Smoke and Mirrors (11 page)

"Now what's the problem?" Nick went on. "The famous—the
notorious__knitting! Allow me to step into the breach. Untainted
as I am by the slightest tinge of male chauvinism, I had no hesitation at adding this skill to the others for which I am so highly commended.'

Jeff said something rude under his breath and retreated to a chair, where he picked up the newspaper and hid behind it. Nick grabbed the knitting bag with such ardor that balls of wool rolled in all directions. Kay exclaimed, "Oh, Nick, be careful. You've ripped out that last row—"

"No problem, love." Nick began clumsily to pick up the dropped stitches. He hammed it up, eyes crossed and tongue protruding in fierce concentration as he crooned an absurd litany of inappropriate terms. "Hook one, skip one, knit some, drop one . . . oops. ..."

The appearance of the cook carrying a covered casserole put an end to Nick's performance. She was a middle-aged black woman, with the round, comfortable figure that becomes a chef.

"You shouldn't have stayed so late, Sarah," Kay said. "We could have managed."

"I figured that with you not feeling so good I should do a little extra."

"That was very kind, and I'm sure Miss Rosemary will appreciate it. Run along, now; I'm sure you must have something else to do this evening. Sarah is very active in her church," Kay added, glancing at Erin. "This is Miss Hartsock, Sarah."

Everything she had said grated just a little; even the studied pleasantness of her voice was the tone of a lady of the manor to a servant. Nothing that any reasonable person could possibly object to, but . . . The introduction was the last straw. Erin stood up. "My name is Erin," she said clearly. "Please let me help, Sarah; I should have offered before."

"It's all done, honey, thanks just the same. Nick, you gonna bring in those plates, or aren't you finished messing up that poor old afghan?"

Nick squashed the knitting back into the bag. "You cut me to the quick, madam. I will carry your plates, or anything else your
little heart desires, but note that I do it with my spirits crushed and my ego deflated."

"That'll be the day," Jeff said, as Nick followed the cook toward the kitchen.

Supper was a simple meal—a spaghetti casserole and a tossed salad, with a plate of rich homemade brownies for dessert. Nick was the only one who ate with any appetite; and even he ate left-handed while he scribbled on a pad of paper.

"How does this sound?" he asked through a mouthful of salad. "'The citizens of Virginia deserve a representative who is not only honest but honorable; whose personal life is as unblemished as her political record.' "

"Aren't you being too subtle?" Jeff asked, with a twist of his well-cut lips. "Why don't you just run the famous photo of Buzz emerging from the motel room, next to a shot of Rosemary with her granddaughter?"

"Negative campaigning tends to backfire," Kay said seriously.

"I'm not suggesting she keep referring to 'my opponent the adulterer,' " Nick argued. "But that little error really hurt old Buzz, in the districts where he has the strongest support. We don't want the voters to forget it. They have short memories."

"They aren't likely to forget it, with Miz Marylou turning up at every rally looking as if her li'l ol' heart was broken," Jeff said.

"Yeah, that's the truth, isn't it?" Nick agreed. "If I were Buzz, I'd lock her in her room and tell the press she has a bad case of flu. It's the duty of every good political wife to play the loyal long-suffering spouse, but Miz Marylou looks more suffering than loyal. '

"Poor thing," Kay murmured. "She's worked so hard for him, and she was so in love. I remember their wedding. When she looked up at him and said 'I will,' her face just glowed."

"Do you know her?" Erin asked.

"Oh, yes. When you've been in politics as long as I have, you get to know everybody—especially in your own part of the country. She's some distant relation of Eddy's—Congressman Marshall's—I believe."

"The good old First Families of Virginia," Jeff murmured.

There was a brief, rather uncomfortable pause. Then Nick
said, "Oh, well. If he can't see how she's hurting him, I'm sure not the boy to point it out.
Personal and professional integrity . . .
"

After they had finished eating, he and Erin cleared the table, while Jeff settled down with a stack of computer printouts. Kay turned on one of the television sets—there were three of them in the room—and Jeff looked up. "Oh, no, Kay—not one of your glitz, glamour, and sleaze shows! I hate that garbage."

"There's not much else I can do," Kay said sulkily. "Unless Erin needs me to help her finish those memos she was typing—"

A joint grumble of protest from the men stopped her. "Lay off the lady, Kay," Jeff said. "She's been hard at it all day."

"Right," Nick agreed. "She needs a break. Come on, Erin, let's take a walk."

"It's pitch-black dark out," Kay objected.

