Marilena introduced me as Doctor Thomas Briggs. She was making sure that everyone understood the connection between the recently deceased Doctor Briggs and me, and, ever the sleuth, studying them with super special FBI skills as they reacted to my relationship with Ron. I have been with other dates whose motives, which I will never understand, were more along the lines of “my date is a doctor” as if she had just landed the biggest game fish on the boat. Knowing more than my share of doctors, along with the fact that had they let me in the doctor club, kept me from being quite so impressed. Marilena was certainly above that. I’m pretty sure about that. At least I think I’m pretty sure about that. Then again, before the introductions began, she had grabbed my hand and hadn’t let go. Claim of title demonstrated to the other ladies — significant disappointment among the men.
The others at our table were a mixed bag. I’m sure that each one had his or her own personal story about what they had done, or more likely donated, to buy their seat at the big kid’s table. I just hoped that I wasn’t going to have to listen to each one of them. A waiter took an order for a round of drinks, letting me segregate my table-mates based on their selection of libation. The scale ranged from the serious drinkers and their bourbons and scotches to the frivolous imbibers ordering pina coladas, cosmopolitans, and other corny tourist tipples. A couple of the women were in category “A,” giving me a reason for hope. I found it easier to remember them by their drink than by their name. Marilena ordered sparkling water — she would not be categorized.
At present, the lights dimmed, and the orchestra that had been providing the background music broke into something dramatic and with considerably more volume. A spotlight stabbed out in the new darkness and defined a lectern on the stage less than twenty feet away. We waited for an entrance by some imposing figure, commensurate with the light and sound show. Television monitors had been set up. The lectern and the empty space above it were reproduced on two fifty-foot screens suspended in the air above the stage framing the speaker position.
The figure that rolled across the stage was a little disappointing. I was just able to determine that the movement in the still darkened areas of the stage belonged to a male human. This particular specimen was only about five feet in height. He was, however, also seemingly five feet in width. When he appeared in the spotlight, he squinted, blinded by its intensity. He looked for and found the teleprompter. He had worked up a sweat. Our speaker was round, hot, sweaty, and blind.
Mark Wilson leaned behind Marilena and over towards me. He said quietly into my ear as I bent in his direction, “That small dirigible is Woodrow Standish. He’s the Chairman of the National Board and the one who led the team that selected Alison as President.” I nodded, indicating that I had heard him and appreciated the help. He paused, backed away six inches, grinned, and looked into my eyes. “However, I can’t help but think of him as Chubby Woody.” In the low light I could see him grin widely. As his new co-conspirator, I involuntarily responded in kind. Chubby Woody, the Society “Round Boy,” would forever be how I remembered him.
Chubby Woody, his eyes finally adjusting well enough to read the teleprompter, said, “On behalf of the CID Society, I would like to begin by thanking all of you for joining us tonight.” He continued with the usual introductory comments about the “special evening” in this “special city,” surrounded by “special people” and “coming together to fight mankind’s most devastating diseases,” so much for the other chronic maladies. He was long winded and liked to hear himself. He enjoyed the spotlight even if it was causing him to soak himself in even more sweat. It was, however, when he got to his real objective, introducing Alison Montgomery, that it got interesting and a little bizarre. He went beyond the normal platitudes and reminders about how fortunate we were to have Alison Montgomery as our society’s president — he fawned and he gushed to the point of being inappropriate. The adjectives he used to describe Alison Montgomery quickly moved beyond those that one would use to describe a professional and became personal, just short of intimate. I could feel Wilson’s body stiffen one vacant seat away from me, as Chubby Woody publicly adored his wife. Even in the dimly lit room, I could see a smirk or two at our table. A couple of people gave each other knowing looks as if sharing an inside joke, laughing at him and his fantasy. Wilson, hiding embarrassment, retreated away from me. Finally, and to the relief of many, it ended. Chubby Woody spoke her name with reverence, turned, and waddled off stage.
A new selection of music began softly and then got progressively louder, announcing the entrance of the President of the CID Society. Unlike Chubby Woody’s appearance across the mostly dim stage, several banks of brilliant white lights erupted. A curtain was drawn from two sides and a gowned, regal figure in white, flaxen hair framing a tanned face, glided into view and floated at a moderate pace across the stage to the lectern. Instead of stopping behind it, she moved in front of the small speaker’s stand. She must have been wired for sound as there was no microphone. From this closer vantage point, and due to the positioning of the teleprompters, it was obvious, maybe intentionally so, that she was going to speak to us extemporaneously or from a memorized set of remarks.
“We join together again,” she began solemnly, both arms rising up from her sides, reaching her audience, “united by our passion and our hope. Our loved ones look to us to end their pain, their loss of humanity’s most basic endowments. Driven to succeed against any obstacle, we are blessed with good fortune. To use this gift, our blessing of vitality and health for them without the slightest hesitation. And we will. Anything less is unacceptable to you, my friends and my partners in this noble quest.” Her head lowered slightly, her arms returned to her sides.
