Deadly Politics (A Molly Malone Mystery)

by Maggie Sefton

  “Might I remind you, Molly, you didn’t have anything left to sell,” Mike said, placing a large wedge of cheese on the cocktail napkin in front of me. “Your portfolio was damn near totaled by that broker.”

  “Asshole,” Bill pronounced.

  “Can’t you get anything back?” Deb asked.

  “Nope, he’s repenting in an ashram in Boulder. Besides, it’s my fault anyway. At the beginning of this year, I told him I needed money, and I needed it fast. When he suggested those other investments, I said to go for it.”

  “Damn, you didn’t.” Bill shook his head.

  “Damn, but I did,” I admitted, then took another large sip. Confession was good for the soul. “Commodities futures are a gamble. If you guess right, you’re rich. If you’re wrong, well, you go mooch off your friends.”

  “You’re not mooching,” Nan chided. “We’ve wanted you here since you divorced Frank.”

  “Asshole number two,” Bill intoned behind his glass.

  “You’re simply starting over again, Molly, and this is the best place to do it. Here with us.” She gave an emphatic nod.

  There were those words again. This time the vodka egged me on. I snatched the yummy wedge of Camembert. Add a little cheese to my whine. “The thing is, Nan, I feel like I’ve been starting over all my life. When Dave died, I had to start all over again, all by myself, with the girls in Colorado. And I started over again when the girls left home. And then again when I married Frank. Sold my house. Gambled everything on a new relationship, and then the relationship died.” I gestured in frustration.

  “That weasel,” Deb scowled.

  I had to laugh. Deb was nothing if not loyal. “Well, he wasn’t a weasel, just weak.”

  “And he couldn’t keep his pants on.”

  “That, too.”

  “And he practically threw you out of your condo!” Deb was working up a righteous wrath, with help of the vodka.

  “It was his condo, remember? He was letting me rent it until I decided where I wanted to buy. But this thing with my mom wiped everything off my radar screen. Time and luck ran out. The point is, I had to start all over again after the divorce two years ago. And now I’m doing it again.” I released an aggravated sigh. “Damn, I’m fifty-six, and I’m still going in circles.”

  “Something will turn up,” Mike said, giving me a reassuring smile. “I can feel it. By the way, how’s your mom doing?”

  I pictured my mom sitting with her old friends from Washington, laughing and playing cards in the garden of the gracious retirement community. “She’s doing great. I called her on the way over and told her I’d visit tomorrow. She was really happy that I was back in town.”

  “What will you tell her about the job?” Bill asked.

  “I’ll think of something. It won’t really matter what I tell her because she won’t remember it. After thirty minutes, she’ll forget I even said it. I’ll have to tell her all over again the next day,” I said with a shrug.

  Our little group fell silent, all of us no doubt pondering if we would wind up like my mother—relaxing in some pricey retirement oasis, playing cards and visiting with friends, repeating conversations over and over, blissfully unaware of the mental deterioration. I wondered, did vodka kill brain cells?

  Mike hunched over his glass of Scotch. “Molly, have you thought about moving your mom into an assisted living place? I know she loves it there in McLean, but it’s damn expensive. That would solve your money problems, because you wouldn’t need to pay a companion.”

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. “I hear you, Mike, and you’re right, it would solve the money crunch. But I just can’t do it. She’s so happy there with her friends. These are women she’s known from those old days when they were all senators’ wives together. They’ve been best friends for a lifetime. It would break her heart to leave. I can’t do that to her.”

  “Well, if her memory is going, maybe she wouldn’t care,” Nan suggested.

  “Maybe she wouldn’t even notice,” Deb ventured as she selected from the cheese tray.

  “Oh, she’d notice. I actually tried to suggest it, in a roundabout way, after she’d wandered off from the Kensington for the second time. I was getting worried, and the director reminded me that they have a ‘three strikes and you’re out’ policy.”

  “But your mom is still there, and she went walkabout a third time,” Nan said, handing her glass to Bill, who was making another trip to the bar.