"But the moon is full, " Nick intoned in a sepulchral voice. "You wouldn't want her to miss seeing me turn into a werewolf. "

Kay laughed and made no further objections. Erin would have accepted an invitation from a genuine werewolf—anything to get out of the house for a while. She accompanied Nick through the kitchen and into an enclosed glassed-in porch. The windows were opaque with darkness; not only was the promised moon missing, but not a star was visible.

"Damn, nobody turned on the lights," Nick muttered. "Wait a minute. . . ."A battery of floodlights came on, bathing the area in garish brilliance. Erin could see only a wide stretch of grass bisected by a brick walkway that stretched off into the dark.

Nick collapsed heavily onto the steps. "Whew. I hope you didn't mind my pressing invitation; I had a feeling you needed to get away from Kay."

You were right." Seeing his drooping shoulders and general air of collapse, she asked, "I expect you're tired, after your late night."

"Nah, I'm used to that. What wears me out is being so relentlessly, tirelessly funny all the time." Erin laughed, but Nick only shook his head gloomily. "Jeff was right, that's my most useful role—court jester. All those massive egos in constant conflict generate a lot of tension. I make 'em laugh. Ha, ha."

"But you do lots of things," Erin said. "Wasn't that a major speech you were working on at supper?"

Nick straightened up and beamed at her. "I love a little sympathy and appreciation. That wasn't a speech, but it was major—a mail-out we're preparing. You're absolutely right, you wonderful woman, they couldn't get along without me. Jack-of-all-trades and master of none. ... I'd better go and see what Sam is up to. He's supposed to be in charge of security around here. If you want a hearty laugh, wait till you meet our security guard."

"Everything seems so casual," Erin said as they walked along the brick path. "I expected—oh, I don't know; a guard at the gate, and someone at the house to check IDs and screen visitors. "

"That's not Rosemary's style. Her accessibility is one of the reasons why she's so popular with her constituents, and this relaxed, seemingly casual life-style goes over very well. 'See, she can't get her lawn mowed either, or afford a new coat of paint on the house.' Which," Nick added, "is in fact the case. And there's really no need for tight security. She gets lunatic letters, like the ones you saw, but no more than other representatives, and a really effective security system would cost— Careful, the bricks are uneven back here. There's a gate. . . . Well, at least the old coot has switched on the lights in the stableyard. "

There were three lights, one on a post in the middle of a paved area, the other two on buildings that ran in parallel rows flanking it. Those on the right appeared to be garages or work-buildings; a row of smaller, separate structures on the left-hand side looked like cottages. As they approached these, a door opened and a man's figure appeared, silhouetted against the glow inside. A rattle of what sounded like automatic rifle fire made Erin start.

"Hey, Sam, don't shoot, " Nick bellowed. "It's me."

"Nick?" The quavering voice was that of an old man. "What you doin' out in the dark? You lucky I didn't shoot you at that."

"Don't worry, he doesn't have a gun," Nick murmured. "That was the TV you heard. We're just taking a walk, Sam. Nice night."

"Nice night, my foot. Too hot. And it's comin' on to storm. Who's that you got with you?"

Nick performed the introductions. Sam was completely bald,
and apparently very nearsighted; he thrust his withered face so close to Erin's that she could feel his breath. He greeted her with old-fashioned courtesy: "Welcome, young lady," he added, "you may's well let them dogs out, Nick. I was just gonna do it, but so long as you're here. . . .

"Okay. Get back to your cops and robbers, Sam."

The old man retreated and slammed the door.

"See what I mean?" Nick asked.

"He's sweet."

"Sure he's sweet. And so decrepit a faint breeze would bowl him over. Another one of Rosemary's sentimental attachments; he's been with the family for a million years and she thinks his feelings would be hurt if she hired somebody to assist him. Here, take my hand, it's pretty dark back this way."

The dogs were penned in a run behind the garage. The first sight of them made Erin cling more tightly to Nick's hand; a pillar lamp cast a dim glow and made the huge bodies hurling themselves at the chain-link fence look formidable.

"You aren't afraid of dogs, are you?" Nick asked casually, opening the gate.

After slobbering messily over Erin, from her face to her feet, the dogs gamboled off, baying wildly.

"Retrievers," Nick sneered, wiping his wet forearm on his shirt. "They are the most useless excuses for watchdogs I've ever seen. I suggested Dobermans—"

"They sound fierce." One of the dogs was running around in circles, baying like the hound of the Baskervilles.

"That's all they do. Look at that furry idiot, chasing his own tail. Thinks he's a cat."

"Don't they chase the cats?"

"They chase the cats? It's the other way around."

He led her across the dew-wet grass to a bench in the shadow of a group of white pines. When they sat down, one of the dogs joined them, collapsing onto Erin's foot. The white hairs of his muzzle glimmered palely, and she bent down to pat his head.

