Penance (10 page)

I laughed but no one else got the joke. And then all was quiet. At the Metrodome, we had never stopped screaming. Here, all voices were mute and the few that were compelled to comment were shushed into silence. The volume was cranked and the volunteers leaned forward.

The governor made his opening remarks, stressing lower taxes, lower taxes, lower taxes. Then the mayor’s turn came and he themed jobs, jobs, jobs as the cornerstone of his campaign. Then it was C. C.’s turn, but she did not speak. Instead she stared, seemingly bewildered, moving her gaze from one candidate to the other until, prompted by the moderator, she said, “I can’t believe what I just heard. Lower taxes? More jobs? Governor, you raised income taxes, property taxes and gasoline taxes twice each in the past twelve years. Mr. Mayor, the city of St. Paul has lost over twenty-one thousand jobs during your watch. Gentlemen, what
are
you talking about?”

The volunteers cheered. The studio audience cheered, despite warnings not to. I suspect my mom and dad in Fort Myers, Florida, would’ve cheered, too, had they seen the show. Carol Catherine Monroe had drawn first blood big time. The governor and mayor, visibly irritated, came after her with a vengeance. It was a mistake. C. C. parried each personal attack and thrust back with a carefully worded reply: “It is true, Governor, I only have a few years’ experience but I have a balanced checkbook. You on the other hand have three decades of experience and the state is half a billion dollars in debt. How do you explain that?” and “Mr. Mayor, obviously I am a woman so it shouldn’t be a surprise that I am interested in what you keep referring to as ‘women’s issues.’ Do you have a problem with that? Do you think women’s issues are unimportant?” And my favorite: “Gentlemen, why do you keep referring to my age and the fact I am single? Are you looking for a date?”

Representative Carol Catherine Monroe had caught her opponents off guard. Clearly, they had underestimated her. Still, they were seasoned politicians, and as the debate progressed they started getting in licks of their own.

The mayor accused C. C. of being merely a dupe of the “femi-liberals,” and claimed she was “the puppet,” and “Marion Senske, that well-known liberal anarchist, the puppet master.” The governor joined the attack, suggesting that Marion had authored
all
the bills C. C. proposed in the House, none of which had passed. C. C. responded only by confessing that Marion was her friend and mentor, proclaiming gratefully that “while she never put words in my mouth, she has put ideas in my head.”

With a quarter hour left in the debate, C. C.’s opponents continued to hammer her relentlessly, first the governor, then the mayor, then the governor again, talking about what was needed at the capitol, or rather, what was
not
needed: a young, single, tax-and-spend liberal feminist known only for her good looks, who appealed solely to a left-wing constituency that consisted mostly of welfare queens, tree huggers and homosexuals. The moderator eventually interrupted the attack and gave C. C. time for a rebuttal. C. C. attempted to speak, but her words were incomprehensible. She stopped herself, pounded the podium, then tried again. “I thought we were here to discuss the issues,” she muttered. And then she committed the one unpardonable sin of politics: She cried. Her chest heaved and shuddered and she began to weep plaintive, doleful tears. Her voice cracked and disintegrated. She lowered her head and closed her eyes.

“Being head of state is a difficult job,” the governor declared after only a moment’s pause. “It cannot be handled by one who lacks toughness.”

“Crying over our problems is an indulgence we simply cannot afford,” the mayor added.

Amy’s grip went slack on my arm. Louise looked down. Many of the other volunteers looked away. “It’s over,” one of them muttered. Only C. C. didn’t think so.

“An indulgence, Mr. Mayor?” she asked, her voice coming from deep inside her. “A lack of toughness, Governor?” She was angry, now. “To cry over people you care about? Is that what you think? Is that what you believe? Or is it just that you don’t care enough to cry for anyone but yourselves?”

“What the hell?” one of the volunteers said.