  “Only because I begged them to let her stay and promised I would hire a companion immediately.” I snagged other slice of Camembert. “Thank God I found Patricia that next week. She’d finished one assignment and was ready for another.”

  “You know, Molly, there will come a time when your mom will have to go into assisted care.” Bill paused at the arbor’s edge, his deep baritone voice somber. “Remember, my dad had to go after my mom died. And I’ve seen it happen with other friends’ parents. It seems to be a natural progression.”

  I stared at the stone patio, each block irregular, and shook my head. “Yeah, I know, but until that time I want her to be where she’s happiest. She had such a look of shock on her face when I mentioned the idea of moving to a ‘safer’ place. I don’t want to do that to her. Not yet. I’ll know when it’s time.”

  “Okaaay, then,” Mike clapped his hands together, the successful chief executive calling the meeting to order. “Let’s get back on point. Finding you a commercial development job. It’ll turn up, I can feel it. You may have to go south. Down I-95. The commute will be God-awful, but it’s another option.”

  I drained my glass and set it aside. Let the vodka float take me. “I’ll do whatever it takes, guys.”

  “Can we do the rest of this brainstorming over dinner?” Nan suggested, rising from her chair. “That tenderloin is perfect.”

  “What, and absorb all that vodka?” Bill teased. “Molly’s finally relaxing.”

  “Did you say Karen is coming?” Nan asked, finishing her martini.

  “I called her after I heard from Parker and told her not to drive over tonight. She can wait until I snag a real job.” Remembering my niece’s disappointment over the phone, I added, “She’s such a sweetie. She said she’d ‘find something for me.’ I told her I’d be okay. She’s busy enough in that congressman’s office. I don’t want her taking time from her career to worry about me.”

  “She cares about you, Molly,” Deb said, leaning back into the chair. “Ever since her mom and dad died, you’re the only family she has left.”

  I stared out into the garden, dusk fast claiming the light. “You’re right. She calls me every week to talk. I guess I do feel like she’s another daughter.”

  Suddenly a familiar voice called from the side yard. “I rang the bell, and when no one answered I figured I’d find you all out here.”

  Talk about conjuring. There was my thirty-six-year-old niece, Karen Grayson, looking demure in her navy suit as she walked past the azalea bushes and rhododendrons. Despite the vodka cloud, I leapt to my feet. “Karen! You didn’t have to drive through that nasty traffic tonight. I could have met you in D.C.,” I said, rushing to give her a welcome embrace.

  “No way I’d miss your homecoming, Molly,” Karen said, giving me a big hug before she turned to embrace the rest of her extended family.

  “Hey, sweetie, good to see you. Sit down and join us in a drink before dinner,” Nan said, hostess taking precedence over gourmet cook for the moment.

  “Actually, if you’ve got one of Molly’s Colorado beers in your fridge, I’ll take that,” Karen said when she’d finished receiving a circle of hugs. “Boy, I really needed all those hugs. It’s been a tough week.”

  Bill headed to the bar once again. “One Colorado microbrew coming up.”

  “Here, sit down and relax f
or a while,” Mike said as he patted an empty chair. “How many crises have you averted in Nebraska this week?”

  Karen laughed as she settled into the chair. She brushed her shoulder-length ash-blond hair off her forehead in a gesture I’d watched from her childhood. “No crises so far in Nebraska.” She held up crossed fingers. “Just the regular election-year anxiety.”

  “But we had an election last year. Why so early?” Deb asked, draining her glass.

  “There’s no such thing as ‘early’ for a congressman. We’re in perpetual election mode,” Karen said as she accepted the beer. “Thanks, Bill. I need this.” She tipped back the bottle with the colorful label and drank. “Wow, I forgot how good these taste.”

  “Is Congressman Jackson going to have some real competition this time?” Bill asked.

  Karen shrugged, then took another long drink. “Actually, I’m tired of talking about Jackson,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I came to talk about Molly.”

  “We’ve already beaten that horse to death,” I joked. “I want to hear about you.”

