A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  Another voice hailed her from nearby. "The newspaper lady, I do believe. Are you here on business again tonight?"

  Cathy kept her groan to herself. The last person she wanted to see tonight was Gary Terril. She was nervous about Peter's reaction should he see her talking to him again, but short of absolute rudeness, she was stuck. "Hello, Gary. No, today is a day off. It's pleasure rather than business tonight."

  "It is a pleasure to see you here," he returned. The man's blue eyes were as bright and engaging as she remembered. Cathy turned slightly, and was relieved to see his wife, Lydia, heading towards them, smiling broadly.

  "Cathy, isn't it?" she asked. "Good to see you again. Are you here for the paper?"

  "Your husband just asked the same thing," she answered. "I was explaining that the paper didn't send me this time. I'm here with Peter Lowell."

  "Are you indeed?" Lydia said, surprised. Cathy had forgotten she was Peter's cousin. "He didn't tell me. No reason why he should, of course, but I'm glad. Peter's hardly spoken to a woman since—"

  Lydia broke off, embarrassed, but Gary plunged on. "Since his wife walked out on him. Peter's been in a funk about it for two years now. Long enough I'd think."

  "Gary, please. That's Peter's business," Lydia said. Her husband took the hint. To cover the awkwardness, she continued, "I didn't think you were here officially, since I've already seen Adelaide, and this affair surely isn't important enough to rate two reporters.

  "You've seen Adelaide?"

  "She was near the food table a few minutes ago, if you want to find her."

  "Find her?" Cathy said. "You've got to be kidding. She'd have a fit if she knew I was here; she still hasn't forgiven me for what happened last week."

  "You mean the murder of that poor boy at the party? She can't blame you for that," Lydia stated.

  "Not the murder," Cathy returned. "But certainly for my involvement in it."

  "Good grief," Lydia said. "I don't believe it."

  "Just watch her reaction if she sees me here," Cathy warned.

  "I can hardly wait." Lydia developed a mischievous grin. "I believe I see her headed this way."

  Hearts don't really sink, but spirits certainly do, and Cathy's took a sudden nose-dive.

  -16-

  Wednesday

  "Adelaide is coming this way?"

  "I think so," Lydia returned.

  "Excuse me, I, er… I need to go powder my nose."

  "I didn't expect you to be such a coward." Lydia sounded disappointed. "I would've liked to have seen the two of you together."

  Cathy moved away into the crowd until she was sure she was in no danger of bumping into the woman. Of all the bad breaks; Adelaide and Gary Terril were worse than roses and violins. They’d both been at the last party. Cathy was allergic to roses and she hated violin music.

  Coward. Lydia's accusation rang in her head. Another part of her brain acknowledged the truth of it.

  She glanced around the room and finally spotted Peter fifteen feet and six bodies away. He was talking to two men and a woman, all unknown to Cathy. The wine level in his glass had dropped about half an inch. She started to move in that direction, but nearly collided with a man coming the other way. While making her apologies and accepting his, she recognized the man as a former member of the county board of commissioners.

  Martin Randolph was both flattered and surprised she remembered him. Cathy was curious to find out what he was doing now that he was no longer in office.

  "I've gone back to minding my own business," he explained, and laughed at her expression. "No, I mean that literally. My family owns Randolph Paper Products, and I devote my full time to managing it. I'm afraid it's a lot more satisfying than trying to run the county."

  They were still discussing the relative merits of public versus private employment when another man joined them. "Hello," he said. "Miss Bennett; Mr. Randolph, isn't it?"

  The newcomer was a tax lawyer she'd met at the previous week's disastrous party—Stephen something or other. She couldn't remember his last name, which was unusual for her. He turned and introduced himself to Randolph as Stephen Cilezzi and Cathy was grateful he'd saved her the embarrassment. The gratitude died quickly however, when Stephen turned his attention back to her. "I gather you and Peter have settled your differences, whatever they were?" he asked.

