by Ann Ripley
Wanting to shout with joy, instead she stuck the disk in her pants pocket and swiftly scooped up the worm container and the box. She would forego her hunt for Jay’s computer: it would take an unearthing of this whole yard to find it, if it were there. When she looked toward the street she saw nothing. But she could hear something that sent fear through her: two men’s voices. She even recognized them: Geraghty and Morton. She had to move quickly, for they were probably going in the house. They would sight her like a hunter sighting a duck through the Mougeys’ enormous floor-to-ceiling living room windows. Confronting the police was far more dangerous than encountering some nosy kid in the cul-de-sac, A lad she could always con with some excuse.
Keeping low, she sprinted past the bronze statue of the dancer, past the bronze deer, and into the thick woods. Once there, she straightened and stood trembling, listening. No one had seen her. But she could see Geraghty and Morton walking around the back of the house, wandering up the path to the pool where she had knelt moments earlier. Geraghty stared into the woods where she stood, and she froze like a deer in headlights. They scuffed around the flagstones a bit, and she panicked: had she put that flagstone back firmly in place? Apparently so. Then, the two men wandered around the house, out of sight.
She let out a big breath and made her way carefully through the backyards again. Now she had two disks, the original and the backup. But there was a danger until the detectives left the neighborhood. She intended to turn over the disks to the police. But first she had to find out what Jay’s story was all about.
Once safely locked inside her house, she watched the police from the guest room, which had the best view of the street. Bill’s high-intensity binoculars helped; unbeknownst to Bill, she had taken to storing them in the guest room closet, so they would be handy whenever she wished to survey the neighborhood.
She watched George Morton shake his big head back and forth as he talked to Mike Geraghty, and then slam himself into the passenger seat of the unmarked green police car. A frustrated man, his every move told her. Geraghty went around to the driver’s side, pausing before getting in and taking a long look at her house and yard. She prayed that they wouldn’t decide to pop by, but quickly remembered it wasn’t what detectives did. Like the British, they always scheduled first.
She was beginning to read the detectives pretty well, and their demeanor said several things: that they didn’t have a good lead on Jay’s killer; that they were going to do another search of the Mougey property and her property as well; and that they wanted to talk to her again.
Louise felt a twinge of guilt for not leveling with Geraghty, but quickly suppressed it. She had work to do.
Twenty-Six
HER COMPUTER WAS IN THE ADdition, which the family had nicknamed “the hut.” It was a freestanding building opposite the front door connected architecturally to the house by the grayed redwood pergola, with a view of the bog garden that made it a little like Thoreau’s cabin near Walden Pond. It was her writing place, but other family members used it as a refuge when they needed to be alone. When she was riffling through garden books at the library recently, she’d been captivated to discover the renowned British gardener Gertrude Jekyll had similarly named her workshop “The Hut.”
In her hands Louise carried a big tray containing the two computer disks, a pot of coffee she’d made in her old aluminum drip pot, a cup, and some cheese, fruit, and cookies. These last would substitute for dinner.
It was almost six, and within a few minutes she would know Jay’s secrets.
She bolted the door, then turned on her computer. As she waited for it to boot up, she stared out the glass doors that faced her at the end of the addition and remembered another time she sat in this room and found herself in grave danger. This time she would take no chances: She got up and pulled the drapes on the doors and on the side window so that not even a crack was showing.
As she often had done when working in the hut, and sometimes to her disadvantage, she had left the phone in the house; but right now, she didn’t want a phone as a distraction.
She inserted Jay’s original disk in drive A and pulled up the index. There was one story only, called “Watergate Revisited: The Dirty Tricks Campaign of Congressman Lloyd Good-rich.” Other files were shorter in length and appeared to be research notes.
The main file was dated Wednesday, the day of Jay’s death, the time, ten-fifteen P.M. That was about twenty minutes before Gil Whitson strolled over to the Mougeys’ to look at the koi pond.
She called the file up on the screen. Its title was apt. It was the story of a dirty tricks campaign, waged by Goodrich, first against his opponents for the nomination, and then against President Fairchild. This was dirty tricks, nineties style, as the author described it. The heart and soul of it depended upon the media, primarily the tabloids and the more sensational “news” shows: feeding these sources undocumented stories and rumors that got play often in print, sometimes on television, occasionally both, and became the grist for the mills of conservative radio talk shows.
Jay McCormick had been an effective political plant, documenting Goodrich campaign activities from March through July. As part of the story’s lead, he declared that he could prove at least one person had been paid by Goodrich to make false sexual harassment charges against the President, and, even more damning, evidence had been fabricated to hint that Fairchild had been investigated for the murder of an army clerk, purportedly to clear his service record.
To the reporter, the most grievous incident was manufacturing evidence regarding Fairchild’s activities in Vietnam. And, as Jay pointed out toward the end of his long story, this charge was having serious adverse effects on the President’s popularity With direct quotes from principals, including Willie Upchurch and Ted French, Jay documented that the story was phony and the army records carefully fabricated by an expert.