  “But I’ve got news. Good news. Remember I said I’d ask around about jobs for you? Well, I found one. And I think you’ll like it. In fact, I think you’ll love it.”

  I blinked at Karen through the fast-evaporating vodka cloud. My mouth dropped open, but no speech came out.

  Mike was quicker on the trigger. “What? You found something on the Hill?”

  “Not on the Hill, but close. She’d be working for a senator. Just like she did years ago in Colorado.” Karen reached over and patted my arm. “You’re a natural, Molly. Politics is in your blood. It’s time you got back to your roots.”

  I stared at Karen again, but this time I closed my mouth. The vodka had released an ocean of memories from long ago. They flooded through me. Returning to Colorado with my little girls, heartbroken, bitter, and needing a job. Old Governor Lambert taking pity on the young congressman’s widow, giving me a position in his Denver office. Then, years later, Senator Hartman hiring me for his Senate staff. Both of them helping me create a new life in my husband’s home state. My home ever since. Roots? I tore them out when Dave died.

  I came back to the present, and the past scurried into the bushes. “What! Who would be crazy enough to hire me? I’ve been out of the loop for ages.”

  “God, Molly …” Mike shook his head.

  “Either get her more vodka or some black coffee. She’s losing it,” Deb said.

  “The new Independent senator from Colorado, that’s who,” Karen said with a sly grin.

  My mouth dropped open again. John Russell had cut a swath through the Colorado landscape last year like a tornado over the High Plains. Russell’s message of “fresh ideas” and a strong, independent voice in a fractious Senate resonated with enough Colorado voters to hand him the victory. Of course, the nonstop bloodletting of his Democratic and Republican opponents weakened any threat from them. Russell was a millionaire business success story who’d built a small local trucking firm into a national transportation powerhouse. A true visionary turned philanthropist. That track record combined with his dynamic personality and mesmerizing speaking style had handed John Russell a crucial swing seat in the United States Senate.

  “You’re kidding,” I said when I found my voice again.

  Karen chuckled. “Nope. Apparently he’s a huge fan of your father. Peter Brewster, his chief of staff, said the senator wants to model his Senate career and service after your father’s. You know, a moderate senator from a conservative state, helping to make a difference.”

  I stared at Karen once again, memories enticing me to slip back to that golden time. It was another day, and that day was gone forever. Passed away with my father. Acrimony and dissension ruled our national debates now. There was no place for politicians like my father in today’s Senate. No room for statesmen. Even iconoclastic, dynamic, mesmerizing millionaires like Russell. I shook those memories back into the bushes with the others.

  “Karen, you can’t be serious. I haven’t worked in politics for years now. There’s no way I’m qualified to work for any United States Senator again. Even this Russell. Especially not here in Washington. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. I was able to in Colorado, but not here.”

  “You wouldn’t be near the Capitol, Molly,” Karen replied, a reassuring tone in her voice. “You’d be working in the senator’s Georgetown residence. As a consultant. Don’t worry. I told Peter how reticent you were about working in Washington, and he understood completely. Believe me, he’s anxious to meet you.”

  I tried to process what I’d just heard but couldn’t. “What? I’d be working at his house? Doing what, for God’s sake?”

  “Who cares?” Mike exploded. “He wants to hire you!”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense …” I stammered.

  Too late. My friends erupted in a chorus of “Damn, Molly!” “Are you crazy?” and “Grab it!” “Say yes, dummy.”

  Karen had mentioned the magic word. Consultant. King of Metro Washington Careers. All hail, billable hours.

  “This is nuts,” I muttered. “Let’s stop the nonsense and have dinner. Didn’t I see a yummy Bordeaux on the counter? Let’s open it before Nan’s fantastic tenderloin is ruined—”

  Nan fairly leapt from her chair, empty martini glass in one hand. “Nope. Not a drop. You’re interviewing tomorrow.”

  “What? For some glorified mascot or symbol or whatever this deluded senator wants?” I gestured dismissively. “No way.”

  “Yeah, way. You need a job, dummy,” Deb chided.