  "We've arrived at a working relationship," she said, trying to be tactful.

  "Is that with the emphasis on working or relationship?"

  She didn't think the line nearly as funny as he apparently did. She grinned tightly and changed the subject. "Mr. Randolph was just telling me about some of the differences between running the county and running a privately-held company. Don't you think the experience with one brings an added dimension to dealing with the other, Mr. Randolph?"

  "Well, certainly," he answered, and went on to point out several ways in which the experiences could feed into each other. Cathy wanted to hug Randolph for picking up the conversational ball she'd tossed him.

  Over the next few minutes, the conversation deteriorated into a tug-of-war between Cathy and Stephen. He wanted to discuss tax deductions for Randolph's business; she wanted to talk about anything else. She had Randolph on her side, Stephen had persistence and brass on his. It was an even match until Peter rescued the situation by appearing at her side to ask if her drink needed a refill. She realized she hadn't thought about it for several minutes. She still had three inches left; Peter's glass, she noted, contained almost two inches of liquid.

  She declined the refill and, when Peter showed no sign of moving away, introduced him to Randolph, explaining the conversation they'd been having. Peter picked it up and ran with it. Stephen was outclassed now. He finally gave up and moved on to find another victim. And Cathy got a glimpse of another side of Peter Lowell, one that would contribute to his success as a criminal lawyer; he could, when he chose, dominate a conversation with tact and grace so effortlessly subtle few people would realize what he was doing.

  When Randolph was hailed by another acquaintance, Peter steered her to the food table. "No caviar tonight," he said. "But Gary and Lydia are here."

  "I know, I talked to them."

  "Lydia likes you. She thinks you're good for me," he said.

  "Does she?" Cathy voiced her surprise, then wondered, in a lower tone, "But are you good for me?"

  He looked startled, but he didn't say anything, just picked up a plate and handed it to her. When they'd both made their culinary selections, he led her to the side of the room where chairs were provided for footsore or shorthanded guests.

  She sat down and bit into a cheese-topped cracker. Peter had his brooding look back, but, instead of retreating inwards, he turned to her and said, "I think I'd like an explanation of that last remark."

  She looked up but not at him. "When you tell me why Lydia thinks I'd be good for you."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him clench a fist on his knee. He let it relax slowly and expelled a long breath. "All right, but this is neither the time nor the place. Let's cry truce again for the time being."

  "All right."

  Their uneasy privacy was shortly interrupted by the arrival of several acquaintances of Peter's. She filed the names away for future reference and followed the legal conversation halfheartedly, making no attempt to contribute. After a while, Peter noticed she'd finished her drink and got refills for them both. She almost laughed when he returned with the glasses. He held the wine/ginger ale combination with a care that suggested he was afraid the fumes might contaminate him.

  "Good evening. It's a lovely party, isn't it?"

  Cathy recognized the voice although the speaker was behind her. She'd thought her spirits were low, but they sank further. She turned around to face Adelaide and agreed that everyone seemed to be having a pleasant time.

  The other woman was taken aback for a moment but she covered it well. "Hello, Catherine. I certainly didn't expect to meet you here."


  "No. I wasn't looking for you either."

  "I trust you're enjoying yourself?"

  "Yes, thanks." Cathy had forgotten one of Adelaide's primary dictums—the one she herself had violated so drastically the previous week—whatever you do, never make a scene. Adelaide was looking at her companions expectantly. Cathy took the hint and introduced Peter; he named the others in the group. Cathy could see Adelaide mentally scribbling the names on her list.

  The woman hung around for a few minutes, talking with the group—a conversation remarkable only for the number of platitudes uttered in such a short time. Then, when she'd stayed as long as politeness demanded, Adelaide drifted off to collect more names.

  Peter took a long sip of his wine and attempted to restrain his amusement until she was out of sight. He was successful, but then one of the other men remarked, "That certainly cleared the cobwebs out of my brain," and Peter all but choked. He recovered quickly but Cathy noticed he was grimacing.

