Palace Council

by Stephen L Carter

  Wanda, the hysterical widow, kept insisting that her husband had never been with a prostitute in his life. Leaving her fancy house, the detectives shook experienced heads. Wives, they told each other. They’re always the last to know.

  Then the pimp turned up dead. The detectives closed the case.

  CHAPTER 28

  Again the Testament

  (I)

  AURELIA LEANED OVER THE PLUMBER, watching with grim fascination as he reassembled the furnace by the dim yellowy light of the basement bulb. At the customer’s insistence, he had examined every piece, cleaning even the ones just installed at the last overhaul. He kept shaking his head. He was potbellied and mustached and unhappy to be kneeling on this concrete floor for the fourth time in the past two weeks.

  “There’s nothin wrong, Mrs. Garland. I’m sorry.”

  “There has to be.”

  He moved his toothpick to the other cheek. “The oil pump’s fine, the filter is clean, she’s drawin fine, she’s firin on demand—I don’t know what else to check.”

  Aurie hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms. She was wearing two sweaters, and lately made the children go around the house the same way. It was May, and, supposedly, spring, but she had never felt so cold in her life. “Maybe the ducts are clogged,” she suggested as he screwed the panel shut.

  “I checked the temperature on all the vents last time I was here.”

  “Would you check again, please?”

  “All of them?”

  “If you can. I’d be grateful.”

  He grumbled, but did as she asked, because Mrs. Garland was not a bad sort, and when she called in the middle of the night she paid his double-time without complaint, and added an extra fifty for his trouble. Still—as he told his wife later—there must be somethin wrong with her. The temperature was in the sixties or seventies every day, the eighties twice last week, and here she was complainin. Maybe she was one of those Southern Negroes, his wife suggested. Maybe she would feel more comfortable in the tropics. She had read about the tropics in National Geographic, and noticed that the Negroes who lived there wore hardly any clothes.

  No, said her husband. It’s not that. Mrs. Finnerty right next door says she’s from Cleveland, and I guess it gets pretty cold out there. Besides, it’s not cold. It’s hot. I think she’s not right in the head.

  Well, none of them are, really, his wife agreed. Her gaze fell on Reader’s Digest, open to a picture of Edward Wesley. This one has a sister who’s some kind of mad bomber: because by this time the truth of Commander M’s identity had become public property.

  “I’m not talkin about crazy people like that. I’m talkin about people right here in town.”

  They argued on into the night.

  (II)

  AURELIA WOULD HAVE BEEN the first to agree with the plumber. She was not right in the head. Not even close. In the six months since Matthew Garland’s murder, she had never felt warm. It was as if the sun had winked out. She had her children, and gazed at them, and felt blessed. But at night, when they slept, she found the temperature falling. No matter how high she turned the heat. No matter what lie she read on the thermostat. The house grew colder and colder. She had not realized how much warmth Matty brought. Wanda, his widow, never came by. For several weeks after the funeral, Aurelia had driven up to Dobbs Ferry every few days, trying to build a relationship to replace the one with Matty. Her mother-in-law dutifully served her tea in the parlor, sitting stiffly, staring straight ahead, bearing Aurelia’s murmured kindnesses with the stoicism of the tortured. Soon Aurie stopped going.

  Kevin, meanwhile, was busier than ever. He left early. He stayed out late. He worked weekends. He was the first to admit that he could never run Garland & Son as his father had. Matty had relied on charisma, on the almost physical power of his personality. Lacking his father’s devastating charm, Kevin substituted intelligence and dedication. He was always exhausted. Yet, when around the house, he was always solicitous, as if his wife, not he himself, had suffered the loss. Aurelia saw the absurdity of her behavior but could not seem to help herself. Callie Finnerty recommended a new baby as a tonic. Aurie and Kevin tried when they could, but without result.

  “If you worry all the time like this, you’ll never get pregnant,” said Callie. “Worry messes up your system.”