  “You don’t have a choice, Molly,” Bill added. “Your mom’s retirement bills are mounting, even as we speak.”

  “Time to let go of all that Evil Washington crap you’ve been carrying around for years. This senator wants to hire you. What are you waiting for?” Nan threw in.

  Good question. I didn’t have an answer, or at least, a new one. They’d shot down everything else. But I tried to weasel out of it anyway. “Guys, I don’t want to get close to Washington politics again. You know that. Too many bad memories.”

  There was a momentary silence, and I held my breath. Nothing like old baggage to stop a conversation—or a conversion—short.

  Then Mike weighed in. “Molly, may I remind you of your promise made only minutes ago?” He folded his arms across his chest. “When I suggested job-hunting down I-95, traffic and all, your reply was, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’”

  Damn. I had said that, hadn’t I? Trapped by my own words. I hated it when that happened. I looked around at the triumphant grins surrounding me and threw in the towel.

  _____

  The closet was stuffy and hot. He was sweating beneath his Gore-tex jacket and pants. His cotton tee shirt clung to his skin.

  C’mon, old man. Get outta the john and go to bed.

  He pulled back the edge of his leather glove and checked his watch. 11:32. Later than anticipated. Where had the old fart been tonight?

  Running water sounded and a toilet flushed. Then a cough, deep and congested, the rattle of long-ago smoking still audible. The bathroom light flicked off.

  At last. He peered through the slanted louvers of the closet door, watching the elderly man in pajamas walk toward his king-sized bed. The flickering light of the television was the only illumination in the room, throwing odd shadows across the walls.

  The elderly man threw back the quilted covers and climbed into bed, then pulled the comforter to his waist. A tired sigh escaped as he settled back onto the pillows.

  That’s it. Relax, watch the news, close your eyes, and go to sleep.

  He checked his watch again and deliberately counted ten minutes go by. Time enough. He pushed the slightly ajar closet door open and stepped into the darkened bedroom. Slowly approaching the bed, he pau
sed and watched the old man’s breathing. Slow and even. He drew to the edge of the bed and reached across.

  Suddenly the old man opened his eyes and blinked up in surprise. “Who … who the hell are you?”

  “No one you’d know, Senator,” he said in a quiet voice. Then lithe as a cat, he sprang upon the bed, straddling the surprised old man. He had the bed pillow over the senator’s face before the old man could call out to the sleeping housekeeper below.

  The senator struggled frantically, his arms flailing, his whole body writhing beneath his attacker. But his fingers slid down the slick jacket, unable to grab hold. Just as his cries were muffled. Smothered beneath fifteen hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. Within a short time, the old man’s struggles ceased.

  He lifted the pillow and checked for a pulse. There was none. An already weakened heart had helped finish the job. He climbed off the bed and returned the pillow beneath the senator’s head, then straightened the bedcovers.

  There shouldn’t be any questions. Not with the old man’s bad heart. Everyone will assume he died in his sleep. Odds were good that whatever D.C. cop showed up to investigate wouldn’t even work homicide.

  He paused at the bedroom doorway and glanced back once, checking the room again. The old man looked positively peaceful. Then he slipped down the stairs, pausing only to enter the security code before he quietly left through the front door. The same way he came in.

  Two

  “I’m going to gamble and double-park for a few minutes,” Karen said as she switched off the ignition of her Honda sedan and opened the door.

  I exited the passenger side and surveyed the narrow residential street in front of Senator Russell’s Georgetown home. “The parking looks as bad as I remember.”

  “Pretty much. Fines are steeper, too,” Karen agreed as we crossed the sidewalk leading to the senator’s impressive white brick mansion, which rose behind tall brick walls bordering the property.

  I followed behind Karen, nervously smoothing my black suit pants and jacket, arranging the collar of my white silk blouse. I’d decided to go with the sober, serious interview suit. Suitable for serious accounting positions or funeral directors. This morning’s drive through long-forgotten streets had done nothing to calm my apprehension. Memories pricked like tiny needles.