“Roth will endorse you, unless Robert Till pulls some kind of coup.” Robert Till was the county supervisor whose district covered much of the same ground as the congressional district. He frightened me. He was well entrenched with the Republican machinery, a good communicator with natural charm and a chin worthy of Kirk Douglas. In his last run for supervisor, he took 58 percent of the vote in the primary. That was an enormous number considering there were four other candidates. He also had money, and money was the lifeblood of a campaign.
“It’s Till that scares me,” I admitted. “The guy is a juggernaut. There are some in the party already touting him as the next congressman. I’m not going to get very far if I can’t win my own party.”
“You will. We’ve been doing the groundwork. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re the darling of the party. They’ll back whomever they think will win. Besides, I’ve been studying Till. He has an exploitable weakness.”
“You know my rules, Nat. Nothing underhanded or dirty. I agreed to run as long as I can do it in the cleanest fashion possible. No mudslinging, no name-calling, no investigations to find skeletons in the other candidates’ closets.”
“I know and what’s more, I agree. My point is he’s not a perfect candidate. There are no perfect candidates.”
“I’m waiting for you to say, ‘Present company excluded.’”
“I wish I could, but you know as well as I do that you have obstacles to overcome. The March primary is just a couple of months off. After that, the real work begins.”
“If I win the primary.”
“You’ll win.”
I loved her confidence but had a ton of doubts. “How can you be so certain?”
She shrugged. Just her right shoulder moved. “Being a pessimist doesn’t help.” She paused, played with her chowder, then added, “You have to stay out of trouble. The news reports last year may have helped you, but they could come back and bite us on the girdle. You were both victim and hero. That works once. Twice, and it looks contrived.”
Last year two of my former campaign volunteers were abducted. One died. It’s a long story and one filled with too many pains to relive. Each time I think of it and the friends it cost me, my stomach feels as if I had swallowed a handful of thumbtacks. “I can’t change what has happened, Nat. It is what it is. I’ve learned to live with it, and my campaign is going to have to learn to get past it. I sure don’t want to go through anything like it again.”
“I understand. I’m talking about perceptions, not reality. They are not always the same. There’s truth and perceived truth. Take your new interest in church things.”
“What about it?” I was getting uncomfortable. Nat is a good enough friend that she doesn’t sugarcoat things for me. She cares enough to speak the truth.
“After last year’s crisis you started going church. I know it brings you comfort, but some are going to suggest it’s just a ploy to get the Christian vote.”
“It’s not,” I said, stronger than I intended. “I’ve tried to explain it to you.”
“You have explained it. You’ve told me about your husband’s conversion before his death, and you’ve told me all about Paul Shedd and his influence on you. That’s all well and good. For one, I’ve seen you change over the months, and all of the changes are good. My point is that the next two months are going to be crucial. You are a contender in this, and that means you now have a target on your back. I’ve been studying Till’s last two campaigns. He’s a nice guy until he gets cornered, then he starts throwing wild punches. I think that’s going to happen soon.”
“I’ll be ready for him.” I looked down at my lunch. The shrimp was firm and tasty, the lettuce crisp, the dressing tangy. So why was I losing my appetite?
“I think you’re ready for any attack on the issues, but are you ready for a personal attack? Are you ready for innuendos?”
“I just can’t see Till doing that.”
“It won’t come from Till; it will come from some so-called citizens’ group who pretend to speak for thousands. You know how this works. You’ve seen it.”
I had seen it and Nat was right. Till could let others attack me while he stood on the sidelines looking shocked at such behavior. The third-party candidates could raise questions. One didn’t have to be evil to lose votes; they just had to appear evil or stupid. Campaigns have been sunk on misspoken phrases, doctored photos, and rumors.
Nat continued. “All I’m saying is, get ready. I think you are good enough to frighten Till and the others. You know the first rule of campaigning: If you can’t run fast enough to be lead dog, then shoot the lead dog.”
