Another Dead Republican (24 page)

They knew nothing more helpful.
A few minutes later with Bowers’ assistance, Smith tottered to his feet. He wiped a last tear from his face. “You’ll be careful? I don’t want another death on my conscience.”

I said, “I make my own choices. You are not responsible for them.”

Before we left, I got names and addresses of all the major characters he had mentioned. He agreed to set up meetings with those he had mentioned. Bowers said he would text us with possible times and venues.

Smith leaned heavily on Bowers arm as he tottered down the hall with us to the door. We watched him wave feebly as we walked down the driveway.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Friday 11:52 A.M.

We sat in the car in the winding driveway.

“That’s very sad,” Scott said.

“This is all sad and miserable. I can believe the Grums would be behind adding more sadness and misery to the world.”

“You know what’s frightening?” Scott asked.

“What?”

“That they don’t think they’re adding sadness and misery. They are completely oblivious. That brings it to the point of madness and tragedy.”

My cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Bowers giving directions on where to meet the woman from the campaign. I put the car in gear and turned on the GPS in the car. We could have used either one of our phones for the same purpose. Gotta love modern technology.

As we turned onto the street, Scott said, “Somebody is looking for something.”

“It would be logical to assume this break-in would be connected with the Grums trying to hunt through Edgar’s stuff.”

“What is it they’re looking for?” Scott asked.

“It can’t be something that only Edgar had, or they wouldn’t have broken in here at Frank Smith’s. What I can’t figure out is what would Edgar Grum have and Frank Smith have that bad guys would want.”

Scott said, “Depends on the bad guys and if it tells us who murdered Edgar or who stole the election electronically. If the election was for sure stolen.”

“You don’t think it was?”

“I think I want proof,” Scott replied.

Kim Strobridge, the lesbian insider, wouldn’t even meet us within the confines of Harrison County. Even Milwaukee County was too hot to hold her. She insisted on meeting at the Highway 20 exit in Racine County. At least she picked a place that had Kringle, the single greatest pastry the world has ever created. I had pecan.

I was into my second slice of Kringle when a woman fitting the description Smith had given us walked in. She looked the diners over and eased her way back toward us. Smith must have described us. I didn’t think she’d see thirty again and might be pushing forty. The wrinkles around her eyes gave her away. She was a whole lot of ordinary: petite, edging toward anorexic, pale complexion, blond hair in a page boy haircut.

The frightened, closeted lesbian sat down, ordered coffee, and said, “They’ll kill you next, both of you. I know you’re famous. You’ll still die. I think people have been following me. We should all be very frightened.”

Not the conversation one normally has over a piece of Kringle.

I said, “Who is going to kill us?”

“Take your pick. You get your nose into it, the goons from the Grums, or the goons from the Ducharmés, doesn’t matter which, we’ll all still be dead. You stick your nose in. You will die.”

“You’re breathing.”

The waitress brought coffee. Kim took hers black. When the waitress was out of ear shot she said, “I’ve managed to keep my nose clean.”

“The Grums and Ducharmés have that much power they can kill with impunity?”

“Did you take extra naïve classes in college or does your doctor give you extra strength stupid pills?”

I chose not to respond to the insult. “If meeting with you and asking questions means we’re going to die, why are you meeting with us?”

“I know Frank. I’ve known him for years. He’s one of the few people who didn’t berate me for my political leanings. He’s a nice, sweet man.”

“Why aren’t you going to be killed?”

“I haven’t been found out. I can just walk away.”

“Why’d you get involved at all? Why work for them?”

“I hate unions. They sap the life out of this country. They make people lazy.”

Scott said, “Someone in your family got hurt by a union once.”

“Union thugs beat up my brother when he wouldn’t become a teamster.”

“All Union members are thugs?” I asked.

“Enough. My brother was crippled for life in the attack. They never caught who did it.”

“But you’re willing to help Frank.”

“Yes, I also knew Zachary Ross. He was a good man.”

“You knew who he was and didn’t turn him in to your campaign?”

“That’s right. The world of politics in Harrison County is a small world. He and I even talked. Early on I knew something was odd about the campaign. The whole thing just didn’t make sense. Plus, I’ve got a conscience. Union thugs are one thing. Stealing this election electronically is another.”

“You have proof?”

“No.”

“Did Zachary Ross have proof?”

“Not that I know of.”

Scott had limited himself to one piece of Kringle. I’d had several. He watches his diet religiously. I do huge amounts of extra exercise so I can have the extra sweets. He doesn’t generally get into debates with people, but he asked, “Isn’t Mallon virulently anti-gay? Why were you working with the anti-recall people?”

“I believe in limited government. I believe in working within the system to bring about the change.”

He asked, “Why doesn’t it work both ways?”

“Both ways what?” The sneer in her tone ripped past the offensive. Why was he debating this venom-drenched lesbian?