  But Aurelia had known plenty of women who had worried themselves straight into the maternity wards, and said so.

  She wished she had someone else to talk to. Alas, she spent too little time at Columbia to make friends there. Her Harlem coterie had scattered, Eddie was at the White House, and Mona Veazie, her dearest buddy, was in the process of planning her move from Chicago to New Hampshire, where next year she would become an assistant professor of psychology at Dartmouth. She had borne twins—all Harlem marveled—but she had never brought them home to her mother’s house, and evidently had no plans to. Mona was currently divorcing the father, Amaretta told the other Czarinas, without more than a modicum of shame, this being the modern era. He had not, Amaretta confided, treated her very well.

  Mona had enough to bear already.

  So Aurelia turned the thermostat above eighty, despite the season, wore extra sweaters, and spent as much time as possible indoors.

  Once, Kevin had to go away for a couple of days. His cousin Derek had been beaten and arrested in Anniston, Alabama, where he was participating in the Freedom Rides, protesting bus segregation. Kevin was part of a group of businessmen and lawyers who planned to sort things out. Aurie found herself terrified that her husband would wind up in jail, too.

  “Why do you have to go? He’s Oliver’s brother, not yours.”

  “Oliver won’t have anything to do with him.”

  “Derek’s a grown man. He knew what he was getting into.”

  “I’m a grown man, too,” said Kevin, and, kissing her, went.

  While Kevin was gone, Eddie called excitedly from Washington. He wanted Aurelia to be sure to watch the President’s address to a joint session of Congress next week. Eddie was the principal author of his speech.

  “What’s he going to talk about?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Putting a man on the moon. A commitment to be there by the end of the decade.”

  Aurelia was wordstruck. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “They’re beating the Freedom Riders. My husband’s cousin is in jail, and my husband might be tomorrow, and you’re happy that Kennedy wants to put a man on the moon?”

  Eddie hesitated. “Aurelia, listen. I’m sure Kevin is fine. But you’re going to read in the paper tomorrow that there was more violence in Anniston.”

  The chill was seeping into her bones. “More?”

  “You know somebody firebombed a bus last week, right? Well, tonight somebody put a couple of bullets through the bedroom window of the man who’s supposed to be the local head of the Klan. Fortunately, the family was out at dinner, but, Aurie, here’s the thing. The Bureau’s telling us it was Jewel Agony.”

  “Jewel Agony?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Eddie, I’m so sorry,” she said, knowing he would know what she meant.

  Later that night, Aurelia went to the shelf in Kevin’s study and pulled down their autographed copy of Eddie’s third novel, published last year. The novel chronicled the rise and fall of a Harlem gangster named Redd, the inspiration obvious to anybody who knew Eddie’s history. The critics had been underwhelmed, but the book was Eddie’s biggest seller so far. She opened to the dedication page.

  To Miranda.

  Miranda, meaning Junie. She had been missing now for nearly four years.

  “Poor Eddie,” she said aloud. He was down there in the White House, had access to inside information, and his sister was still missing. His search had led nowhere. The best he could manage was hear about her crimes after the fact and dedicate books to her.

  The shelf was packed tight.
She could not squeeze Eddie’s novel back into its spot without pulling down several of the books on either side and starting over. Had she not taken down so many, she would have missed the envelope. But there it was, creamy white stationery, with her husband’s name on the outside in an elegant hand. She wondered nervously if it might be from a woman.

  It wasn’t.

  (III)

  KEVIN ARRIVED HOME two days later, unscathed and rather proud of how much their delegation had accomplished. Aurelia listened to his stories, nodding at what she hoped were the right moments. Actually, she was pleased for him. She mixed a second round of martinis, toasted him. Running the firm was giving him so much trouble, but, somehow, Alabama had ended in triumph. Maybe his easygoing style was better suited to political negotiation than to scrabbling for fees on Wall Street.

  Not that she would ever say so.