Each part of the bizarre smear campaign was approved by the author of the undercover operation within the Goodrich campaign, Franklin Rawlings; and by the executors of the plans, Willie Upchurch and Ted French. Congressman Lloyd Goodrich was said to have known of the effort and to have given it a verbal okay.
Rawlings, mastermind of the operation, was portrayed as a consummate hypocrite. He was described as putting others out front to take the brunt of the “dirty tricks” charges. Furthermore, Jay had obtained information about the California senatorial campaign headed by Rawlings, revealing similar dishonest campaigning there.
As a mole inside the campaign, Jay scrupulously recorded, with quotes and examples, the intense cynicism with which the dirty tricks had been planned by this select group. Many campaign staff, including the day-to-day manager, Nate Wein-stein, were left out of the loop, not privy to the details of these activities.
The campaign distributed rumors about the President’s drinking and purported womanizing, based on sketchy sources that the reporter said were “eagerly embraced, nevertheless.” One woman was paid to make sexual allegations against the President, according to the story. A constant stream of rumors was put out to slander Fairchild’s wife and children.
Jay went on to detail irregular campaign contributions that bolstered the campaign from its earliest days. Ironically, the efforts were spurred by the reform of campaign rules after the previous presidential election. The reforms changed the system, but didn’t relieve the problem: they only made needed campaign funds more scarce, and opened a Pandora’s box of devious new ways to get around the laws. These big chunks of money allowed Goodrich to run a heavier television ad campaign than his primary opponents, smoothing the way to his probable nomination at the August convention.
Louise stared in disbelief at the next paragraph: Lannie Gordon, Jay’s former wife, was named as a source of hundreds of thousands of dollars in questionable funds. Based on the pattern of previous political fund-raising scandals, Jay calculated that the news media and congressional probes would not have caught up with these facts until after the election and a pro
bable Goodrich victory.
Lannie set up a bogus charitable foundation for children that actually was a conduit to funnel money into Goodrich’s campaign. She recognized him early on as the one who would win the nomination, and even before he qualified for matching federal funds, this money source allowed him to pay for crucial TV exposure. Her system was to contact big money people for donations to Goodrich and provide them with a tax deduction because they were handled through this foundation.
Jay wrote that even his ex-wife’s fellow tobacco industry colleagues appeared not to know that the operation was outside the law, since it was a one-on-one deal between Lannie Gordon and Rawlings.
Damning words, thought Louise. She sat back for a moment and thought. Did Lannie suspect her complicity had been discovered by Jay? If so, it was no wonder she wanted that disk so badly.
Jay’s story was long, probably ten thousand words. At the end, there was an editorial note that said tapes had been made of conversations that took place in the opposition presidential campaign office that proved Jay McCormick’s allegations. He said his daughter, Melissa, had a key to a safety deposit box in Riggs National Bank, where the tapes were hidden.
When she reached the end of the story, Louise leaned her elbows on the antique table and put her head in her hands. This was what her friend had died for. And it was pretty clear who would want him dead. Jay had come right out and said that he had worked for the campaign as a speechwriter. Near the end of his story, Jay had written that Upchurch particularly had begun to mistrust him.
Why did they begin to mistrust him? Louise could think of only one reason. Lannie, with her link to these political operators, probably caught a glimpse of Jay, perhaps when he was making a secret visit to Melissa, trailed him to work at Goodrich headquarters, and then tipped someone off: French, perhaps, or maybe Rawlings. Since Jay was low profile, and almost the perfect man to become a political plant, only Lannie could have put the pieces together.
Louise sighed. Thank heavens, Bill would be here in a few hours. Although that raised other problems: Her husband might insist she turn the story directly over to the police, since he seemed to have a higher standard for her behavior than for his own. She hunched protectively over the computer and frowned, and felt like a mother bear protecting its cub. What would happen to this material if she turned it over to the police?
Her head was swimming with possibilities and scenarios: Willie Upchurch with his ruthless flunkies? Ted French, acting alone, and probably not for the first time? Or Franklin Rawlings, with his amiable public face and Machiavellian ways? Both Rawlings and Lannie Gordon were stripped of probity through this journalistic expose; Louise was sure Lannie had played some vital role.
Gil Whitson had to fit in somewhere, for no matter how good-willed he seemed, his behavior had been suspicious. And then there was that distasteful fellow, Charlie Hurd: He had a very good reason to remove Jay McCormick, provided he could have found the story afterward. Whoever killed Jay must be furious at the loss of the disks. And now, she sat here with both copies of the incriminating evidence. If anyone figured that out, she would become the target of the killer. A shiver ran through her. She needed to get out of the hut. It was too vulnerable.
As she quickly gathered up her things, Louise reflected on the irony of being loaded down with information, and with no one to talk to. She had an overwhelming desire to spill it all out to Detective Geraghty, Again, she felt guilty about the big detective: She could even picture him, working after hours in his dingy little office in the Fairfax police station on Route One, fretting over the case just as she was doing. But with less to work with than she had.