Her skills at working a room of this size were impressive. Her words were visibly affecting those in the room. She had absolute dominion over her audience. I had seen this before. I don’t think that it’s something you can be taught — either you’re born with it or you’re not. It is the ability to reach each member of an audience, even in a large gathering like this, on a personal level. It is in part due to the words, but more so due to the delivery. Intense, focused passion genuinely heartfelt and delivered with laser-like accuracy. It did not allow for skeptics, enlisting the believers whose palpable reactions would drive skepticism out of anyone else’s mind.
Her next message intensified the room even more as implausible as that could be.
“I think of all of you first as my friends, fellow travelers in our quest. We are conjoined by our cause, our determination, and our action. We will not be defeated.
“I want to thank all of you who have reached out to me at this time of personal pain. For those of you who have not heard, my sister’s CID has worsened, and the enemy I fight with every breath, will soon take her from me.”
A gasp, a collective rebuttal, filled the room.
“She asked me to share with you her love, her understanding of the tremendous work that we have accomplished knowing that when we complete our mission, AND WE WILL, it will be too late for her.”
The audience became even more agitated, some in emotional distress. Glancing quickly around my table, I did not see many dry eyes with the noticeable exception of Mark Wilson; his face set in firm resolve. Now I understood her motivation, her drive to lead this fight. I had a tremendous personal experience with a sibling who had kept me in his life, dedicating his time and talents, never wavering, always there for me. Alison Montgomery, although clearly an accomplished showman, was motivated from the heart, a force not to be denied.
She continued after letting her initial words register to their full impact. “This night is a test. A test not just for me, but also for us as a family. For in addition to my personal trials, we have among us someone else who has suffered greatly and needs us, needs our strength. It was my sad duty almost ten days ago to report to you the death of a great man. A man who was a personal hero to me and to everyone who knew him. For those of you who have not been told, we have
lost Dr. Ronald Briggs, the leader of the Society-initiated efforts to end CID. The authorities tell me that Ron’s death was a suicide. Hearing this news, that my dear and trusted friend had taken his own life, was the worst moment of my life. When I lose Claire, my pain at that time will have had an equal predecessor. For Ron to have had problems that forced this solution upon him must have been a terrible burden beyond anything that I could have withstood. He was so strong, so resolute. I have tremendous guilt over not knowing the demons that chased him from me. I would have done anything for him. It is, however, selfish of me to make anyone think that mine is the only loss. Sitting at my table is Ron’s brother, Tom. Tom is someone that Ron spoke of often, to me, to many of you. Someone that Ron was so very proud of. Someone that I very truly wanted to meet someday — just not meet on this day.”
She looked my way. I felt the room share her intensity. And then, everyone else diminished until it was just me and Alison Montgomery. The only incursion, a welcome one, was Marilena’s hand that had reached under the table and found mine. Her grip tightened, sensing what was to come.
As if we were the only two present, tears welling in her eyes she spoke with difficulty, “Tom, I am so sorry. I will try to be a better friend to you than I was to your brother. I failed. I failed you both.”
I believed her. Everyone in the room believed her. I hadn’t known about her sister. Now I understood. I understood why Ron had followed her, why he believed in her. I had an ally to help me find Ron’s killer. Alison Montgomery would soon come to know what I knew — what I knew with a total and complete certainty. I would make her know. Her guilt about Ron would convert to energy. She would become the insider that Marilena and I needed.
UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL
Alison Montgomery’s brief but incredibly effective address concluded. She was rewarded with applause well beyond what I would have expected from a high-society event. As the lights came up for dinner, many in the room looked in the direction of our table trying to identify me and then spoke intently to their neighbors while gesturing in my direction. Montgomery exited the stage back through the curtains and reappeared from a side door near us. She walked across the dining area to our table, pausing several times to greet someone along the way. Much to my relief, renewed focus on her made me old news.
By the time Alison Montgomery arrived, the servers had already placed small salads in front of everyone at our table. She moved next to me first. I stood, and she took my offered hand.
“Thank you again for coming tonight,” she said with the sincerity motor turned to high, her expression a natural state for her, designed to make me feel special.
I responded, “Thanks for the invitation and for making room for us at your table. I’d like to introduce my date. This is Miss Marilena Rigatti. Marilena. Alison Montgomery,” the last part as awkward as it was unnecessary because I didn’t know her well enough to introduce her to anyone. I had used the “Miss” prefix as Marilena had asked me to do so in the past. There’s no “Ms.” equivalent in any of the languages, other than the “American” English that Marilena speaks. If given the slightest chance, she would tell you what she thought of “Ms.” It’s better not to. It’s not pretty.
The two women sized each other up, both working hard at not appearing to do so, neither missing a single detail. Marilena had not risen. From her seat she held Montgomery’s gaze. Speaking to the two of us, Montgomery continued, “I hope that both of you enjoy a very special evening and have the opportunity to meet many of our wonderful benefactors.”
I nodded a response while planning to do anything but that. Marilena cocked her head slightly and answered in her accented voice, “It is such a lovely event in support of something so important. It must be wonderful to combine evenings like this with work that must be so personally rewarding.”