  After dinner, Kevin read to the children while Aurelia watched from the doorway. In bed later, she raised the question that had been in her mind since she opened the envelope.

  “Remember years ago, honey? When we went to London?”

  Her husband nodded. “We should go again. We will. Just as soon as I get things settled at the office.”

  “That would be fun.” She hesitated. Outside, the wind had freshened, a cold front moving forcefully in. Aurie loved thunder showers, and hoped for one. “But that’s not what I wanted to ask.” She took a breath, then plunged. “What I wondered was—well, remember how you told me you were trying to clean up the mess Phil Castle left behind?”

  He stiffened in her arms. “I should never have mentioned it—”

  “Kevin, please. This is important.”

  “What is?”

  “Did you ever find it?”

  “Find what?”

  “Whatever Castle left behind.”

  This time Kevin made her wait. She knew he was turning history over in his mind, trying to recall just how much he had disclosed in London. The windows shuddered as the wind rose. Finally, he said, “It wasn’t illegal, honey. If that’s what you’re driving at. The business with Phil and my father—well, it wasn’t illegal. Not strictly speaking.”

  Aurelia had the wit to say nothing.

  “I know I scared you back in those days, Aurie. I’m so sorry. It’s just—what Phil left behind—I had to try to find it. I owed that to my family. Can you understand that?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  “The details—well, I just went where my father told me. I met the people he told me to meet.”

  She hid her surprise, but had to ask. “Matty knew what you were doing?”

  “I followed his instructions to the letter.” He seemed, briefly, proud of himself. “As to the rest, well, I didn’t know until Dad died what was going on.” A shiver. She nestled closer, kissed his jaw. “I can’t tell you any more, honey. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m your wife, Kevin. You’re supposed to trust me.” He said nothing. The panes rattled harder. “Please, honey. I have to know. All of this secrecy—it’s driving me crazy.”

  To her surprise, he chuckled. “Crazy, as in curious? Or as in nuts?”

  “Nuts,” she said, but he had succeeded in making her laugh.

  He yawned. “Why are you asking me just now? Did something happen? Did somebody come to the house asking questions?”

  “No, honey. This is just me.”

  “What happened?” he repeated.

  Aurelia sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. She told him about taking the books down in the study and finding the envelope.

  Kevin bore the news with his mother’s stoicism. The first drops of rain spattered against the windows. “And what did you find, Aurie? In the envelope?”

  “It was a note to you. I don’t know who it was from. It just said—it said that, ah, in light of recent events, shaking the throne would have to be postponed. What does it mean?”

  She felt the growing tension as her husband turned toward her. “Do you believe I love you? You and the kids?”

  “Completely,” she repeated.

  “Good. Because I love the three of you more than anything in the world. I would never let anything happen to you. But you’re not telling me the whole truth, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The rain was lashing the house. If thunder began, the children would likely wake and run to their parents’ bed. Aurie wanted things settled before that happened. Evidently, so did her husband.

  “The envelope shouldn’t have been there,” Kevin said. “It’s not your fault, honey. It’s mine. I should have locked it in my office safe, but I had to go out of town to take care of Derek, and, well, I thought it would be secure in my study for a week. And it would have been, if you hadn’t snooped.”

  “I wasn’t snooping!”

  He kissed her. “I believe you. You were just curious. But it never occurred to you that the note might refer to, say, a corporate merger or political fund-raising.”

  “Is that what it refers to?”

  “You know it isn’t or you wouldn’t have asked. You found a note about shaking the throne, and then you asked me about Philmont Castle. How do you know the two are connected?”

  Aurelia could not come up with a story. No willed imagination this time. In the distance she heard the first rising peals of thunder.

  “I’ll tell you why you made the connection. Because you broke into my office safe years ago and read everything.” His voice was less angry than rueful. “I always suspected, Aurie. Matty gave you the combination, didn’t he? You read the notes about the Project. You’ve kept quiet about it all these years—unless you’ve told Eddie—but you read them. Do you have copies?”