But Geraghty would get his evidence soon enough. What she needed were just a few more pieces to put this mystery together. If she didn’t find them, she wasn’t sure anyone else would.
Twenty-Seven
DROPPING THE TRAY OFF IN THE kitchen, she grabbed some plastic Ziploc bags and took the two disks outside to the patio garden. These precious objects were going to rest in two separate hiding places, just to be safe. The memos occupied a third. If lightning struck her, she knew, Jay’s story would go to the grave with her, for her hiding places were impeccable. Dear Jay, she thought, you would be proud of me. But she did not expect anything to stand in the way of giving over all this information to her astounded husband in less than four hours. Bill would be proud of her, too, solving a murder, or at least providing clues to the solution of a murder, without getting her own self in serious trouble for once.
Her activity left her a little sweaty and breathless. When she entered the house, she had phone messages, just as she expected. She was surprised they didn’t include a message from the Fairfax PD.
Bill had called from the airplane to say they had departed late from Vienna and would arrive at eleven or twelve. She slumped against the counter and sighed. Now she would have to wait even longer to talk over all the things she’d learned about Jay’s murder.
Martha had phoned from Detroit. “Ma, now I’ve read another little squib about Jay McCormick’s murder in the Detroit Free Press. This is just a little call to remind you to lock the doors, and don’t talk to strangers or do anything rash until Dad and Janie get home. I love you. ’Bye.”
Louise smiled. It was kind of fun being mothered by her elder daughter. And Janie was coming home tonight, and so was Bill, and family life would get back to normal. Life would soon get back to normal.
But she was kidding herself. Nothing was going to get back to normal. A gray cloud of anxiety had hovered over her ever since she found Jay’s body in the fishpond, and when Bill learned of his death, he would be just as disturbed as she was. There would be no peace until the murderer was found.
The last message on her machine was from Tessie Strahan of the Perennial Plant Society. In the stress and turmoil of the past two days, Louise had almost forgotten her plant friends. But they were still down at the Hilton, talking about plants, listening to lectures from starry-eyed plant hybridizers, and taking tours of commercial and private gardens in the Washington area.
Tessie sounded exhausted: “This has been some convention, Louise” she began in her staccato style. “Too bad, dear, you couldn’t have attended these past two days, though we know you have had this sad occurrence with the death of your friend.”
She said nothing about whether the police had talked to Gil Whitson, but knowing Detective Geraghty, Louise bet they had. And if they had, Tessie probably put the blame at Louise’s feet, for her loyalty to Gil Whitson ran deeper than her new friendship with Louise.
It was a chatty message. Tessie said, “Gil’s gradually getting the van loaded, and we’re leaving for home tonight, but we wanted to come by your house to say good-bye. But just my luck, there may be a subcommittee meeting of growers before we leave, and if there is, it will be too late afterward to come by. So we’ll see which way it goes. But we all wanted you to know what a great hostess you were the other night. And don’t forget, Louise—next year you must attend again, no matter where in the country we hold it, because we can’t be without the Plant Person of the Year at the convention!”
This was just another blow. Since they were leaving town tonight, it meant Louise couldn’t enlist Gil to go over and look at the koi. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would call a veterinarian, if she could find one who made house calls on fish.
It was seven, and she had at least four hours to kill, maybe five. The house suddenly seemed unbearably hot and close. She felt suffocated in here, or was it because of the disappointment of having resolved nothing about Jay’s murder? She went to the bedroom and threw off the jogging suit and put on her gardening outfit. Certainly the gardens had been pampered enough because of the P.P.S. visitors, but she could always find one more thing to do out there. Anything was better than staying inside.
But first things first: She grabbed the kitchen scraps and went out into the Washington evening. The air was still moist—good for growing slugs, she thought wryly. Gatherin
g her shovel and pruners from the toolshed, she buried the garbage, then stepped across the garden to prune her new deciduous azalea.
If plants had souls, as some fey people thought, this azalea was trembling at her approach. She had already trimmed it once since she bought it last spring. This time, she went easy, pinching a few inches off a branch to give it better balance or rather, imbalance. She often pruned woody perennials and shrubs asymetrically, since, as she had confessed to Tom Paschen during their White House grounds tour, her standard for flowers and gardens was “irregular and wild.”
As she worked, she heard someone call. It was Roger Kendricks, her neighbor, far out in his woodsy backyard.
“Louise, I need to talk to you.”
Oh yes, she thought, do let’s talk. Her desperate need to share her day came surging forth again. She could talk to Roger, the brilliant, circumspect newsman, a man who dropped out of newspapering now and again to lend his brains to Washington liberal think tanks. Roger would keep her confidence, too, in case she let slip more than she intended.
She came across the woods to see him struggling to cut off a one-inch limb with his pruners. “God, Louise, what a sight for sore eyes you are. What am I doing wrong here? We’re supposed to go out later, but right now I’ve been sent out here in lower Siberia to cut off ‘deadwood,’ as Laurie puts it. I’m not too good at it.” He scowled at the swamp oak.