dinner at the Terrace, his closest pals were all taking the day off—if their secretaries were to be believed.

  Throughout the morning, I wondered how Andre was doing, but realized my concern was not really for Andre himself. I was worried about Lisa and, to some extent, Jerry. I pulled out the card Lisa had given me and dialed her brother’s home number. I got an answering machine.

  “Jerry,” I said, after the beep, “this is Irene Kelly. I don’t know if you remembered me last night at the Terrace, but”—I stopped myself from saying “I used to date your dad”—“er, I was just wondering how things are going today. If there’s anything I can do for you or Lisa, let me know.” I left my number.

  I was still holding on to the receiver, wondering why I had done such a lame job of leaving a simple message, when the intercom line buzzed. I punched the button. Geoff, the paper’s security guard, announced that I had a visitor, a Ms. Lisa Selman. He put her on the line.

  “Lisa?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be free for lunch today?”

  “Sure. Give me a minute, I’ll be right down.”

  SHE WAS ENGROSSED in reading a copy of the paper in the lobby when I came downstairs. I stood on the stairway, watching her for a moment. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, but even in the casual attire she looked sophisticated. She glanced up and saw me, and as the light struck her face from this new angle, I noticed dark circles under her eyes. “Just now reading the paper,” she said, shaking her head. “I overslept this morning and haven’t caught up since.”

  “Lisa—”

  “Don’t get that sympathetic look on your face, Irene, you’ll make me cry. My father’s in stable condition now, thanks to you and your husband, I hear.” She held up the paper, pointing to my article on Allan’s resignation. “Jerry told me that you and your husband happened to be at the restaurant last night.” She paused, drawing her lips together as if suppressing a smile. “Poor Jerry. He really does think you happened to be there.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t actually talk to Jerry last night.”

  “Well, whatever your reasons for being there, he was very grateful for your help.”

  “I think it was pretty rough on Jerry.”

  “It was,” she said, tears welling up.

  I put an arm around her shoulders. “Not easy for you, either, I suppose.”

  She shrugged, then glanced at Geoff.

  I understood the signal. “There’s a burger joint not far from here. Feel up to a short walk?”

  “Sure. I—I hope you’re not too busy. I mean, I saw the article and I know you must have your hands full with this story—”

  “That was yesterday. Today I’m busy but not very productive.”

  When we stepped outside, I reconsidered our plans. In the sunlight, she looked pale and drawn. “Would you rather drive somewhere? You look tired.”

  “Oh, I’m all right. I’m concerned about Jerry, that’s all. He’s up at Las Piernas General with Cinco, glued to Andre’s side. He’s exhausted, physically and emotionally.”

  Lisa had long referred to her father by his first name, and I should have been used to it, but I guess some old-fashioned notions of mine are more ingrained than I like to admit. I could let that slide, but I found myself unable to keep the censure out of my voice when I asked, “Cinco? As in five? Is that how you talk about your stepmother?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve offended you. And you’re right, it’s unkind of me. Nothing personal against Maureen—I hardly know her. I started calling my mom ‘Tres’ as a joke some years ago—she’s my father’s third wife. Just a joke, not an insult. I suppose it was an attempt to cope with my ‘stepmother’ situation. Maureen is my father’s fifth wife, but I’ve lost count of all the other women my father asked me to form some sort of mother-daughter relationship with—you were one of them.”

  I felt my cheeks growing warm.

  “I’m not criticizing you, Irene. It’s my father’s problem, not yours. You and some of the others were good to me, but most—Maureen included—have no interest in me whatsoever. For the most part, it’s mutual.” With an impish grin, she added, “I do have some marvelous dirt on some of them from the attic days!”

  “I had forgotten about that feature of the attic room,” I said. “You mean your dad never found out how well sound carried up through those heating ducts?”

  “Never! Isn’t that rich?”

  I couldn’t help but return her grin. As we walked a little farther, though, we both grew silent and serious. “Are you doing okay?” I asked.

  “You mean because of my father’s illness?”

  “Yes.”

  She stopped walking and said, “Are you talking to me as a reporter or as my friend?”

  “Your friend, of course.”

  “Then I’ll tell y
ou the truth. Of course I’m worried about Andre. But for Jerry’s sake. That’s all. I know you think I’m a terrible daughter, but I can’t lie to you about that. You’ve watched me struggle with all of this over the years, Irene. Before you judge me, think about what it would be like to have Andre for a father.”

