by Meg O'Brien
I feel stupid, as I don’t know what he is talking about. “Haven House?”
“Our shelter for the homeless,” he says. “In Seaside. You didn’t know?”
I shake my head.
“There are so many women and children in the shelters now,” he says. “Marti came and talked with them several times. She seemed to have her own private agenda in choosing Haven House for volunteer work. Never would talk about it, though.” He peers at me curiously. “I don’t suppose you might know?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. This is all news to me, Harry. I do remember she was doing several pieces about the homeless, as well as rape victims. She flew out here several times for that.”
“No, no, no, this was something entirely separate from that. Marti never took photographs at Haven House. The women’s and children’s privacy were everything to her.”
“I see. Exactly what did she do at Haven House, then?”
“Simply talked with women, held their hands, cried with them. A beautiful soul.” Again he flicks a look at me. “I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“I am too, Harry. And how do you know about all this?”
“Well, I am on the board of Haven House, you know. Have been for twenty years.”
More news. I wonder, briefly, where I’ve been. Head in the sand? Too absorbed in my own difficulties to worry about others?
After that Harry wanders off, and later, when everyone is well soused, I see our esteemed bank president dancing with his wife’s red hoop earrings on, and one of my colorful Spanish tablecloths wrapped around his waist. His bald head glimmers under the crystal chandelier in the living room, and everyone stands around clapping in time to the music and Harry’s tomfoolery.
There was a time when I would have cheered him on, as well. Now I know too much. Harry is in Jeffrey’s pocket, and a very deep pocket it is.
There is nothing, I think, that moves the world like cash. Unless it happens to be blackmail.
Tommy Lawrence joins me in the kitchen.
“You sure work hard at all this,” he says as I start to clean up. “Don’t people like you have maids?”
I laugh. “What do you know about people like me?”
“Not much, I guess.”
“That’s what I thought. The truth is, I like doing the scut work for parties. It gives me a means of escape, so I don’t have to socialize so much.”
“You don’t like socializing?”
“Tommy, Carmel is a small town. I’ve known most of Jeffrey’s friends for years. Let’s say I’m jaded, okay?”
“And then there’s the way you look at him…” Tommy says, shaking his head.
“Him who?”
“Your husband. Like he’s a stranger. It’s none of my business, of course, but don’t you two ever talk to each other?”
I sigh. “Only when we must.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” I finish loading one of the two dishwashers and turn to face him. “You don’t mind asking personal questions of people, do you?”
He grins. “Sorry. I’m always curious about what makes people tick. I don’t think I told you—I’m a writer.”
“Really?” Somehow this doesn’t surprise me. It fits the picture of the shy young man with the bunch of pink roses. “What do you write?” I ask, feeling sure he’ll say poetry.
“Novels. Thrillers, actually.”
“Thrillers! Are you published?”
He looks uneasy—something I understand. Writer friends tell me it’s difficult to get a novel published these days. The question almost becomes an accusation: You haven’t made it yet, have you?
“Not yet,” Tommy admits. “I do have an agent, though.”
“Well, that’s good. It’s only a matter of time, then.”
“Thanks,” he says wryly. “You didn’t have to say that, but thanks.”
“No, I meant it. If someone believes in you enough to take you on, that’s half the battle right there. You write full-time?”
“Pretty much. I mean, I do freelance editing for a living, and I’ve written some articles, mostly medical and scientific. That takes up about half my time. The rest I spend on my fiction.”
“Well,” I say, smiling. “Little Tommy Lawrence, on his way to becoming a bestselling author.”
He laughs. “I guess I still have a few cliffs to climb. Which reminds me—I hear you write, too.”
“Yes, but nothing as ambitious as novels. I have a column in the local paper. Round the Town. It’s mostly chitchat about local events, laced with a bit of gossip.” I shrug.
“No, don’t put it down. I heard you worked for the San Francisco Chronicle and were nominated for a Pulitzer once.”
I turn to him, surprised. “That was years ago. A whole other lifetime. Besides, how do you know all this?”
“I don’t know, I must have read about it somewhere. Is that why you and your husband are having trouble? Do you miss your work, all the way down here? It can’t be much fun, after what you used to do.”
This is getting a bit too personal.
“You know, it seems odd,” I say. “You appear out of nowhere after all these years, yet you know so much about us.”
“Not everyone, just you.”
“And my husband, it seems. What’s going on, Tommy?”
“I just asked around,” he says, replenishing a plate with celery, carrots and dip. “At the hotel bar, where I’m staying. La Playa. You know it?”
“Of course. It’s the biggest hotel in town.” I can’t help wondering how an unpublished writer can afford to stay at the fancy La Playa, though. At least, for any length of time.
“I came in yesterday,” he says, “and had some drinks and conversation with the bartender.”
“Ah. Jimmy-John.” My tone says it all.
“You know him?”
“I know he’s a gossip,” I say, rinsing out glasses.
“Well, he didn’t say anything bad about you, just filled me in on some details.”
“And why would you want to be filled in on details, Tommy? Especially about me and my husband?”