“How poetic. I’ll be ready.”
“You also need to be careful. Take this dead man in the parking lot thing. It wouldn’t take much more than a question like, ‘Why is it violent crime follows Madison Glenn?’ Or maybe, ‘Can we expect law and order from a person who constantly finds crime on her doorstep?’ You get the idea.”
“I don’t find crime on my doorstep. Just because—” Nat was looking at me and smiling. “I know, I know, perception and reality are not the same things. You don’t suppose—no, that’s too extreme, even for politics.”
“What? That someone killed this man in your parking place to rob you of some votes? Doubtful, but not impossible. It would take one sick puppy to go that far.”
“I seem to attract those kinds of puppies.”
We finished our meal and sat looking at the waves tumble on the shore. An elderly couple walked through the sand while their cocker spaniel barked at the waves. They held hands as they walked. We were close enough to the beach for me to see that they were well into their sixties. They walked in silence, like only old couples could, confident that more was communicated in the touch of their hands than in any words that could be spoken.
I thought of Peter. Of our love. Of his violent death and how much I missed him. Something began to twist in me as the Kodak moment became a reminder that I would never walk along the beach with Peter again. Not as a young couple. Not as an old one.
I had become a person of faith. Nat had mentioned Paul Shedd and the image of him floated to the surface of my thoughts. He was a former banker who went through a midlife crisis, but instead of buying a fast sports car or trading his adorable wife in for a younger model, he bought the Fish Kettle, a restaurant on the Santa Rita pier. It was one of my favorite places.
Paul Shedd had kept a secret from me for years, uncertain how to handle it. Peter, always on the lookout for new business clients, had been invited to go fishing with a group of businessmen. They would rent a half-day boat, a charter that would take them deep-sea fishing and bring them back. He soon learned that more than fishing went on there. On the way out and on the way back, the men held a Bible study. I don’t know how Peter felt about it. For some reason, we never discussed it. He went out several times with them and seemed to enjoy their company. Each month he went out with them and each time he returned, he seemed a little different. I was never able to put my finger on it, but it was noticeable.
At some point, he decided to entrust his life to Christ. Last year, I didn’t even know what that meant. On his way out of town, he stopped by the Fish Kettle to let Paul Shedd know. Paul gave him a Bible, one he had been reading and writing notes in. It was something Paul did. Each year, he would buy a new Bible, make notes in it as he read, then give it away to someone. That year, he gave it to Peter. Peter left the restaurant and drove to LA. Within hours he would be dead.
The police returned his possessions to me in a cardboard box that I left unopened for eight years. Inside the box was the Bible Paul had given him. I now keep it in a drawer in my desk at home. When I have the courage, I remove it from the drawer, trying to ignore the bloodstains on the cover, and read a few of the notes Peter had read shortly before he died.
It was through that Bible and several long conversations with Paul Shedd that my life, my eternity, changed. Faith has strengthened me, enabled me, empowered
me, but I still hurt for the love I lost.
“So how’s your love life?” Nat asked.
She asked just as I raised my glass to my lips. I almost choked. “Excuse me?”
“Your love life, how is it?” She gave another one shoulder shrug. “I saw you gazing at that old couple out there.”
“I wasn’t gazing—”
“Yes, you were. It’s my legs that are bad, not my eyes. You were getting misty.”
“I don’t get misty.” I put my glass down and directed my eyes to the horizon. No couples out there.
“Yeah, you’re a statue, all right. Granite, baby, that’s you.” Her words were playful, but like a pillow fight that gets out of hand, there was a little unintentional pain involved. “Is the good doctor still coming around?”