  “Not exactly a typical childhood, I suppose.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know about other people. I just know I can’t change Andre, can’t make him a different father. Sick or well, he will never love me. It’s a simple fact. I could wallow in self-pity over that, but I prefer not to. I’ve got my mom, I’ve got Jerry, I’ve got friends like you. Andre ceased to matter to me long ago, but not before I ceased to matter to him.”

  I thought about my father. I had been a rebellious daughter, but I had never questioned his love for me. Lisa was right; my childhood was nothing like her own.

  “You were in my father’s house when I was growing up,” she continued. “Are you surprised by my feelings?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Andre’s just reaping what he has sown.”

  THE BURGER JOINT, currently being called the Lucky Golden Palace, didn’t appear to be any of these things. Lisa ordered a burger and fries, I ordered a salad.

  “Jerry know anything about the meeting your dad was at last night?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  She laughed. “I wondered when you’d ask about that. I suppose I smell the same rat you do. Some redevelopment connection, obviously. Roland Hill buys old run-down properties, Corbin Tyler designs new buildings for them, Keene Dage builds what Corbin draws and Roland pays for.”

  “With money Ben Watterson’s bank has loaned.”

  “Right. The head of the Redevelopment Agency reports to—or reported to—Allan Moffett. My father has supplied a lot of statistical studies for redevelopment projects over the years. Booter Hodges arranges for the college to get grant money from the city for the studies.”

  It was good to be talking to someone who understood all of the political and economic connections. “That’s the dinner party. So what’s your guess? Why would Allan resign?”

  “You don’t have any leads?”

  I considered telling her what I had heard from Charlotte Brady about Allan Moffett’s visitor, but decided against it. Charlotte hadn’t insisted on confidentiality, but if she got another job in city hall, I wanted her to think of me as someone who could be trusted.

  “Nothing very substantial,” I said.

  “Maybe I can help you, Irene.”

  I looked up from my salad.

  “Roland Hill has expressed concern about my father. Maybe I could ask him about the meeting, ask if anything upset Andre.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Why not? I’m staying in town a little longer than I had planned. I don’t want to leave Jerry here to cope with all of this alone. The next time I see Roland, I’ll ask.”

  “Just ask him to return my phone calls.” I wasn’t too excited about the idea of getting a story second- or thirdhand. “Tell me what you’ve been doing for Barton Sawyer lately.”

  The change of subject didn’t seem to bother her. In fact, she became quite animated. As she talked about her job, it was apparent that she respected her boss.

  “He’s been so good to me,” she said. “Once I had my master’s, I was afraid I’d be pigeonholed, that he’d have me working on demographics forever. But he’s allowed me to branch out from there, to pursue my own goals.”

  “Still, your background in statistics has been helpful to him, I’m sure,” I said.

  “Of course, it’s very useful. And it will help me plan my own campaign. I guess I do owe that to Andre—I was never afraid of numbers.”

  “So you aren’t completely without admiration for him?”

  “‘Admiration’ might be a little too strong,” she admitted. “But I’m not ungrateful. Barton pointed a few things out to me. He said that Andre taught me to be thorough, not to be afraid to take on challenges, to follow through on what I started. He was right.”

  “You turned out just fine, Andre or no Andre.”

  “Jerry did, too.”

  “I don’t know your brother very well. Is he still teaching at Las Piernas College?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if he’s happy there or not.” She bit her lower lip. “Let’s quit talking about sociologists. Tell me about your husband. He’s a cop, right?”

  “Yes, a homicide detective.”

  “Homicide!” Her eyes widened. “How did you meet him?”

  “Meet him? Hmm. We met a long time ago—remember when I moved to Bakersfield?”

  “Of course. I was just a kid, and I thought I’d never see you again. You mean you’ve dated this guy for a dozen years and never told me about him?”

  “No—we didn’t date then. But we met there, and became friends. I moved back here, and as it turned out, he moved here, too. There were a number of years in between the two moves, and all kinds of complications once we were both here. We finally got together last summer.”

  “Last summer? And now you’re married? Las Piernas must have been a little more conducive to romance than Bakersfield.”