He said, “Why not work in the Democratic Party to change them from within? When they’ve been in power in the last three decades they’ve done more to cut taxes and limit government than the Republicans have.”

“That’s so not true.”

I did not go nuts. The right-wing delusion disconnect from reality was more than I’d be able to cure with logic, reason, or common sense.

Scott asked, “Then why don’t you work within the Democratic Party to change them?”

The sneer turned to a snarl. “I don’t have to debate with you. I came here because a gay guy is dead. And I like Frank.”

Scott leaned back and was silent. I said, “This whole thing is a mess. Maybe all of this is tied together, Edgar Grum’s death, Zachary Ross’s death, and the stealing of the election electronically.”

She glared at me for an uncomfortable minute and then began without preliminary. “Frank Smith is a sweet, old, sad man. I’d like to help him but saving the world, or at least this election, I think is beyond any of us.”

“Why were you so frightened to talk to us?”

“I’m not scared.” She glanced furtively around the room. “I’m cautious. I don’t know you. I don’t know who to trust. Frank says you’re good guys. I know about you, but I’ve never heard of you doing anything to help lesbian athletes.”

Scott put his hand on my arm. I did not ask my next question, “What does that have to do with anything?” I took a breath, sipped coffee. I said, “What do you think happened with the election.”

“I’m a computer expert. I should be able to get into the electronics for the election, at least to check them.” She sipped her coffee. “I can’t even get past the first level of passwords. The Ducharmé people have some of the best computer people in the world working on their side. If you were arrested for hacking any time in the past ten years, and you aren’t in jail, you’re probably working for them. I found those kinds of names, but I sure couldn’t get into their system.”

Without Scott having to place a calming hand on my arm, I did not say, maybe you’re not as good a computer expert as you think you are.

I said, “Frank Smith said the campaign had electronic experts hacking into their stuff.”

She laughed. “Our hackers are better than your hackers? Yeah. It was a joke. Their people were crap. We could shut down or counter any crap they put on the Net. They were good. We were better.”

“How many of them were there?”

“Fifty or so.”

“Is that a lot?”

“It was enough for us.”

“All paid?”

“I was. Nobody talked about salary.”

“Anyone among them you think I could talk to, who might tell me the truth?”

“I have no idea.”

“Would you at least think about it?”

“I guess.”

“What else can you tell me about the campaign?”

For the first time she took a bite of Kringle. She made a face. Not a fan of Kringle? Something must be really wrong with her.

Strobridge said, “The Grums infested the place. One of them was always there. Mr. and Mrs. Grum were like a plague. Constantly asking people what they were doing. Were they working hard enough? Couldn’t they stay longer? Asking people at the last minute to stay late or come in on their day off.”

“Weren’t these mostly volunteers?”

“There were tons of paid staff.”

“They treated paid staff like this?”

“We didn’t have a union.” She didn’t seem to recognize the irony in this statement. She took another sip of her coffee. She continued, “I never want to see another Grum. I had to work with their youngest son, Edgar. He was a piece of work. Sexist. Racist. Homophobic. Just a pig. Used the n-word in casual conversation. I finally said something to him about it. He stopped in a snarly teenage way.”

“Was the rest of the family the same way?”

“Not overtly bigoted, at least not in front of me, but I don’t know.” She twisted her upper body as if she were warming up in an exercise class. Which also gave her a chance to scan the room without being obvious about it, or at least she thought she wasn’t. “Mrs. Grum was the worst of the rest of them. I thought she’d maybe be nicer, her being a woman. Hah! She’d insult the workers, belittle them, demand they come in on short notice, work overtime. Didn’t matter if you had plans.”

“That can be rough.”

“Both the volunteers and the paid staff got treated like dirt. A lot of the paid staff had been working with or associated with the Grums in Harrison County for a long time. The stuff they told was unbelievable. I heard and saw some of it up close a few times.”

“Like what?”

“That Edgar, the n-word guy. He went hunting with a bunch of his buddies and got shot in the butt by his dog.”

There’d been a rash of those dog-shooting-person reports on the Internet. I remembered vaguely hearing about Edgar and a hunting accident, but I never cared enough about hunting or Edgar to find out details.

“When was this?”

“Years ago, but they still laughed about it. Not to his face and that’s simple stuff, small potatoes. That family did not get along. I’ve seen the Grum family members arguing and fighting with each other.”

“What was the problem?”

“I was never sure, but they could go at it. They all always knew better than the others. Mr. and Mrs. Grum would go after each other viciously, right in front of people. They’d argue about campaign tactics, priorities, spending.”

“I thought they had tons of money.”

“That didn’t mean they couldn’t fight about it. They all thought they were in charge, but somehow they always seemed to dump on Edgar. Nobody supported him in any argument, yet, when dealing with us, he was always this cheerful buffoon. It never made a lot of sense. He’d brag that they were going to win no matter what.”