Montgomery said, “Yes, I am very fortunate. But the best part of my life is that my position lets me meet so many amazing and generous people.” Her emphasis to me, however, seemed to be on “her position” and not the “amazing and generous people.” Or, maybe, I was just hearing her the way I wanted to, being the skeptic that I am. She returned her attention solely to me. “Tom, I am so glad that you could come tonight to see firsthand our commitment and meet some of the society’s supporters. Before you leave New York, could we meet in my office? Even better, tomorrow we are having a council meeting. That’s our senior management team. Ron was an integral part of that group, and I would like you to meet the people who worked closely with him leading our organization. It is very much my hope that we can maintain the strong relationship with your family that Ron brought to us.” Would she be genuinely surprised to discover that I was all that was left of Ron’s family?
I answered in the affirmative but with a neutral voice. We’d meet. I’d come to her council meeting. But she would learn that she wasn’t the only one with an agendum. She might be a little pompous for my taste, but given her sister’s affliction, I was sure that she was a true believer. I was going to use that to gain her involvement, to rid her beloved CID Society of a killer. Lacking a conscience lets me make decisions like this to use people with no loss of sleep whatsoever. She smiled and let go of my hand as she turned to the next couple. She invited us all to begin eating while she ignored the first course and spent some special time with each person at our table. I imagine that one downside of her job was that social events set around a meal might leave her hungry. The others at the table started to interact among themselves giving Montgomery, and whomever she was speaking to, a little pretend privacy as she revolved around the table. After about twenty minutes, she had completed her circumnavigation and was seated next to her husband. Salads long gone, entrée-cooling, husband bored.
The dinner was better than most of these mass-eating events. To their credit, the Plaza chefs had turned out a lot of food without making it taste institutional. WESTPAC needed to steal a couple of their guys and get things turned around at Yokosuka. Surprisingly to me, the conversations between those at my table were not about anything to do with CID. Everyone was more interested in talking about casual events in their lives and renewing acquaintances. I spoke briefly with a couple of people at the table, but for the most part, including Alison Montgomery, they seemed far more interested in Marilena than in me. If nothing else, a demonstration of good taste.
An elderly lady whose name I had already forgotten started the collective probing. I leaned back in my chair to watch the show.
“My dear, your accent is lovely. Where in Italy are you from?”
“Actually, I’m only part Italian and have spent much of my life in other parts of Europe. My paternal grandfather was from Tuscany, but he moved to the Basque area of Spain where he met and married my grandmother. My mother’s family is from France, where they work hard at denying that they emigrated from Romania; rumor has it as gypsies and circus people, no less.” Giving me a slightly disdainful look including a small roll of the eyes, she continued. “Thomas refers to me as a Euro-mutt.” I immediately received several feigned, or maybe not so feigned, looks of disgust.
“I have offered to upgrade you to Euro-mongrel several times,” I earnestly countered. Enough people laughed, including Marilena. I had avoided being drawn and quartered for the moment.
The blue-haired matron maintained her position as chief inquisitor by purposefully avoiding the laughter. She proclaimed to Marilena, “Carson and I have traveled extensively in Europe. I was having some trouble reconciling your accent with your family name. I do hear the lovely French influence intermingled with the Castilian now that I am not just listening for the Italian.” Yeah, right. I was having some difficulty not laughing out loud at her sophistry. One of the little things that I had teased Marilena about was that her accent seemed to change, representing different coastal Mediterranean countries, both north and south, as it suited her or helped her work in some situation or another. She has denied this every time I bring it up, but I swear she sounds different talki
ng to the French chargé d’affair than to a Libyan emissary.
After some additional, gentle interrogation, it was determined that my date was an exotic beauty that I did not deserve. No argument. One of the men said that she needed to “trade up” and offered to help out which earned more laughter from everyone except his wife and from Marilena, who didn’t understand the colloquialism. I told her that it meant that she was extremely fortunate to have me as her escort. I was soundly rebuffed. A mob, even a small mob, can be an ugly thing.
Dessert arrived only to be overtly pushed aside by the figure-conscious ladies. I smiled at that as some of the old gals must have just this very moment given up dessert — prior to tonight it had been a staple of their diets. Good for them.
Marilena turned to me and said, “You promised me a dance. Several.”
I was sure that I had not. I was even more certain that I would lose this battle. We excused ourselves and headed for the dance floor.
“Don’t you think I will look insensitive dancing with you after Montgomery’s public oratory about the magnitude of my recent loss?” I asked with faked sincerity.
“You will never look insensitive dancing with me. If you dance with anyone else, then you will look insensitive.”
Before I could ask what that meant, we were on the floor and doing the adult slow dancing thing. At least this form of dancing offered the benefit of physical contact — a definite tactical enhancement if you are trying to move the relationship to a baser level. This was not my plan tonight so I was going to behave strictly in a brotherly kind of way. Marilena moved toward me and slipped under my arms. The adult slow dancing thing doesn’t require skill or much locomotion about the dance floor. My plan was to use this to my advantage so we could talk privately. Marilena had her own plans.
“What do you think of Montgomery and her husband?” I asked.
Death of a Cure Page 14