  “It wasn’t that,” I said. “It was the timing as much as anything. Besides, I was a green reporter, he was a rookie cop, and even among the more experienced ranks, members of the two professions are discouraged from mixing socially—for good reasons.”

  “I can see why. He might leak information to you, you might not be as critical of the police as you need to be.”

  “Among other problems. But Frank’s worth the hassles I get at work, and so far, he seems to think I’m worth the ones he gets where he works.”

  “Any chance of my meeting him before I go back to San Diego?”

  “Sure. His schedule is pretty erratic, but we can try. Why don’t you come over for dinner on Monday? I’ll check with Frank and let you know if there are any problems.”

  * * *

  I CAME BACK TO MY DESK to find a voice-mail message waiting for me. Jerry Selman had returned my call.

  “Hello, Irene,” the message said. “I’m glad you called. I’m here at the college now. I’ll be in my office until three.” He left his work number.

  I started to dial the number, hung up, and walked over to the city desk to tell Lydia where I’d be.

  “You mean you’ll be at Las Piernas College if you can find a parking space,” she said. “Want me to call ahead and try to get one for you?”

  “No, thanks. Some of the members of the administration get a little antsy when they know the local press is around. I’d rather not have anyone announce my arrival.”

  “OH, FORGIVE ME,” Jerry Selman said, finally stepping back to allow me to walk into his office. “I guess I wasn’t expecting you to go to so much trouble. The campus isn’t very accessible to the public, I’m afraid.”

  Only a moat full of piranhas would make it less accessible, I thought, having hiked up a steep hill from a distant parking lot.

  “I should have called,” I said, “but I was going to come up to the campus anyway, so I thought I might be able to catch you in your office.” As I said it, I told myself that wasn’t a lie. I didn’t have any appointments, but I did plan on trying to corner Booter Hodges after I saw Jerry.

  “Let me take your coat,” he said. “Have a seat—the chair by the windows is the best of the three. And let me get you a cup of coffee. How do you drink it?”

  “Just black is fine, thanks. Oh—this isn’t from—”

  “The vending machines? Never.” His smile was contagious. “But you’ve just proven that you truly were a student on this campus. The coffee out of those machines is noxious.”

  “We used to say that if you saw someone buying a cup of it, he just wanted something to pour on the cockroaches under the sandwich machines.”

  He laughed and went down the hallway to another room and soon emerged with two cups of office-brewed coffee. He
carefully set mine on a corner of his desk and seated himself, holding but not drinking from his own cup. This opening round of hospitality completed, he seemed at a loss, his expression solemn.

  Serious, he was hardly less attractive than he was when he had smiled. Andre had been pleasant-looking but no knockout. Even as a younger man, Andre wouldn’t have received a second glance if you could have placed him next to his adult son. Jerry’s hair and eyes were dark brown, like his mother’s, but his other features were Andre’s—Andre’s, but somehow improved upon. Long fingers, thick eyelashes, a mouth a woman might want to coax into a smile or a kiss. It would be easy for this Selman male to surround himself with women. If he was half the manipulator his father was, he probably had a list of ex-lovers that would take longer to read off than roll call in a sultan’s seraglio.

  “I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you and your husband,” he said in a broken voice, snapping me out of my sins-of-the-father attitude.

  “It was truly nothing on my part,” I said. “You and my husband did all the work. Lisa tells me that your father is in stable condition?”

  He nodded, setting his coffee down. “He’s still in intensive care. There’s talk of surgery. I don’t know. He doesn’t take care of himself. Out last night without his medication! With a heart condition! And I kept telling him that he can’t let things get to him. The past few days—I think it was all too much. Ben Watterson’s suicide, Allan’s resignation, problems here at the campus, that old photograph—he let himself get too worked up.”

  “Photograph?”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “Someone sent a photograph of Dad and an old girlfriend to Dad’s house. Actually, it wasn’t a photograph, but a color photocopy of a photograph—as if to say ‘There are plenty more where this came from.’ Maureen saw it and was understandably upset. She asked him to explain it to her, and he lost his temper. You know how he can be.”

  “Yes.”

  He turned red. “Well, yes. So… he said some hurtful things to Maureen. They patched things up, but it was just one more episode of stress. I can’t help but think that whoever sent that photocopy to him had to know he had a heart condition. It was a despicable thing to do. Not that he takes care of himself anyway. He had no business being out alone last night without his medication.”