“Because you were friends of Marti’s. Well, you, anyway. Jimmy-John says your husband didn’t like her much.”
Damn Jimmy-John. What else is he passing around town about us? A newcomer, he seems to thrive on gossip, especially about the Eastwoods and others in town who hold positions of fame and/or power. Twice, now, the hotel has threatened to fire him, but somehow he keeps hanging on.
“Is it true? Your husband didn’t like Marti?” Tommy asks.
“He didn’t really know her,” I say, turning back to him.
But the question raises more questions, like what did Jeffrey have against Marti, and why did he never want her around? It isn’t the first time I’ve asked myself this. Jeffrey has always refused to talk about it.
“It might have had something to do with the fact that Marti stood up for the poor,” I say, not even sure why I’m bothering to answer Tommy’s question. Certainly he’s gone way too far for a simple visitor, someone I haven’t even seen in twenty years.
“The poor?”
“Children in third world countries, children in this country. Homeless women and men. Marti had a special spot in her heart for people without places to live.”
“And your husband? He doesn’t have a similar spot in his heart for them?”
“I guess you might say that.”
The truth is, Jeffrey would run roughshod over a six-pound infant if it stood in the way of a real-estate or political deal.
“What does your husband do?” Tommy asks.
“He’s involved in politics. He also fancies himself a land baron. Jeffrey thinks that when they set land aside in the twenties ‘for future generations,’ they were doing it just for him so he could build on it.”
“And the politics?”
“Jeffrey worked for Clint Eastwood’s advisors when he was getting together his campaign to run for mayor of Ca
rmel. He got bitten by the political bug, and ever since he’s been wheeling and dealing behind the scenes.”
“Does he have aspirations of his own to run for office?”
“Not at all. For him, politicians are the drone bees he sends out to do his bidding. Jeffrey says that’s where the real power lies. Look, why am I telling you all this?”
Tommy smiles. “Beats me. But hey, you know what? I doubt Clint Eastwood would appreciate being called a drone bee.”
“Well, that was different. Jeffrey was just getting started in politics, and he was just another campaign worker then.”
I put the glasses in the dishwasher and wipe up the mess on the center island. “Why are you so interested in us, Tommy?” I ask more seriously this time. “I doubt you’re writing a novel based on our lives.”
“I might,” he answers. “Unless you really didn’t want me to.”
“That would stop you?”
“It might.”
“Then I take back what I said earlier. You’ll probably never be published, with an attitude like that. Tommy, writers have to develop shark instincts if they’re going to write exposés about real people.”
He doesn’t smile, though my tone has been one of teasing.
“All I really want,” he says, “is to know who killed Marti.”
“Is that the real reason you’re here?”
“That…and to bring the roses,” he says. “I promised Marti…”
A small but heavy silence fills the air. “Tommy? You promised Marti what?”
He seems uneasy and begins to busy himself at wiping the counter by the sink.
“Tommy?”
“It was a long time ago” he says. “Just something I remembered from way back.”
“But—”
The doorbell rings, loud and long, interrupting my thoughts. Moments later a hush falls on the crowd in the living room. Men’s voices drift down the center hall from foyer to kitchen, sounding clipped and businesslike.
“I wonder who that is,” I say, moving toward the swinging door between the kitchen and dining room. I have in my hand a tray of coffee cups, and I turn to ask Tommy to bring the tray holding cream, sugar and napkins.
“Tommy, would you—”
But, that quickly, he’s gone. I glance into the pantry, thinking he went in there in search of clean cloths. He’s not there, nor anywhere in sight.
Puzzled, I head toward the living room, nearly spilling the coffee as Jeffrey opens the swinging door from his side.
“Oh, there you are!” he says, as if surprised to find me here, working my shift at his party. “There are some, uh, people here who would like to talk to you,” he adds carefully, aware of our curious guests.
“Oh?” I ask, puzzled. “What people?”
My first thought is that it’s Ned, or perhaps even Sister Helen.
As I enter the living room, I see it’s not either of them. Agents Mauro and Hillars stand in the foyer. I place the tray of coffee cups on the sideboard and walk toward them.
“This is not the best time,” I say, prepared to usher them out.
“Sorry, Ms. Northrup,” Mauro says dryly. “Much as we hate interrupting your party, we really must talk with you.”
He glances into the living room. “Is there someplace we can go to talk? Alone?”
I look at Jeffrey, who seems tense and strained. I haven’t mentioned my meeting with the Secret Service to him, but it’s clear they have introduced themselves. Jeffrey, I am guessing, would as soon slip through the floor as have the Secret Service in his house at this moment.
“We can talk in my office,” I offer, motioning down the hall to the room opposite the kitchen. “Jeffrey?” I wait for him to follow us.
“If you don’t mind,” Agent Mauro says softly but firmly, “we’d like to talk with you alone first.”
My husband seems about to argue the point, sliding a quick look to me. Then his face takes on that meaningless smile. “I’ll see to our guests, dear.”
Dear?