"He's old, isn't he?"

"Ten years old. This is Samson. The other one is Tiny. He's four, but he's mentally retarded. Thinks he's a puppy."

Head down, tail thrashing, Tiny followed some arcane unseen path across the lawn.

As the panting breath of the old dog quieted, other sounds became audible—small, sly rustles of movement made sinister by one's inability to identify their causes. As her eyes continued to adjust to the darkness Erin began to see shapes moving noiselessly from the shadows. The cats were on the prowl.

One pale fuzzy shape strolled toward the dog. Tiny welcomed it with a sharp bark and pounced, then yelped and backed off, pawing at his nose. The cat walked away as leisurely as it had approached.

"It's very . . . peaceful," Erin said. The word wasn't entirely appropriate. Bathed in the merciless glare that showed all the imperfections of flaking paint and splintered trim, the house looked like a tiny island of life besieged and about to be overwhelmed by towering walls of darkness. Clouds massed like attacking armies overhead and along the horizon.

"Sure is, ' Nick said, not hearing the note of uncertainty in her voice. "Rosemary is lucky her home is so close to D.C.; she doesn't have to maintain two residences. It's a long commute, though."

"Is this her husband's family home?"

"Yes. Ed Marshall's family used to own half Virginia, but they lost everything in the War Between the States except a town house in Richmond and this place. It was just a farm then; a brief period of questionable prosperity (there were nasty rumors about illegal investments) resulted in the architectural abortion you see before you."

"You know a lot about the Marshalls."

"I should. My aunt was the Marshalls' housekeeper till she retired some years ago. How do you think I got my foot in the door?"

"I thought you were a volunteer. Anybody can volunteer, can't they?"

"Sure. I assure you it wasn't my family connections that got me my present munificent salary of zero a year. What it got me was noticed, so that when I did come through in a clutch situation, people were watching."

"What did you do, rescue Rosemary from a mad dog?"

Nick chuckled. "You'll never guess. I won my spurs babysitting."

"What?"

"You heard me. The Lord works in mysterious ways. . . . They came for a visit last spring—Rosemary's daughter and her husband, and the kid. Kevin and I hit it off right away, he's an antique car buff and a fiery liberal. Elizabeth—the little girl—reminds me of Rosemary, she's funny and spunky and cute as a tick. I like kids, and being creatures of rare discernment, they adore me. Before they left I was 'Uncle Nick,' and the most popular guy on the block."

Erin was about to express incredulity when she remembered that she had won a friendly smile and a pat on the cheek by offering to babysit Kay.

"I guess it can happen," she said doubtfully.

"Take my word for it. Of course," Nick added modestly, "I was doing a superb job in every other way. I was also one of the first to volunteer, way back before the primary, when nobody gave her a prayer. They thought she was crazy to give up a sure House seat for a long shot. The local party supported her opponent in the primary—a well-heeled, well-connected realtor who suffered from delusions of grandeur. We beat the pants off the sucker, but it took Buzz's half-witted performance to make people sit up and take notice. We're on a roll now, contributions picking up, endorsements from some key people, but it's still up for grabs."

"Babysitting aside, I can see why you're so highly esteemed," Erin said. "To jump feet first the way you did, into what looked like a hopeless cause—"

"I wasn't doing anything important anyway. The truth is, I'm what you might call a late bloomer. I screwed around with a lot of things—a little PR work, courses in business administration, before I decided to follow in the footsteps of Edward R. Murrow and Dan Rather. It didn't take me long to realize that that path was a bit crowded—a regular traffic jam. As a matter of fact, I quit my job today."

"Your job at the paper? Why? Too many high school football games?"

Too little time. The next few weeks are crucial. Rosemary hasn't got the financial backing Buzz commands; he had raised a million bucks by the middle of the summer. He can afford to pay a big staff, and a team of expensive media consultants. Rosemary has me."

"But Nick, that's really . . . What are you going to live on?"

"Oh, I'll get by. And don't get the wrong idea about how noble I am. This is a gamble, but if it pays off I'm in the catbird seat. Even if we lose, I'm making useful contacts and—I hope—impressing them with my brilliance and dedication. "

The branches over them swayed in a sudden gust of wind. "Storms about to break," Nick muttered. "I hope Rosemary doesn't stay in town too late, these roads can be murder when they're flooded."