  “No,” she said, miserably.

  “Does Eddie know what you found?”

  “No.”

  “Good. That’s our only break. Now, listen, honey. Are you listening?”

  She felt tears on her cheeks. She was frightened. Not of her husband. For her husband.

  “Yes, Kevin. I’m listening.”

  His face was very close. “You never broke into my safe. Never. You never opened the envelope in my study. Never. You’ve never heard of shaking the throne or the Author or Pandemonium. Never. You won’t ever mention any of this to a soul. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t say ‘but.’ Don’t ask any more questions. I’ve told you what I can. Yes, there is a Project. It’s gone off the tracks. Philmont Castle made a mess of things. He left a letter somewhere—the testament—and if the testament comes out, well, it could cause trouble for important people. I was asked to find it, and I couldn’t. They gave the job to somebody else. That’s all there is. We won’t mention it again.”

  “Who gave the job to somebody else?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  More rumbling, ever closer. The rain fell like bullets. Shivering, Aurelia reminded herself that she loved this kind of weather.

  “But why you, honey? Can you tell me that much?”

  “Because I’m who I am.” He spoke with a queer pride. “Because I’m my father’s son.” He kissed her again, so gently she felt lost. “Now, please, Aurie. Listen. This is important. You don’t know anything. Remember that. Especially if—well, if anything happens to me.”

  “Kevin—”

  “I’m not saying anything will happen. It’s very unlikely. But if it does, well, it’s like I keep telling you, honey. You and the children are provided for. Very well provided for. If anything does happen, your job is to raise the children, spend the money, and enjoy your life. Promise me.”

  “But how can you just—”

  “Promise me, honey.”

  Aurelia argued for a while, but in the end promised. And just in time. The thunderheads broke over the house, the roof shuddered, and the children, right on cue, came flying into their parents’ bedroom.

  The four of them snuggled together until morning.

  CHAPTER 29

  A Choice
Is Made

  (I)

  EDDIE LIKED WASHINGTON. It was an old city that thought itself new. Every few years it was remade in the image of a new President, who brought with him thousands of supporters to take up thousands of jobs. The Congress was constantly reconfiguring itself. And each year young people flocked into town, college graduates, their degrees still spanking new, searching for work in the federal government, or in its many symbiotic bacteria: law firms, lobbying firms, public-relations firms, newspapers. All needed fresh talent. There were major universities and minor colleges. “Anybody who can’t find a job here,” said Byron Dennison, a powerful Negro member of Congress whom Eddie had befriended in the campaign, “doesn’t deserve one.”

  Eddie rented a two-story brick town home on I Street (that is, “Eye” Street), in the section of the city known in those days as the New Southwest: a featureless sea of freshly constructed if unimaginative row houses of stout brick, sprinkled with uninspired apartment buildings, all surrounded by more brand-new row houses and apartment buildings, and huge tracts recently cleared to build more of the same. The New Southwest had been constructed, through the genius of urban planning, where colorful working-class neighborhoods had once thrived. Its borders were the Potomac River, a hideous interstate highway, and a massive public-housing project. Every morning, the men rose to walk to work or take the bus or, in a few instances, drive. Eddie usually went to the White House the first three days of the work week. On Thursdays and Fridays, he also rose early, but to write.

  On Friday, the second of February, 1962, he slipped out of bed around six. The house was warm. The oil furnace was new and far more efficient than the coal furnace that had heated the building on Convent Avenue. He stood in the window, looking down on the grassy median separating the backyards of the townhouses in his row from the backyards of the townhouses across the way. Last week, Eddie had spotted a man in the early hours, standing back there and looking up at his bedroom. Or at least he thought he had. When he looked twice, the man was gone. But he spotted him at other times, too. Last week, in a crowd outside a movie theater, hat pulled low to disguise his face. Last night, in a checkout line at the Safeway, head turned carefully away so that, no matter what angle Eddie took, he could not see the man’s face.