“Jerry?” I snickered. Dr. Jerry Thomas always made me feel good. He was kind, funny, attentive, and patient—most of the time. A pediatrician, he had an office on Castillo Avenue. We dated in high school, but at that age I wasn’t looking for love; I was looking for magic. We drifted apart. He married but his wife left him. She wanted more time than his physician schedule allowed. It left wounds. After Peter was killed, Jerry became more attentive, but never pushy. Over the years, he has tried to rekindle our high school love, but the flame has yet to take. Maybe my kindling isn’t dry enough. I’m an optimist but Jerry is Olympic class in that department. “Yes, I see Jerry from time to time. We’re old friends.”
“Uh-huh.” Nat grunted. “Friends are good, I guess. What about that handsome detective? I know you’ve got a thing for him. I can hear it when you speak his name.”
“Oh, stop!” I had to laugh. “First, college kids have ‘things’ for one another. I’m far from old, but I’m well beyond those years. Second, we’ve never dated. He hasn’t asked, and I’d probably turn him down if he did.” Probably. Perhaps. Maybe. “I’m not sure a mayor should date a detective on her police department. You just gave me a lecture about how things appear to voters.”
“Some things are more important than politics. Besides, after you’re in congress, none of that will matter.”
“That’s what I like about you, Nat, you can direct my political and personal life all at the same time. You’re starting to sound like my mother.”
“I’ve met your mother. You’d be wise to listen to her.”
I started to launch another quip her way when her face clouded over. I noticed her staring at the elderly couple as they and their dog meandered down the shore. I wasn’t the only one wondering who would hold my hand when I was old.
chapter 5
The front parking lot was empty of police cars, and the green Gremlin was gone, towed to the county forensics lab I assumed. The yellow tape with the emblazoned words “Crime Scene—Do Not Cross” was still in place, a reminder that something inhuman had happened in the wee hours of the morning.
I wondered about Mr. Jose Lopez, the dead man in my parking stall. Did he have family? Were their children waiting for a father who hadn’t come home the night before? For most, violence on television and in the movies was entertainment; it is something far different when it leaves the idiot box and camps on your doorstep. Jose Lopez was somebody’s son, perhaps somebody’s brother, and maybe someone’s husband and father. The world had lost one more of its six billion people but went on as if nothing had happened.
After Peter was killed, I was amazed how little changed. My life was different, of course, as was his side of the family, but the rest of the world chugged on. Stoplights did their job, surgeries went on, baseball games were played, marriages took place, meals were served, and naps were taken. Except for those of us stitched to his existence, the rest of the world paid no attention.
When I was a kid and still living at home, I looked out our front window one Saturday afternoon. The house across the way was bustling with quiet activity. Cars I had never seen before were parked along the curb; people with faces I didn’t recognize stood on the front lawn; people came and went. Of all the folks I saw, I noticed that I didn’t see the woman who lived in the house. I assumed they were having a party, but it was unlike any party I had seen. My mother is a sensitive soul, looking worried when I mentioned what was going on out our window. She said, “Oh no,” then told me to stay put. She exchanged a look with Dad, who looked puzzled but said nothing. Mom left the house and returned fifteen minutes later, pale and shaken. “It’s Nick Gentry, Jennifer’s husband. He was killed at work on Monday. The funeral was today. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” Mom shed silent tears.
None of us knew. Later I would learn Nick had fallen under his bulldozer in a freak accident. It was a horrible thought that kept me awake for several nights. When Monday came, I went to school just like the Monday Mr. Gentry died. It was the same school, the same teacher, the same classes, and the same lunchtime. Nothing was any different because Nick Gentry had died. Nothing for me anyway. That has always bothered me, so when I drove by the lot, I wondered whose life had been changed because of someone’s cruelty twelve or fourteen hours before.
I parked in the rear lot and glanced at the police station, which shared parking with us. A sea of asphalt separated city hall from “crime central,” as a friend of mine used to call it. I wondered if Judson West was seated at his desk, working on the case. I entered the office through the back door and worked my way down the hall and slipped into my office. Floyd was waiting for me.
“There’s a man in the lobby waiting for you,” he said.
I waited for more but nothing was forthcoming. “What kind of man?”