The comment was more revealing than he realized, and Erin thought she knew the real reason for the dedication he boasted about. Only a fool would have hitched his career to a star as low in the sky as Rosemary's had been, and Nick was no fool. He was undoubtedly an idealist, but sympathy for the causes Rosemary supported wasn't the reason either. It was Rosemary herself who had won him over. A young man's platonic devotion to an older woman whose profession (if not her face and figure) was the quintessence of glamour. Shades of the Round Table and the ideals of chivalry. . . . She liked him all the better for it, though Nick would have scoffed if she had compared him with Sir Lancelot—and maybe that wasn't the most appropriate comparison, come to think of it. There were all those rumors about Lancelot and Guinevere.

A fat, warm raindrop splashed on the back of her hand. "We'd better go in," Nick said.

"I haven't seen you turn into a werewolf," Erin protested.

"No moon. "

There was a moon, though; Erin saw it over her left shoulder as they crossed the lawn toward the house. The clouds closed over it again even as she looked: a monstrous, swollen globe of tarnished silver, with a single shadow of dead branch piercing it like a spear through a knight's shield.

Late the following
morning Erin snatched a moment to call Fran. "I won't talk long, " she began. "I know your boss doesn't like you to get personal calls—"

"Never mind him," Fran cut in. "I've been dying to hear from you. Tell me everything!"

"There isn't much to tell."

"Oh, for God's sake! You're there, right in her house—have you seen her? What's she doing? What are
you
doing?"

Erin was tempted to tell her, if only to shatter Fran's illusions about politics, which now seemed to her hopelessly naive and infantile. She had spent a restless night with the connecting door between her room and Kay's ajar, listening to the snores and groans and squeaking springs as the older woman tossed and turned. Kay hadn't settled down until almost dawn, but she had been up and raring to go shortly after seven. Erin had helped her dress, arranged her hair, made both beds, dusted and swept. She had not seen Rosemary at all that day.

She managed to cut into Fran's raptures long enough to explain why she had called. "I'm going to try to get a ride in this evening so I can pick up some more clothes. I'm not sure when, everyone is so busy—"

"No problem. I'll bring you whatever you need. I'd love to."

Erin didn't doubt that. Her need was an answer to prayer. If it hadn't happened, Fran would have found some other excuse to come for a visit.

"What do you want? The black lace formal, of course. What else?"

Erin pictured herself making Kay's bed in black lace and ruffles. "Never mind the formal. I need everyday clothes—jeans, tops, underwear. . . . What am I saying? You can't come, Fran. I can't invite you, not without asking permission. ..."

She might as well have protested to the wind. Fran assured her she didn't need directions, she knew the way, and then hung up without so much as a good-bye.

Erin went in search of Kay, who was no more inclined to listen to her than Fran had been. When she finally got her point across, the old woman thought for a moment and then nodded. "I suppose that would be best. I can't see any other way of arranging it. You should have brought more than an overnight bag. Didn't Joe explain the situation? Well, never mind, there's no sense in crying over spilt milk. Tell your friend to come ahead, there's no one here who can drive you, and no extra car to lend you. Except mine . . . but I really can't spare you today."

Erin had already heard a few jokes about Kay's precious Mercedes, for which she had been saving all her life, and which she refused to entrust to anyone else. "She ought to lend it to you, since she can't drive right now, " Nick had remarked at breakfast, when Erin explained her problem. "But she won't even let me behind the wheel—can you imagine that, superb driver that I am? I wish I could take you, but I have to go to Richmond and I don't know when I'll be back."

The others had also scattered on various errands, which left Erin to the tender mercies of Kay. The older woman seemed sharper, in every sense of the word—efficient and in control as well as sharp-tongued and critical. Though Erin was the chief victim, the other workers also felt the brunt of Kay's disapproval, and during the brief lunch break—sandwiches and coffee in the commons room—Jan muttered sourly, "The old witch is in a foul mood today."

"Ssssh." Christie gave him a warning look. Kay had gone to the kitchen to talk to Sarah about supper—and, Erin thought, to get
her
back up too. There was no way Kay could have overheard the complaint; it was the presence of an outsider, Erin, that had prompted Christie's warning.

"She's probably in a lot of pain, ' said Jackson.

"I'll bet she's not taking those pills," Anita said shrewdly. "She was so out of it yesterday—" She broke off as the distinctive click of Kay's heels sounded along the passageway.

Erin knew they all shared her hope that Kay would rest after lunch, but none of them had the nerve to suggest it, and Kay went doggedly on, wearing herself out and driving everybody crazy. The afternoon crawled by, with no end in sight; she would be through for the day when Kay released her, and not before. She was taking notes on voter breakdowns, by age, gender, and occupation, when Christie poked her head in the door.

"Excuse me. Erin, are you expecting company by any chance? There's someone at the door asking for you."