When we’re in my office I take a seat behind my desk. Agent Mauro indicates he prefers to stand, while the older man, Hillars, settles into a straight chair along the wall, in front of my bookcases. His knees are together, and in the stiff, dark suit he looks almost prim, more like a schoolteacher than a Secret Service agent.
“All right,” I say, less nervous here on my own turf than at the police station, “we’re alone. What can I do for you?”
“There is certain information,” Mauro says, “that we weren’t at liberty to share with you the other day. Since then, the situation has changed.”
“Changed? How?”
“Ms. Northrup, we must have your promise that what we tell you will be kept strictly confidential.”
“I…all right.”
“Confidentiality is of the utmost importance,” he emphasizes. “If the press were to learn we were here, and why, it could get in the way of our investigation. If we seem overly cautious it is only because you, yourself, are part of the press—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I write a column, I’m not the goddamned Enquirer. Are you going to tell me or not?”
Agent Mauro looks at Hillars, who says nothing. He turns back to me. “We’re here at the request of the president, Ms. Northrup. President Chase has asked Agent Hillars and myself to personally look into the death of Marti Bright.”
“The president? I don’t understand.”
Those flat, pit bull eyes assess me. “You didn’t know Ms. Bright and the first family were friends?”
“No, I did not.”
“But you must know she accompanied them on their trip to Africa three years ago. Her piece in Life magazine brought her several awards.”
“Well, yes, but Marti traveled with a lot of people. That didn’t mean she got close to them.”
“In this case, Ms. Northrup, Marti Bright and the first family became friends. The first lady, in fact, maintained ties with Ms. Bright, and I understand that she is behind the president’s request to do all we can to uncover Ms. Bright’s murderer.”
I am surprised, but not overly so. If Marti never mentioned a friendship with the first family, it’s probably only because she never bragged, never thought of people in terms of celebrity. Marti had connections to movie stars, rock musicians, heads of foreign countries. No journalist in the U.S., except perhaps Barbara Walters, had more friends among the luminaries than Marti.
“So you’re saying the president sent you here to question me?”
“Not directly. However, in our investigation, it turned up that you and Ms. Bright were close for many years. If anyone can give us some clue or insight into who might have murdered her, it might very well be you, Ms. Northrup.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I haven’t a clue. If I did…”
“Yes?”
It is probably best not to say that I would kill the bastard.
“I guess I’ve been in shock. I haven’t really thought about the killer, not to that extent. If anything, I suppose I’ve been thinking that Marti was a victim of something random. Some nutcase.”
“Yet, the coroner himself told you that Marti Bright may have been murdered by someone she knew.”
And how did you know he told me that, Agent Mauro? The long arm of the law again?
“Random killings,” Mauro points out, “are seldom as well thought out, or as ritual, as this one.”
“No. I suppose they’re not.”
“Do you know anyone,” he asks, “who might have had so much hatred for Marti Bright that he or she might have done this sort of thing?”
I shake my head. “I honestly haven’t a clue. I can’t remember her having said she was afraid of anyone, or that anyone was after her. Maybe it had something to do with a story she was on. You might start with the homeless shelters, the rape crisis shelters—”
“We’ve talked with them,” Mauro says, interrupting. “The path keeps leading back to you, Ms. Northrup.”
A flicker of fear runs up my spine. “To me? In what way?”
He smiles, without warmth. “In our work, we often feel like the crooked man in the nursery rhyme. ‘There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile.’ You know that one?”
I nod.
“In the end,” he says, “all things come together for the crooked man. He buys a crooked cat who catches a crooked mouse. They all live together in a little crooked house.”
“Your knowledge of childhood literature amazes me, Agent Mauro. And this relates to me exactly how?”
“Only in that getting to the happy ending—or rather unhappy ending, in our work—often involves a morass of crooked sixpences and stiles. In this case, that would be you, Ms. Northrup.”
“Lovely.”
“Everyone we’ve talked to,” he continues smoothly, “says the same thing, Ms. Northrup—they didn’t know Marti Bright well. They loved her for the work she did with them, but they never got close to her. One person said it was as if she was hiding something, something she couldn’t share with anyone.”
“Well, then—”
“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, with anyone but a very close friend. Ms. Northrup, we need you to tell us everything you know about the son Marti Bright gave birth to fifteen years ago.”
I thought I’d gone beyond the point where Agent Mauro could surprise me. Now, however, I am shocked. I see Marti’s face, suddenly, as it was the day her little boy was born—full of fear mixed with incredible love for the child she held close to her breast. You’ve got to swear, Abby, swear you won’t ever tell anyone about him. Not anyone at all.
It takes all the strength I can muster to say firmly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Mauro stands in front of my desk, leaning his palms on it. “Ms. Northrup, all cards on the table. We know Marti Bright came to Carmel for the first time fifteen years ago, not fourteen, as you claim. We know she had a child, that you were there for the birth, and the child was named Justin. We know she gave him to people named Ryan to raise—”
I open my mouth again to deny all this, but Mauro sighs. “Please, let’s not play games. Ms. Northrup. The boy has been kidnapped. Now tell us what you know.”