“Yes, I’m crying,” C. C. said, continuing her counterattack. “I’m crying for single mothers who are forced into poverty and for their children who go to bed hungry most nights. I’m crying for low-income families who can’t afford a decent place to live. I’m crying for the elderly who are forced to eat dog food because of your policies, Governor. I’m crying for the dispossessed and the homeless who have no place to go but the cold, dirty, dangerous streets because you closed their shelters, Mr. Mayor. I’m crying for the people who can’t get jobs, for the people who can’t afford health care. I’m crying for the people who themselves cry each day because the government that is supposed to help them won’t. Whom do you cry for? I mean, besides the PACs and special-interest groups that stuff your pockets with money?”

“My God …” Louise breathed.

“I care about the people of the state of Minnesota. All the people. Even those who don’t have money to contribute to a campaign fund. Even those who can’t or won’t vote. I care about their problems and their fears and their tomorrows. You two … You care about getting elected. Nothing else.”

It was a nice comeback and I wondered if Marion and C. C. had planned it all along. If they had, it was a singularly dangerous move and probably would not have succeeded if it weren’t for what came next. In response, both the governor and the mayor claimed that they cried all the time, too; that they each out-cried the others. And they offered examples. The media played along, asking questions such as, “Governor, did you weep when you slashed the University of Minnesota’s operating budget?” In reply came answers like, “I don’t believe I wept, but I am sure I shed a tear or two.” It was high comedy—or farce, if you prefer—and when the so-called debate mercifully ended, the volunteers were delighted.

“Is Carol Catherine Monroe tough enough to be governor?” an excited campaign worked shouted. “Ask the coroner after he examines the bodies.”

But the workers did not get a chance to celebrate long. The telephones started ringing even before the program’s closing credits had finished rolling. I had to turn the TV set off.

“I’ve taken in over seven thousand in the last half hour,” I overheard one volunteer tell Louise as she moved from station to station.

“Representative Monroe really is going to be the first woman governor of the state of Minnesota,” Amy told me yet again as she worked the switchboard.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” I answered her but she was too busy to hear.

I closed the office door and leaned against it. “You’d better sit down,” I told the two women.

Both ignored the advice.

“Did you get the tape?” Marion asked.

“Dennis Thoreau is dead,” I answered.

“Wha …” C. C. staggered backward, found a chair in front of the desk and fell into it. Marion merely spread her legs farther apart and clasped her hands behind her back, parade rest.

The debate had ended one hundred minutes earlier. It had taken that long for the women to work the media and return to the triumphant applause of their campaign staff. Now Marion Senske was looking at me like I was a dead battery on a cold winter’s night. She didn’t need this, she really didn’t.

“How?” Marion asked.

“What?” I answered.

“How was Thoreau killed?”

Interesting question. Most people ask “When?”

“He was shot in the face at close range,” I replied.

“Oh God,” C. C. whimpered

“When?” asked Marion.

“I’m guessing Saturday, sometime after C. C. spoke with him, but there’s no way of knowing for sure until the ME determines the postmortem interval.”

“ME?” C. C. asked weakly.

“The county medical examiner,” I answered. “The cops would have called him long before now.”

“You told the police?” Marion was outraged.

“No. They arrived when I was looking for the tape.”

Marion grabbed my forearm with both hands and squeezed tight. “Did you get it?”

“No,” I answered, pulling away. “I didn’t have time. I doubt it was still there, anyway. Whoever killed Thoreau searched the house thoroughly. It was a very professional job.”

“Oh God,” Marion whimpered, groping for the chair behind C. C.’s desk. Her “Oh God” sounded just like C. C.’s.

“God had nothing to do with this,” I said feeling vaguely superior. I could have told them about the tape I found, only I didn’t know what I had yet. Probably a rerun of “Star Trek.” Besides, they had lied about Sherman, and I did not know why. Instead, I took the envelope from my pocket, the one containing the ten thousand dollars, and tossed it on top of the desk. They both stared at it.