  "What's the matter?" she asked.

  "Must be a bad bottle," Peter commented, his face still slightly twisted. "The wine has an off taste."

  Cathy sipped at her own drink but couldn't detect anything unusual. She shrugged. One of the other men asked a question, and she forgot about the drink in the subsequent discussion of a proposition before the county commissioners.

  "I think Gilbert would come around if they'd change the wording on that last line so all residences were excluded from..." she noticed she'd lost the others' attention.

  They were watching Peter, who was groping unsteadily for a chair. After a near miss, he seated himself, but the hand holding his wineglass was shaking. He grinned weakly. "This stuff packs more punch than I'd realized." The quip fell flat, though everyone tried to pass it off lightly. Cathy watched Peter, amazed and concerned. Unless he'd done some heavy indulging while her back was turned, he couldn't possibly have drunk enough to make him so tipsy. He'd been perfectly sober just twenty minutes ago.

  The conversation continued, trying to cover Peter's withdrawal into silence and Cathy wondered whether she ought to get him out of there before things got worse; he appeared to be falling asleep.

  Tom Dunning tapped her on the shoulder and drew her aside. "What's wrong with Peter?"

  "I don't know. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's had too much to drink. You've known Peter a while. Does he overindulge?"

  "No," Tom replied. "Never. Not since I've known him."

  Peter was dozing in the chair.

  "What should we do?" she asked.

  "I think we'd better get him out of here," he suggested. He shook his friend's shoulder gently.

  Peter tilted his head back to look at him. "Hi, Tom. What's up?" he asked, grabbing for the side of the chair to steady himself.

  Tom put a hand under Peter's arm and pulled him to his feet. "Come outside with me a minute, old buddy; I need your opinion on something."

  Peter wasn't very convincing about staying on his feet. Tom slipped an arm around his waist, and Cathy did the same from the other side. She lifted one of his arms and draped it across her shoulders so it looked as though he had a casual arm around her. Between the two of them, they maneuvered Peter through the crowd, out the door, and into an elevator. He followed their directions, moving slowly and precisely, like a man sleepwalking, and didn't ask where they were going.

  "Does Peter still have the Z?" Tom asked.

  "Yes. It's over to the left." She steered in that direction as they emerged from a side door of the hotel.

  "He's had that car forever."

  "I gathered he's fond of it. I wonder how he's going to take my driving it?"

  "Can you?" Tom asked. “It’s not automatic.”

  "I’ve driven a stick before. And he's in no condition. Do you think you could find his car keys?"

  Tom reached into Peter's pocket, found the keys, and handed them to her; she unlocked the door and adjusted the seat while Tom lowered Peter into the passenger side. He promptly fell back asleep.

  "Sure you can handle things?" Tom bent down and looked in the window.

  "I think so. Thanks, Tom. I appreciate your help. I wish I understood, though."

  "Same here," Tom answered. "Call the hotel and ask for me if you need anything."

  Cathy backed the Datsun out of the space and headed toward Peter's house. She'd noted the address two nights ago when she'd looked up his phone number.

  Despite its age, the Datsun drove like a dream compared to her Honda. Clutch, accelerator, brakes, and steering were all smooth and responsive. Traffic was light. She consulted her watch and found it was just a little after eleven. The drive would have been a real pleasure if she hadn't been worried about Peter.

  She sneezed and reached down beside the seat to get a tissue from her purse. Her fingers brushed something else stuck there. It felt like a small plastic bag filled with powder. She pulled it up. Her stomach imploded when she realized what it was, and she dropped it into her lap.

  "Peter." She reached over and tried to shake his shoulder. "Peter, wake up. We've got a problem."

  He grunted and muttered something unintelligible.

  "Peter! There are drugs in the car."

  He almost got his eyes opened. "Thas good," he said.

  Cathy considered the situation for a minute, then rolled down the window and prepared to toss the bag out. In that instant, a flicker in the rear view mirror caught her eye. When she looked closer, she was astonished to find a police car following her, blue light flashing.