“What kind of . . . I don’t get it.”
“Who is he and what does he want, Floyd?”
“Oh, I see what you mean.” He smiled. “I mean, there’s only one kind of man, right? Your question confused me.”
“Trust me, Floyd, there are many different kinds of men. What is he? Constituent? Salesman? What?”
“He said he was a reporter.”
“From where?” I pressed.
“I . . . I didn’t ask. Sorry.”
I sighed. “Don’t worry about it, Floyd. In the future, take his name, his business, and what he wants to see me about. Write it down so I can have it in front of me if I need it.”
“I’ll go ask him now.”
“Wait. You said he was a reporter, right? Show him in but tell him I have only ten minutes.”
Floyd was out the door a second later. He was a good kid with lots of promise, if I could only get him to focus. Pastor Lenny was going to owe me big time for hiring his kid. I walked into my office and found six phone messages written on pink While You Were Out forms. The notes were lined up in a neat little row, straight enough to please the most demanding obsessive-compulsive. I rifled through them quickly, putting each one aside for later. There was nothing pressing and for that I was thankful. Today already had enough stress.
I had just dropped my purse in the desk drawer when Floyd reappeared with a thick, tall man with cropped light brown hair. He wore a white T-shirt and faded jeans. He also wore a khaki photographer’s vest, lined with pockets. I know most of the media reporters in the county, and I was sure I had never met this man.
“Madam Mayor,” Floyd said, “this is Barry Harper, the reporter I mentioned.”
“Come in, Mr. Harper.” I stood and waved them in. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Soda?”
“No, thanks.” His voice had an uncomfortable rasp that made me want to clear my throat. I judged him to be in his early thirties. He eyed me. I don’t like to be eyed. He strode in like it was his office and took a seat before I had a chance to offer it. So much for courtesy. I continued to stand to see if he’d catch the hint. He didn’t. I’m not formal by nature, but I think that certain social protocols should be observed when in a business or social setting. Inviting a guest to sit might be outdated, but it was something I valued. Much can be determined about a person’s character by the manners they show. So far, I hadn’t seen any manners.
>
“If you’ll sit down we can start,” he said.
My blood temperature rose. I sat. Slowly. “Floyd, I want you to join us.”
“Really?”
I stuffed a sigh. “Yes, really.”
“That’s okay,” Harper said. He pulled a small notepad from his rear pocket. “I won’t need him.”
I began to wonder how many votes I’d lose if I strangled him right where he sat. My patience thinned. “I wasn’t asking for your benefit, Mr. Harper. What media did you say you were with?” Floyd started in, stopped, returned to his desk, and reappeared with a notepad of his own.
“I didn’t.” He shifted his weight. “This morning a dead body was found on your property. Do you have any comment?”
“The tape recorder,” I said softly.
He shifted his weight again. “What?”
“Take the tape recorder out of your vest pocket and turn it off.”
“Can’t you see that I’m using a notepad—”
“Floyd, call security.”
Floyd was on his feet before I could finish the sentence. At times, Floyd had concentration problems, but he was paying attention now. He reached for my phone.
“Okay, okay, ooookaaay,” Harper said. “No need to get nasty about it.” He reached into one of the front pockets of the vest and removed a small tape recorder. He turned it off. “I don’t know why you’re so touchy about a little thing like that. Reporters use them all the time.”
“Not covertly. You’re being deceptive. I don’t like deception.” He started to return the recorder to his pocket. “Let’s just leave that on the desk for a while, shall we?” He frowned then set the device down.
“You’re being unreasonable. Can we get started now?”
“Who do you represent?”
“I told you, I’m a reporter.”
I held my words and waited.
“I’m with the Register.”
I almost laughed out loud. The Register wasn’t always my friend, but it was always professional. I had never known them to play games when it came to the news they reported. “You’re with the Register? The Santa Rita Register?”
Before Another Dies Page 4