Finally, C. C. asked, “You don’t think I did it, do you?”

There it was, the question I had been wrestling with since I found Dennis Thoreau, his mouth full of carpet.

“Do you think I did it?”

I looked into her aquamarine eyes, moist with tears; looked deep to see what truths were hidden there. I found only confusion, fear and … was it sorrow? If it was an act, it was a good one. Meryl Streep could take lessons from her.

“No,” I replied.

“Thank you for trusting me,” she said, and gave my hand a squeeze.

I could have let it go at that—probably should have—but I didn’t like the way Marion was looking me up and down like she was deciding whether to choose me for her side in a game of dodgeball.

“It isn’t a matter of trust,” I said. “If you had killed him, you would probably have the videotape already. If you had the videotape, you wouldn’t have hired me.”

Besides, I didn’t want her to be guilty. She was just too damned pretty to be guilty.

A light went on behind Marion’s eyes. “You said the house was searched. That means whoever killed Thoreau knew about the videotape.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s possible that Thoreau was killed for an unrelated reason—drugs perhaps. But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“We no longer require your services, Mr. Taylor,” Marion said abruptly.

“You don’t think so?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“No.”

“The man who was blackmailing you is murdered and the thing he was blackmailing you with is missing, but you’re not worried. If it was me, I’d be scared to death. How come you’re not scared to death, Marion?”

“In politics you learn to go with the flow,” she answered and smiled.

“I’ll remember you said that if I’m ever called to testify.”

“Fuck you.”

“Marion!” C. C. was shocked by Marion’s language. I ignored it.

“You told me that three people knew about the tape. There’s you and Carol Catherine,” I said. “Who’s the third?”

“Thank you for your time,” Marion said.

“It’s Anne Scalasi, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so confident. You think she’s protecting you.”

“Your services are no longer required, Mr. Taylor,” Marion repeated with greater emphasis. “We can manage from here.”

I stood before the desk, my hands clenched. If she thought for one minute Anne Scalasi was protecting her, if she thought my best friend would cover up for murder … My God! She thinks Annie committed murder. For her. I was shaking my head from side to side when she said, “Good-bye, Mr. Taylor.”

I was impressed by her coolness, her forced detachment. This was one situation that Marion had not planned, could not have foreseen, yet she would be damned if she was going to let it intrude on her grand design, interfere with the destiny she had ordained for herself and C. C. Monroe. Marion would do with this setback what I have always done with mine: She would deal with it.
Well
, I thought,
deal with this
… I took the four one-hundred-dollar bills from my pocket and fanned them on the desk in front of Marion. She looked at the bills and then at me.

“Nothing in writing, remember?” I said. “I never met you. So, I have no professional obligation to you.”

It was an expensive gesture, I know, but I wanted her to be worried about something, if not Thoreau, then me. Well, maybe too expensive. I snatched one of the bills off the desktop and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. “I had some unexpected expenses,” I announced.

I left the office.

“Good-bye, Holland,” C. C. called after me. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

NINE

M
Y HOUSE IS
a two-story Colonial built in 1926 by a well-to-do businessman who paid for its construction with silver dollars. In those days Roseville was all farm country. Now it’s one of the oldest suburbs in the Twin Cities, a bedroom community feeding both Minneapolis and St. Paul, populated by row after row of houses whose most prominent feature seems to be an attached garage. I don’t like the suburbs, probably because I’ve never felt comfortable there, and I don’t understand how other people can feel comfortable there. There’s no connection between the place and the residents, no sense of community. In the city you live on a street, you belong to a neighborhood. Schools, parks, the hamburger joint down the street, the bar up the block, the drugstore on the corner—they all become a part of you and you become a part of them, a fusion of identities. The suburbs? You can swap locations, mix and match the houses, change names and it wouldn’t matter, no one would notice. In the Cities, you can be an Eastsider or a Highland Parker or a Nordeaster. But you can only live in Roseville.