  -17-

  Wednesday - Thursday

  She glanced at the speedometer. She was doing thirty-eight in a thirty-five zone. Why were they pulling her? Thinking frantically, she swung to the side. The other car stopped behind her.

  She could hide the drugs in the ash tray or the glove compartment or under the seat again, but if they decided to search the car, they'd look in all those places. On herself was the best bet, but not in her purse—that was too obvious. She thought about the classic female hiding place, but her dress was too tight to allow anything to slip in easily.

  She fingered the pack and decided it was flat enough. She looked in the rearview mirror; the policeman was just getting out of the car. She reached down, slid her shoe partially off, and pushed the packet under the arch of her foot. She put the shoe back on, and hoped she wouldn't have to walk very far.

  She was pulling her wallet out of her pocketbook when the face of the policeman appeared at the window. He was young, young enough to be embarrassed.

  "Hello, Officer. What did I do wrong?" Cathy asked. "I wasn't speeding."

  "No, ma'am. We had a report that a car like yours, headed in this direction, was seen bobbing and weaving all over the road."

  "Bobbing and weaving? Was I driving erratically when you followed me?"

  "No, ma'am, but we have to check it out. Can I see your license and the car registration?"

  Cathy handed him her driver's license. She leaned over and shook Peter again. "Peter, where is the car registration?"

  He looked up groggily. "Hmmmm?"

  "The car registration."

  He looked at the policeman outside the car. "Station? Police station?"

  "No. The car registration. Where is it?"

  "You can't find it." He lapsed back into his doze.

  She sighed and gave up. She opened the glove compartment and sorted through the stack of maps, warranties, and papers. The registration was among them. She handed it to the young policeman. Another officer was with him, older, a veteran, and he stood slightly back from the car. The younger man copied names and numbers on a pad, then handed back the license and registration. He looked more embarrassed yet. "Have you been driving the whole time, Miss Bennett?"

  "Yes."

  "Can I ask where you were headed?”

  "I'm taking my friend home. We were at a party, and I'm afraid he overindulged."

  "Did you have anything to drink yourself?"

  "A glass of wine."r />
  "Would you mind stepping out of the car for a moment?”

  She sighed and got out.

  “Can you walk along the line here?” he asked.

  Cathy raised her eyebrows. "I'm wearing high heels, officer, and one of them is loose."

  "Could you take your shoes off?”

  Cathy looked at the road; her prayers were answered by the twinkling reflection of broken glass on the asphalt. The young man followed her line of sight.

  "I guess not," he said. "Would you mind doing a couple of other tests for me?"

  Damn Peter for sleeping though this. Right now she could use a lawyer's advice. She wasn't afraid of the tests; her one glass of wine wouldn't make her intoxicated. But she dreaded having to move at all on that loaded shoe.

  "I don't mind," she answered.

  The policeman asked her to spread her arms out, close her eyes, and touch the tip of her nose with her finger. It seemed a bit silly to Cathy, but she had no trouble doing it. He asked her to recite the alphabet and again Cathy obliged.

  He scribbled a few more notes on his pad. She saw him look over at the older officer, and the other man shake his head negatively. Visible relief colored the young man's smile. "Looks like you're all clear, ma'am. Very sorry to have bothered you. Guess the report was mistaken or there was another car similar to yours and we missed it."

  She speared him with a hard look. “Just how many 280Zs are still on the road these days?” she asked. "Officer, you said you received a call about this car. Do you know who made the complaint?"

  "No, ma'am, dispatch took the call. I don't know if they got a name. All we got was a report that a dark blue, Datsun 280Z was headed west on Braddock and moving erratically. We were asked to investigate."

  "I see," she said, nodding. “Thanks anyway.”

  The officers went back to their car. Cathy climbed in the Datsun and drove off. She was shaking in limp relief. It took several long minutes before she was able to pull herself together and pay attention to the road.